The Black Cats

A Wicked Impression

“GOOD MORNING, CATTARINA,” SISSY said. I flicked my ear in response. I’d crawled into bed with her last night after licking the soot from my fur. Too tired to knead the covers, I fell fast asleep until dawn. Luckily, my tail suffered no permanent damage. My back paws were not so fortunate. I discovered the seared pads on my walk home from the Arnold bonfire. “I asked Muddy to leave the kitchen window open for you last night,” she said. “I knew you’d come home late. Catting around with a handsome fellow, are we?” She lifted my chin and studied my face. “Why, Cattarina Poe, where are your whiskers?” She turned me over and examined me. “And your back paws are burnt, poor thing. What happened to you last night?”

Sissy left the bed. “Mother will make a salve. She is an excellent nursemaid, even if she dotes on her patients a trifle much.” She crossed to the wardrobe. Since destroying her town dress yesterday, only her everyday dress remained, along with an extra pair of stockings and white chemise. I think she looked fine without clothing. I also thought the Delaware should flow with milk and shad should grow on trees.

Pots clattered in the kitchen below. Muddy had risen before dawn, as she always did, to build a fire and make breakfast. I yawned and stretched, reveling in the warmth of the cotton-stuffed mattress. I was the only cat I knew with two jobs: muse by day, chest heater by night. Since his wife’s illness, Eddy had given up marital cohabitation so Muddy could nurse her daughter through nighttime spells. The old woman stayed in the adjoining bedroom and entered at the first cough. I did what I could to keep Sissy warm while she slept, but it was not enough; it would never be enough, and I carried this truth in my heart. Death is a natural process until it happens in one’s family, then it’s a tragedy.

Once Sissy twisted her hair into a coil, she carried me from the topmost floor, past Eddy’s chambers on the middle floor, to the bottom floor. We found Eddy at the kitchen table with tea and newspaper, sitting among the vestiges of breakfast. Muddy fussed with a kettle of water. Now that the black cat’s death had vanished into the past, life at Poe House had returned to normal. She set me in front of a bowl filled with scrambled eggs, and I gobbled the food without a good morning rub to Eddy’s leg. I possessed a hunger so severe that I finished before the dear girl took her chair. She sat next to Eddy and poured a cup of tea from the pot on the table. “Cattarina has lost her whiskers,” she said.

I disappeared beneath the kitchen table for my post-breakfast routine. Seated upon the straw rug, I started my usual preen. But I abandoned this activity when my whisker stubs pricked my paw. How I missed them. I brushed against Eddy’s pants and Sissy’s skirt instead, marking them with fur for the day.

Sissy continued, “What’s more, she’s burnt her paws.”

“How very curious.” Eddy peeked under the table at me, eyes narrowed. “The Arnolds’ house burned down last night.”

“How do you know? Is it in the paper? What happened?” The words left Sissy’s mouth in a tumble. “Do tell!”

I emerged from my hiding place to see Eddy tip a non-existent hat. “I sit before you, Mrs. Poe, a proud member of the bucket brigade. The engine company needed help, and the menfolk obliged. We saved the neighborhood.” He looked at Muddy. “What time was it? Around midnight?”

I stared at him. What did he know about my pal from Rittenhouse?

“Half-past,” Muddy said. “You didn’t come home until two.”

“Tabitha Arnold escaped unharmed,” he said. “Abner Arnold was not so fortunate.”

Abner Arnold? I crept under the table again, dreading a talking-to from Eddy. Yes, I burnt down the neighbor’s house. No, I am not sorry. Now then, what is for lunch? But he didn’t bother. I wondered if I’d paid the neighbors a favor by ousting the cobblers from Green Street. I’d certainly paid the cats a favor. I took the center of the room again and commenced with a stretching regimen.

Eddy tipped his cup and took the last sip. “They sent him to Almshouse last night, but I do not know how he fared.”

“What heroics! Why didn’t you wake me?” She dropped a sugar lump in her tea and stirred it. “I would have helped.”

“That’s exactly why we didn’t wake you.” Muddy wiped her hands on her apron and joined them, pulling up a chair. “It would have been too taxing for you.”

“And to think I spoke to Mrs. Arnold yesterday,” Sissy said. “Hours before it happened.”

“Where, Virginia?” her mother asked. “At the market?”

“No,” Eddy said. “It was later in the day, wasn’t it, my love? Your mysterious seven o’clock errand?”

“Yes, I-I needed to speak to her about a pair of shoes.” She took the last piece of fried bread from the plate and slathered it with jam. “They were supposed to be a surprise for you, Eddy, but now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”

“Is that so?” He scooped me up to examine my paws. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, indicating a night of interrupted sleep. “Catters must have been near the fire last night. But why?”

“Constable Claw,” Sissy said under her breath.

Muddy cupped her hand around her ear. “What’s that?”

“Nothing, Mother, nothing.” She turned to her husband. “Cattarina followed me to Tabitha’s house and stayed behind. That’s the simplest explanation.” She smiled at him, but mirth did not crinkle the corners of her eyes. “Did you know Tabitha Arnold attends the Sons of Temperance meetings?”

Eddy ignored her query and rose to set me on the sideboard, his brow knitted.

“I didn’t know she attended,” Muddy said. She patted her daughter’s arm with a hand roughed by housework. “The Sons meet at Saint George’s Methodist, don’t they?”

I settled onto a lace doily while they prattled about teetotaling again. One day, I should like to know its meaning. As the women talked, Eddy kept his back to them, focusing on me. He scratched the top of my head, paying close attention to my ears. I rewarded him with a purr. In this relaxed state, my thoughts wandered to yesterday. I had solved a crime, and the wrongdoer had received punishment, though to what extent I did not know. Death would have been fitting, considering Mr. Arnold’s transgression, but I would settle for disfigurement. Another triumph for Philadelphia’s favorite rationator.

“I learned another interesting tidbit from Tabitha,” Sissy said.

“What’s that?” Muddy asked. “That their shoes fall apart when you wear them?” She lifted her foot and showed off the split sole of her shoe.

“I learned they owned the black cat. And his name was Pluto.”

Eddy faced them. “That is disturbing, but not altogether surprising. Did the old woman admit to killing the creature?”

“No, she blamed Mr. Fitzgerald. Something about a rivalry over a tree.” Sissy spooned eggs onto her plate from the serving platter. “Mother, will you make a salve for Cattarina? Her paws are in need of ointment.”

Muddy nodded. “I think I have the ingredients.”

“Well, I, too, discovered a tidbit,” Eddy said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the sideboard. “Whoever killed Pluto bought the rope from Mr. Fitzgerald’s hardware shop.”

“Or Mr. Fitzgerald took it from his own store,” Sissy offered.

“I know Fitz all to pieces,” Eddy said. “He is not a cat killer. Mr. Arnold is the more likely culprit.”

“What is this fascination with dead animals?” Muddy said. “It’s unnatural and unhealthy. Why can’t we discuss pleasanter things? I hear Mr. Crumley’s getting tossed in debtor’s prison for skipping rent. And Mrs. Porter’s husband left her for—” The whistle of the teakettle cut her off. “Oh, fiddle.” Heeding its call, she gathered every dish but Sissy’s and deposited the lot into the basin. Then she doused them with water from the kettle and commenced to washing, leaving husband and wife to converse in private.

“Speaking of the black cat, how is your eulogy coming?” Sissy asked Eddy.

“It is not.” He kissed his wife’s head. “What are your plans today, sweet Virginia?”

“Oh,” she said, “I will be mending. Or knitting. Or mending my knitting. Do not worry, husband.” She took a bite of egg.

“Well, try and rest.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “I do not like your color this morning.”

I watched below the table. Sissy clutched a handful of skirt fabric in response to Eddy’s comment. As the household’s most astute observer, I learned my humans’ secrets without them even knowing they’d shared. No matter. I kept them all. She released the fabric and asked him, “What are your plans?”

“Cattarina and I have business at Mr. Jolley’s.” He put his finger to his lips before she could object. “I will touch neither drop nor dram. I promise. When I return, I will know about the fire and Mr. Arnold’s current state. If I am lucky, I will also hear about the black cat, for his story vexes me greatly.” He whisked me into his arms and laid me over his shoulder. “Muddy! Catters and I will await your salve in the parlor.”

***

The tallow, lard, and beeswax Muddy applied to my paws smelled good enough to eat, but I resisted the salve, for it soothed my burns. It would also provide sustenance later, should the need arise. Blasted appetite. Eddy carried me to keep my tender paws off the ground, and we arrived at Jolley Spirits. As we entered the tavern, the shrunken old apple gave us a tsk-tsk. I noted a bandage on his arm, the arm I shredded yesterday. “Good morning, Mr. Poe. It’s a little early for drink, but I’m happy to oblige a customer and his money— I mean cat.” Mr. Jolley touched his wound and sneered at me. “As long as it stays far, far away from me. If it doesn’t, it will meet with my boot.”

“She will behave,” Eddy said. “You have my word.”

“What can I bring you?”

“No refreshment this morning, good sir. Just water.”

“Water?” Mr. Jolley grumbled. “You’ll be back later for something stronger, I trust?”

“Of course.”

This seemed to satisfy Mr. Jolley. He started to leave then thought better of it. “What’s that smell? It’s awful.” He curled his upper lip.

Eddy glanced at my paws and cleared his throat, his cheeks red. “I suspect it’s coming from your kitchen. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He ignored Mr. Jolley’s scowl and walked to the bar, setting me on the oaken surface. I waited for the ancient barkeep to hobble back with Eddy’s order. When he did, Mr. Jolley delivered a glass of water, not liquor, and I let him go with a warning glare.

“We must keep our wits about us, Catters,” Eddy said to me. “We’ve important work ahead.”

For most of the morning, we eavesdropped on the other patrons. Many instances I caught fire and Abner Arnold and even cat. These I had anticipated; humans love their gossip. But Eddy seemed to expect them, too, for he did not show interest until he heard supernatural. Upon the expression, my companion struck up conversation with the fellow who’d spoken it—a portly gentleman with ruddy cheeks and a diamond stickpin in his lapel. They shook hands and introduced themselves.

“Orson Pettigrew, dentist,” the man said to Eddy.

“Edgar Allan Poe, petrified of the dentist.”

Mr. Pettigrew laughed. “Ah, Mr. Poe! I read ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ in the Pioneer last winter. Unnerving story. How did you think of it?”

“Yes, how did I?” Eddy laid a hand on my back. “It’s a mystery.”

Mr. Jolley dispensed two glasses of whiskey to Mr. Pettigrew and withdrew to break up a heated discussion between two coalminers—something about westward expansion and Oregon Trail. Mr. Pettigrew downed the first drink. “One for me,” he said. The other he poured into a flask pulled from his vest pocket. “And one for my patient. I’ve got an extraction in an hour.”

Eddy loosened his cravat with a crooked finger. “Mr. Pettigrew, I heard you tell another gentleman that supernatural elements caused the Arnold house fire. Why would you say that?”

Mr. Pettigrew elbowed Eddy. “Working on another story, eh?”

“A eulogy.”

“But the old codger survived, Mr. Poe.” Mr. Pettigrew took a swig from the flask. “Lost his hair and burnt himself, but he’s alive, by God.”

“It’s not for Abner Arnold. It’s for another man,” Eddy said. “Pluto…Katzenheimer. Black hair, green eyes, trim physique? I’m sure you’ve met him.”

Mr. Pettigrew scratched his head.

“Forgive me, but I am in a hurry. The supernatural?”

Mr. Pettigrew leaned into Eddy and lowered his voice. “It’s payback, Mr. Poe, for the cat.” He grinned, exposing several teeth trimmed with gold. “I heard about the hanging from a patient—horrible woman with bleeding gums. Elmira…? Well, it doesn’t matter. I wanted a peek as much as the next man. So I closed office yesterday afternoon and ran into Reverend Gerry on the way over. We got to talking.” He took another drink from the flask. “When he described the hanged cat, I knew it belonged to Tabitha and Abner Arnold. I’d seen the creature at their shop when I picked up my new boots.” He lifted his shoe, showing Eddy the peeling sole. “They’re less than two weeks old. I’ll never buy another pair from those crooks.”

The rumple and snap of a newspaper enticed me to the end of the bar. Leaving a trail of greasy footprints, I walked past a row of patrons, brushing their noses with my tail. The paper’s owner departed as I arrived, giving me full access to the plaything. I sat on the folded pages and delighted in the crinkle under my bottom. Between my paws, I noticed a sketch of a man with a passing resemblance to Mr. Arnold. Bald patches covered his head and fresh wounds marred his cheeks. If it was really the shoemaker, he’d paid for his crime.

“The cat, Mr. Pettigrew?” Eddy asked.

Drawn by my companion’s voice, I rejoined the men and sat near Eddy’s elbow.

“The cat!” Mr. Pettigrew said, eying me. “Yes, the cat. Sad creature. I suspected Abner Arnold put an end to its life, but when I visited the remnants of their home this morning, I knew he’d done it. That mystical mischief is the talk of Green Street.”

“I suspect him as well. But why do you think supernatural forces are at work?”

He finished the flask and slapped the bar to call Mr. Jolley, professing his need for another round. “I suggest you visit what’s left of his home, Mr. Poe. Then you will see for yourself.”

***

Eddy marched up Franklin to Green Street with me tucked under his arm. Panting and wheezing from the exertion, he arrived at the Arnold’s razed home and set me on the sidewalk. Easily half the neighborhood had gathered to view last night’s accident, including Mr. Cook and Mr. Eakins. The men and women clustered around the debris, forming a wall of parasols, flat-brimmed Quaker hats, and the odd top hat. “Pardon me,” Eddy said, pushing between them. “I must get to the front. I am here on important business.”

I slipped through the human fence and meowed for Eddy to join me near the alley. The fire had blackened the bricks of the brownstone next door, but the building had experienced no real hardship. The blaze hadn’t jumped the alley or the street either, which meant I’d caused no harm to the innocent, unless you counted Mrs. Arnold. The guilty, however, had paid dearly. The cobbler shop, adjacent to the rear of the property, had suffered damage to its back wall but remained largely intact. Little remained of the home, save for a charred timber skeleton and a few determined walls.

“I do not see Mr. Pettigrew’s supernatural evidence, do you, Catters?”

I meowed and sniffed the still-wet pile of wood.

“By the by, I feel sorry for Mrs. Arnold,” he said to me. “Though I am not sure about Mr. Arnold. If he did hang the black cat, this may be divine retribution.” He smoothed the back of his hair. “Or maybe he went on a spree before coming home and fell asleep with candles aflame. Mr. Arnold was quite the tippler, Catters.”

“Tippler, indeed,” said the woman at Eddy’s elbow. A lady of some wealth—not a Quaker—she wore a silken blue gown with a lace-paneled neckline. She closed her parasol with a snap. “In all my days, I’ve never seen a man more taken with drink than Abner Arnold. I don’t know how his poor wife copes. She’s up half the night, crying and pacing, waiting for him to come home from the tavern.” She pointed to the charred home next door with her umbrella. “I live right there, and I see everything. Everything.”

“Madam, was Mr. Arnold a cruel man?” Eddy asked her. “Capable of, say, cutting out a cat’s eye?”

She touched her breastbone and frowned. “He’s never been a kind man, always quick with his fists. Many a night I’ve heard them quarrel, and many a morning I’ve seen bruises on Mrs. Arnold’s face. But these last few months, he’s gotten worse. Much worse.” She shook her head. “It’s the drink, I tell you. It rots a man’s brain. And don’t tell me otherwise, because I read it in Godey’s. Thank goodness the temperance movement is taking hold in Philadelphia.”

Eddy pressed her. “The accident…do you think it was supernatural?”

“That’s what Mr. Pettigrew says. He’s been in and out of the shops this morning, spouting nonsense about ghost cats and revenge from the grave. He’s a regular Dickens.” She huffed. “It’s got nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with spirits.”

Eddy nodded thoughtfully. The woman tried talking to him a while longer, but he’d already withdrawn into his thoughts. I brushed his leg to bring him round. “I do not like keeping company with Abner Arnold, Cattarina. I am convinced he killed Pluto in a drunken rage, and it frightens me that I—”

“Look!” Mr. Cook shouted. “It’s the ghost cat!” One large, flabby arm shot forward, and he pointed to a plaster wall near the center of the wreckage. It had fallen straight down from the second story and remained upright, bolstered by scorched furniture and twisted stovepipe.

The woman in blue shaded her eyes. “Wait! I see it! Mr. Pettigrew was right.” She caught her breath. “And it’s got a rope around its neck!”

Try as I might, too many legs prevented me from seeing the ghost cat.

“Oh, me! A sign from the Other Side,” Mr. Eakins said above the crowd. “I knew Abner Arnold killed the poor creature, and this proves it!”

A series of exclamations rose from the men and women: “Strange!” and “Singular!” The neighbors of Green Street pressed closer to look at the curiosity.

Eddy whisked me from harm’s way and sat me on his shoulder. A lady with a coalscuttle bonnet darted in front of us, causing my companion to stand on tiptoe for a look. “Oh, Jupiter!” Eddy said. He covered his mouth with his hand. “Can it be, Catters?”

On the lone piece of wall, I glimpsed the apparition in question—the outline of a hanged cat. Egad! I had been the one to make the impression. The heat from the fire must have reacted with materials in the plaster, softening it enough to accept my mark when Mr. Arnold dashed me against it. Soot from my fur added depth and shadow to the gruesome likeness. The curtain cord that tangled my neck last night had been preserved, too, and looked very much like a noose. I hadn’t just caught and punished the murderer; I’d announced his wrongdoing to all of Philadelphia.