The Black Cats

A Sinister Scent

EDDY KNELT NEAR THE morning glory vines, a heap of fresh earth by his side. I left the torn page by the back door and crept through the vegetable patch with more than a little trepidation. I hoped the man hadn’t done what I suspected he had. I ducked under the cucumber trellis, advancing unnoticed. Sweet horror! Snip’s exhumed body lay on the ground near Eddy’s feet. Carrion insects speckled the tom’s fur, causing the carcass to writhe with activity. My companion leaned closer to compare the rope in his hand—Mr. Fitzgerald’s rope—to the one around Snip’s neck.

“It is a match,” he whispered to himself. “A perfect match.” His shirt reeked of spirits, different from the ones he’d drunk at Jolley’s this afternoon, and his cravat dangled round his neck. “A neighbor is responsible, I am certain. But what perverse imp moved this person to kill Heaven’s finest?” He tugged his hair, lost in thought, then said: “To do wrong for wrong’s sake only. To give in to the soul’s unfathomable longing to vex itself.”

Judging from his ink-smeared cheek, he’d abandoned a writing project for this grim undertaking, so to speak. My hunt had stoked his imagination, yet a narrow path lay between satisfying my own desires and satisfying his. The job of muse is a delicate one. I found that out during my Glass Eye Killer caper. Introduce too much inspiration too soon, and I risked losing my charge down a drunken, rambling trail from which he might never return.

I approached him.

“Catters?” Eddy said. “Have you come for another bite?” He dangled the rope in front of me, tossing it aside when I took no interest. “What else do you know, you crafty thing? I suspect much.” He appraised me with what I took for admiration. “I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.”

I considered Snip’s entry and wondered if it would take Eddy too far from his story, to a place beyond my reach. I did not have long to think. The back door opened, and Sissy entered the garden with an easy, elegant air. She opened her lips to speak but stopped when she realized what he’d done. Even her fever-bright cheeks could not sustain color with this new discovery. Legs unsteady, she took a single step toward her husband. “Edgar? What’s this?”

“Sissy?” Still kneeling, Eddy turned and spread his arms, trying to hide the cat carcass. “I-I thought you were inside mending. Or knitting. Or mending your knitting.”

I trotted to her and rubbed the length of her skirt, delighting in the whishhh of fabric.

“And I thought you were writing,” she said to him. She leaned to touch my head. “We both changed our minds, it seems. Though what yours concocted is disturbing, to say the least. Tell me, dear, have you been drinking?”

“I am as straight as judges.” He leaned a little to the left.

“I see.” She put her hands on her hips. “Why have you dug up the cat?”

“To check on him, of course.” Eddy offered a queasy smile. “Still dead.”

Sissy took another step, alighting on Snip’s page by accident. She bent and retrieved it, giving the entry a quick glance. The meaning of the words played across her face, lifting the corner of her mouth. I had not stolen the clue in vain. When she finished reading, she looked at me the way Eddy had, with approval.

“What have you got?” Eddy asked her.

“Nothing. An old market list. Mother must have lost it.” She folded the page and stuck it down her dress front. I thought it an odd place for a carryall, but humans never ceased to surprise me. “Why don’t I leave you to…whatever you were doing. I have an errand to run.”

“An errand? At this hour? It must be six o’clock.” Eddy rose and dusted the dirt from his pants.

“It’s seven.” Sissy snapped her fingers, and I trailed her out of the front garden. “I still have daylight and will only be a block away. Do not worry.” She latched the gate behind us. “Mother is polishing the furniture, so you needn’t disturb her with my comings and goings. And for heaven’s sake, Edgar Poe, wash your hands!”

***

To my surprise, Sissy and I headed down Green Street instead of toward Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop. She’d left without her bonnet and squinted into the setting sun. “Cattarina, between this crime and the ones last fall, you’re turning into a four-footed constable,” she said to me. “I know you pilfered that page from Mr. Eakins’s book. I can tell by the teeth marks.” She removed the slip of paper from her bosom and showed me its frayed edge. “It was beyond clever of you to bring it home. I’m impressed.” She replaced the item and gave me a worried smile. “I want to know who took the poor tom’s life, too. It’s peculiar, but I’ve taken an interest in him.”

Unlike the brightly clad ladies of Fairmount, Quaker women dressed in dull browns, free of adornment—no ribbons, no velvet flowers, no dizzying patterns. The gentlemen sported equally somber attire. Sissy spoke to a few them, including Mr. Beal, George and Margaret’s companion, and a lady she called Mrs. West, which struck me as odd since the woman traveled east. But what these Quakers lacked in fashion sense, they more than made up for in culinary acumen. Delicious smells drifted from the dwellings on either side: roasted chicken, broiled pork, stewed beef. I battled my stomach, fending off hunger pangs. Muddy’s broth had done little to appease me.

We crossed over Franklin and arrived at the cottage with the rooster weathervane, the one I’d encountered this morning. An entire lifetime had passed since the murder, or so it seemed. “We should knock, shouldn’t we?” Sissy said to me. She touched the brass knocker, wiped her fingers on her bodice, and tried again.

Tabitha Arnold answered the door. Perhaps she had not been taught to smile as a child. “Mrs. Poe?” she said. “Store’s closed, but I can fit you for shoes if you like. Come through to the workshop.” From our interactions on the street, she’d proved unlikeable. But I didn’t take her for a killer. And a man’s scent graced the murder weapon, not a woman’s. Mr. Arnold, however, had just become my chief suspect.

Sissy retreated to the walkway, widening the gap between them. “No, no. I’ve come to…” She touched her throat. “I’ve come to ask you about the black cat this morning.”

I trilled in agreement. Yes, black cat. We needed answers, and we needed them now.

Mrs. Arnold flew at Sissy and grabbed her by the arms. “It was so awful! Poor Pluto! Why did he have to hang him like he did?” She looked skyward and appealed to forces unknown. “Why? Why did this have to happen?”

I noted her shoes. They held too many scuffmarks to count, and tarnish flecked the buckles. An old proverb came to mind, something about the mouser’s kittens going hungry. Humans must’ve had a similar saying about shoemakers, and if so, it applied to Mrs. Arnold. I realized something else, too. While Green Street housed a preponderance of Quakers, the Arnolds did not seem to be of their ilk. I sniffed the hem of the woman’s dress—nothing of concern.

Sissy extracted herself from the woman’s grasp. “So it’s true. You are the hanged cat’s owner.”

“Yes. We’d adopted him from Mr. Eakins a week ago, maybe a little longer. I scarcely think anyone knew we had him except the dentist fellow. Why should I admit this and have people think ill of me? I have a business to run, you know.” Mrs. Arnold dabbed her nose with a tattered handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. “How did you find out? Did Mr. Eakins tell you?”

Sissy glanced at me. “No, there’s a constable involved.”

“Harkness?”

“No.” Sissy smiled demurely. “Constable Claw.”

My ears pricked at the skittering of tiny feet. I sniffed the air. A mouse lived in the Arnold residence. They should’ve taken more care with their cat.

“You said ‘he’ a moment ago,” Sissy said. “‘Why did he have to hang him like he did?’ To whom were you referring?”

“Mr. Fitzgerald, of course. The only thing he hates more than Englishmen are cats.” She tucked her handkerchief away, leaving a lace corner poking from her sleeve. “It all started with the tree in the courtyard. I’ve wanted to chop it down for ages. No one can see my shop with all that greenery, and it’s hurting my business. But he didn’t want to, the fool. Now he’s gone and hung Pluto from one of the limbs to...to…” Her bottom lip trembled. “Warn me away!” She sobbed into Sissy’s shoulder.

Sissy patted her back. “There, there. We gave Pluto a Christian burial.” She leaned around the woman and glanced through the open door. “Where is Abner? Is he gone?”

“Having a Jolley good time, I’m sure.” She straightened and wiped her face.

Sissy sighed. “If I’ve caught your meaning, Mrs. Arnold, we have a similar problem.”

“I’m going to a meeting tomorrow—the Sons of Temperance. Why don’t you join me?”

The women blathered on about teetotaling, a subject unfamiliar, leaving me to my work. I padded up the walkway and into the house, thinking to flush out my quarry. One sniff of Mr. Arnold or his possessions, and I would have the truth. I paused in the front hall to catch what scents I could.

Tiny footsteps to my left.

I crouched and peered beneath the entryway bench. A pair of mice scurried near the baseboard. Dash it all, I could not resist. I raked under the wooden seat, missing them by a whisker. The mice slipped into the adjoining parlor with a squee, squee, squee! I gave chase, bounding over an armchair and darting across the room to meet them at the kitchen threshold. But the vermin had the advantage of familiarity. They headed for a hole they’d gnawed in the wall and escaped to the other side. I sprinted into the kitchen after them, ziggety-zagging around a pie cupboard, a wash pail and mop, a dining chair. During my pursuit, I focused on the sights, sounds, and smells of my prey, ignoring all else. I could not have guessed the trouble this single-minded attention would soon cause.

The mice slipped through the cracked cellar door and disappeared into the dark. I charged through the portal and dashed down the cellar steps—a mistake of gigantic proportion, but one easily predicted by Sir Isaac Kitten. The door banged back on its hinges and slammed shut, causing an equal and opposite reaction to my action. A student of physics, I should have known better. I tried yowling for Sissy, but her human hearing proved too meager.

I was trapped.

Seeking an open window or warped door, I traveled deep into the earthen chamber. My history with cellars is a storied one, full of grisly exploits. This made it all the more difficult to proceed. Yet I had no choice. When I reached the bottom step, I paused and smelled for new, fresh air, thinking to follow it to freedom. My stomach tightened at the sinister trace of lavender and citrus.