Edward Francisco

The two men sat quietly for a moment in their respective chairs in front of the fireplace of Dr. Moran’s Baltimore apartment. In the interlude, Allan Pinkerton leaned forward to warm his hands. It was December and snow fell outside. Dr. Moran sought the comfort of a meerschaum pipe on the small table beside him. He puffed without benefit of a flame. The gesture was soothing, nonetheless. “So you think Poe may have been murdered over a woman,” Allan Pinkerton said matter-of-factly . . .

The two men sat quietly for a moment in their respective chairs in front of the fireplace of Dr. Moran’s Baltimore apartment. In the interlude, Allan Pinkerton leaned forward to warm his hands. It was December and snow fell outside. Dr. Moran sought the comfort of a meerschaum pipe on the small table beside him. He puffed without benefit of a flame. The gesture was soothing, nonetheless. “So you think Poe may have been murdered over a woman,” Allan Pinkerton said matter-of-factly . . .

The two men sat quietly for a moment in their respective chairs in front of the fireplace of Dr. Moran’s Baltimore apartment. In the interlude, Allan Pinkerton leaned forward to warm his hands. It was December and snow fell outside. Dr. Moran sought the comfort of a meerschaum pipe on the small table beside him. He puffed without benefit of a flame. The gesture was soothing, nonetheless. “So you think Poe may have been murdered over a woman,” Allan Pinkerton said matter-of-factly . . .