The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries)

A Considerable Mystery

"Oh, Jupiter!" Eddie exclaimed. With a pallor matching the victim's, he staggered to the edge of the retention pond and scattered the vultures. Pity. The birds had already made a meal of her, pecking and ripping her face to sausage meat. What's more, the smell of excrement permeated the area; the woman had given her daily due. Due to her recent killing, she'd not begun to rot yet. Cats, on the whole, are not a squeamish lot. This, I'm certain, applies to the rest of the animal kingdom—but not to humans. Men hold death in great regard, always waxing about the waning of life. But present them with a body, and they fall to pieces faster than a teacup dashed against the hearth. For all his macabre interests, Eddie was no exception to the rule. He knelt beside the woman, one trembling hand against his mouth.

"Just awful," he said. "What's become of this poor soul?"

Now that the carrion creatures had flown, I took a closer look at the body. Grey hair, wrinkles, a thickness about the waist—these marked a woman of advanced years. Her clothes, while wet with water from the reservoir, were of the highest quality—tight stitching, smooth gabardine, silk flowers at the bodice. If there's one thing I know, it's dresses. I doubt Snow or Big Blue could differentiate between summer-weight and winter-weight wool or crepe de chine and charmeuse. Having clawed countless examples in my time, I excelled at such things. Visitors of all walks frequented the Poe house—a testament to my friend's standing—and, like any good host, I greeted them as they entered. No hem escaped my welcome.

Vultures had made a mess of her neck and face, but the empty eye sockets told me what I needed to know. The right side was a flowing cup of detritus, the left, a barren well. Even I possessed enough knowledge of anatomy to know she'd lost one organ to bird claw and the other to accident or disease. In all likelihood, she'd worn an artificial eye. This also meant any doubt I had in Mr. Uppity's role—and there was precious little—had disappeared. And while I hadn't caught the fiend in the act, I'd at least involved Eddie in the mystery.

"Catters, we must do…something," he said. "We must help."

I knew the definition of help, and she was beyond its reach.

"Her windpipe looks as if it's been cut by a knife, but that's not what interests me." He gestured with his pinky finger. "Look there, at her face. One socket appears to have been surgically altered in recent years. I can't prove it, but I'm sure she wore a glass eye." Blood rushed his cheeks as he leaned over the body, his earlier uneasiness gone. "The buzzards have eaten most of her other eye…but wait! The tattered shreds of a pale blue iris. I knew it, Catters, I knew it!" He jumped to his feet, fled to the staircase, and shouted to the people below. "Summon a constable! A woman's been murdered!"

On his return, he snatched the eyeball I'd dropped and stuck it in his pocket as sightseers flooded the plateau. At first, they kept their distance. But when they crowded the body, Eddie commanded them to leave "for the sake of the crime scene," he said. Some listened, some did not. At last, two dour-looking gentlemen arrived and ran off the remaining onlookers. The first and older of the two wore a dark overcoat and carried a leather-bound notebook. The second I took for a night watchman, judging by his heavy cloak, wide-brimmed hat, and long brass-tipped stick. I'd befriended many over the seasons and always found them agreeable. They shifted towards us, two greying apparitions in the twilight.

"I'm Constable Harkness, Spring Garden District," the older man said. His large white mustache covered his mouth. When he spoke, his bottom lip wiggled beneath the whiskers. "This is Watchman Smythe. Are you the one who found the body?"

"Yes, at first candle-light," Eddie said. "I was out, strolling with my cat—"

"Sorry, your cat?"

Sensing the need for my input, I meowed to clear up whatever confusion had arisen.

Constable Harkness wrote something in his notebook with a pencil stub he pulled from his vest pocket. He dotted the page with sharp tap of the lead.

Watchman Smythe poked the woman's body with his stick. "Cold as a wagon tire," he said.

These two simpletons did not impress me. What was a "constable" any way? And why had Eddie involved one in our private mystery? Surely we could've handled things on our own. At this stage, we needed fewer how dos you dos and more hunting. But since humans are impossible to herd, I sat idly by, waiting for them to catch the wave that had already swept me into deep water.

The older gentleman continued, "Your name?"

"E. A. Poe," Eddie said.

"As in Edgar Allan Poe?" Watchman Smythe rested the end of his nightstick on the ground and leaned on it. "Why sure, I've read your stories." He turned to the older man. "You've heard of him, haven't you, Constable? He writes the popular pieces for Graham's Magazine."

"I don't read the popular pieces," he replied. From his sour face, "popular" must've been one pickle of a word.

"'The Murders in the Rue Morgue' was all-out sensational!" Watchman Smythe said. "You don't find 'em much smarter than Detective Dupin."

"Balderdash." Another sour pickle face from the constable.

The watchman tipped his hat at Eddie. "The wife will have a conniption when she finds out I met you, Mr. Poe. She fancies the way you kill people."

Constable Harkness raised an eyebrow.

Eddie loosened his cravat with a finger. "They're just stories, Mr. Smythe. Flights of imagination."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Poe, I still find your presence here most…interesting," Constable Harkness said. "Do you know this woman?"

"No. I've never seen her." Eddie tucked his fingers in his vest pockets. "But I'm not sure anyone could recognize her in her current state. Buzzards. They got to her before I did, I'm afraid."

More scribbling in the notebook.

"You seen anyone else up here?" Watchman Smythe asked. "Comin' and goin', that is?" He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Unfortunately, no," Eddie said.

"The Irish are a shifty lot," he continued. "They can slip past anyone. Even the likes of me."

The older gave the younger a stern look and said, "We shall keep an open mind, Smythe."

"Aren't you going to inspect the body?" Eddie asked.

Constable Harkness harrumphed, then stooped over the remains.

"Look closely at her face." Eddie leaned over the man's shoulder and pointed at the woman's face. "I think you'll find that one eye socket is smooth and hollow, as if she's had a surgery." He then leapt into a discussion of glass eyes and murderers. While he talked, I sniffed a clear puddle at the woman's feet. I'd thought it reservoir water at first, but after a series of uproarious sneezes, I knew it to be the same vile liquid I'd noted at Shakey House. Something about this bothered me. If Mr. Uppity was guilty of the crimes, why had I smelled the medicine on Mr. Abbott, or perhaps even Josef? My theory of the murder had more holes than a mole's den.

Constable Harkness straightened and shook out his overcoat. "It's too dark to see. Smythe, fetch a cart and collect the body. Quick as you can, bring it to Dr. Anderson's." He stepped aside to let the watchman pass, then turned to Eddie. "I can't be sure of anything until I get Dr. Anderson's report, and I won't rush to judgment. But her death is a considerable mystery."

"I couldn't agree more," Eddie said. A weak smile crossed his lips, as if he'd found some small amusement in the situation.

The constable studied my friend through narrowed lids. "Would you mind coming back to my house to discuss the matter? Strictly a formality, of course."

Eddie eased his hand into his pocket. "I've told you everything I know, sir." He withdrew the glass eye with care, keeping it hidden from the constable. "I'm not sure what else I can add." With slow, subtle movements, he tossed the object behind him, ridding himself of it. Constable Harkness took no notice, but I did. "My wife and mother-in-law will be beside themselves if I don't return before supper."

"From your…cat stroll."

"Precisely."

Surprised that Eddie would throw away our lone clue, I leapt on the lopsided orb. He gave a little shriek and snatched me up backwards before I could grasp it between my paws. How undignified, to be tucked under a man's arm, my hindquarters flying like a flag. I waved my tail beneath his nose to show my displeasure. He sneezed and brought me round the right way to face Constable Harkness.

The man fixed Eddie with a gaze that chilled me. "You know more than you're telling, Mr. Poe," he said. "And I need answers."

"Why don't I give you my address?" Eddie offered. "You can come by in the morning if you like. Around ten?"

"Very well." Constable Harkness took Eddie by the elbow and ushered him from the body. "I'll drop in after I speak to—" He frowned. "Hello, what's this?" He bent and retrieved the object that had plagued Eddie and me these last few days.

"I think it's an eye," Eddie said.

"I can see that," he said. "It must be the victim's. That makes three so far. The murderer is obviously amassing a collection and won't stop until he's completed it—whenever that may be. But why would he leave this one and not the others?"

Eddie shrugged. "Carelessness?"

They talked a moment longer, then the constable let us go. Eddie waited until we'd descended the steps to speak. He kept me under his arm, but I didn't mind. After the day I'd had, I needed the break. "Don't think me callous, Catters," he said. "It's perfectly dreadful that another woman has died, but, oh, the fascination!" Keeping to the manicured paths, Eddie walked around the central fountain and headed toward the main entrance. "Constable Harkness thinks the murderer is collecting these body parts, but I don't. I think he needed two of them. When he lost the one you found, he had to kill again to make a pair, a pale blue pair. If the culprit strikes again, I am wrong. If he doesn't, I am correct."

I meowed in agreement. While I didn't understand the conversation, I found it amenable. Still, my friend had said nothing about Mr. Uppity, meaning my work was far from done.

A Visit from the Constable

Eddie and I left the garden of Fairmount Water Works, crossed the road, and veered into the field that led to our neighborhood. Window lights speckled the landscape like fallen stars. When we entered the Poe house, Sissy greeted us with a series of breathless questions. Tired and dirty, I jumped to the floor and retreated to the kitchen. There, I secured my spot behind the wood stove and groomed my paws before dinner. Muddy whirled about the room with a wooden spoon, stirring and tasting, and didn't notice me. I settled onto the warm floorboards and thought of Snow and what she would have for dinner. I sniffed. For me, it would be broiled shad, egg sauce, and stewed cucumbers, the latter of which they would put in my bowl, but I would heartily ignore. Running the streets had been fun, but I liked home.

Before long, the four of us huddled around the dinner table, my bowl near Eddie's feet, to talk of the day's events. Truth be known, they talked, not me. My mouth was too full of shad. I picked at the fish and listened to the murmurs above.

"What do you think the killer is going to do with them?" Sissy asked.

"What one usually does with two glass eyes," Eddie said.

"And what would that be?" Muddy asked.

"He's being purposely obtuse, Mother," Sissy said. "He has no more idea than we do."

The clink of cutlery filled the room. My bowl cleaned of its contents, I lay on my side—legs spread in either direction—and rested my eyes.

"He's building an automaton," Sissy said, breaking the quiet spell. "And needed a realistic touch for the face."

Muddy snorted. "What man in Fairmount has the smarts to build such a thing? I think he's selling them for money. Not enough to go round these days."

Eddie remained uncharacteristically silent, so I raised my head to check on him. His body remained, but his mind had gone to a faraway place, heralded by a familiar gaze that looked at nothing in particular. This empty stare almost always preceded fits of pen scribbling. A muse knows things a mere wife, even a fine wife, does not.

"My dear?" Sissy touched his arm. "Are you well?"

Eddie smirked, rousing from a dream that had obviously pleased him. He leaned forward and called them closer, speaking just above a whisper. "I will tell you what he's doing with the eyes. Prepare yourselves, ladies. He's making a doll of human cast-offs. What will he steal next? A wooden leg? False teeth? One can only hope!" When Muddy groaned, he tipped his head back and laughed.

"Stop, Eddie," Sissy said. "My stomach is turning somersaults, and I need my appetite, thank you very much."

"You needn't worry, my darling. Whatever project he's working on, I intend to uncover it. That much I do know." He set his fork and knife aside. "Now that the finger of suspicion has swung in my direction, I have no choice."

"Then speak with the optician," Sissy said. "He may have your answers."

"Optician?" Muddy asked.

"An acquaintance of mine from…from West Point," Eddie said quickly. "Splendid idea, my wife. I'll pay him a visit tomorrow, provided Constable Harkness doesn't arrest me first."

The evening passed in a dull march of drudgery: dishes and sweeping up and the like. Even Eddie forwent writing to help with chores. Once the Poe family moved camp upstairs, I curled into a ball at the foot of Sissy's bed, too exhausted to oversee their nightly endeavors, and let their sweet voices lull me into a relaxed state. But images of Mr. Uppity's wizened face and sharp blue eyes taunted me when I closed my eyes. As hunter extraordinaire, how could I have let him slip through my paws so many times? Had my skills lessened with age? No, I'd bested Killer—in the Spider, no less. I tucked my tail around my nose. Perhaps I'd met a quarry beyond my reach. Perhaps the man would never be caught, and Philadelphia would soon reek with the stench of his victims.

I set aside this disquieting notion in favor of Midnight and the adventure we'd had. A sublime specimen, he possessed qualities I looked for in a mate: a handsome coat (black fur always made me swoon), intelligence, long whiskers, devilish charm, and a vocabulary that rivaled mine. In fact, he reminded me of Eddie, but with more fur and a tail. This unsettled me more than Mr. Uppity's tomfooleries, so I thought of Snow. She'd been so curious about human companionship; the longing in her voice had been unmistakable. Mr. Coffin's voice held it as well the odd times he spoke to me alone. An introduction between the fatted goose and the white cat was in order, provided I could arrange it. Satisfied that I'd solved at least one problem today, I drifted into a fitful slumber.

* * *

The next morning, a staccato rap-rap-rap on the front door startled Eddie and me. At the sound, he scratched a line of ink across the page, spoiling an otherwise well-penned sheet of paper. "Dash it all," he said, tossing the quill onto his desk.

We'd been at writing awhile.

After breakfast, he'd announced his intention to work and called me into the front room, shutting the door and stoking the fire. There, I assumed my post—the corner of his desk—with unusual cheer. Even though Mr. Uppity was still free to kill, I'd shaken Eddie from his melancholy, and this had been my goal from the start. Success had, indeed, come from failure. Taking solace in this notion, I set aside my qualms over the botched hunting expedition and immersed myself in Eddie's genius, watching his feather dance to the complicated waltz in his head.

Until the knock interrupted the music.

Muddy greeted our guest—mumbled niceties in the hallway—and showed him into the front room. Constable Harkness entered, hat in hand, and eyed our meager surroundings. Eddie rose from his chair and dismissed Muddy with a shake of his head. To comfort my friend, for I could smell his anxiety from across the desk, I stepped over the scattered papers and nudged his hand. He stroked my head with fingers damp from worry.

After the usual formalities, the constable stated his business. "Well, Mr. Poe, you are officially above the district's suspicion."

"I am delighted," Eddie said. He relaxed his posture and leaned on the desk.

"Doctor Anderson confirmed the woman died well before you discovered her, by several hours. Rigor mortis had just begun to set in when we carted her over. That's when the body—"

"I am aware of rigor, sir."

Constable Harkness fingered his watch chain.

Eddie cleared his throat. "Who was she, and how was she killed?"

"Her name is, or was Minerva Paulson, a socialite who'd recently moved to Rittenhouse. Dr. Anderson spoke to her family and confirmed she wore a prosthesis. Lost the original in a childhood accident." He rubbed his mouth. "And she was killed like the others. A knife to the throat."

Eddie winked at me and whispered, "It was the Glass Eye Killer, Cattarina. Never wager against me."

"There is no satisfaction in death, Mr. Poe, save for meeting one's maker," Constable Harkness donned his hat in the house, a sign of disrespect apparent to even me.

"I agree it is a tragedy. I only meant—"

"You spend too much time dwelling on the misery of others, Mr. Poe, and while you haven't committed any crimes—that I'm aware of—I find you altogether disagreeable. I bought a copy of The Gift this morning, read your 'Pit and the Pendulum,' and nearly lost my breakfast on the ride over. You should stick to poetry. Good day to you, sir."

Eddie offered no reply. He waited for the front door to shut and then let out a sigh strong enough to stir a windstorm. "What a relief," he said.

Muddy stuck her head in the room, her cap strings swaying. "Mrs. Busybody's been tongue wagging to all of Fairmount about the constable's visit." She lowered her voice. "Even the fatted goose knows about it."

Mr. Coffin appeared over her shoulder, causing her to jump. "Hullo, Poe," he said. "Are you in a fix?" He'd arrived without benefit of jerky, but I forgave him since concern tempered his usual merriment. I heard it in his voice when he spoke to Eddie about the murder. I tried to leave and find Snow for an introduction, but someone had wrapped a piece of leather string around the latch, preventing my escape. The old widow, Mrs. Busybody, followed next with skirts so wide they dragged the doorframe and knocked Sissy's bric-a-brac from the side table. "It's too horrible for polite discussion!" she cried. "I feel a faint coming on. Who will catch me?" She fanned herself with chubby fingers, all the while smiling demurely at Mr. Coffin. Then came quiet Mister Balderdash, who listened more than he spoke, and Mr. Murray from Shakey House, and Dr. Mitchell, Sissy's doctor and long-time friend, and on and on until the front room bulged like a stuffed hen at Christmas.

Shortly after Mrs. Busybody's arrival, I began to suspect I was the guest of honor, for when Eddie recited his tale—and he did so many, many times, to the delight of his audience—he spoke my name. Though I longed to vanish into the upper floors of the house, what could I do? With so many guests to entertain, I hopped on the mantel and provided a living, breathing illustration to Eddie's account. With each retelling, my friend grew more animated, flapping his arms in a sort of pantomime when he reached the part about the vultures. I hadn't seen him this happy since he'd gotten that slip of paper in the mail he called "the gift." Yet I took no pleasure in his stories. They reminded me of my own futile efforts and made my stomach go all gurgly. I had never—never!—failed at hunting. My claws ached at the very thought of it.

During the initial stages of revelry, Sissy crept into the room. She sat at Eddie's elbow, commenting when she could, and took coins in exchange for his poetry pamphlets. Muddy, meanwhile, scurried between the front room and the kitchen, exclaiming, "What's a visit without tea? Guests must have tea!" Yet with but one jar of leaves on the shelf, each brew grew lighter and lighter until she finally served something she called "an invisible blend grown in the mountains of the Orient." Fiddlesticks. I knew plain water when I smelled it.

Alas, all this excitement was not without price.

Naturally, I sensed Sissy's downturn first. But from the first cough, Eddie stood and asked everyone to leave. "You must excuse us now," he said to the visitors. "Mrs. Poe has grown tired and must rest. I know you understand." By the time we reclaimed the house, midday sun streamed through the windows.

"To bed, my girl," Muddy said.

"To bed, my wife," Eddie said.

Sissy did not object.

Once she disappeared up the stairs, I paced the hallway with scant awareness of Eddie and Muddy's quarrel in the kitchen. Everywhere I looked, the color blue: the cornflower shawl hanging on the coatrack, the deep twilight covers of Eddie's leather-bound books, the tufted blueberry pillows on the couch…the hue taunted me from every crevice of the house until it drove me partially mad. How could I give up catching Mr. Uppity now?

When Muddy gave us permission, Eddie and I climbed the stairs to pay Sissy a visit. The old woman met us at the landing and spoke in hushed tones about "keeping her daughter quiet and calm." After this solemn warning, she left to gather the guest dishes, a conclusion I drew from the careless clink of china below. Sensing Eddie's need for privacy, I let him enter alone but kept watch through a crack in the door. He spoke to the dear girl and stroked her forehead with a tenderness he usually reserved for me. Uncommonly possessive of my friend, I made the odd exception for Sissy. I batted the door and opened it a little wider.

"I will stay here," Eddie said. His back was to me, shoulders stooped. "I want to, my darling."

"No, please, go to Mr. Lorbin's office," she said. Her complexion had gone the way of the tea, turning paler with each shallow breath.

"But Constable Harkness says I'm no longer a suspect."

She clutched the bedcovers and restrained a cough that could've been much deeper had she allowed it. "You want to solve a mystery like Detective Dupin. Admit it."

Eddie grew quiet. I couldn't see his face, but I knew the conflict that must've been written upon it because the damnable feeling had already waylaid me in the hallway. Despite a rational desire to set aside the hunt for Mr. Uppity, my pride would not allow it. But with this change in Sissy's health, I wondered if I should leave the house. My tail swished back and forth as I contemplated the dilemma. I had grown to love the girl almost as much as I loved Eddie.

"Go," she said. "I insist."

He kissed her on the cheek. "I do not deserve a wife as fair-minded as you, sweet Virginia."

She smiled wanly. "I will agree with you, but only because I am too tired to argue."

Whatever she said must have convinced him to go, for we made straightaway for the city, leaving behind the last of my uncertainty.

Two Makes a Pair

Two majestic townhomes sandwiched Mr. Lorbin's spectacle shop in the neighborhood of Logan Square, a fact confirming all roads did, indeed, lead to the blue-eyed bandit. Eddie and I stepped from our hired coach and approached the building with mutual urgency. This time, however, I minded my step. At the start of our journey, I'd neglected to match Eddie's stride and accidentally tripped him as we left the neighborhood. He admonished me for following him—he looked genuinely surprised that I had—but I overcame these protestations with a gentle trill, and we were on our way.

Once we reached busy Coates Street, Eddie hired a public carriage and told the driver to "seek out Ezekiel Lorbin's office, full chisel." We bounced through the cobblestone streets, my bones rattling like a sack of Mr. Coffin's nails. For my own amusement, I sharpened my claws on the tufted velvet cushion and sniffed the horsehair that spilled from the rips. Paradise on four wheels! From now on, I would stop running about like a madcat and use human transportation for all my future endeavors. Eddie ignored me and stared out the window, his brow furrowed. So I followed suit, observing the city from the back window of the closed coach. The faster we flew, the blurrier the people grew until I became almost dizzy.

Near the park, a group of nannies stopped their baby carriages and waved, signaling me out to their charges. The squeal of children seemed to shake Eddie from his preoccupation, and he began to talk again, first about the warm weather streak, then about his books. "We sold four copies of Tamerlane in an hour, Catters. Four," he said. He unbuttoned his overcoat and pulled the window shade, cutting the sun. "They'd been in storage for years—oh, how young and naïve the author!—and now they are in the hands of readers. If I solve this mystery, what might it do for my public profile? I could raise money for The Penn in no time."

The Home for Broken Humans appeared in the carriage window. As we passed, I stared back at the building and chirped with anticipation. When we traveled this way again, I would create a ruckus and force Eddie to stop the carriage. While I longed to hunt in Rittenhouse, a meeting with Caroline would have to suffice until I could detour our investigation. Between Josef's mention of her name in the bar and Mr. Uppity's receipt of her note, the young woman knew something of the crimes. I switched my tail and wondered if the hospital door would swing open for our arrival, because it would take this degree of precision to carry out my plan.

Our driver pulled curbside, and we departed for the optician's shop. What a funny word, optician. Why didn't they just say spectacle? I didn't know who this Lorbin fellow was, but I questioned his usefulness. To our mutual agreement, I waited for Eddie outside on the stoop and surveyed the street for any sign of the dappled mare and gig. Mostly residential, this sedate piece of Philadelphia held little activity, save for a group of mourners in the cemetery across the way. I recognized it as the burial ground I'd passed before my confrontation with Claw. I watched as the humans lowered a coffin into the ground with ropes, their grip unsteady and faltering. The wailing that accompanied the event pricked my ears. For all its certainty, death's timing is decidedly uncertain. This I feared most. One day, one very unexpected day, I would wake up beneath Sissy's cold, grey arm. But I would not wail as these humans did. I would become very, very still—

A bespectacled Mr. Lorbin opened the door, pushing me from the step, and, mercifully, from my morbid obsessions. The glasses magnified his eyes to an alarming size. I could've watched the twin brown fish swim in their bowls all afternoon. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help, Mr. Poe. Try the Wills Hospital. They should be able to help with your inquiry."

"Thank you, Mr. Lorbin. You've been most helpful." Eddie leapt to the sidewalk with excitement. "If you are to follow me, Cattarina, you must be quick. I am a man in search of answers."

I scurried down the street after him, working to keep pace. Imagine my surprise when we turned up the walkway toward the Home for Broken Humans. Great Cat Above, I hadn't expected this! A comely woman with slender hands and narrow shoulders greeted Eddie and invited him into the entry hall. The smell of boiled chicken permeated the air, giving it a gelatinous feel.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said to Eddie. "Welcome to the Wills Hospital. Are you here to see a patient?"

"No, I'm here to see Dr. Burton." He reached to take his hat off. When he realized he'd left it at home, he clasped his hands behind his back instead. "On the recommendation of Ezekiel Lorbin."

Not wanting the "shoo" again, I stationed myself behind the usual potted plant and waited.

"Dr. Burton is occupied. A patient died rather suddenly this morning, and he's been attending to the details." Her bottom lip quivered. "Terrible tragedy the way Mr. Sullivan passed. The police are being summoned—" She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her fingertips. "You must forgive me. I talk far too much."

"On the contrary." The corner of Eddie's mustache lifted. "I find it helps during trials of fortitude. Madame, I stand before you, eager to share in your burden. Now then, how did Mr. Sullivan die?"

"I cannot speak it."

"Then show me."

She motioned to her throat, drawing her finger across it in a line. "Who would be heartless enough to kill a man with one leg? And then steal his artificial one?" She laid her hands along her cheeks. "He'd just gotten it, too. Brand new steel contraption with springs at the knee."

I slunk from my hiding place and crawled around the room, scuttling the baseboards like a cockroach.

Eddie's eyes shone in the sunlight cascading through the window. "Tell me more about this leg."

I left them mid exchange and entered the long room where I'd found Caroline and Josef yesterday. Most patients sat upright against their pillows, eating the boiled chicken from metal plates. Not all had the strength to lift a fork, however, and had to be fed by nurses—including Caroline. I ducked under the tunnel of bedframes to arrive at hers, making sure to stay out of view of anyone in a white pinafore. Once the nurse left with Caroline's empty dishes, I jumped onto the young woman's lap.

"Hello," Caroline said. "What's this?"

I froze beneath her pale blue gaze.

"I like pussycats," she said to me in a whisper. "I can't see you, but your fur feels exquisite."

I put my paws on her chest and examined her eyes. To my horror, they were identical to the one I found at Shakey House and altogether unnatural looking, giving her the appearance of a china doll. I hadn't seen them on my last visit because she'd kept her back to me. At least now I understood her involvement in the murders. She'd been the recipient Mr. Uppity's ill-gotten pearls.

Caroline stroked my head. "Who let you in here, Miss Puss?"

I glanced at Eddie in the entry hall, still deep in conversation with our greeter. Desperate to draw his notice and draw it now, I yowled with all my being. The patients pointed and laughed at me with riotous enthusiasm, as if I'd provided post-luncheon entertainment. Fiddlesticks. Their ruckus drew the attention of both Eddie and the nurses. The women rushed us, causing me to ponder—ah, the burden of verbosity!—what a group of them might be called. After all, geese had gaggles, dogs had packs, crows had murders. I settled on stern of nurses and ran like the devil.

I hopped from bed to bed, exciting the broken humans into an unmanageable state as I avoided the nurses' grasping hands. Pillows and bedpans and spoons filled the air—hoorah! Several boys with crutches banged them against the bedframes, creating a rhythm that drove me around the room faster than the horse-drawn carriage. I was a lion in a jungle of blankets. I was untouchable. I was glorious.

"Run, cat, run!" they cried. "Run, cat, run!"

Eddie hovered in the doorway, shamefaced, his hands in his coat pockets. On my second go-round, someone beseeched him to help, and he reluctantly obliged. When he headed in my direction, I doubled back, landed in Caroline's lap, and waited for truth to break the horizon. He reached us, out of breath. "I am ashamed to admit," he said to Caroline, "the wayward cat is mine. May I take her?"

Caroline handed me to Eddie and looked up at him. Perhaps look was the wrong term.

His reaction to the girl's eyes surpassed even my own. He stared into their depths and stammered, "Two makes a pair!"

A Ghost of a Girl

A girl with two glass eyes can be most persuasive. The stern of nurses crumbled at her request that I be allowed to stay, and, after issuing several admonitions about "the hell cat," they left to quiet the rest of the patients. When the room returned to a state of normalcy, I curled in Caroline's lap, where she stroked my fur with hands spun—I swear it—from silk. If not for her unfortunate association with a murderer, I might've added her to my list of approved humans.

Eddie fell into the familiar role of bedside companion and pulled up a chair. When he introduced himself, she mentioned one of his older pieces, "The Fall of the House of Usher," a tale he wrote the summer we met. "A fan!" Eddie said with a toss of his head. "And a fair one at that. If I may admit, you remind me of Mrs. Poe."

"I do?" She nestled her hands into my fur to warm them.

"Yes, except for your eyes. Hers are hazel, and yours are the loveliest shade of…let me think."

"Blue?"

"How mundane a description. No, I shall call them oceania."

"We secretly call them Ferris Blue since most of us are graced with the color. But I like your description better."

"Ferris? As in the great Ferris family?"

"Miss Caroline Ferris. Pleased to make your acquaintance." She held out her hand, skeletal and frail, and waited for Eddie to shake it. He did so, gently.

"That's a very old name you carry," he said, "one of the oldest in Philadelphia."

"It is heavy at times," she said. "But one cannot simply set these things aside when one grows weary. Still, being a Ferris has its charms. Or, rather, had them. Gala invitations have dropped off sharply since my unfortunate turn. Most are factories of tedium, but I am sad to have missed Charles Dickens in March. My second cousin Bess hosted a dinner in his honor."

"I met him then. Twice. An enthralling storyteller, if I may confess. Boz and I run in the same circles, and he was cordial enough to grant me interviews." Eddie took his coat off and pushed it back on the chair. "I could have listened to him for hours."

"Did he tell many stories?"

"We spoke mostly of poetry."

"And his manner?"

"As if Philadelphia would make a fine footstool."

"I knew it!" She giggled, rousing me from my contentment. But the delight was short lived. Her voice resumed its usual dirge. "My Uncle Gideon still mingles with that crowd. You may have seen his name in the paper or heard it in the streets around Rittenhouse Square."

"Gideon Ferris? I thought he fell on hard times after Jackson killed the U.S. Bank."

"No, no, we still own several coal mines to the west." She began to stroke me again, and I rolled belly side up. "How else could he have afforded my new eyes?"

"Yes, it is a considerable mystery."

I peeked at Eddie. Strange that he'd repeated the constable's phrase from yesterday. He smoothed his mustache, as if uncertainty preceded his next statement.

"If you don't mind me asking, Miss Ferris, how did you lose them?"

"Vanity," she said matter-of-factly. "It is a sad story, Mr. Poe, and I do not wish to trouble you."

"Sad stories are my life's work." He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. "I would be honored to hear yours."

Caroline sat back against her pillows and blinked her doll eyes. I fairly expected them to roll back in her head. "You wouldn't know it to look at me now," she said, "but I was once quite pleasant to behold. The summer I turned eighteen, I received three marriage proposals." Her face brightened. "In those days of never-ending sunshine, I wanted for nothing. Private tutors in art and poetry, dancing assemblies at Powel House, gowns stripped from the fashion plates, regattas on the Schuylkill. And, Mr. Poe, you have never properly summered unless you've summered on Cape May. I'm almost ashamed to admit these pleasures in the company of unfortunates." She gestured to the occupied beds around her. "Pity would be no more, if we did not make somebody poor. And mercy no more could be, if all were as happy as we."

"William Blake," Eddie replied. "Well stated."

"Like all good fairytales, however, mine was not without tragedy. And it struck soundly my twentieth year." She reached for a glass of water on her nightstand, and Eddie handed it to her. After a sip, she continued. "In October of 1837, my parents booked passage on the steamship Home to travel from New York to Charleston. But a gale overtook the vessel and broke her apart near Ocracoke, scattering bodies to the sea. Lifeboats were of no use as they capsized in the boiling surf. Ninety-five souls lost, including those of my parents, only a quarter mile from the shore." The liquid in her glass trembled, so Eddie took it from her and replaced it on the nightstand.

"Take heart, Miss Ferris. I, too, lost my parents at a young age, and I am no less a man."

"Thank you," she said. "I will remember that in my darkest hours. Though I suppose, all of my hours are dark now."

"I did not mean to take you from your story." He patted her hand. "Please continue."

I stood and stretched. Caroline's lap had grown too bony for comfort, so I crossed to the end of the bed and secured a new spot until they'd finished their conversation. Hunting requires a great deal of patience, and I had plenty.

"After my parents died," she said, "I went to live with my Uncle Gideon. He and my father were close, very close, so my uncle treated me as his own flesh and blood. Life was tolerable, if not acceptable, for several years until my illness. Rapid heartbeat, general weakness, thinning hair. For the longest time, doctors didn't know what was wrong with me. And then my eyes began to…" She sat forward. "Mr. Poe, are you constitutionally prepared?"

"For things of a physical nature, I am not. But for this, none are more suited than I."

She lay back again. "It started with pressure behind my eyes, propelling them forward as if drawn by magnet. This predicament wasn't so much painful as alarming. But we Ferrises are hardy stock, and I persevered without complaint. A year later, however, they'd begun to bulge from their sockets with such protuberance that leaving the house was no longer possible unless I wore a mourning veil. And what is a mourning veil without the rest of the costume? From then on, I became a black ghost, drifting the streets of Philadelphia, wailing for a life lost—my own."

"Dear, God," Eddie said.

"Just going to market for bread and cheese became a hardship, and every night, I needed help binding my eyelids closed with a strip of muslin so I could sleep. As you can imagine, Uncle Gideon became my constant caretaker, leaving only for business trips to Virginia. It was during one of these jaunts that I caught an infection in both eyes, turning them as red and runny as ox hearts. Yet I was too proud to ask for help. How could I, looking as I did? He returned three weeks later to find me crawling around the kitchen on all fours, weeping and scratching at the bottom cupboards for a tin of crackers. Why, I had almost starved! By the time Uncle checked me into Wills, my eyes were beyond hope, and Dr. Burton had no choice but to remove them. So you see, vanity stole my sight." She delivered a stillborn smile. "They diagnosed me with Grave's Disease the same week. That was nine months ago."

"I have never heard of such an illness," Eddie said.

"There are infinite ways to die, Mr. Poe," she said, "and we are still learning them. You, of all people, should know that." She sighed and crossed her ankles under the blankets. "I sit before you now, an invalid at the age of twenty-five. Uncle Gideon wants to take care of me, but cannot, the poor dear. He talks of enrolling me in Perkins School for the Blind so that I can care for myself one day. But sadly, that day is not today." She clasped her hands across her stomach, signaling the end of her tale.

Sensing an immanent departure, I rose and arched my back, working out the knots in my spine. I prayed Mr. Uppity's home would be our next stop. If the serendipitous meeting with Caroline didn't persuade Eddie, our cause lacked hope.

"That was quite a tragedy, Miss Ferris. Worthy of pen and paper," Eddie said. He uncrossed his legs, creaking the chair. "Where is your uncle now?"

"He visited just last night and brought me my second eye. It does not fit as well as the first, but I cannot complain." She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oceania. I shall tell Uncle about it when he visits before dinner. He promised he would."

Eddie rose and put on his coat. "I can see that you are tired, so if you'll excuse me."

She felt for his hand one last time, shook it, then let it drop feebly in her lap.

"Come, Catters," he whispered to me. "It is time we left." On the way out of the hospital, he stopped by the front desk to speak to the narrow-shouldered woman again. "I was touched by Miss Ferris's story. May I have the address of her benefactor? I would like to speak to him about a donation."

"Benefactor?" she said. "Miss Ferris is a charity case. Her uncle could no more pay for lunch than hospital care, as least not from what Dr. Burton says. Said the man sold his piano to pay for her eyes, but I have my doubts."

"Oh?" he said. "How do you think he got them?"

"Won the money in a card game. My fella lives in Rittenhouse, and he knows Mr. Ferris as a gambler. Everyone does."

"I see." Eddie rubbed his chin. "Still, I'd like to pay him a visit. Do you have his address?"

She opened a small wooden box on her desk, flipped through several cards inside, and said, "Walnut Street, near Rittenhouse Square. That's all he wrote."

"You have been a great help," Eddie said. He turned to leave, snapping his fingers to bring me along.

"Oh, and Mr. Poe?" she called after us. "Visitors are welcome. But next time, leave your hell cat at home."

Answers and Questions

"We found the murderer, Catters," Eddie said to me. He'd hired another public carriage after leaving the hospital, and we rode in it now, heading north toward Fairmount—the opposite direction of Mr. Uppity's home. "If it hadn't been for you and your naughty streak, I might have left without meeting Miss Ferris and learning her ghoulish secret. I can't help but feel for Gideon Ferris, though. Who knows what lengths I would go to if Sissy were in that bed instead of Caroline. Even so, murder is murder."

We hit a loose cobblestone, bouncing us to the roof of the coach. I had grown weary of "full chisel." The driver slowed the horse and mumbled an apology we scarcely heard through the glass.

"Once we tell Constable Harkness about the affair," Eddie continued, "it will be over. I never dreamed to catch a murderer. Sissy will be thrilled, and Muddy will be… Well, Muddy will be asking if there's money in it."

I meowed. Yes, catch a murderer. But Mr. Uppity did not live to the north. He lived to the south, a direction from which we were heading away. Had the visit with Caroline been for naught? I sat near him and formed a strong mental picture of Rittenhouse Square, hoping my friend would take it into his own mind. Telepathy between cats is common, but I had never tried it with a human, and certainly not with Eddie. Due to our similar interests and tastes, we operated in tandem so often that alternative communication hadn't been necessary.

Eddie laid his hand on my back. "I hope the constable pays Mr. Ferris a visit before he flees, for surely he will when Miss Ferris tells him of my visit. I was overly curious about her eyes, and that detail will not escape a businessman like him." He pressed his mouth into a grim line and stared out the window. "Think of it, Catters, that black-hearted fellow may be leaving Philadelphia—right now—as we journey to Constable Harkness's house." A half block later, he rapped on the glass. "Driver, turn around and take us to Rittenhouse Square, Walnut Street."

I rubbed my head along his arm, cheered by the discussion of Rittenhouse and the swerve of the carriage. My gambit had worked! When we reached the park, the driver stopped at the end of the block, nowhere near the correct address. Very well. Eddie had taken me this far; I would take him the rest of the way. As he exchanged money with the driver, I hopped to the sidewalk and dashed down the street until I arrived at Mr. Uppity's home. In the bright afternoon sun, the structure looked even more ramshackle than it had before. Paint peeled from the shutters like dead snakeskin and cracks disgraced the walkway. When Eddie approached, I climbed the front steps to the porch and waited.

"Catters!" he shouted. "You must stop running from me. My heart cannot take it." He leaned on the brick fence that closed the yard and studied the house. When he'd caught his breath, he joined me at the door and read the tarnished brass plate beneath the bell box. "Mr. Gideon Ferris." The astonishment on his face amused me beyond description. "I don't believe it. I simply do not believe it," he said. "How did you know?"

I meowed, prompting him to turn the ringer. Did I have to do everything myself? When the bell failed to summon anyone, Eddie knocked. No response. Minding an overgrown thistle patch, he crossed the lawn and shouted into a partially open front window. Again, no response. Eager for answers, I jumped to the sill and listened through the gap. Bump-bump. A sound not altogether human reverberated from the structure. Mr. Uppity may not have been home, but something was inside.

"I tell you, Sissy," Eddie said, "Caroline Ferris was as beautiful as she was sad. But a single glance of her dull, lifeless eyes is enough to send a man to his grave."

Eddie hadn't given me a chance to investigate the odd bump-bump. He'd whisked me from the sill and down the street where we hailed an omnibus to Constable Harkness's neighborhood. I say this in warning: the omnibus is a torture device wherein humans squeeze together on little bench seats, sneeze and cough at intervals, and natter on about the weather. Private transport agrees with me so much more. Once we arrived at our destination, Eddie told the constable countless stories of Mr. Ferris while I listened from the front windowsill. Throughout the day, I began to understand that Mr. Ferris and Mr. Uppity were one and the same. But he would always be Mr. Uppity to me. Shortly after, the Poe family gathered in the front room of our little house on Coates.

"Send a man to his grave?" Sissy sat on the chaise and fanned herself with a lace fan, her face flushed. "How you exaggerate, husband."

"A skill for which I am paid," Eddie said.

"Not often enough," Muddy said. She rocked her chair. Squeak, squeak. I sat on the hearth near her, swiping my tail back and forth in a little game with the rails. They'd caught me once. But only once.

"Mother," Sissy said, "must you always turn the talk? Let Eddie finish."

"Actually, Virginia, she reminded me a little of you." He leaned back in his desk chair, hands clasped behind his head, and began the full account of our adventures. Even though the fire had died, the hearth retained enough heat to warm me during the retelling. From the length of his speech, he'd spared no detail. He finished by adding me to the story. "We have Catters to thank for the outcome. If not for her, I wouldn't have met Miss Ferris or known where to find her uncle." He looked at me. "You ran right to 207 Walnut and waited for me, didn't you?"

Sissy smiled. "Detective Dupin would be proud."

"That doesn't matter," he said. "As long as you are proud."

"I am, very, but I wish Mr. Ferris had been caught. Is there nothing else we can do?"

"No. Constable Harkness will handle the rest." Eddie sat forward and rubbed his hands together. "At any rate, I am glad that you're feeling better. My thoughts scarcely left you today."

"Yes, the nap did wonders for me," she said.

I approached Sissy and let her pet me. I liked Caroline, but she was no substitute.

Muddy yawned. "Now I am tired." She resettled her shawl around her shoulders and nestled into the chair.

They talked awhile longer, speaking of tea and dinner and other things that made my stomach go grumbly. So I turned to groom my back haunch, noticing I reached it more easily today. Perhaps running about town had trimmed my middle. I stretched to the other side and found those curves equally easy to navigate. I'd lost Mr. Uppity, but I'd also lost weight. I could live with that—for now. But that sound, that blasted bump-bump, gnawed at me.

A loud knock drew our attention to the front door. Eddie rose to answer it, speaking to the guest with incredulity. "Constable Harkness? I didn't expect to see you here. Come in. Please." He showed the man into the front room and introduced him to his "sweet wife, Mrs. Poe."

Nodding and hand shaking and so forth.

"I'm here to let you know about Gideon Ferris." The constable's tone had taken on newfound civility since his last visit to Coates Street. But I still didn't like him.

"What happened?" Sissy asked. She sat upright on the chaise and closed her fan.

"He's left Philadelphia," Constable Harkness said. "We spoke to his houseboy, Owen. He'd just come from the livery stable, complaining of a bum knee. Seems a horse had thrown him that morning. Once we pressed him, he told us how Mr. Ferris killed those women and stole their eyes. He even said Ferris admitted to murdering the Wills patient, Tom Sullivan."

"He's growing bolder," Eddie said. "But why take a leg?"

"Hah! To make your doll," Muddy added with a snicker.

"What's that?" the constable asked.

"She suffers the occasional spell," Eddie whispered to him. "Please continue."

"Owen, the houseboy, was half out of his mind, scared to even speak with us. I'm sure he knew we'd come to send his employer to prison. Nonetheless, he invited us in, we had a look around, and saw no sign of the old man." He fingered the brim of his hat. "Apparently, Mr. Ferris rode west this morning by train, bound for Virginia, without so much as a goodbye to his niece." He nodded to the women, then headed for the door. "Just thought you should know."

Eddie saw him out and returned, his face darkened by disappointment. "They will never find him. Never," he said. "Gideon Ferris is gone."

Sissy rose and put her arm around him. "You did your best, Eddie. Why don't you go out and get some air, clear your head. It will be good for you." She smiled. "And you're in need of a new pen, aren't you? Why don't you visit the stationer's store? Have a look around. Cheer yourself up."

"Are you sure?"

"Mother will keep an eye on me."

Muddy waved dismissively.

"And bring me back a sweet from Jersey's Dry Goods on the way home," Sissy said. "Licorice cats if they have them."

"Of course." Eddie rocked back on his heels. "I may stop by Shakey House to tell Murray, Abbot, and the rest of the boys about this business. But I won't be long."

Shakey House? I had no intention of following him there.

"Just be back by dinner," Sissy said.

He kissed her on the cheek and left, giving us the quiet house. I yawned with the growing afternoon, tired as Old Muddy. But I had not abandoned the hunt as Eddie obviously had. I leapt to the windowsill to watch him leave for the pub. This was no longer about writing or despondency or any other damnable thing. It was about my satisfaction now. Mr. Uppity would not best me. I would not let him. I pictured him hiding in his house, waiting for cover of darkness to either kill or escape. And that bump-bump… I could not rest until I learned its source.

When Sissy and Muddy left for the kitchen, I tripped the front door latch and started for Rittenhouse with the goal of luring Mr. Uppity to the Eastern State Penitentiary. I would put him where he belonged with a bit of humbuggery, for it would take a thief to catch a thief. And I prayed Midnight would help devise a plan.

Bump-bump

After my earlier apprenticeship in public transport, I embraced these ways, hopping on and off the backs of carriages to reach Rittenhouse in half the time. If anyone noticed me, I jumped down and waited for another horse and buggy to pass. I became so adept at this game that toward the end, my paws rarely touched the ground. I even stooped to catching an omnibus at one point. While I loathed these high-occupancy coaches, they let me ride inside when the roads grew too crowded. Cats are adept at underfoot travel, and with proper concentration, they can slip in and amongst human legs with near invisibility. So I gained egress with no appreciable hardship, save for a bent whisker.

Some time between lunch and tea, in the squishy middle of the afternoon, I arrived at Midnight's house, confident that he could devise a scheme for drawing Mr. Uppity to the penitentiary. I yowled and yowled outside his front door, but only little Sarah came to greet me. A slip of a girl, she wasn't much more than two braids and two skinned knees clothed in velvet. She gave me a ham rind, which I accepted, and a red ribbon around my neck, which I did not. So I left for the grocer's, thinking Midnight might've gone back to steal another sausage. I wish I had not been right.

His voice drifted from the entrance as I neared the shop. "It's easy to steal," he said. "Watch me, and I'll show you how it's done. Which do you want, the jerky or the salted cod? Or both. I can get both, I know it."

I waited for a woman and her two children to pass. Then I ducked around the doorframe to catch Midnight and another cat, a beautiful tiger-striped molly, at their plotting. They sat beneath a teepee of mop handles, surveying the baskets and bins. At the sight of them together, my hackles rose and my claws unsheathed. Midnight must have meant more to me than I'd realized.

"The salted cod," the molly said. She flicked the tip of her tail. "That's my favorite."

If Auntie Sass were here, she'd have given them the "ol' spit and hiss." It took some effort, but I pulled my claws back and smoothed my hackles. A fight would only delay the search for Mr. Uppity, and, whether I liked it or not, I had no claim to Midnight. We didn't share a connection like Snow and Big Blue or even Eddie and Sissy. Yet I could not leave without inflicting some sort of wound. I switched my tail and said, "I prefer the sausage. Pity I shared mine yesterday with a cad." The bon mot zipped through the air and landed at the center of Midnight's chest.

He looked at me with big, round eyes. "Cattarina?" I turned to leave. "Wait! Cattarina!"

I ignored his pleas and dashed up the block, detouring through Rittenhouse Square. A group of nannies and baby carriages provided cover along the paved paths that intersected the lawn. The wheels rolled over my paws at several turns, but these pains paled to the one in my heart when I exited the park alone. Midnight had given up without effort. I swallowed. Then again, so had I. Blasted pride. Now I had no one to help me with my plan or, rather, absence of plan. I uttered a curse far more scathing than "fiddlesticks" and crossed the street to Mr. Uppity's house. I sat before the three-story building and licked my aching paws. I had started this hunt alone; I would finish this hunt alone. Except without Midnight's help—or even Eddie's—the logistics of depositing a full grown human inside a fortress of stone seemed impossible. I couldn't very well carry him by the scruff of the neck, though not for lack of want.

A light breeze blew, fanning my whiskers and stirring the curtains in the front window. Mr. Uppity had yet to close the sash. I hopped on the sill and examined the slender gap below the casing, an opening too small for my ample figure. What an embarrassing predicament to get stuck! Excuse me, sir, would you mind laying a boot to my backside and pushing me through? There's a good boy. Now come along to prison. Humph. I blew out my breath, wiggled a bit, and slipped through with unexpected ease, slumping into the parlor with a thump. I'd lost more weight than I'd thought.

I crouched behind the curtains and waited to see if the noise of my unfortunate landing would call someone from another floor. When it did not, I emerged and surveyed the room. The man had no furniture, well, none to speak of with any fondness, and what little he did have had been pushed against the walls, as if in anticipation of a dance assembly. I blinked at the busy striped wallpaper, dizzied by the pattern. Mr. Uppity already lived in a prison of his own making, complete with bars! Most men had no decorating sense. Thinking of our own home, the pieces that gave it a cozy feel had been supplied by Sissy. Pillows and doilies and the like. Yet Eddie was not without these sensibilities. He had many strong opinions on the placement of furniture and exercised them to Muddy's consternation. I lingered in the doorway and swiveled my ears, listening for human activity. I heard not a thing, not even the bump-bump of before. This emboldened me to enter the hallway.

The house smelled of rancid meat and dander enough that I wondered why the man hadn't opened all his windows. Perhaps he'd grown used to the scent or even liked it. Either way, I had no interest in the idiosyncrasies of a killer, save for those that would help me catch one.

My pulse intensified as I entered the kitchen. Beyond a scrap bucket full of cabbage leaves, I found nothing of interest, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, my heart began to beat faster still as I reentered the hallway. I followed it to what I guessed would be the drawing room or even the dining room. My assumption, however, proved wrong, and I discovered a bedchamber instead. I had never seen one on the first floor of a house so grand. Then again, I hadn't been inside any grand houses aside from Mr. Coffin's. Curiosity got the best of me one day, and I followed him home for tea.

I stood in the open doorway of Mr. Uppity's private abode. The shades had been pulled, casting the room in shadows that flitted between the bed and dresser in a most unsettling way. They weren't real. They couldn't be. I scolded my imagination and entered the room. The further I progressed toward its center, however, the faster my heart pounded until I thought it would leap from my chest, such was the ferocity of its tempo. Bump-bump, bump-bump. The constant drumming drove me mad as it shuddered along my bones, my skin, my muscles. I sat back to consider this strange turn in my health—bump-bump—and solved the conundrum. My chest cavity didn't contain the beat; the floorboards did. The sound lay beneath my haunches.

Bump-bump.

I shot forward and arched my back.

Fright pricked me with her pin-sharp claws. What the devil lived beneath the floorboards? Ignorance seemed like a reasonable state in which to remain. Yet I could not give in to my fear. Not only was my pride at stake, Philadelphia's citizens depended on my success. I listened once more.

Bump-bump.

My toes vibrated with the sound. At first, I thought it mice. But the pulse was too strong. It writhed beneath me with the strength of a full-grown man. I had to take a closer look. I reentered the kitchen and found the cellar entrance—a whiff of damp earth beneath the jamb told me as much. With the help of a close-by worktable, I pawed the knob and had it turning in no time.

The door swung open. I descended the steps.

Bump-bump. Bump-bump.

The rhythm grew louder as I entered the chilly subterrain. Clever as I may be, I hadn't mastered the working of a gas lamp or candle. So I crept through the dark, unsure of my route until my eyes adjusted. Even then, footing remained far from certain. The smell, however, did not. Decaying flesh had an unmistakable odor.

Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump

I followed the noise to an area directly beneath the bedchamber. Owing to the quality of the home, workmen had finished the space with more lumber and white plaster. However, someone or something lived between the cellar ceiling and the first floor because a large, wet stain marred the patch overhead. Using a cannery shelf as a viewpoint, I located the entrance with little difficulty. Carved in the ceiling atop the stairs, the black mouth hung wide and round, waiting to be fed. I reached it by scaling the handrail and jumping to a sconce. The size of the opening gave me courage, for it appeared no bigger than my head. Whomever or whatever lay in wait could not be any larger than this, I reasoned. I said a little prayer, leaped into the unknown, and belly-crawled between the floors.

Bump…bump.

The thumping stopped. I paused. I crept forward. I paused. I sniffed. The odor of rotting meat mingled with that of another: rat urine. My whiskers shot forward.

Silence.

The rodents must have caught my scent, too, because they began to scramble in countless number. They scurried between the joists, knocking the bedchamber floor with their backs as they tried to flee. Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump. I'd never caught a creature this large before, and I could hardly count that chicken last summer. She was an old, fat pillow—mostly feathers. But I'd come too far to let a little thing like teeth stop me. Ahead I forged. I hadn't gone three steps when I broke through the mysterious wet patch I'd seen earlier. From this small hole grew a very large one that unraveled half the ceiling. I fell in a jumble of blood-soaked plaster and rats upon the cellar floor. Great Cat Above! Half the rodent population of Philadelphia had been living here.

And they'd been feasting on Mr. Uppity.

A Leg Up

Pieces of Mr. Uppity's body lay scattered in the rubble. An arm here, a leg there—still clothed, I might add. They could've belonged to another human if not for the head. That familiar item lay near my front paws, nose pointing north like a sundial. Covered by a milky veil, his eyes were no more useful than Caroline's, an irony that did not escape me. Yet even in death, the blue orbs still had the power to terrify. I let the rats slither into the corners, undisturbed, and contemplated this bizarre outcome. Even if Mr. Uppity had been the one to kill those women, someone else had killed him.

The front door opened and slammed shut.

I waited, hoping I wouldn't be discovered. A spry human with a bed sheet could've caught me here, given the cramped space and lack of escape choices. My gaze traveled to the ceiling. What luck! The floorboards of the bedchamber hadn't given way, increasing the odds of my deception. If need be, I would stay here all night and slip out in the morning. I'd just settled into my predicament when I recalled the basement door. I'd left it ajar.

Footsteps struck the wood overhead with irregularity. Thud, clack, thud, clack.

If escape was my first priority, evidence finished a close second. I couldn't leave without a piece of Mr. Uppity. Setting aside my disgust, I clawed loose the body part that would convince Eddie: an eye. If I made it out alive, I would show it to him, he would show it to the constable, and my killer would be caught. I grasped the item gently between my teeth and headed for the door.

Thud, clack, thud, clack. The villain stood in silhouette at the top of the stairs. A match strike. The hiss and crackle of a candlewick. I narrowed my eyes to protect them from the light.

"Hello, kitty cat. What'cha doing here?"

Mr. Limp. What was he doing here?

"I see you found Mr. Ferris. We've been keeping peculiar company since last night, me and him." He sat on the top step and took a flask from his pocket. "He talked like a book, that one, always calling me a border ruffian. Wobbled his chin about President Tyler and the guv'ment so much, a body couldn't think. So I heshed him up. But he still makes noise." He swallowed, sliding his Adam's apple along his throat. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you? I can see it on your face. You heard it, too." When he unscrewed the lid and took a drink, I sneezed and dropped the eye. I recognized the smell at once from Shakey House and the plateau of Fairmount Water Works. Eddie sampled the occasional dram of hard alcohol, but none carried this strength.

"I see corn liquor's not to your satisfaction." He grinned. "That Abbott fella didn't like it either, 'specially when I spilt it on him in the tavern. Damn fool had it coming, though. Made me drop the old bat's eye afore I could give it to Mr. Ferris. I looked under the bar for the damned thing, but never found it. What else could I do? I had to steal another." He took a sip and grimaced. "Hoo! Mother's milk to a miner, ain't it? Also comes in handy for washing blood off knives and hands…and such." He laughed louder and longer to himself than he should have.

Mr. Limp had changed since rescuing me in the park. And it wasn't the alcohol. Madness had overtaken him, dimming his eyes, turning them dark. "I declare. This new leg a mine's giving me terrible blisters." He tucked the flask away and pushed up his pant leg to reveal a shiny metal prosthetic with springs at the knee. This had caused the change in his cadence, different from the night we'd met. "Like it? The invalid who owned it afore just laid in bed all day." He let the hem drop, covering the limb again. "What call did he have to use it? None, I tell you. None."

I slunk across the plaster mound and picked up the eye again. Light from the candle shone down upon his jacket collar, illuminating the red stain I'd seen that night at the park. I'd initially thought it my own blood. But now I realized it had come from the poor woman he'd killed earlier that day. I'd found my murderer, or rather, he'd found me.

"What'cha got there, kitty cat?"

I took the bottom steps, thinking to dash past him when I reached the top.

"If that's what I think it is, I can't let you leave." He stood and held out his arms to grab me.

We stared at one another.

Then I ran.

I darted between his legs and into the kitchen with the precious evidence still in my mouth. He rattled and squeaked behind me on that metal contraption, gaining momentum in the hallway. By the time I reached the parlor, only a few paces separated us. Freedom, however, was mine. I leapt for the window, hit the glass, and fell back to the ground.

"Closed it when I got home," he said with a wink.

Still clutching my proof, I flew past him and up the stairs, thinking the climb would slow him down. And it did, just long enough for me to secure the last bedchamber on the hall. Even more barren than the first floor, the second held no furnishings in which I could hide. What's more, I'd begun to salivate, making the eye that much harder to hold. Rounder and fuller than its glass counterpart, it occupied my mouth to the roof.

Thud, clack, thud, clack. "Here, kitty, kitty," Mr. Limp said. He laughed again—a maniac's laugh—as he strode hallway.

Frantic, I scaled the drapes, cleared the curtain rod, and dove—physics be damned—onto the candelabra that hung from the ceiling. I wobbled and kicked with my back legs, depositing my bottom in the shallow brass bowl that formed the fixture's base. My luck, however, did not hold. A single taper fell to the ground with a clatter.

Mr. Limp entered and spied the candle at once. He lifted his gaze. I swung several lengths above his head on a most precarious perch. Mr. Uppity's ceilings were higher than those in the Poe house, and they provided my salvation. He jumped, missing by a comfortable margin. "We're gonna dance now, you and me." He jumped again. His fingertips grazed the lower arm of the fixture and swung it round, making me queasy. But I held fast, each claw grasping as it never had before.

"Think you can outsmart me?" He grinned, flashing pointed canines. "Mr. Ferris thought he could outsmart me, too. Just 'cause I'm a poor coal buster from the Allegheny don't mean I can't think for myself. Don't mean I can't fall in love with the young lady of my choosing."

How I longed to understand Mr. Limp's arguments, the last to grace my ears for eternity. For despite my peril, I wanted to know why he'd killed those women. I trilled, prompting him to speak again.

"Hesh up, now. I wasn't born a murderer." He rubbed his face, thick with blond stubble. "The whole thing was Mr. Ferris's idea. Paid me to cut those women and take their eyes. 'Look for the petite ones,' he said. 'Look for the ones with the smallest sockets.' I didn't want to at first, but after I met his niece…" His gaze drifted to the floor. "I couldn't refuse an angel like that. No man could." After a moment's reflection, he sat down and began unstrapping the artificial leg from his misshapen thigh. "I tell you, once a body starts killin' it's hard to stop. Mr. Ferris shore found that out."

Mr. Limp pushed himself to standing using the prosthesis as a crutch. Slowly and carefully, so as to maintain his balance, he lifted the metal limb and stood below me on his one good leg. He had more control of his muscles than I'd thought possible and didn't sway, as one would expect. "The old man had no call to stop our courtin'. No call! 'Owen,' he said, 'leave Caroline alone. She's a Ferris, and she's not for you.' And now he's mocking me from the Great Beyond." He rubbed the blisters on his stump and grimaced. "I know you heard it. Bump-bump, bump-bump. That's his heart beatin' beneath the floorboards. Don't know how, after I cut him up, but it keeps a goin'."

I cocked my head. He must have heard the rats, too.

"Bump-bump, bump-bump. That's why you can't leave with even one piece of that man before I can send him to hell. If you do, he'll haunt me till I'm old and gray."

I should've waited for Midnight. I should've waited for Eddie. I should've done a great many things that were no longer possible, now that I dangled from a brass lamp.

"Don't you see? To stop that infernal sound, I have to burn the house down. With or without you in it, kitty cat." He shouldered the metal prosthesis. His intentions couldn't have been clearer. "Now give me that eye!" he growled.

That I understood. I would've given it to him, too, if I thought he'd let me leave without harm. But he'd sunk too far into his mania. I held my breath and waited for the shattering swing of the leg. And it would have come, had it not been for the front bell.

Tail's End

I dropped the eye into the lamp base and yowled for Eddie with all my being, hoping to breach the windowpane. He must have noticed me missing after his return from Shakey House and left straightaway to find me. The fact that I'd gone to Mr. Uppity's home must have been an easy one to deduce for a man of his intellect. I screeched again for good measure.

Mr. Limp strapped on his leg and paced the bedchamber floor, slapping the side of his head at each turn. "What do I do? If it's the constable, I should escape. Sprout little bird wings and fly away. Ha, ha! But how? And what if it's nice Mrs. Bellinger from next door? Do I ask her in? Do I kill her? Do I serve her for supper? Ha, ha! The three little pigs will be next. I'll huff, and I'll puff…" His speech devolved into a stream of gibberish that sounded less human the more I listened.

Another knock, this one insistent.

Mr. Limp gave me a warning look before disappearing down the stairs. "Don't get riled!" he shouted to the visitor. "I'm coming!"

My elation subsided when I pictured Mr. Limp, half out of his wits, bashing Eddie over the head with the silver leg. Thinking to warn my friend, I retrieved the evidence, hopped to the ground, and padded downstairs as the door opened. The caller in the bonnet could not have shocked me more.

"Hello, I'm looking for a Mr. Gideon Ferris. I've come about his niece."

Mr. Limp gasped and took the woman by the hand. "Caroline? Is that you?"

"No. You have me confused with someone else. My name is Virginia. Mrs. Virginia Poe."

He pulled her into the entryway and fell to his knees. "Don't deny it's you, Caroline! It's you!" He hugged the bell of her skirt and began to weep. "I knew you'd leave the hospital when you found the strength. Now we can be together. Forever."

Besotted and more than a little confused, Mr. Limp didn't see me enter the foyer behind him. He'd evidently noticed the similarities between Sissy and Caroline and had mistaken one for the other. In the midst of his bewilderment, I ran to Sissy and dropped the eye at her feet.

Her face tightened at my offering. But she did not scream. "Y-yes," she said to Mr. Limp. "I have returned to you…my love." She tried to loosen his arms, but he held her fast.

"Oh, Caroline! It's over! I never wanted to kill those women, but your uncle made me. Said he couldn't afford glass eyes, so we had to get 'em other ways." Mr. Limp dried his tears with her skirt. "You understand, don't you? We did it for you. I did it for you."

Sissy laid her palm on the man's head, her fingers trembling. "I understand."

I stared at her. Did she not realize our situation? This was no time for sentiment. I nudged the eye closer with my nose.

"And the fella in the hospital… that was on me. Guess I wanted to be whole, too." He lifted his gaze, his eyes glittering with tears. "Killin' does things to a man. Frightful things. I'm not the Owen you fell in love with." He tapped his head. "Once that worm finds a way in, it turns and turns…"

"I understand," Sissy repeated, her voice brittle. He let out a high-pitched laugh, a most inappropriate response, and she flinched at the sound. Given her frail constitution, I feared for the girl.

"Caroline, dear Caroline, I beg your forgiveness. I had to tuck your dear Uncle away," he said, "just for a spell. But don't be afeared. His heart still beats. Can you hear it? Bump-bump, bump-bump."

Sissy addressed him sternly. "Let me go now! I insist!"

"Hold on," he said. "You're not thinking straight." He eased back and lifted up his pants leg, keeping one hand on her skirt.

"I most certainly am," she said. "I'll have no more of this. Take your hands off of me this instant or I shall scream!"

"Can't do that." He began to unlatch the dreaded prosthesis.

Curse him; I would not suffer that threat again. I arched my back and hissed, flattening my ears and bushing my tail in a frightful and fearsome display.

Sissy glanced at me beneath the hood of her bonnet, then addressed him with a voice as soft as a kitten's belly. She'd clearly heeded my warning. "No, my love, you are not thinking straight. I need to pack my belongings at the hospital before I can return here. If you don't let me go, I can never be yours."

He offered a tender gaze before releasing her. "Hurry back."

She snapped her fingers to call me along, and we left, each having saved the other's life. I thought it wise to leave the eyeball. When we returned a short while later with the constable and a posse of watchmen, Mr. Limp locked himself in the house and begged for "one last glimpse of Caroline" before they hauled him away. Another member of our hunting party, Detective Custer, protested. By the by, he and Constable Harkness argued most of the way over in the carriage, flinging phrases like "city jurisdiction" and "district lines" and "not my damn fault."

Sissy, compassionate to the end, spoke with Mr. Limp through the front window under Constable Harkness's watch. I hopped on the windowsill to oversee the conversation as well. "You must go away," she told Mr. Limp. "But I will think of you often, and you of me. And we will be together here—" She touched her heart. "Forever."

"I can't leave you," Mr. Limp said. He took her hand, prompting Constable Harkness to step closer. "Can't we visit a little longer?"

"No, we can't," Sissy said. She tried to pull away, but he squeezed her fingers, turning them whiter.

"Unhand her, sir," Constable Harkness said. "Or I shall be forced to set the watchmen on you."

The three grew silent. I sensed the change in energy.

I gave Mr. Limp a piteous look, baiting him. I had no doubt Constable Harkness would dole out punishment on behalf of Philadelphia. But frankly, Philadelphia hadn't been at the mercy of an artificial leg all afternoon. And Sissy and I needed to go home. Mr. Limp lifted his free hand to stroke me one last time, and when he did, I bit him to the bone. Before he could loosen me, I latched onto his arm and dug in with my back claws, kicking and scratching like a madcat. Auntie Sass would've been proud.

Mr. Limp let go of Sissy. Oh, yes, he did.

Once they'd removed him from the premises, Sissy and I waited in the parlor while the men searched the basement and tore up the floorboards of the bedchamber, looking for the last of Mr. Uppity. I did not envy their puzzle. Presently, the watchmen took over the heaviest, dirtiest work, leaving the constable and the detective to our company. We met in the hallway, just outside the kitchen: one bonnet, two black hats, one bare head with ears that swooped to an elegant point. I loved my ears.

"Had it not been for you, Mrs. Poe, we might never have caught the Glass Eye Killer," Constable Harkness said. "The Spring Garden District thanks you for your assistance."

"As does the City of Philadelphia," Detective Custer said. A clean-shaven man, his good looks had been spoiled by a preponderance of white teeth, which he flashed at every opportunity. "When we incorporate, these jurisdictional problems should go away. But until then—"

"Until then, criminals are free to commit an act one place, and run home to the other," Constable Harkness said. "Without recrimination."

"I'm just glad he let me go." She picked me up and hugged me. "Cattarina and I could've been in real trouble."

"You were in real trouble," the detective said. "But not to worry. Owen Barstow is now a guest of Eastern State Penitentiary, at least until his trial." He stopped smiling for once. "You never said, Mrs. Poe. How did you know to come here?"

"I think I may have the answer," Constable Harkness said. "You seemed keen on the affair this morning. Did you get the information from your husband?"

Sissy blushed. "He spoke of the address and well…I could not resist. However, it was what you said, Constable, that prompted my visit." He lifted his bushy grey eyebrows in surprise, a gesture that made Sissy smile. "Yes, you said that Gideon Ferris left for Virginia without saying goodbye to his niece. After all the trouble he went through procuring her eyes, I could hardly believe such a thing. I thought I would find him cowering here, in his home, and flush him out with a ruse about his niece's health. I was set to pose as a nurse from Wills."

"Terribly clever, Mrs. Poe," Detective Custer said. He patted the top of my head. For Sissy's sake, I let him—but just the once. He would see my teeth if he tried it again.

"I'm more clever than my husband and mother will appreciate, I'm afraid."

"Can I give you a ride home?" Constable Harkness asked.

"Yes, but before we go, I'll request you keep my name out of the papers and away from Mr. Poe. He fears for my health, and my outing today would upset him, to say the least."

The constable patted her shoulder. "Our secret, madam."

We arrived home in time for tea, and I'm not sure who was happier: my stomach or me. With all the weight I'd lost, I felt practically malnourished. Sissy entered the kitchen and kissed Muddy on the cheek without any mention of the constable or our harrowing escapade. The old woman yawned, causing me to do the same. I opened my jaws wide and curled my tongue in a fantastic yawn.

"How was your nap, Mother?"

"Fine, fine. And yours?"

"Splendid."

Sissy winked at me. I winked back.

The woodstove burned too hot for me today, so I hopped into my friend's chair instead. The women set about their preparations, making tea sandwiches from the breakfast ham and biscuits. When they finished, Sissy requested they make "strong coffee, the strongest possible." Muddy set a kettle on to boil. Not long after, Eddie entered, his cape half flung round his shoulders, his hat misplaced.

"What glorious weather!" he said. "Abbot says it's going to change next week. He's got a sore toe that tells him these things." He produced a bag of licorice cats and handed them to Sissy. She curtsied. "I asked if his toe knew whether the Whig party would win in '44, and he kicked me. Kicked me! Can you believe it?" He twirled Sissy around the room, humming one of the songs she liked to play on the piano.

Muddy ignored them and sat down, helping herself to a sandwich. "Tea's on."

Eddie set me on the floor, thanked me for warming his chair, and joined the women at the table. He frowned at the coffee pot. "If it's tea, then where is our tea?"

Sissy poured him a cup. "We're out, remember?"

"Yes, I had forgotten. The neighborhood quilting bee." He stole a piece of ham from the serving plate and handed it to me. The world was right again. "How was your rest, Sissy? Do anything of note while I was away?"

"Oh, nothing to bother you with," Sissy said. "Listen, Eddie, about your story…" She put a sandwich on his plate and took one for herself.

"The Tell-Tale Eye?" He took a sip from his cup.

"Well, I—" She giggled. "You'll think me childish and more than a bit nosy."

"Never." I rubbed against his leg, angling for another piece of meat. He obliged.

"I think I have a better title." She clasped her hands and put them in her lap. "And even a few ideas about the plot."

"You?" Muddy asked. Her mouth was full of biscuit. "That was quite a nap you took."

Eddie ignored the old woman. "Do tell, dear wife. I await your every suggestion."

She topped off his coffee and smiled. "I have much to tell, my husband. Join me in your office?"

"I shall be delighted."

Some days later, Eddie sat on the stoop outside our house, chatting with Mr. Coffin. The season had begun to turn, and November graced everyone's lips. I lay in the dry grass near them, along with Snow. We soaked up heat from the earth.

"How are you liking Mr. Coffin?" I asked her.

"We are getting on," she said. Her coat gleamed in the morning light. "I am his 'sometimes cat.' He sometimes owns me, and I sometimes own him. I still go home at night to Blue and Killer and the rest of our troop. But Mr. Coffin—I call him Pudge—and I have a special bond. He feeds me and plays with me, and in return, I lie about his cushions like a queen. He likes this. He says it 'tickles him,' though I'm not sure what that means."

"Humans."

"Humans," she agreed.

I turned my belly to the sun. I liked the sound of Pudge. It was a good word, a slumpy word, much like Mr. Coffin. Eddie laughed, and I twitched my ear at the merry sound. I worried his writing would suffer after Sissy and I caught the murderer. But he'd gone on to finish his story at a frenzied pace that lasted for days. True, Sissy may have stoked the fire, but I had lit the kindling. Let us not forget that. The two men droned on about Abbott's toe, whatever that may have been, until Mr. Coffin produced a newspaper from his toolbox.

"I read about the Glass Eye Killer," he said. He shook the paper at Eddie. "I didn't catch your name, even though you found one of the victims."

"Yes, they left it out. Chalked it up to good police work, of all things." Eddie smoothed his mustache. "I was surprised to learn that the barkeep at Shakey House had suspicions as well. He confided in me yesterday."

"That right?"

"Yes. Josef works the morning shift at Wills. He'd seen Caroline's new eyes, too, but kept quiet out of fear." Eddie shrugged. "I can't say as I blame him."

"A shame Gideon Ferris lost his anthracite mines in a poker game. If not for that tragedy, he might never have killed. Or, I should say, Owen Barstow might never have killed. And that cripple at the Wills Hospital never stood a chance, did he?"

"Once a man passes the point of reason, madness overtakes him," Eddie added. "Gideon Ferris must have discovered how suggestible Owen was during his frequent trips to the Allegheny mines and pushed him into doing his bidding. I'm just glad Caroline didn't suffer at the hands of that lunatic."

"Ferris must've felt a deep responsibility to his niece, having gone to those lengths. What will become of her?"

"I called upon a friend of mine, Dr. Mitchell. You met him last week." Mr. Coffin nodded, and Eddie continued, "He says he may be able to arrange for her care at the hospital for the blind."

"Nicely settled, Poe." Mr. Coffin folded his newspaper and tucked it away. "And what of your story?"

"I am in talks with The Pioneer. Publication is immanent." Eddie buttoned his coat and blew out his breath in a white cloud. "Sissy helped with a few details, adding a certain—" he wobbled his hand back and forth "—depth to the story, but I provided the mastery. Though the woman amazed me with her foresight."

I tired of their talk and closed my eyes. I did not know it at the time, but Sissy would become very ill in a matter of days, and the cream of our happiness would thin until spring. Right now, however, we had enough to fill all of Philadelphia. I curled my tail round my body and nestled into the grass. I may not have belonged to a troop like Big Blue's or lived free like a feral, but I had my liberties. I could run about all day and return home to warmth and food and my beloved Eddie—the best life imaginable. Reassured by this thought, a purr rose deep from within my chest.

I peeked one eye open and watched my friend joke and talk with Mr. Coffin. Now that he'd finished the manuscript, everyone knew of his elation, even a passing bird. Yet the lull between stories would come—a certainty not unlike death—and a storm would once again settle over the Poe house. At least now I knew how to change the weather. But please don't think me a selfless cat, for Eddie was never happier than when he was writing, and I was never happier than when Eddie was happy.

Dear Friends:

I submit to you, in its entirety, "The Tell-Tale Heart." Consider my indispensible role in its telling, but do not mistake my genius for Eddie's. He is the true Master of Macabre. For those interested, my friend has other fine stories for sale, and any purchase would keep me in shad and ribbons for quite some time.

Gratefully yours,

Catters

P.S. - Muddy would be glad of a few coins as well.

THE TELL-TALE HEART

by Edgar Allan Poe

January, 1843

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily –how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees –very gradually –I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it –oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly –very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously –cautiously (for the hinges creaked) –I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights –every night just at midnight –but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers –of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back –but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out –"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; —just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief –oh, no! –it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself –"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney –it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel –although he neither saw nor heard –to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little –a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it –you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily –until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open –wide, wide open –and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? –now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! –do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me –the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once –once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye –not even his –could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out –no stain of any kind –no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all –ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock –still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, —for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, —or what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search –search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: —It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness –until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; —but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound –much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath –and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed –I raved –I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder –louder –louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! –no, no! They heard! –they suspected! –they knew! –they were making a mockery of my horror! –this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now –again! –hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! here, here! –It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

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Copyright © 2014 by Monica Shaughnessy

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Jumping Jackalope Press

Shaughnessy, Monica

The Tell-Tail Heart / Monica Shaughnessy

eISBN: 978-0-9885629-6-7

Jacket Design: Monica Shaughnessy

Edited by Red Adept

If you enjoy cat mysteries, you may want to check out The Cat's Last Meow by Mandy Broughton.

Book Description: A cat, a miser, his accountant and lawyer, add three old ladies who travel in style—conditions are ripe for murder.

The Cat’s Last Meow

Chapter One

Never much of a fantasy fan, I knew one thing for certain: Odell Greenry loved Precious every bit as much as Gollum loved his “precious.” And while both objects of obsession could be possessed, neither could be mastered.

“Poisoned!” He shoved the cat at me.

“Poisoned?” I re-entered the here-and-now. “Why poisoned?” The roomful of sycophants hung on my every word, awaiting my judgment. Unlike Gollum, old Odell had money—lots of it—which attracted hangers-on. And I, as the cat expert, received sycophantism by proxy.

“Is the cat ill or not?” Another voice. Hmm—round face, flat nose. Mental dredging produced a name—Raul—and occupation—accountant.

I knew the routine. Frowning, I laid Precious on the exam table that stood in for her shrine to examine the hairless brute yet again. Of course she struggled, so I took charge. Like a jackhammer to concrete, that was the approach she understood.

“Well?” Raul, arms folded, tapped a manicured finger on the sleeve of his suit. Quite a well-paid accountant, I surmised, judging by his attire, even if he reminded me of a feral hog. Looked down his snout at me, too. Why would he ask about the health of a cat he clearly hated?

I stroked Precious. “She’s fine.”

Hearing that, she swiped me twice with her blades. Oops, this was one critter I shouldn’t pet.

I could feel the tension leave the room. When I glanced around, seeing that I knew all the party-goers from my weekly feline ministrations brought a sick thought. Did that make me a sycophant too?

Nope, not possible. I surveyed the crowd again. The old man’s lawyer stood over his wheelchair like a gargoyle ready to pounce. Odell did love his money, so of course he loved having the lawyer around who helped him keep it. The accountant? Not so much. The accountant only counted beans. As for the gargoyle, I didn't know its name. All I knew was that he was huge, so huge he made me want to whisper when he was around.

Then there was Halyn with her rag, dusting the corner shelf. Could be the perfect witch, Halyn. Attractive, black hair, long face, a spell-caster disguised as a live-in housekeeper. Even her dusting resembled magic, casting the grime away. Had to be how she survived working for the old miser, weaving her spells. What kind of a name was it, Halyn? Made up, no doubt. Couldn’t be her true one.

The Senior Brigade twittered in another corner. Not social-media twittering, either. All a-flutter over nothing. Couldn’t bother catching their names, I simply thought of them as Red, White, and Blue. Hair color, of course. The only other characteristic I knew was that one brought Odell food; one ate most of it, and the last fluffed up his cushions. Why they visited the old man every day escaped me, since he was as rude to them as he was to his other underlings.

And then there was old Moneybags's nephew—Kento. I knew him because Odell constantly blamed him, by name, for all the world’s ills. Hard to spot, easy to miss, Kento was generally forgotten until things went wrong. Like a mouse in a cage with a python Kento cowered, holding something in a large picture frame close.

I sighed. It was time for a diagnosis, which Odell wasn’t going to like. No point delaying. “The cat’s perfectly fine.”

“Poppycock!” Odell shouted.

Used to it by now, still I cringed. Heidi Knack, doctor of veterinary medicine and concierge animal doc, I put up with a lot.

I tugged my ringing ear. “She's a healthy eighteen-year-old cat.” As I relocated the ugly brute from the exam table to Odell's lap, my hand must have pressed her belly, because she flinched.

“See there?” Odell screeched again. “If she was fine, she wouldn’t twitch like that. She's ill, I tell you! Poisoned!” His face, usually gray, was flushed from shouting.

“Hold everything, old man,” I said. “Bring your voice down to where it won’t deafen the canines, and turn up your hearing aid.” Reluctantly, I put Precious back on the exam table for a third time.

Odell glowered. “Don't need a new hearing aid, need a new vet.”

“Didn't say you needed a new aid. I said TURN IT UP.” I palpated the cat’s abdomen again—no reaction.

When Precious snarled, I resisted the urge, barely, to whack her. “No other vet in Texas would come out weekly to attend this monster.”

Odell rapped on the arm of his chair and the gargoyle wheeled him close to the exam table. “New vet, young lady,” Odell growled, “new vet.”

“More money, old miser, more money,” I growled back.

“Hmph!” He blew his stale coffee breath my way.

I felt all around Precious's abdomen. She didn't exactly flinch, but she did squirm, so I cradled her close trying not to get skewered. Didn’t work. Vampire cat, I rubbed my bleeding hand.

“Look, she's fine,” I said. “What are you feeding her?”

Odell glared. “I’ve told you, she needs real food.”

I shook my head. “Nope. She's a cat. She needs cat food. She’s off her diet, isn’t she?”

The old man smiled. “She eats what a warrior cat needs.”

“Warrior cat?” Why did I bother to ask? “So, what does a warrior eat?”

Halyn spoke up. “Bacon. And squab.”

I planted my fists on my hips. “Squab? Bacon?” I should add an idiot surcharge to my fees. “Are you really that ignorant?”

“She’s depressed,” Odell said. “She needs to hunt, and she feels bad when she can’t.”

Hunt, my foot. Mercy killing, that’s what she needed. I rubbed my head. Now a headache to go with ringing ears and bleeding hand. “So that’s what’s been happening to the birds in your backyard. I’m sure you know the neighbors have complained.”

“She needs meat, I tell you.” Odell rapped on his chair again. The gargoyle pulled it back to the room’s center. “Makes her feel strong.”

“She can’t take it, Odell. She needs cat food that’s gentle on her digestion. She’s as far from a warrior cat as is felinely possible. She’s a retired Best in Show, that’s all. She does not need to eat birds.”

Already late for my next house call, I knew I should have skipped this stop. I must love pain, that’s why I’m a vet.

Kento put in his two cents’ worth. “Great-Uncle Odell bought some baby pigeons.”

I raised my eyebrows at him, a silent question

He nodded, smiling. “Uh-huh, he lets them go and shoots them for Precious.” He was rubbing his picture frame. Waiting for a genie to appear? “He says killing birds makes her feel young again.”

Ye gods and little fishes.

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