The Black Cats

The Peaceful Society of Friends

ONCE SISSY’S WEEPING REACHED Eddy, he left the gentlemen and joined us by the sassafras. “You mustn’t cry, Virginia. It isn’t good for you.” He brushed the tears from her cheek. “This has been a most unsettling morning for all of us. I think we should go home. Muddy will be expecting us for lunch.”

I trilled in agreement. Eddy and I shared the same concern: lunch. Yet I could delay my mid-day meal if it meant gathering more evidence. Last autumn, I learned the importance of early clue discovery; the longer one waited to find them, the more likely they were to sprout wings and fly south. In truth, I had become a ratiocinator in my own right, with powers rivaling Eddy’s Detective Dupin, and I had certain duties to fulfill. The fact that Constable Harkness hadn’t been summoned made my presence even more crucial. This crime fell under feline jurisdiction.

“She’s serving cheddar and ham,” Eddy added. “And sour pickles. She told me on the way out—”

“How can you think about eating?” Sissy said. “We can’t leave until we bury this unfortunate soul.” She laced her fingers in front of her, signaling her resolve.

Eddy lifted his palms in supplication. “Be reasonable, Sissy. My tool is the pen, not the shovel. I am ill-equipped to dig.”

“I am not moving, husband, until that cat is down from that tree.” She pointed to both objects, underscoring her words.

Eddy would attempt to win the quarrel with appeals, but he could no more refuse Sissy than I him. Confident in the outcome, I headed toward the shops to look for evidence, entering the cobbler’s first to learn the source of that infernal brushing sound. I found the aged proprietress inside, hard at work. Tabitha Arnold sat near the window on a low stool, her back to the door and her face to the sun. In her hands she held a pair of black boots and a stiff horsehair brush dipped in—I wrinkled my nose—a mixture of beeswax and soot. She raked the bristles across the toe of the shoe. Brush, brush, brush. At least one mystery had been solved.

I sniffed for the human scent I’d noted earlier, but an examination of the floorboards bore no fruit. The murderer had certainly worn shoes, masking his scent with a layer of leather. Had he been a customer? Further examination revealed nothing, not even a trace of citrus and lavender cologne. Before I could steal back to the street unnoticed, Mr. Fitzgerald appeared, blocking the doorway with his legs. I slunk to the shelves on the rear wall and hid behind a row of wooden foot forms in varying sizes.

The woman greeted Mr. Fitzgerald with a cool stare. “Have you something to say for yourself?” she asked. She set the boots on the floor and wiped her hands on her apron, smearing it with polish.

“Have I?” Mr. Fitzgerald asked. “Have you?”

She tucked a loose strand of gray behind a hairpin. “What do you mean by that?”

He tapped his thin bottom lip. “The cat. It was Abner’s doing, wasn’t it? Instead of settling the hash like gents, he used violence to make a point. How English of him.”

She sprang to her feet. “How dare you accuse him of something you’ve done, you…you bogtrotter!”

Mr. Fitzgerald and Mrs. Arnold stared at each other, two mongrels on the brink of war. I shrank against the wooden feet and waited for blood. The woman surprised me when she sat down and picked up her horsehair brush again. “What’s the talk on the street?” she asked.

He leaned against the doorframe and crossed one ankle over the other. “Craic is, Mr. Cook blames Mr. Eakins, and Reverend Bray blames the devil.”

“And you blame Abner.” She pointed the brush at him and scowled. “If you go spreading rumors about him that aren’t true, Mr. Fitzgerald, you won’t like the results. You’ll do well to keep your mouth shut.” She looked to her empty shop. “I ask you this: who’s going to shop near such a horrible scene? Business is bad enough as it is, what with that—”

Mr. Fitzgerald held up his hand. “Don’t say it. We’ve enough trouble this morning.” He crossed his arms. “Mr. Poe said it might bring people in,” he said. “The cat, that is. Curious onlookers and the like. You never know.”

“Harrumph. Only in Mr. Poe’s world.” She resumed her polishing. “He’s an odd bird, isn’t he? Flitting about in black, no matter the season. Dresses like a pallbearer, for heaven’s sake.”

“I think it suits him,” Mr. Fitzgerald said.

Sensing the shift in mood, I stepped from my hiding place and padded toward the door. Mrs. Arnold spied me and clicked her tongue in disapproval. “We have a trespasser,” she whispered to Mr. Fitzgerald.

“We needn’t whisper in front of Cattarina,” he said. “She keeps all kinds of secrets. Don’t you, girl?” I meowed at my name, giving him a good laugh, though I knew not why. He stood at the threshold, preventing my departure. “Well, I’m gone,” he said to Mrs. Arnold. “The saws won’t sell themselves.” He hesitated. “Where is Abner, by the way?”

“Under the weather.” She gave the boot a last pass with the brush.

Mr. Fitzgerald touched his protruding Adam’s apple with a look of concern. “Is something going round?”

“Yes.” She set the boots aside and picked up a new pair to shine. “Something’s going round, all right, and that’s Abner—round the tavern.”

Mr. Fitzgerald shifted, and I shot past his ankles into the street again. The scratch of the shoe brush had penetrated my teeth. I could not stand it any longer!

Once outside, I followed the footprint trail to the cut-through between shops. The shifty man with fleas had stood in this very spot, making me think he might be the murderer. I glanced at Eddy and Sissy—still deep in conversation—and ducked into the opening. After a few strides, I connected with a larger alley that ran the length of shops on Franklin. The prints led me north where they eventually stopped at a paved sidewalk on the other side. A dog could’ve pursued the culprit by scent alone. But since I had the good fortune to be born a cat, I’d need to use my superior intellect to continue. A brownstone with a gabled porch lay to the left of the alley; a small clapboard cottage with shutters and a weathervane lay to the right.

“Kitty! Kitty!” a little boy squealed. “Pet kitty!”

I backed away from his outstretched hands, narrowly escaping the tot’s grasp. Had I not been focused on the rooster atop the weathervane, I would’ve seen the two children traipsing past with their mother. The shorter, pudgier whelp had been the one to reach for me. The taller one—a littermate from his coloring—slapped his brother on the head. “Dang it all, Marvin. Don’t touch it. You’ll get fleas.”

The mother slapped the older boy on the head. “Don’t cuss, dang you.”

When first born, humans are little more than plucked chickens. It’s when they learn to walk upright that they become tail-yanking, whisker-pulling monsters. And then there are birthing complications. I hoped Eddy and Sissy would abstain from reproducing in the coming seasons. In my youth, I witnessed an unhappy outcome with a baby and did not wish to see another.

Once the family passed, I emerged again. Whenever we moved to a new locale, which was often, I made it my business to memorize street names as Eddy said them out loud. This, from our daily walks, I knew to be Green Street, the road around the corner from the Poe residence. It lacked the unkempt variability I’d grown to love and expect from the older areas of Philadelphia. I licked my paw and washed my face. A murderer lived in one of these mouse holes. Yet without more clues, finding him would be impossible.

I returned to Franklin to find Eddy on tiptoe, sawing the black cat’s noose with his penknife. Sissy waited nearby, offering suggestions, the majority of which perturbed him, judging by the slant of his brow. When I reached the tree, the tom fell at our feet. I hopped back, sickened by the hollow thud of his body against the earth. His remaining eye lay open, glazed and unblinking; the other had been gouged out by the murderer. This was speculation, of course, but one supported by observation and experience from the Glass Eye Killer case. The area around the cat’s eye held no claw marks, so he hadn’t lost it in a fight. This left accident or torture. Considering the manner of death, I’d bet my whiskers on the latter. Eddy, Sissy, and I remained silent until the wind rattled the sassafras leaves.

“We must bury him,” Sissy said. “In our garden.”

“We do not own a shovel,” Eddy said.

“Borrow one from Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m sure he has several in his store.”

“Shopkeepers are not usually in the habit of lending their wares, Sissy.”

“Then we will improvise.” She knelt and lifted the tom onto her skirt, folding the floral cotton around him. With the day’s increasing temperature, the body had taken on an unpleasant aroma. Sissy carried out her task undeterred, concealing the body in the folds of her dress. For all anyone knew, she could’ve been carrying potatoes home from the market.

“My dear…” Eddy pointed to her chemise. The white hem flashed in the sun.

“Let us hurry before I’m the talk of the town,” Sissy said. “And don’t forget the rosemary.”

We arrived home to find Muddy sweeping the front walkway. The trim on her lace cap framed her face like the petals of a flower. I pitied the bee that made that mistake. I trotted ahead of the others and nudged through the unlatched gate to join the old woman.

Our new red brick home was grander than the one on Coates, though no less cozy. Eaves protruded from either side—a bit like ears—and shaded twin entrances that opened onto to allotments of grass. The parlor garden, on the eastern side near North Seventh, held flowers and a spindly weeping willow. The kitchen garden, on the western side, consisted of a vegetable patch and a small plot of dirt bordered by a fence snarled with morning glories. In temperate weather, Muddy and Sissy would pull their kitchen chairs under the western eave to shell peas or shuck corn. On the rare occasion I did not accompany Eddy to the tavern, I stayed behind to chase the errant pod or husk that slipped from their fingers. We had left Fairmount and the country, but we had not left good times, not yet.

When Muddy caught Sissy with her skirt hiked to her knees, she dropped the broom and gasped. “Virginia Eliza Poe!” she said. “What has become of you?”

“Nothing, Mother.” Sissy gathered her skirt tighter so as not to lose the carcass.

“You are half-naked. Put your dress down before the neighbors see.” Muddy’s lips disappeared beneath the press of her mouth.

“Dear Muddy,” Eddy said, handing her the herbs, “ours is a long story, and you are adding unnecessarily to the length. Allow me to edit.” He led Sissy through the gate and up the walkway to the old woman. “Join us by the vegetable patch with your largest kitchen spoon, and all will be revealed.”

“What is that smell?” Muddy asked. She held her finger under her nose.

“The cat, Mother,” Sissy said.

Muddy leaned to sniff me. Curious woman.

“No, it’s not Cattarina,” Sissy said. “It’s…well, you will see.” She set off for the kitchen garden and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Muddy retrieved her broom and squinted at Eddy. “What have you done—”

He held up his hand, stopping the conversation. “I have not done anything. This is Virginia’s scheme, and we must support her.”

They spoke a moment longer and joined Sissy. I elected to go inside. Whatever they planned to do with the remains concerned me less than the aroma wafting through the kitchen window. I leaped to the sill with some effort—the winter months had been bountiful—and entered Muddy’s domain. She’d laid out a plate of sliced ham and cheddar on the table, along with a loaf of bread, a crock of pickles, and a pitcher of water. Lunch was served. A cat of lesser intelligence would have plundered the platter. Not I. Over time, I’d perfected the art of skimming—take enough to be full, leave enough that one’s theft is not obvious. As long as Muddy considered me inept, the kitchen would remain a cornucopia.

I leapt to the table and admired the old woman’s handiwork. She’d fanned the meat and cheese in an alternating pattern. I licked the salt off the ham slices without disturbing them then peeled the top piece from the stack and ate it. A slice of cheese came next. The bread bored me, and the pickles repulsed me. I finished with a few laps of cool water from the jug and left the house through the parlor window. From what I’d gleaned, Sissy meant to bury the dead cat, as humans often did for one another at the end of life. I had no need for this unnatural ritual. I preferred to honor the tom in a more practical way—by catching his murderer.

I trotted through the garden to North Seventh where I doubled back onto Green, the same street I’d happened upon after my trip through the alley. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I’d find my prey by accident. On the contrary, I planned to seek out his potential victims and extract information from which to devise a hunting strategy.

Confident in my plan, I strode through the neighborhood, head high, gait quick and light, in search of fellow cats. One might’ve mistaken this section of Philadelphia for a cemetery, it was that quiet. Unlike western Spring Garden District, the people of eastern Spring Garden District—Eddy called them Quakers—kept to themselves.

The roads held carriages, but many travelers preferred to walk in silence. I hoped their feline companions leaned more toward congeniality and that my presence would not raise fur. I had not yet reached the Franklin intersection when I observed two tabbies—one orange and white, the other pale gray. “Hello!” I called to them. They did not answer and waited for me to approach their front steps. I did so guardedly, praying I hadn’t provoked a fight with the block’s toughest ferals. “I am Cattarina. I live in the Poe house at the end of the street.” I waved my tail in the general direction of home.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, friend,” the gray tom said. “I am George, and this is Margaret.” He nodded to the orange and white tabby. “We live with Thaddeus Beal.”

“Welcome to Green Street,” Margaret said. She had impossibly long whiskers. “You’ll find a peaceful society in this neighborhood. We offer our blessings.”

My ear twitched. I could not fathom a non-violent gathering of felines, save for one in the bastion of my mind. Immanuel Katt’s theories of utopia are stunning; sadly, they remain out of reach. The only semi-peaceful society I’d met had been Big Blue’s troop near the penitentiary, and even they weren’t above aggression. “If I am welcome,” I countered, “then you won’t mind answering questions.”

“Questions delight the mind, miss,” George said. His dull coat had the color and density of a thundercloud. I pictured a lightning strike in its midst.

“Do you know of the black cat?” I asked. “The one that was hanged this morning?”

Margaret sat and wrapped her ginger tail around her feet. “We know of him.”

“Who was his owner?”

George looked to Margaret then back to me. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“It is important to my companion,” I lied. While Eddy had an interest in the tom’s death, I had become obsessed with it. “Please.”

“Should we tell her?” Margaret asked George.

George blinked his approval.

“The Butcher of Green Street,” she said. “He makes cats disappear.”