The Tell-Tail Heart. The Black Cats

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 thetrue 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 toplace 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 wentboldly 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 sayI 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 pulledthe 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. Wasit 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 hypocriticalsmiles 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!”

2. THE BLACK CATS

Philadelphia, 1843

The Black Cat

THE BODY HANGING FROM the tree spoiled our glorious constitutional. While Eddy and Sissy abhorred the discovery, it enraged me, filling me with desire for revenge. During my last adventure, I’d become accustomed to the transience of human life, perhapstoo accustomed, developing a relationship most informal with Death. So much so that when our neighbor, Mrs. Busybody, swallowed her false teeth and expired last winter, my whiskers barely registered the passing. But this morning’s butchery shocked me more than the ones that plagued Philadelphia last fall. Why? Because a fellowcat had been murdered.

I shuddered at the black tom overhead, at once suspicious of our new neighbors. Eddy had insisted on moving, and I, fulfilling my role as feline companion and muse, had followed him on his quest fornew air. We’d settled apparently, in the darkest, cruelest part of the city. Though I had no idea how dark and cruel when we set out this morning.

Shortly after breakfast, Sissy, the lady of the house, summoned Eddy to the kitchen and uttered one of my favorite phrases.“Let’s go for a stroll,” she said to him. “I am in need of a breeze, and from the snap of bed linens on the clothesline, God has provided one. The market would be lovely today. Besides, Mother’s out of rosemary.”

Eddy rested his fingertips on the windowsill above the sink and looked into the side yard. I hopped to the table for a peek myself. Muddy lingered near the clothesline with a basket of laundry and a mouthful of clothespins. One by one, she removed the little wooden teeth from her lips, using them to peg the sheets.“I suppose your mother will be busy for a while,” he said. “Join us, Catters?”

He meant me, of course. Eddy seldom used my full name, Cattarina. I wasn’t sure of his question, so I gave an all-purpose meow that meant both yes and maybe at the same time. Catspeak is not without subtlety.

Once Sissy changed into her rose-printtown dress, we left to marvel in the ripe delights of summer. Such a merry prelude to murder! In this new and strange part of the city, Spring Garden Street unbuttons down the center into an outdoor market filled with fish, hot corn, pickles, gutted pigs, fish, paper whimsies, tobacco products, tin wind-up toys, and fish. Yet I grieved for the wide-open fields of Fairmount. Nothing could replace the tickle of Indian grass beneath my paws.

Entering the market before Eddy and Sissy, I wound this way and that between their legs, guiding them without suspicion while they chatted. When humans are preoccupied, directing their actions is mere kitten’s play. So it took little effort to steer them to the appropriate stall. “Get my fish! In yer dish!” the monger shouted. “Shad enough to grant yer wish!” His sign held the usual marks: FISH. From my tenure with Eddy—a preeminent man of letters—I knew these squiggles communicatedsomething. But I doubted they adequately described the striped bass, walleye, and catfish heaped on the counter, their scales glistening in the sun. Flies, too, had arrived in great number to admire the merchandise.

Sissy waved them from her path with a copy of theGazette she’d brought along. She opened the newspaper and examined the contents. “Three thefts, two beatings, and not a single murder,” she said.

My ears swiveled atmurder—just one of the many human words I knew. Some, likebreakfast,lunch, anddinner, could stir me from the deepest slumber; others, likeno,out, andthat damnable cat, had little effect on me despite their obvious meaning. And while a great many remained beyond comprehension,murder had clawed its way into my vocabulary. I found a piece of discarded fish skin and chewed it thoughtfully as I listened to Sissy’s voice. When she spoke, her words came out in a whisper. I imagined them floating from her lips like dandelion puffs.

“It’s been so hot lately,” she said. “You’d think the heat would sendsomeone on a killing spree.”

“Peace and tranquility are most troubling, aren’t they?” Eddy said.

“I am reading the news foryour benefit, dear husband, not mine.” She folded the paper into a fan and waved it to cool herself. “I know how you love crime stories. I could scarcely keep you from that wretched eye business last October.”

“Am I the only one with an interest in murder?”

Sissy pursed her lips and fanned harder, fluttering the strings of her bonnet.

Murder, the liveliest, most oft-discussed topic of the Poe household. After I nabbed the Glass Eye Killer last autumn, my deeds inspired Eddy to write“The Tell-Tale Heart.” He then penned “The Gold Bug,” a second tale for which I take full credit. I am still not sure how Muddy found my beetle collection between the couch cushions. Now, with the passing of the seasons, life had dwindled to a predictable series of events for this tortoiseshell: breakfast, nap, lunch, nap, dinner, nap, repeat. How I longed to chase human quarry again! Alas, murderers were not as plentiful as mice.

Sissy took Eddy by the arm and led him from the fish and flies. I shadowed them, pausing to smell the cat spray on a nearby lamppost: male, geriatric, failing kidneys. Fiddlesticks. This was no way for a huntress to live. We stopped at a table stacked with herbs and assorted cut flowers where Eddy bought a spray of rosemary from a roundish woman in an apron. She rolled the green twigs in a cone of old newsprint and secured the bottom with a piece of twine. Once finished, she presented the bundle to Eddy, who in turn presented it to his wife with a flourish.“For you, Sissy,” he said to her. “May our love be ever green.”

She smelled the herbs and coughed into her handkerchief.

Moving from western to eastern Spring Garden District to samplenew air had not been therapeutic enough for Sissy. Eddy’s health had declined these last few moons, too. Was it any wonder? How disheartening to know that despite one’s best efforts, one’s beloved had no chance of surviving. And while Eddy’s appetite had only recently resumed, his thirst for spirits had remained steadfast through the winter. I turned and licked my shoulder, biting at a gnat. In truth, I blamed the drinking more than Sissy’s ailment for his malaise.

I pushed through their legs and headed for the gate, cutting our ramble short. Eddy had spent the dawn hours sipping black tea and pacing the floor—a preamble most familiar. He needed to write, not parade about the market. The humidity, too, had taken a toll on Sissy’s lungs. I turned and paused, fixing Eddy with a stare he could not ignore. The slight downturn of his mouth told me he’d received my message.

He touched Sissy’s arm. “Let’s leave for home, dearest.”

“But we were having such a grand time,” she said. “I thought we might stop by—”

He took the makeshift fan from her and laid it on a nearby stall.“You need to rest, Virginia. Your cheeks are positively flushed.”

She offered no resistance, and we retraced our steps to North Seventh, turning left on Minerva in front of our home. Before we could enter the front garden, voices rang out near Franklin, the neighboring intersection to the west. Eddy led us down the street toward the commotion. We rounded the corner to find a pawful of men in front of Mr. Fitzgerald’s hardware store. Rather, they’d gathered in front of its sprawling sassafras. The colossal tree grew in the unpaved courtyard between his shop and the next, rising up and obscuring the buildings behind its canopy.

“I say!” Eddy called to them. “What’s the trouble?”

“Someone’s hung a cat!” said one of the men.

“God in Heaven,” Eddy said under his breath.

Naturally, with the mention ofcat, I thought they referred to me. When we arrived, however, I realized they spoke of a different feline: an unfortunate with matted black fur. The tom swayed from a limb, a rope strung round his neck, one eye gouged from its socket. The Glass Eye Killer came to mind, yet Constable Harkness had lockedthat murderer in Eastern State Penitentiary. I sat on my haunches and studied the gruesome sight with equal parts anger and sadness, my tail tapping a pattern in the dust. I don’t know what devastated me more—the senseless death or the sullying of my favorite, nay, myonly climbing tree. Furthermore, someone had nicked the bark in several places. The marks looked like failed attempts to chop the tree down.

“It’s horrible!” Sissy cried. The spray of rosemary trembled between her hands.

Eddy held her by the arm, steadying her.“Look away, my love. Look away.”

Mr. Fitzgerald, the latest entry on my list of tolerable humans, scratched the top of his balding head as he considered the scene. He’d run from his shop without a jacket and stood before us in his waistcoat and bare sleeves. I hadn’t realized before how thin a frame he possessed. I’d seen fatter scarecrows.

The wind blew, swaying the carcass like a bell clapper, disturbing the flies that circled. I dug my claws into the earth. Was the victim my old pal, Midnight? I circled the trunk and examined the fur on the cat’s chest. It held no white mark like his. Their eyes were different, too. Midnight’s irises were buttercup yellow, much lighter in color than the tom’s lone eye. I purred with relief.

“Who has done this?” Eddy asked the man next to him.

The gent wore all black like Eddy and carried a book, which he held to his chest.“The supernatural is at work here,” he said. “I fear we’ve been visited by the devil.”

The worddevil sent a murmur through the crowd. Strange. The only deviling I’d encountered had been that of an egg, and with delicious results. I scaled the trunk, casting bits of bark to the ground, and walked along the branch in question to the knotted piece of rope. A unique piece of workmanship, the cord had been coiled from lengths of brown and tan jute, the former dyed with a bitter solution that smelled of walnuts, the latter leftau natural. I sniffed the air. Decomposition—a distinct and unmistakable odor—had not set in. One had only to keep an expired mouse too long beneath Muddy’s bed to understand these things. So the cat had been murdered this morning. I turned to the scents on the rope, learning two things: the killer was male, and he wore a nauseating amount of cologne. If humans bathed as often as cats, there would be no need for copious amounts of lavender and citrus oils.

On the hunt for more clues, I cast my gaze upon footprints below. The courtyard had not been paved, and loose dirt preserved the marks. These prints traveled from the sassafras’s trunk to the steps of Fitzgerald Hardware then disappeared into the alley between his shop and Tabitha Arnold’s cobbler shop next door. I cocked my ears at the curious sound arising from her establishment.Brush, brush, brush. Brush, brush, brush.

Eddy handed Sissy off to the man in black before addressing the crowd.“If anyone knows who committed this atrocity, please step forward. You will face no quarrel with me.”

“Or with Constable Harkness,” someone shouted. “If you can wake him from his nap!”

The crowd tittered with uneasy laughter.

I settled on a higher branch away from the dead cat and the flies. Just thinking about the cruelties my fellow feline suffered churned my stomach. I watched the men through the mitten-shaped leaves. Having moved here three moons ago, I’d encountered most of the humans in the neighborhood and recognized all but the gentleman soothing Sissy. He patted her shoulder and said, “Take comfort in Isaiah. Woe unto the wicked! It shall be ill with him: for the reward of his hands shall be given him.” I lifted my head and peered between the leafy branches to spy another unfamiliar face—an old man with a bent spine. He scratched his rear then his elbow then his long, white beard. Fleas. I made a note to avoid him in the future. He loitered between the buildings, away from the turmoil.

“Come now,” Eddy said, “surely one of you saw something?”

Brush, brush, brush.

“Not me,” Mr. Cook said at last. A blustery fool who lived around the corner, his large protruding eyes reminded me of peeled onions. “Ask ol’ Eakins. Cats are his business.”

At Mr. Cook’s utterance ofEakins, the flea-ridden oldster scurried the way of the footprints and disappeared between the shops. Not a soul noticed—not a human soul, at any rate.

“Eakins?” Sissy asked. She’d recovered from the earlier shock and stood near her husband. “I don’t recall anyone by that name, and I’ve met most everyone on our street.”

“He stays to himself,” Mr. Cook said, “for our comfort as much as his.” He surveyed the diminishing crowd. The onlookers had begun to wander. “He was here a minute ago,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

When the street had emptied of everyone except Mr. Cook and Mr. Fitzgerald, Eddy drew Sissy and the two men to the threshold of the hardware shop to discuss the event, speaking the phrase“killed the cat” more than once. Every so often, Sissy would glance at the tree and shake her head. Soon, the talk turned to lighter subjects, for the men began to chuckle and gesture with their hands. That was when Sissy left their company for mine, the dear girl. She stared up at me with a mournful expression, the rims of her large eyes wet. “Who would do such a thing, Cattarina? And why?”

From the lilt in her voice, she had questions for which I had no answers. Though I could not comprehend her speech, more than a language barrier prevented my response. The brutal killing of the tom had stripped me of reason. Who could have harmed the noblest of creatures? The finest, cleverest, handsomest of creatures?

“Well, we can’t leave him up there, can we? There has to be some dignity in death.” She laid her rosemary aside and reached for the rope around the cat’s neck. But the dear girl was too short to grasp it. So she tried to knock the cat’s body down with a slender branch she found near the roots. The more she twisted and turned the corpse to free it, however, the tighter the noose grew. Overcome by failure, she tossed the stick, leaned against the tree trunk, and wept into her handkerchief.

Eddy did not notice.

Brush, brush, brush. The sound from the Arnold’s shop would plague my dreams tonight. I joined Sissy on the ground and rubbed along her skirt, doing my best to comfort her. The cat’s death had upset her more than I had imagined. Throughout our previous adventure, I had grown to…respect Sissy—yes,respect, that was the right word—and it pained me to see her in such a state.

She touched the tip of my tail, her fingers wet with tears.“No one should die in their prime, Cattarina. No one.”

While the black cat’s death presented me with another killer to catch and another story to inspire, it also filled me with dread. A murdererand torturer lived in our new neighborhood, and I, for one, would not sleep until the scoundrel was caught.

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The Peaceful Society of Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“HaveI?” Mr. Fitzgerald asked. “Haveyou?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We do not own a shovel,” Eddy said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The cat, Mother,” Sissy said.

Muddy leaned to sniff me. Curious woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who was his owner?”

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

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

“Should we tell her?” Margaret asked George.

George blinked his approval.

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

[Êàðòèíêà: img_5]

Jolley Spirits

MARGARET’S DECLARATION SOURED MY stomach more than the wooly cheese I’d pilfered from the cooling cupboard yesterday. “The Butcher of Green Street,” I repeated. “I gather sausage is not his specialty.”

“Unless you mean cat sausage,” George said.

“Surely you speak in jest,” I said.

“They go in,” Margaret said with a tremor, “but they don’t come out.” She glanced over her shoulder before speaking again. “The black cat disappeared into the Butcher’s house around the quarter moon. Now he’s swinging from a tree. Draw your own conclusions.”

“You said ‘They go in.’ Have there been others?” I asked.

“Yes. It all started with the Water Giants.”

I flicked the end of my tail.“That is utter hyperbole.”

“Hi-purr-bo-lee?” She cocked her head. “I have never heard of it. But I amvery sure of my facts. The Water Giants made the mistake of sleeping on the Butcher’s doorstep one night. The next morning, they were gone. Just ask them if you don’t believe me.”

“If they are gone,” I said, “how can I ask them?”

“Precisely,” George said with a sniff. “After that, other ferals vanished. Always near the Butcher’s home. No one knows what he does with them, but I’ve heard rumors of a cat cookery book—”

“George!” Margaret said. “Gossiping is most unseemly. Our Thaddeus would not approve.”

George dipped his head.

Cat cookery book? No matter how sorry I felt for the black feline, I would not sacrifice my life to give meaning to his. The Poe household, namely Eddy, depended on me, and getting ground into sausage would complicate matters. Moreover, I have never been fond of mustard. And yet…curiosity, the cat, and all of that. “If I wanted to see this human, where would I find him?” I asked.

“A half block down, across the street,” George said. “The one with petunias in the window boxes. Don’t say we didn’t warn you, miss.”

“I will take your words to heart,” I said. “If anything, I now know which house to avoid.”

The door to George and Margaret’s home opened, and Mr. Thaddeus Beal—a drably clothed man with spectacles—summoned them with a kissy sound. George dashed inside. Margaret hesitated. “Give up this pursuit before it’s too late,” she said to me. “Promise you will, Cattarina.”

“I promise. Cat’s honor.” I waited for her to leave then started for home. Though I longed to avenge the tom’s murder, I had met a villain too despicable to hunt.Fancy a Leg of Manx tonight, dear? With mint jelly? No, thank you. I’d much rather dine on Tortie Pot Pie. Cat cookery book, indeed.

As I neared North Seventh, I noted a grey plume rising in the vicinity of home. This new area heralded surprises at every turn. I trotted ahead and rounded the corner, discovering the smoke’s source—the Poe residence. Scents of char and kerosene wafted from the rear of the structure.

Egad, the house was on fire!

Nothing distracted Eddy from writing. Nothing. I envisioned him looking up from his desk, pondering aloud about the warmth of his bedroom floor, and dipping his pen to resume work. Muddy must have fallen asleep at the stove again! I leapt over the picket fence and dashed toward what I feared would be a raging kitchen fire. I collapsed with relief at the small blaze in the kitchen garden.

Clad in her brown checkedeverydaydress, Sissy stood over the burning remnants of the rose print frock she’d worn to market, tending the flames with a rake. Eddy stood next to her, arm around her shoulder. A heap of stones had been piled beneath the morning glory vines in the corner of the yard. The final resting place of the victim, I surmised.

“Mother said it was beyond repair, and Mother would know,” Sissy said.

“I don’t have the means to replace it,” he said, looking at the dress.

“Do not fret, Eddy,” she said. “I would give a hundred gowns to know his soul is at peace. And now that he has a memorial,”—she gestured to the mound of stones—“he will not be forgotten.”

Eddy kissed her forehead.“He willnever be forgotten.”

The breeze lifted a cinder into the air. It popped and flashed, clinging to life, before vanishing into the firmament.

“You are too good for this world, Virginia. Too good.” He tucked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “I will buy you another dress when I can. In the meantime, I will give the black cat a fine eulogy—a story of his own. Will that satisfy you?”

“Yes. Very much.” She smiled, her face wan. “When will you begin?”

“At once,” Eddy said. He looked to me with lifted eyebrows. “Catters? Where have you been?” He snapped his fingers. “Lunch can wait. We have work to do.”

On our way into the house, Eddy tripped on a nail head protruding from the threshold.“Don’t tell Muddy,” he said to me, “or she’ll be after me to fix it.”

We entered and climbed the winding staircase to his writing chamber on the middle floor. Instead of officing in the parlor, as he’d done on Coates, he’d taken to working in solitude. I believed this was for the better. Not only did the eastern window capture more light, it looked out onto a splendid stretch of road. Whenever the ink stopped flowing, he would stand, stretch, and watch the parade of humanity. This gave himthe thrust to finish his work. I, too, loved the view. Swifts would fly in at candle-light, pricking my ears with chatter, and roost inside the chimneys of Spring Garden. I imagined Auntie Sass slinking along the rooftops, hunting them into oblivion.

Eddy lifted the window sash, and I settled onto his desk to supervise the preparations. Two pens he owned: one of common goose, which he used for hasty notes, the other of crow, which he used for manuscripts, official correspondence, and so forth. The crow offered a finer point that made writing in a small, neat hand easier. As expected, he plucked the black quill from its wire holder, withdrew his penknife from his pocket, and shaved the nib to his liking. The scraping lulled me into a purr. Once he’d prepared the instrument, he uncorked the ink, a blackish-brownish liquid that smelled of rust, and laid out a clean piece of paper, cut the day before from a long scroll. The day’s writing could begin.

He dipped his pen and drew marks across the top of the page.“‘The Black Cat,’” he said. “An obvious title but a fitting one, eh, Catters?”

I hopped on his shoulder and surveyed the work. The scrawl looked like a dribbling of weak tea now but would soon dry to a strong, fine brown—the color of Eddy’s hair. I meowed with approval and resumed my spot on the desk. He stroked my back then sat forward to write, completing several lines before stopping again. “Listen, Catters, and tell me if I have captured the requisite voice.” He took up the paper and read aloud: “Forthe most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream.”

I stretched and yawned, curling my tongue. Life was much too comfortable to pursue a man who made sausage of cats. Although something about the challenge piqued my curiosity. I wondered if I had enough stamina to chase such a villain. Alas, I’d regained some—not all—of the weight I’d lost last fall. Blasted pot roast dinners. It was almost as if Muddywanted me to eat them, the way she left them on the sideboard time and again. I rolled on my back, exposing my ample midsection. Eddy tickled my stomach with his quill, and I batted the feather more out of obligation than interest. I shut my eyes and waited for the pleasant scratch of goose nib on paper once again.

Some period afterward, light played across my eyelids. I awoke to find Eddy slumped in his chair, the penknife—not the quill—between his fingers. He turned the sharp object, catching a ray of sun with the blade. Any other day, his fascination with the knife would have raised little concern. Today, however, was not any other day, not with a one-eyed cat planted in the garden.

“What would possess a man, Cattarina? What?” He looked at me with pained expression. “I could not fathom it, unless…” He placed the penknife in a leather case that he tucked in his jacket pocket. “Come, Catters. Jolley Spirits awaits.”

I accompanied him out of concern, for I did not like Mr. Jolley, nor did I like the effect of Mr. Jolley’s spirits on my companion. They dulled my companion’s wits, a fact apparent to everyone but him. We descended the steps and entered the kitchen where he cobbled together bread, cheese, and ham pulled from the cooling cabinet. He finished by heaping the concoction with a generous portion of mustard and sour pickle.

Sissy poked her head into the room, embroidery hoop in hand.“I see you have an appetite, my love.”

“I have a great thirst as well.”

“For water?”

Eddy chuckled.

“For words?”

Eddy did not answer. He wrapped his sandwich in a kitchen cloth, folding and tying it with great consideration. From the attention he gave the bundle, I would have thought it no less important than a manuscript.

Sissy’s gaze fell to the floor. “When will you be back?”

Eddy tied the top of the cloth and headed for the back door.“Before dinner. I swear it.” He held up his hand in oath. “Catters will keep me out of trouble. Do not worry.”

Sissy regarded me, her jaw clenched. This winter, I had become not just her nursemaid but also his. Like the morning glory vines in the back garden, Eddy and Sissy’s woes grew in tangles, each pulling the other down, until the couple’s fate became inseparably entwined: the sicker Sissy grew, the more broken Eddy became; the more broken Eddy became, the sicker Sissy grew. It was enough to drive a cat mad.

“Very well,” she said. “If you must.”

***

Eddy and I arrived at Jolley Spirits, a tavern on Spring Garden. Trimmed by a ripped awning, the single-story eyesore sat amongst newer, taller edifices, and had—of all things—a stable out back. The interior was no less squalid. We took our usual table near the window. The air smelled faintly of horse dung, a scent I attributed to someone’s boots. From the crumb-covered tabletop, I assessed the crowd. Men with sooty faces—rowdies from the rail depot—had gathered around the bar. They shouted and slapped one another’s backs in a manner most aggressive, disturbing a table of dark-suited gentlemen in the back. Despite occasional jeers from both sides, spirits flowed, and a war between the camps seemed unlikely. I thought about starting one later for my own amusement.

Eddy untied his kitchen bundle.“Sissy worries about me, Catters,” he said in a low voice. “But it isI who should do the worrying, don’t you think?” He lifted the sandwich to take a bite. “Virginia was so…despondent when we left and over a trivial matter.” His face soured. “Curses, I have lost my appetite again.” He shrouded his lunch with the cloth, laying it to rest. “I am certain it is ‘The Black Cat.’”

I recognized these words from our writing session. Had he been referring to this morning’s feline? Or his story? I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I was glad the tom’s death still occupied his mind because it had yet to leave mine. I thought about the killer—the Butcher of Green Street—while I groomed my haunches.

“At any rate, I cannot seem to—” Eddy stopped mid-sentence when Mr. Jolley, the barkeep, arrived with a glass of port wine.

“How is my best customer?” Mr. Jolley asked. A hideous old man with fewer teeth than fingers, he’d outlived most humans. He set the drink before Eddy and reached for me with a spotted hand. Blue veins bulged beneath his thinning skin. I flattened my ears and growled, letting the pitch rise tomatch my agitation. He heeded the warning and withdrew. Common sense may have been his lone attribute. “Your cat is most peculiar, Mr. Poe,” he said.

Eddy slid a coin across the table then took a draught of wine before speaking.“Peculiar, yes.Most peculiar? Good sir, you have not met my mother-in-law.”

Mr. Jolley chuckled, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. His dark suit smelled of cedar and dust.“I have seen Maria Clemm on the street, and she is a fetching woman.”

“Sheis rather good at retrieving,” Eddy said.

Mr. Jolley’s chuckle turned into a belly laugh. “Oh, Mr. Poe, I beg you! Stop at once!”

“It is all in jest,” Eddy said. “I could not do without dear Muddy. She is my salvation.” He finished his wine and set the glass down with finality.

He pointed to the empty vessel.“Another?”

Eddy hesitated.

“How is your magazine coming?”

“No longer thePenn, it is theStylus, revived and restyled under better auspices. And while thePioneer and others like it have collapsed, theStylus is in capable hands.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Jolley held onto the back of a nearby chair. “I read Mr. Clark withdrew his support. Unless theSaturday Museum prints lies these days.”

Eddy shifted in his seat.

“Let me get that refill,” Mr. Jolley said, hobbling away. “Good afternoon, Mr. Arnold!” he shouted to a departing patron. “Give my best to Tabitha!”

Mr. Arnold, the cobbler of Franklin Street, sneered in reply. A coarse man with a bulbous nose, he slumped more than walked. One could argue that his frame had been sewn of wet burlap. And, dear me, his sun-worn skin needed polishing more than the boots in his shop. When he passed our table, he jerked one of the empty chairs, startling us both. I flattened my ears and hissed.“What are you looking at?” he bellowed. “Well? Answer me!”

“Nothing, sir. I pride myself on minding my business,” Eddy said. He must have responded on my behalf since Mr. Arnold had addressed me, not him.

“People shouldn’t bring animals into public houses.” He spat tobacco on the floor near our table. “It’s not sanitary.” His crazed laughter lasted all the way out the door. “It’s not sanitary!” he shouted again before crossing the street.

“That fellow is corned, Catters, from top to tail. No wonder Mrs. Arnold stays ill-humored.”

In a fashion, Mr. Jolley brought another glass of port. Once Eddy finished it, the old man returned with yet another, walking more briskly than I would have guessed his age would allow.

“No, Mr. Jolley,” Eddy said. He held up his hand in refusal. “I have had enough.”

EvenI, humble cat that I am, understood his answer. Mr. Jolley, however, did not, or rather pretended he did not. With a gummy smile, he set the drink in front of my companion and left. The barkeep gave me many reasons to hate him, but this bested them all. Josef, the server at Shakey House Tavern, always heeded Eddy’s wishes. I’d even seen him refuse Eddy when my friend’s gait grew uncertain or his speech slurred. Not Mr. Jolley. He cared more for coins than people.

Eddy sipped the blood-hued liquid and watched a couple on the street. The youngsters strolled past the tavern windows, elbows linked beneath a shared parasol. How rosy their cheeks; how gay their steps! The woman laughed with nary a cough and tugged her beau toward an oyster vendor across the way. Eddy’s gaze fell to his wine glass. When the rising chatter of patrons interrupted his contemplation, he took the penknife from his pocket again.

As he toyed with the blade, his expression changed from one of concentration to one of despair, signaling the return of his melancholy. As they’d done so many times before, clouds overtook him, dampening his spirits with unremitting drizzle. This came as no surprise. One cannot hide from the tempest when it resides in one’s heart. Yet changing the weather was as easy—or as hard—as stoking his imagination. I’d learned this duringour last adventure.

“What state of mind must a man possess to commit this morning’s atrocity?” Eddy placed the object on the table next to me for my perusal. I sniffed it, detecting the scent of crow—nothing out of the ordinary. “An enraged state, an altered state…” He picked up the glass again and held it to the sunlight, casting a dappled reflection on the table. “I still do not know how anyone with a right mind could kill a cat,” he said to me.

Kill a cat.

Grasping tail in teeth, I worked on a cocklebur I’d picked up in the market. Constable Harkness wouldn’t likely jail a cat killer. But tracking down the murderer and involving Eddy in the hunt would blow away the storm. Sissy, too, might be cheered by our exertions. Nevertheless, one thing prevented my endorsement: the cat cookery book. I stood and stretched, anticipating the arrival of Mr. Jolley. To banish the pall over the Poe family, I would immerse us in the mystery of the hanged cat.

As I sharpened my claws on the table, I questioned whether or not I had the speed and tenacity to bring down a human again. Winter feasting had given me a roundish, fattish shape, akin to a lump of dough—a detriment to fieldwork. If I couldn’t shake my sloth, I might end up on the Butcher’s plate next to boiled turnips. The floorboards vibrated. I turned to find the old raisin nearing with more blasted refreshment.

I crouched.

“Here you are, Mr. P—”

I flew at Mr. Jolley’s face, scratching and clawing with my own set of penknives. He dropped the glass—my objective—and held his arm aloft. This protected his rheumy eyes and little else. With unusual vengeance, I latched onto the limb, shredding the thin skin of his elbow like newspaper. He would not serve another drink to Eddy tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. I withdrew and waited by the door for a swift exit.

Mr. Jolley slipped and skated on the bloody port pooling underfoot, unable to gain his balance.“Get out!” he screamed. “You and that damnable cat, get out!”

The rail yard rowdies and the gentleman laughed, united in his ridicule.

Eddy grabbed his penknife and tucked it away.“Shall I come back tomorrow?”

“Out!” Mr. Jolley clutched his injured arm and fell into a chair.

We departedfull chisel, leaving Jolley Spirits behind. Cookery book be damned. Catching the Butcher would be no problem for a cat like me.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_6]

Cat Cookery for Beginners

I ACCOMPANIED EDDY AS far as our front garden and waited for him to enter before skittering back to Green Street. With extreme care, I approached the house with the window boxes—a little down, a little across from the Franklin cut-through—stopping short at the neighboring brownstone. From the holly bushes next door, I surveyed the Butcher’s lair. His bottom floor windows hung open, and the curtains billowed in and out with the draft. Trim garden, new paint, clean walkway—I found nothing awry, save for wilting petunias. The dwelling looked innocuous enough. But then, so had the Glass Eye Killer’s, and the dangers that lurked behind his door had been genuine.

Margaret’s caution returned as I slunk into the open. “He makes cats disappear,” she’d said. I dismissed it and hopped the low wrought iron fence surrounding the Butcher’s property. A cage large enough for a parrot sat to the right of the front door, but the contraption was empty, lacking perch, seed cup, and, chiefly, a feathered occupant. A horse and carriage rolled by on the cobblestones,clackety-clack, startling me. When I faced the house again, a figure loomed in the window beyond the curtain veil.

I froze.

When my legs could hold their position no longer, I disappeared into a cluster of zinnias, stirring a patch of butterflies. The Butcher would leave at some point and walk by the flower patch, giving me access to his ankle. A well-placed strike to this area would incapacitate him. I flexed my claws. Once he fell, his eye would be mine. I swatted the last remaining butterfly, scraping it into paste. Street justice was a concept most familiar to an ex-feral like me. And then I thought of Eddy and the scorn he would heap upon this act of retribution.

In the twitch of a whisker, I’d sunk to a place unbefitting a cat of my status, a cat who cohabitated with an esteemed man of letters. I lowered my chin to my paws. While the Butcher deserved a punishment equal to one he’d doled out, I would bring him to his knees and nothing more.

The hinges cried as the front door swung open. My stomach tightened.“Heeeere kitty, kitty,” the Butcher called. His voice cracked from strain or disuse, I could not tell which. This much I knew: the zinnia patch had grown smaller. Or maybe I had grown larger. Both were possible. “Heeeere kitty, kitty.” He descended the stone steps to the garden.

The flowers obstructed my view of his face, though from his gait I judged him to be a man of advanced years. Considering my success with Mr. Jolley, I had less to fear than I’d originally thought. I unsheathed my claws and lifted my paw to assault the oldster. I would be home for tea.

“There’s a pretty kitty,” he said. He stopped at the flower patch, casting me in a crooked shadow. It was the man with the bent spine.

I spat in terror, not at his outstretched hands but at the object between them—a net.

***

The struggle had been epic—a vicious roiling of claws and teeth and tail—and one, I dare say, worthy of Eddy’s pen, yet it belonged to me alone. Once the Butcher threw the net, he stood aside and let me wind deeper into the ropes until even my whiskers could not wiggle. What a sight I must have been—Philadelphia’sonly ball of yarn with a cat inside. After I surrendered, he scooped me up and dumped me into the large birdcage next to the front door. TheGazette lined the bottom of the prison, completing the indignity. What next? A cup of seeds?

The Butcher knelt and appraised me. A wave of white hair and beard covered much of his face, though his eyes remained bright. The faded green of winter grass, they shone beneath his hooded lids, suggesting a quick mind. He stood and picked up my cage with some effort.“Oh, me, you’re a heavy thing, aren’t you? They’re feeding you well.”

He took me inside where he placed me on the kitchen table next to a cutting board of diced onion and carrot. A pot of water boiled on the stove. Queasiness replaced hunger when I realized the scoundrel meant to serve me for dinner. I imagined myself, tied up like a pot roast, surrounded by vegetables. In a panic, I pawed the latch to free myself.

The Butcher bent the wire hook and fastened the cage door tighter.“Not to worry, pretty kitty.” He chuckled. “I’ll take you out when it’s time to eat.”

I settled into the corner of my enclosure and watched as he retrieved a leather-bound notebook and a stick of charred wood from the cupboard. He sat down at the table, flipped to a new page in his book, and started to sketch. I assumedI was the subject of his portrait since a handsome cat with patches of light and dark fur and the most exquisite ears took shape beneath the charcoal. To finish, he scribbled a series of notes beneath the drawing. I could not read them, of course…I swished my tail. Great Cat Above! I had been entered into the cookery book!

[Êàðòèíêà: img_7]

The Water Giants

HORRIFIED BY THE CAT cookery book, I lurched against the cage, thinking to knock it sideways and break it open. The Butcher responded by depositing my prison beneath the table and draping a large kitchen cloth over its top. I thumped my tail. I was a cat, nay, atortoiseshell cat, and I would not be hidden away like a noisy parakeet. There I keened with great volume:yoooow, yoooow, yoooow, yoooow. I hoped George and Margaret would heed the call since they—not Eddy—lived close enough to hear it.

“Hush now, pretty kitty,” he said. “Just a little longer.”

The Butcher’s admonishment mattered not, and I continued to wail, stopping only when he banged lid and pot together. Alarmed by the noise, I ceased and prayed for deliverance. I imagined Eddy at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating gingersnaps, his shirtfront full of crumbs. With the strong connectionbetween us, my visions usually heldsome veracity of mood, if not manner, so it jarred me to picture him joking with Sissy and Muddy, giving no thought to my whereabouts. Who could blame him after my spat with Mr. Jolley? I crouched in the corner, remaining quiet lest the Butcher bang another pot.

Come sundown, the Poe household would suffer if I weren’t there to help Muddy with the leftovers, warm Sissy’s lap, or coax another page of writing from Eddy. The Butcher tossed another log into the woodstove. Come sundown,I would suffer. I had but one option left: wait until the cage door opened and come out fighting like Auntie Sass. If the old manwere to make a meal of me, he would earn it.

For an agonizing period, I listened to the clink of teacups and the clatter of cupboard doors as the Butcher prepared for the feast. The cadence of his footfall created music upon the floorboards that would have soothed me in brighter circumstances. Now the vibrations jarred my muscles, plucking them like the strings of Sissy’s old harp. Just when I’d become accustomed to his steps, they increased in speed, traversed the kitchen, and faded from hearing. “Goodbye, Silas! Goodbye, Samuel!” he called.

Silasand Samuel? To whom did these names belong? The Butcher’s offspring? The wondering petrified me more than the knowing.

The front door opened and closed.

The house fell quiet, save for the crackle of the woodstove.

Clever Butcher. He’d said these names as a ruse to keep me inside my cage. He hadn’t counted on my tenacity. I reached my paw through the bars to try the latch again. The wire held fast. A second and third try yielded disappointment as well. I’d just begun to study the lock when paws padded toward me. Silas and Samuel? I ducked low to see beneath the kitchen cloth, but dash-it-all, the fabric reached the floor. I sniffed through the bars, detecting toms of middle age, perhaps from the same litter. If they supported the Butcher as I did Eddy, crisis had just given way to calamity.

“Should we say hello, Silas?” the first tom asked.

“It would be rude not to, Samuel,” the other said.

Silence.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” Samuel said.

“Oh, I thoughtyou were going to say something,” Silas said.

A sneeze. More silence.

“Won’tsomeone speak?” I said.

A large cat ducked beneath the kitchen cloth. Dark and light gray stripes graced his fur, and tufts of white adorned his chest and underbelly, giving his coat a dapper suit-and-shirtfront pattern. Large did not begin to describe him. I had never seen a cat of such grandiose proportion. And his ears! Fur tipped their ends, swooping them even higher than mine, like those of a lynx. Had I not been scared, I would have been envious.“Hello,” he said to me. “I am Samuel.”

“Please,” I begged him, “let me out before the man comes back and cooks me.”

Samuel cocked his head.“Cooks you?”

Silas joined us beneath the cloth. His markings were almost identical to Samuel’s, save for white-tipped toes. “Cooks you?” Silas repeated. “No, no, no. He does not cook cats. He has another end in mind. He’s going to—”

The front door opened and closed.

“Our Robert returns,” Samuel said to Silas. “To the parlor, brother. At once!”

The two toms vanished from view.

“Go? Wait! What fate? What fate!” I shouted after them.

Two humans entered the kitchen, one with the gait of the old man, one with a lighter step. Splendid. A dinner party. With renewed vigor, I reached a paw through the bars and tried to bat the lock open one last time. When that failed, I sank my teeth into the metal. Imagine my surprise when a hand snatched the cloth from my cage.

“There you are, Cattarina!” Sissy said. Her face burned red beneath her bonnet. The walk to Green Street had winded her. “I’m glad you are safe.”

Sissy, dear Sissy! I yowled to state my displeasure. Then I yowled again, varying the intonation to let her know I unabashedly approved of her presence. The Butcher pulled my enclosure into the open and set it on the tabletop again. He motioned Sissy to a chair and took one for himself, placing his leather-bound cookery book on the table.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Eakins,” Sissy said. She untied the strings of her bonnet and removed it. “Cattarina wanders off with some frequency, causing my husband undue worry.” She smoothed her hair into place.

“You do not worry?”

“No.” She winked at me. “Cattarina is a first-rate gadabout.”

“In any event, I’m glad to be of service. To all cats.” He wiggled a finger inside my cage.

It took some restraint, but I didn’t bite him. Doing so now would complicate matters, as it had done with Mr. Jolley. So I sniffed his hand instead. Great Cat Above! The Butcher’s scent varied from the one on the rope, which meant he hadn’t hung the black tom. I had been so preoccupied that I hadn’t noticed before. While this conclusion reassured me, I had, nevertheless, drawn it from parrot prison.

“Cats are your business, aren’t they, Mr. Eakins?” Sissy wiped a bit of sweat from her neck with a handkerchief. “That is what I heard on the street today.”

“You heard right.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Tea? The woman had lost her faculties. Could she not fathom my predicament? I was a captive, for kitty’s sake.

The Butcher—or Mr. Eakins?—crossed to the cook stove and poured hot water from the once-boiling pot into two waiting cups. He returned with their refreshments, taking a seat once more. “I have no cream or sugar, Mrs. Poe. Please accept my apologies. My meager income is spent on my…business, as you say.”

Sissy took the cup from him and placed it on the table.“That’s a lovely book you showed me earlier. The one with Cattarina’s sketch.”

“Oh, me, yes,” he said. “It’s taken years of meticulous work.” He, too, set his teacup aside and reached for his notebook. “Every cat I rescue gets a page. I sketch their picture and make notes about their health, the location in which I discovered them, any distinguishing marks, and soon before I find them a new home. It’s quite consuming. Philadelphia is overrun with the creatures.” He opened the book to my entry and handed it to Sissy with a shaky hand. “Now that I’m too old to work for Mr. Lansing—I was a law clerk, you know—I spend my days on this. It keeps me from thinking too much about Mrs. Eakins, God rest her soul.”

“So the cat hanging this morning…”

“Shocking.”

She flashed her teeth.“You had nothing to do with it!”

“Dear, me, no. In fact, just talking about it upsets my stomach. I feel partly to blame.”

“Why? Because despite saving so many strays you couldn’t save the one?”

Mr. Eakins hesitated.“As I said, Mrs. Poe, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“You have done enough good in this world. Let that be of comfort.” She thumbed through the book, perusing a few sketches before shutting it. “Mr. Eakins, I’m glad we crossed paths.”

“As am I. I knew the tortoiseshell belonged to you because I saw you out with her this morning. She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” He unhitched the latch and opened the cage door.

I flew onto Sissy’s lap, anchoring my claws into the brown checked fabric of her dress. Sweet freedom at last! She laid her hand on my back to comfort me, and I settled at once into the folds of her skirt, shifting to an uneasy calm. To make my position clear, I turned my ears back and fixed the old man with a stare. I would not suffer the cage again.

Before long, Silas and Samuel trotted into the room, their fat tails bobbing behind them. Sissy touched her collarbone.“Mr. Eakins, those are the largest felines I have ever seen. They are as big as bobcats. And their tails! Why, they look like feather dusters!” She replaced his book on the table and leaned forward to study the pair.

“They are from Maine, Mrs. Poe. Do you like them?” When she nodded, Mr. Eakins added, “They are called Coon Cats. If you think they’re special now, just wait.” He retrieved a bucket of well water from the bottom of the cupboard and set it in front of Silas and Samuel. They took no interest. “Prepare to be fascinated,” he told Sissy. At this, he produced a jug cork from his pocket and floated it on top of the liquid, giving it a spin to set it moving.

To my bewilderment, Silas and Samuel dipped their paws into the bucket and played with the cork, batting it as one might a fish. Before long, water covered the floor, even dampening their tails with the vile liquid. I shuddered at the thought of it between my toes. How much grooming would it take to put them to rights again? When my paws tingled at the thought, I licked them. Why, Silas and Samuel might not even be cats at all. They might be— I looked again to the brothers. I had found the Water Giants mentioned by George and Margaret. Mr. Thaddeus Beal’s companions had been right, or partly right, about the cookery book as well. But they had been wrong about the old man. The Butcher was nothing more than a false goliath built of rumor and dread.

“Hello,” Samuel said to me. He shook the water from his paws and hopped to Mr. Eakin’s lap, engulfing his companion in a mat of fur and bones.

Sissy and Mr. Eakins continued their conversation, which we ignored.

“Why didn’t you tell me before that Mr. Eakins meant no harm?” I asked Samuel.

“No one is ever in danger here,” he said. “I thought you knew that.” He looked to Silas. The other tom had fished the cork from the bucket and was chewing it to crumbles. “She didn’t know, brother,” Samuel said to him. “Brother?”

Silas turned his back to us and finished killing the cork.

“Don’t mind him,” Samuel said to me. “Once you do away with all the mice, that leaves little else to hunt.”

“The feeling is familiar.” I thought about telling him of my escapades but decided against it. The City of Brotherly Love had room for only one feline ratiocinator. “Mr. Eakins took you in and gave you a home?”

“Yes, a very good one. We don’t leave much. He thinks it best that we stay inside. But we sneak out on occasion. Mostly at night.”

“And the book he keeps?”

“It’s a record of all the feral cats he’s rescued over the seasons.” Samuel jumped to the table and pawed the notebook open. “There are many pictures. Too many to count.”

I joined him and looked over his shoulder at the sketches.“And what becomes of them?”

“He finds them homes, of course.”

“What do you know about the hanged cat this morning?”

Samuel crooked his tail.“What hanged cat? We do not get out much.”

With Samuel’s next swipe, the book fell open to the middle. A tom with luxurious fur and a white mark on his chest stared back at me from the page, his coat the color of…Midnight. My old pal from Rittenhouse did not come from noble lineage, as he’d once said. He’d been born feral, like me, the cad.

Sissy picked me up and laid me over her shoulder like a fox stole.“Thank you again, Mr. Eakins. I don’t know how I can repay your kindness.”

“You have repaid it by giving Cattarina a good home.” He showed us to front the door.

Samuel followed, scampering behind Sissy.“What was the black cat’s name?” I asked him. “The one with the white mark on his chest?”

“Mr. Eakins named him Crow because he was as black as—”

“Yes, how fitting,” I said. This very afternoon, I would confront Midnight about his lies. He would soon eat an uncomfortable portion of his namesake.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_8]

RittenhouseRedux

WHAT NERVE MIDNIGHT HAD, masquerading as a house-born cat when he’d sprung from the gutter like me. Our relationship commenced last fall when I was but a fledgling crime solver. I’d tracked my quarry, the Glass Eye Killer, as far as Rittenhouse Square before running out of clues and ideas. That’s when I happened upon Midnight—a chance meeting that led to, I am loath to admit, an infatuation. He dazzled me with kittenhood tales of velvet pillows, everlasting tuna, and silken collars, and in my naivet?, I believed every word. Having spent my formative years as a stray, living in a wooden crate behind Osgood’s Odd Goods, I was in no position to judge the veracity of his stories. Looking back, his proclivity for thefthad hinted at a less than fortuitous upbringing. I’d just been too enamored to notice.

As the omnibus turned the corner of North 9th onto Spring Garden, I thought of the ancient proverb: scratch me once, shame on you; scratch me twice, shame on me. I would not be scarred by Midnight again. The long four-horse carriage stopped at the curb near my paws.

“Afternoon, Miss Puss,” Mr. Coal said from the driver’s perch. His top hat swallowed his small head, and the size difference caused the hat to wobble when he spoke. “You’re looking well today. Catch any good mice lately?” I did not know Mr. Coal’s true name. Rather, I’d assigned it based on his route. He worked the black line, Mr. Goldenrod worked the yellowish line, Mr. Sky worked the blue line and so forth. Endearing myself to the city’s omnibus drivers had been easy; a plaintive mew, a blink of my eyes, and they were mine, present company included. “Mind your step,” he said, working the door lever.

I boarded the horse-bus and walked between a preponderance of legs, looking for a seat. After realizing the joys of transportation last autumn, I became a public transit devotee. Yes, yes, the cobblestones rattled a body, tail to teeth. But, oh, the convenience! The journey to Rittenhouse by paw would have taken until sundown, and I had neither the patience nor the stamina to see it through. I found a seat next to a bespectacled woman with a pheasant plume on her bonnet. The slender brown feathers fluttered in the open window behind her as the carriage lurched forward. Despite the gaiety of her hat, however, the woman’s face had all the charm of a pitted prune.

She leaned out of the window and shouted to Mr. Coal,“Driver, why does the cat ride free? I demand to know, where’sher dime?”

“I asked her for fare once, missus.” Mr. Coal’s voice floated in through the window. “She tried to carve me like a Sunday ham. But you go right ahead and get the money from her. I’d be much obliged.”

“Dear me,” the woman muttered. She rose and took a new seat, squeezing between two gentlemen in the rear of the coach. This suited me, and I settled into the rhythm of the horses’ steps. By and by, their cadence calmed me, lessening my need for blood. I would engage Midnight in a battle of wits, not claws, I decided. It took two transfers to reach my destination, but I made it to Rittenhouse near teatime.

I yowled to be let off and disembarked, taking in the familiar smell of the place. The odor of limestone and new construction prompted memories, both good and bad. I could not say I missed this neighborhood, not as I did Fairmount. I set out for Midnight’s imposing townhome, reaching it several blocks later. Climbing the steps the wide stone porch, I began a campaign of vocalizations until a small child answered my call. Her blonde curls sprang from her head like a bird’s nest. If memory served, this was Sarah, the miniature mistress of the house. In her arms, she carried a baby swaddled in a tapestry shawl with black fringe all around.

The girl knelt and patted me on the head, giving me a peek inside the bundle she carried. My first assessment had been incorrect. She held not a baby but a large grey kitten with a shiny ribbon tied round her neck. The tabby’s permanent teeth poked jaggedly through her gums, as if they hadn’t had an opportunity to grow in yet.

“You’re cute,” Sarah said to me. “Do you have a home? Would you like to come in? We’re playing house, and Lovie needs a sissy.” She bounced the kitten-baby in her arms.

Sissy? Could she have met Mrs. Poe? I doubted it.“I am looking for Midnight,” I said to the kitten. “Does he still live here?”

“For the time being.”

“Then will you get him for me?”

“He is napping,” the kitten said with a touch of boredom.

“He is a cat,” I said. “He isalways napping, you supercilious scrap of fur. Now retrieve him at once, or I will reach into that blanket and—”

“Cattarina?” Midnight padded onto the porch. Sunlight glistened on his long black fur, lending him a regal air I found irresistible, even today. He still wore the blue ribbon round his neck, the one I remembered from our last visit, but it had frayed at the edges.

“Oh,” Sarah said, “she’s come foryou,handsome boy.” She leapt to her feet and sang, “Midnight’s got a sweetheart. Midnight’s got a sweetheart.” She skipped into the house with her kitten-baby. As the door swung shut, the grey fur ball gave me a direct stare, ears tipped sideways. What insolence.

“A matched pair,” I said to Midnight. “Good riddance.”

“Sarah used to dote on me, until Lovie showed up,” he said to me. “But enough about them. Let’s talk about you and where you’ve been the last six moons.” He sat on his hindquarters and puffed his chest fur, displaying the white patch over his breastbone—the most glaring difference between him and the murdered cat. “I tried to visit you last winter, but your pal at Eastern State Penitentiary—”

“Big Blue?”

“Yes, that’s him. He couldn’t say where you’d gone.”

I turned my nose to the sky.“You kept busy with other mollies, I am certain.”

“None like you, Cattarina.”

I paused to consider my strategy, settling on Circle and Pounce.“Perhaps my charm comes from a feral upbringing.”

“Maybe.”

“You and I are different, aren’t we, Midnight? You have never known the hardships of street life. I, on the other hand, know them too well.” I circled him, treading with slow, soft steps.

“Well…yes. But don’t feel bad. Not everyone is fed from a silver spoon at birth.”

“And what, pray tell, came on your silver spoon?”

“Oh, you know…the usual.”

“Minced lamb? Creamed tuna? Bacon drippings?” I circled tighter.

“Of course.”

“Ha!” I spat. “Lie upon lie upon lie!”

“What are you talking about?”

I faced him, hackles raised.“Why didn’t you tell me you were born a stray, Midnight? Or should I call you Crow?”

His pale eyes shone bright, twin moons against his dark fur.“H-how did you find out?”

“Silas and Samuel, my new neighbors.” I walked to the edge of the stoop and wrapped my tail around me. “I am sure you are acquainted with their caretaker, Mr. Eakins.”

“Yes, I know Mr. Eakins. If not for him, I would probably be dead by now.”

Like the cat in the tree. I dismissed the thought.“Then why did you hide the truth, particularly when we share the same heritage? To humiliate me?”

“What? No! To impress you.” He joined me on the top stair. “Therehave been other mollies, Cattarina, but none with your…fire.”

“Ido have fire, don’t I?” I unwrapped my tail and cast it lazily upon the steps.

“Yes,” he said. “Enough to burn down the whole of Philadelphia.”

“And my ears. Do you like them? I think they are my best feature.”

“They are, without a doubt, your best feature.”

We brushed cheeks. All was forgiven.

“So you came all the way to Rittenhouse to catch me in a lie?” Midnight said. “I’m flattered.”

“No, of course not,” I countered. Many untruths had been told this afternoon; I did not mind adding to their number. “My purpose lies with another stray, hanged this very morning near Green Street. To find the tom’s executioner, I must learn his identity. So I am speaking to as many of our kind as possible in the hope that someone knows something. He looked a little like you but all black. On the small, scrawny side with a single orange eye. I shan’t tell you about the other eye.”

Midnight swallowed.“When you say orange, do you mean pumpkin or copper?”

“I don’t see what difference—”

“Please!”

“Very well, copper-ish.”

“If it’s who I think it is, the cat’s name is Snip. I hadn’t thought about him in…” He stared at a passing wagon filled with anthracite. “Well, it’s been ages. We met during our stay with Mr. Eakins. The old man placed me in a home first, and I never thought about him or that old life until today.” He sighed. “Funny little tom. Always worked for the laugh. He ran loops around the Coon Cats. Loved to spill their water dish and watch them play in the mess. He wasquite the entertainer.” Midnight faced me, his eyes narrowed. “I hope you find who killed him, Cattarina.”

“As do I.” I arose and paced the stoop. “The black cat— I mean, Snip’s death has proved most discomforting to Sissy, the mistress of Poe House. And my Eddy can scarcely think of anything else. I am hunting for them, you see, as well as Snip.”

“Now who’s the liar, Cattarina?” Midnight said. “I see the excitement in your tail.”

I looked back at the aforementioned item and found it sticking straight in the air. I lowered it, dusting the limestone.“Very well. Itis exhilarating to hunt for big game. But my family is no less the reason. Nor is retribution for a fallen brother.”

“Maybe I can help,” he said. “When you called on your neighbors, Silas and Samuel, did you happen to see a large leather-bound book in their home?”

“The cookery book?”

Midnight cocked his head.

“Never mind. I know of it.”

“Midnight!” Sarah screeched from the front hall. “Let’s play hopscotch!” The sound of her voice flattened Midnight’s ears. It had a similar effect on me, driving me back to the steps.

“Mr. Eakins scribbles things inside it,” he said quickly.

“That’s what humans do,” I said. “It’s how they communicate. Though I cannot read the marks, they are of great importance to Eddy.”

“It’s possible Mr. Eakins wrote about Snip’s new owners in the book.” The door opened, banging against the inside wall. Sarah snatched Midnight under the ribcage, his back legs dangling. “Find Snip’s entry, and find your answers,” he wheezed. “Charmed to see you, Cattarina. Do come ag—”

The door slammed, cutting our conversation short. Fiddlesticks. I longed to heed his advice, except the memory of this morning’s capture troubled me. Then I had to overcome the small problem of my illiteracy, at least in the ways of human writing. Even if I located the book, its contents would be indecipherable. I arched my back, releasing the crick in my spine, and left for the omnibus stop.

The carriage trip home gave me an opportunity to reflect on Midnight’s advice, enough so that when I reached Spring Garden, I’d talked myself into visiting Mr. Eakins. Heading north, I reached the Butcher’s dwelling and climbed to his kitchen windowsill. I peered through the glass. The old man sat at the dining table, charcoal twig in hand, doodling in his leather-boundcat-pendium. Dash it all. Before I could snoop for clues, Mr. Eakins would have to set his drawing aside, a difficult task given the allure of the feline form. I watched him a while longer, fascinated by the movement of his hand on the paper. Eddy usually frowned as he worked; I think it helped him. But Mr. Eakins smiled—a fool’s grin, toothy and without reason—as he sketched. The task consumed him such that the folly of his Coon Cats passed unnoticed.

Behind him, Silas and Samuel crept to the sideboard where they plundered a near-empty soup pot. The brothers took turns, each allowing the other a few licks of broth. It was a polite affair until Silas—in a fit of gluttony—butted Samuel out of the way, jumped into the vessel, and upended himself by accident. His back legs punched the air as he tried to extract himself from the stew he’d gotten himself into.Stew. I twitched my whiskers, pleased with the pun. Samuel elected to escape trouble and dashed into the parlor out of view.

Mr. Eakins laid down his twig and closed his book. When he rose to help Silas, he brushed the tablecloth with his leg, revealing the cage hidden beneath it. I could not be an inmate of parrot prison again! Terrified, I leapt to the ground and ran straight home. There had to be another way to help Snip.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_9]

For Sale: One Muse

“THAT IS NO WAY to hammer a nail,” Muddy said. She stood under the western eave, surveying her son-in-law’s handiwork. Eddy, meanwhile, had removed one of his shoes and was using it to chastise the threshold. He brought it down repeatedly on the board, much to Muddy’s consternation. “You’ll never fix it,” she said.

I approached them, fresh from Mr. Eakins’s house, to observe the undertaking.

“Iwill fix it,” Eddy said. “You will see.” He raised his shoe again, laces swaying, and smacked a protruding nail head. Everyone in Poe House had either tripped over the errant barb or snagged clothing on it since moving here this spring. Though physical labor disagreed with my companion, he persisted in amanner most enthusiastic. Sweat formed on his brow, and his hair flopped forward into his eyes.Smack! Smack! With every blow of his shoe, he grunted.

“I told you,” Muddy said. “It will never work. You need something harder.”

“Your head, perhaps,” Eddy muttered under his breath. He struck the nail again.

“A shoe is no substitute for a hammer,” she said.

“We don’thave a hammer, Mother,” Sissy called from the open kitchen door. “And the Poyners aren’t home, so we can’t borrow one from them.”

“Then tell your husband to buy one.” Muddy crossed her arms over her stomach and addressed Eddy. “I’m sure the Irishman deals on credit.” She turned and disappeared into the house.

Eddy stood and slipped his foot into his shoe.“Catters, old girl, why don’t we visit Fitz together?” He reached to stroke my back, releasing a puff of fur. “Muddy won’t let up until the nail is fixed. What’s more, ‘The Black Cat’ isn’t coming along like I’d hoped. I think fresh air and a trip to the store would help with both. But we’d better hurry. He’s closing soon.”

We journeyed down Minerva, the westward sun on our faces. As we walked, I recalled the day’s events: a murder, a catnapping, a romantic rekindling. Why, I’d had enough adventure to last the summer! I glanced at Eddy, his dark silhouette a comfort. The life he provided was thrilling enough; did I need to seek diversion elsewhere? No, in this happy moment, I was content to leave the affairs of the black cat to the black cat himself.

The feeling lasted until we reached the sassafras tree.

Snip’s body had long since been removed, yet sorrow marred the courtyard, thickening the air like chowder. I pictured the little tom, running circles around Silas and Samuel, working, as Midnight said, for the laugh. I swished my tail. I could not overlook his murder now that I’d come to know him. But I needed to find a way to help that didn’t involve Mr. Eakins.

Eddy entered Fitzgerald Hardware with a spry hop. Humans were a pitiable species, but I envied their dull senses at times like these. I stepped inside the narrow store, pausing behind my friend. Glass cases stocked with an assortment of nails, metal fittings, and hinges lined the space. Atop the cabinetry, more items had been arranged: lanterns, tin funnels, boxes of gunpowder, downspouts, cast iron spiders…almost too much to behold. We found Mr. Fitzgerald in the back, dusting a row of pot-bellied stoves. The floorboards creaked, announcing our arrival.

“Afternoon, Mr. Poe.” Mr. Fitzgerald laid down his duster and winked at me. “If you’ve come for thecraic about the cat, sir, I don’t know a thing about it.”

My ear flicked at the mention ofcat.

“No, Mr. Fitzgerald, this call is strictly business.” Eddy clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m in need of a hammer. Do you carry them?”

“I have claw, mallet, sledge, tinner’s… What kind are you looking for?”

“The kind that punishes nails.”

“I have just the one.” The man stepped behind a long glass case and pointed to a row of tools inside. I joined the men, hopping to the counter to peruse the objects below me. I was no expert, but they looked better at pounding nails than Eddy’s shoe. The men spoke at length, exhausting the topics ofhammers andhardheaded women. Since I did not think Mr. Fitzgerald sold the second, I decided the implements in the case must be the first. I had no interest in either. My attention drifted, settling on an attractive box of twine balls at the end of the counter.

And then I saw it.

The now-familiar rope hung on a peg near the pot-bellied stoves. I traversed the cabinetry and studied the cord’s composition:brown and tan jute, the former dyed with a bitter solution that smelled of walnuts, the latter left au natural.Great Cat Above, I’d located the source of the murder weapon! I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Fitzgerald and watched him share a joke of some sort with Eddy. The two men laughed. It baffled me that a human of gentle demeanor could commit such a cruelty. But Mr. Fitzgerald, indeed, had been the one to kill the black cat.I yowled to catch Eddy’s attention.

“We will leave soon, Catters,” he said. He gave the shopkeeper a somber look. “Now about your store credit…”

Mr. Fitzgerald had already killed one cat this morning, and I, for one, didn’t want to be the second. So I nudged the box of twine balls from the counter to accelerate my plot. They bounced and rolled along the floor, coming to rest beneath the pot-bellied stoves. The men stopped speaking and looked at me. Splendid.

“Catters?” Eddy said. “What on earth are you doing?”

I knocked a tin of thingamabobs to the floor. One needed a glossary just to shop here.

“Catters!”

When both men approached, I leapt to the rope to draw notice. Naturally I brought it down on top of myself. Rationation is not without peril. I poked through the heap of loops and meowed for Eddy. He would recognize this as the same material from which the killer had made this morning’s noose, and Mr. Fitzgerald would be exposed as a torturer and a fiend. The neighbors might turn against him, but this mattered less than the truth. Three cheers for me, the greatest cat in all of—

“Cattarina, stop this tomfoolery at once!” Eddy said.

Mr. Fitzgerald stood behind Eddy and peered over his shoulder.“Well, I’ll be graveled. Think she’s chasing a mouse?”

“I think she’s chasing her sanity,” Eddy said.

I sank my teeth into the jute and held fast to the clue. To quote the famous philosopher, Cato,“We are twice armed when we bite in faith.” I had just become a formidable opponent.

Eddy tried tugging the line from my jaws. Then he pulled me around the floor like a child’s toy—a wooden cat on a string. When he paused to rethink this strategy, I doubled my efforts, tangling and winding into the coil until I’d knotted myself to the bitter end. With enough tortitude, any problem could be solved, I reasoned. Soon, Eddy would appreciate the significance of the rope, and I could let go of the blasted thing. I hoped it happened before dinner.

“Well, that is that, I’m afraid. Good day, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Eddy placed the hammer in his pocket and dragged me toward the door, my teeth still grasping the clue. To my horror, my fur cleaned a path on the dusty floor behind us. Still I did not let go.

“Wait! Mr. Poe!” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “Don’t mean to start a chafe, but I can’t let you to leave without paying for that item.”

Eddy paused near the entrance.“I have already purchased this hammer on credit. Perhaps we can make a similar arrangement for the rope?”

“We have a limit, and you’ve reached it.”

Eddy scowled at me, his cheeks red.“Then would you like to buy a cat?”

The shopkeeper eyed me.“At the moment, no.”

“A barter, then.” He took a deep breath. “The hammer for the rope.”

“That I can do, Mr. Poe,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “That I can do.”

Eddy left the hardware store, dragging me belly up in the dirt behind him. At least we were no longer in the company of a murderer. Tabitha and Abner Arnold watched us from the doorway of the shoemaker shop next door. Abner appeared to have recovered from his trip to Jolley Spirits and stood a little straighter. Tabitha, meanwhile, hadn’t changed a whit. She scowled at us, unamused by our conduct. Throughout the courtyard, I wished for street. When we reached Franklin, I wished for soft earth. Cobblestones are for paws, not backs. The entire trip home, Eddy did not speak to me. And hecertainly did not speak to the neighbors, try as they might to engage him.

“You’ve got an odd anchor, Poe!” Mr. Cook shouted from his front stoop. “It’s got teeth and tail!”

Mrs. Cook stuck her head out of an upstairs window and pointed.“Look! He’s caught acatfish on his line. I know what Mrs. Clemm is cooking for dinner!”

Their jeers held no meaning. I had a job to do, and nothing would stand between me and my quarry, not even my pride. Just the same, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter the tabbies, George and Margaret, or the Coon Cats, Samuel and Silas. Vanity aside, I still prized my dignity.

Eddy continued in silence, stopping every few houses to see if I’d let go of the rope. But he never once looked—reallylooked—at the object between his fingers. With each passing stone that scraped my back, my course grew more certain. Midnight was right. To help Snip and protect the cats of Philadelphia from Mr. Fitzgerald, I had to steal Mr. Eakins’s book.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_10]

Buried Secrets

JUST AS I LICKED the last twig from my tail, Muddy served dinner. Unfortunately, my harrowing drag was for naught. Nothing came of these heroics, save for a bruise in a very delicate place; my bottom had polished every cobblestone on Franklin. In the absence of a hammer, Eddy pressed a candle stub onto the nail head, preventing Sissy or Muddy from tearing their skirt again. But what skills he possessed in shirking handiwork, he lacked in hunting. To snare Mr. Fitzgerald required the cunning of a cat, nay, atortoiseshell cat.

I pondered the complexities of the crime during the evening meal. I’d detected no lavender or citrus anywhere in Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop, and I remembered smelling it on the noose this morning. Further, what possible reason could he have for killing Snip? And had he been Snip’s owner? Lastly, I judged him a fair human. I have been mistaken or misguided on occasion, even ill advised, but I have never been wrong. Doubt over his role in the murder abounded. I prayed Mr. Eakins’s book would provide answers.

Once I’d downed Muddy’s feeble offering of chicken broth, I proceeded to Green Street, stopping first at the Beal residence for help. The grey tom and orange molly napped on the stoop, warming themselves in the dwindling sun. I thanked the Great Cat Above for the long stretch of summer daylight. It made my investigation that much easier, and quite an investigation it had been. I’d done more today than I had all spring. I climbed the terraced steps and chanced upon a crockery bowl of water. I took a sip of the cool liquid, thinking the Quaker cats would not mind.

George lifted his head, one eye still closed.“Cattarina?” He nudged Margaret. She awoke with a start and sprang to her feet.

“Y-you’re alive,” she said to me. “But how? Every cat tongue on Green Street is a-wag. They’re saying the Butcher got his hands on you.”

“He did,” I said. “It was quite an ordeal.” I licked the water from my lips.

George sniffed me.“And you’re not dead?”

I shifted to my hindquarters, minding the bruise.“You should be asking about the Butcher.”

“The way you talk!” Margaret said.

“Were you terribly frightened?” George asked. “How did you escape his sausage grinder? Skeletons. Were there cat skeletons in the home?” He backed into the water bowl, spilling it. “Do tell us, Cattarina! Do tell us!”

“You misunderstand Mr. Eakins,” I said.

“Who is Mr. Eakins?” George shook the water from his paws and licked them.

“The Butcher. Please keep up.” I flicked the end of my tail. “From what Silas and Sam— I mean, the Water Giants, tell me, he is a kindly old man who rescues homeless cats. Though hemay have a small flea problem.”

Margaret’s eyes grew wide. “You met the Water Giants?”

“They are not dead, either,” I added. “You may meet them yourself.”

George and Margaret sneezed, one after another—a clear rejection of my proposal.

“I assure you, I am serious. In fact, I would like you to accompany me to the Butcher’s home.” I rose to all paws, keeping my tail low. “He is in possession of a clue, and I need your help obtaining it.”

“A clue?” Margaret asked. “What is a clue?”

I told them the story of Snip, the book, and Mr. Fitzgerald. I’d even come up with a plan on the way over, which I explained to them now. I softened the danger by calling it a game of cat and mouse with unorthodox rules. This seemed to calm George a bit, for he relaxed his ears toward the end of my speech.

“We don’t condone stealing,” he said once I’d finished. “Taking the book would be against our code. Mr. Beal would be unhappy if we—”

“Don’t think of it as stealing,” I said. “Think of it helping a fallen…friend.”

Margaret blinked.“Very well. We will help you. But once you enter the Butcher’s home, you’re on your own.”

***

For all the wailing, I would’ve thought George at death’s door. He lay on the walkway leading to Mr. Eakins’s home, legs kicking in spasm. When I explained he would be themouse, not the cat, in our charade, he took some convincing. But I am nothing if not persuasive. I crouched in the holly bushes next door and waited for the game to begin.

“What do you think of my performance?” George asked me.

“Can you cry louder?” I asked. “The Butcher is old and does not hear so well, I imagine.”

George obliged, shrieking at full capacity. Another cat down the block screeched in reply. Every performance needed an audience, I supposed. In a fashion, the caterwaul lured Mr. Eakins outside, parrot cage in tow.“Heeeere kitty, kitty. I’ll fix you up.”

“Run, George, run!” I shouted.

George needed no prompting. He leapt to his feet and disappeared from the garden like a puff of smoke. Mr. Eakins gave chase, but the tom was in no danger of being caught, not without aid of a net and perhaps a horse and driver. When George reached the street, he signaled Margaret. She streaked across the old man’s path, and the two tabbies ran ziggety-zag, luring Mr. Eakins down Green Street and away from his home.

I slipped inside Mr. Eakins’s front hall and headed for the kitchen. Having been a “guest” this morning, I navigated the rooms with ease, finding no Coon Cats. Thecat-pendium lay on the tabletop, waiting for my perusal. I climbed topside and pushed the book open to search for Snip’s entry. Spotted cats, striped cats, black cats— I paused on Midnight’s page. Mr. Eakins had captured his likeness quite well. I continued flipping until I reached Snip’s page. The black cat stared back at me with both good eyes. I’d been right about him losing one after his rescue. Had Mr. Fitzgerald taken it? I studied the marks beneath Snip’s sketch and wondered if they told of his new owner and street address. I switched my tail. This I would leave to Eddy, my man of letters.

I tried to lift the volume with my teeth. It dropped to the floor with a weighty thud. Fiddlesticks.

A thump and a crash rang out on the second floor. The Brothers Coon?

I tried nudging my prize from the kitchen to the parlor. I gave up when my nose hit the raised threshold between rooms. Too many cobblestones lay between here and home to continue in this manner. I knew this firstpaw or rather, firstbottom. I swiveled my ears and caught the sound of footfall upon the stair—Silas and Samuel, without a doubt. I opened the book again to Snip’s entry. If I could not take the whole clue, I would take a piece of it. Minding the precious black marks, I gnawed the page near the binding. Despite my swift action, Silas and Samuel entered and caught me with a mouthful of paper. I had been reduced to a common woodchuck.

“Don’t look now, brother,” Silas said to Samuel, “but Cattarina is back, and she is eating from the Book of Cats.”

“How very curious,” Samuel said. “Our Robert usuallyreads from the Book of Cats. Doesn’t Mrs. Poe feed her?”

Silas twitched his whiskers.“One look at her stomach, and you’ll know the answer.”

I spat a mouthful of paper.“I do not have time for this!”

The Coon Cats stared at me.

“At this very instant, Snip’s killer runs free,” I said. “And Mr. Eakins’s Book of Cats may hold the scoundrel’s identity. I must, simplymust be allowed to take this page.”

“Snip’s killer?” Samuel cocked his head. “You mean he is dead?”

Silas grew quiet.

“That was the hanged cat I spoke of this morning,” I said. “You did not hear the gossip?”

“I told you,” Samuel said. “We stay inside much of the day. Locked doors. Locked windows. Mr. Eakins doesn’t let us wander like other cats. He talks aboutdanger anddisease and all sorts of bad things, most of which we don’t understand. But we know he means to keep us safe.”

“I thought you spoke in jest.” I had heard of indoor plants, indoor rugs, and indoor wicker. Butindoor cats? How barbaric. The beautiful Coons were no more than furniture. I prayed this new-fashioned practice would end with Mr. Eakins.

“Dear brother, our Robert was right!” Silas wailed. “Itis dangerous out there!” Samuel tried to comfort him with a sideways rub. Silas pushed him away. “I wish we had never found that hole in the roof. ‘Sneak outside at night,’ you said. ‘He’ll never catch us,’ you said. We could’ve been killed, just like Snip!” He left the room, dragging his tail behind him.

“Forgive my brother,” Samuel said. “He has a nervous condition.”

“I agree with Silas,” I said. “The world is a dangerous place. But Snip’s human killed him, not illness or accident. Say, do you happen to know the new owner’s name? This will save me much work as I am on his trail.”

“I’m afraid not. We meet some of the humans Robert works with, but not all.” He glanced at the book. “Taking this page will help you find Snip’s owner?”

“Yes.” I considered explaining the black marks and what they might mean but decided against it. In the end, the simplest answer won out. Samuel helped me tear Snip’s page from the book and walked me to the door. Whether or not the paper contained Mr. Fitzgerald’s information remained to be seen.

“Good luck with your hunt, Cattarina,” he said. “If there’s anything else we can do, let us know. We are able to come and go by a hole in the roof. Silas will take some coaxing, but we’ll be there if you need us.” He watched Mr. Eakins huff and puff toward us down the street, his cage empty. “Snip was a good friend. I hope you find his murderer.”

I bade him farewell and left with Snip’s information, escaping past Mr. Eakins by the garden gate. The old man gasped at the torn page in my mouth, but George and Margaret had winded him, and he could not give chase. He scratched his ribs and yelled, “You are much too curious for your own good, Cattarina! Some secrets should stay buried!” This sounded like a warning.

Near the corner of North Seventh, I detected the stench of rotting flesh. I followed it all the way to Poe House and around to our kitchen garden where someone had committed the unconscionable.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_11]

A Sinister Scent

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

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

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

I approached him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What have you got?” Eddy asked her.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harkness?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tiny footsteps to my left.

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

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

I was trapped.

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

[Êàðòèíêà: img_12]

Judgment Day

THE COLOGNE DISSIPATED SOON after its discovery. This meant I had stumbled upon the killer’s smell and not the killer himself. This did little to assuage my fear, for the realization had occurred in his blasted cellar. I lost track of time without the sun, so I marked its passage with hunger pangs, abandoning this strategy when they struck with maddening frequency. Somewhere between starvation and death—why, oh, why hadn’t Muddy served something heartier for dinner?—footsteps marched overhead.

From the top stair, I peeked through a wide gap under the door that revealed the lowest portion of the kitchen. Light filled the room, indicating Mrs. Arnold had fired a lamp. I thought about meowing for help until a second pair of feet entered the room. The culprit, I presumed. Until he left for either the bed or the tavern, I was stuck.

“I saw Mrs. Poe in the street,” Mr. Arnold said. I recognized his voice at once. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she passed away this Christmas.” He hiccupped and laughed. “She looks positively used up.”

“Abner!” Mrs. Arnold said. “She may be married to a strange little man, but so am I. Now I’ve taken a liking to Virginia Poe, and I’ll not have you speak about her like that.”

He dashed a cup to the floor and strode toward her.“I’ll not have you speak aboutme like that! Do you hear?”

“Please, Abner, I can’t take that again.Please.”

Silence. With only their shoes visible, the scene terrified me less than had I been with them. Even still, I feared for the woman.

“Don’t know what comes over me,” he muttered.

“Why don’t I make you some tea?” Mrs. Arnold said. Her voice flowed like tap water. “It’s just what you need after a trip to the tavern. Sit, dear. Sit. Are you hungry? Or did you eat at Mr. Jolley’s?”

Mr. Arnold heeded her advice and settled into the dining chair.“I ate already. A bowl of pepperpot.” He hadn’t bothered switching his shabby boots for slippers, and I found their condition distasteful, considering his occupation. He shuffled them, knocking dried mud to the floor. “How was business today?” he asked. “Slow?”

“Is it any wonder?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“The cat, Abner. The damned cat hanging from the damned tree.”

“Forget Pluto. One less mouth to feed.” Mr. Arnold’s boots shifted sideways, as if he leaned a bit in his chair. I flinched when a small pocketknife clattered to the floorboards. Fingers reached to retrieve it, and the blade disappeared from view. In the presence of this weapon, I should havefocused solely on the predicament at hand. Yet Eddy’s story occupied my thoughts. My companion had come close to understanding the killer and writing with true vision.

“I paid the landlord and the county tax collector this month. It took the last of our savings,” Mrs. Arnold said. “Won’t be long until we’re in the poor house, with or without our cat.” A cook stove burner grated against its metal fitting. The pop and crackle of a stoked fire filled thekitchen. A thin line of smoke drifted beneath the door, irritating my nose. I didn’t dare sneeze, not if I wanted to avoid the hangman’s loop. While I was at it, I fancied keeping both eyes.

“Our luck will turn around, Tabby,” he said. “It’s got to.”

“Yes, Abner, I’m sure it will.” A kettle lid rattled. The spicy sweet smell of loose tea permeated the room. “Why don’t you wait for me in the family room? I’ll bring your cup on a tray.”

Mr. Arnold staggered to his feet.“Tabby, I’m…I’m a different person sometimes. Especially when I’m not feeling well.”

“Go rest, dear. All is forgiven.”

He plodded from the room with uncertain steps, a gait I knew all too well. Soon the teakettle whistled, masking the sound of Mrs. Arnold’s weeping. It reminded me of Sissy’s, any given evening at Poe House.

***

That night, my appetite grew so severe that it deserted me, leaving a cramp in its place. During Mr. and Mrs. Arnold’s tea party, I crept downstairs to relieve myself. The lamplight beneath the door illuminated the cellar, giving me a sense of the space. Crates of onions and potatoes, a washboard, an old rocking horse—nothing edible. Someone had placed a basket of dirty linens near the bottom of the stairs, so I hopped in, left my offering, and pawed a dressing gown over the evidence. To no one’s surprise, least of all my own, the cologne on the clothing matched the scent on Snip’s noose. I had caught my man. Or rather, he’d caught me.

I returned to my post with a heavy heart. Eddy, Sissy, and Muddy wouldn’t miss me until morning. Even if they searched for me tonight, they wouldn’t know where to begin. Sissy might think to return here, but Mr. and Mrs. Arnold would tell her they hadn’t seen me. And in truth, they hadn’t.

Before retiring that evening, the woman of the house entered the kitchen and turned off the lamp, cloaking the kitchen and cellar in black. I would not spend the night in this place. Using the dark to my advantage, I jumped and rattled the doorknob.

“Hello?” she said. “Who’s there?”

I jumped and rattled it again.

Her steps grew louder.

I balanced on the edge of the step and waited for the woman to open the door. She leaned into the portal and queried the dark.“Who’s there?” she asked. With the speed of a grass snake, I slithered into the still-dark kitchen, brushing her leg by accident. She shrieked and sprang back from the cellar. “Pluto? Is that you?” she said. “It c-can’t be you. You’re dead. Unless you’ve come back to haunt me. Please tell me you haven’t.” I hid behind the wash pail, staying quiet. She finally cackled. “You’re losing your mind, Tabby, old girl. It was your dressing gown against your skin.”

The stairs creaked following Mrs. Arnold’s departure as she climbed to what I guessed was her bedchamber. After an interval, when the couple surely slumbered, I searched the bottom floor for an escape route. It was no use. The cobblers had laced their house tighter than a lady’s boot.

Loud snoring lured me to the second floor and to their sleeping quarter—a solitary room at the top of the stair. A low, slanted ceiling and plastered timber walls confined the area, giving it the feel of an attic. Because of its cramped size, the chamber held only a small cabinet, which Mrs. Arnold used as a side table, and a spindle post bed. The couple lay fast asleep, a patchwork quilt pulled to their chins. I paused at the threshold and studied the lit candle on the cabinet. Mrs. Arnold must have forgotten to snuff it out before falling asleep. The flame danced atop the white pillar, mesmerizing me. It dipped and swayed, drawn by a draft. A draft!

Above Mr. Arnold lay a partially open window, hidden behind a pair of tapestry curtains. With so little floor space, the couple had pushed the bedframe against the wall directly beneath it. The man could’ve used the draperies for a blanket had he so chosen. To escape, I needed to bypass the pair without waking them. I planned my trajectory, adjusting for dim lighting, unsure footing, and other variables. My course contained enough degrees and angles to make Ren? Descattes proud: a hop to the side table, a leap to the headboard, a sliiiide to the tapestry curtains, and an elegant landing on the sill. There I would use my substantial frame to open the sash. Except my scheme did not include revenge.

I turned in a circle, hoping to change my mind. It did not work. I could not leave without giving Mr. Arnold a well-deserved lashing for Snip’s murder. So I analyzed anew, took a deep breath, and jumped to the side table…

…knocking over the candle.

I’d failed to account for the greatest variable: my lumbering physique. I watched helplessly as the flame ignited a bundle of mail. The blaze grew bigger, leaping onto Mrs. Arnold’s nightcap with enviable grace and setting her head aflame.

“Aaaaiiiyyyeee!” the woman screeched.

She swatted her nightcap and knocked it to the bed, catching the quilt on fire. The stench of singed hair filled the room.“Wake up! Wake up and help me, or we’ll lose the house and the store!” she shouted to Mr. Arnold. She shoved her husband, but he continued to snore. “Drunk old fool,” she said. “If you won’t fetch help, I will.” Then she leapt from the bed and fled the room, shutting the door behindher. She did not notice me.

Frantic to escape, I bounced off the headboard and landed on the sill, avoiding the flames. I’d no sooner alighted than thedrunkold fool woke. Mr. Arnold sat forward and wiped the sweat from his brow, unaware of the campfire in his lap.“Tabby? Is it hot in here? Let’s open the window.” He reached for the sash and froze. “A cat! A cursed cat!” The blaze lit his face, giving it cruel angles. “What’s this? Have you sentenced me to hell, you minion of the devil?”

The fire ravaged the left curtain panel and climbed to the ceiling, consuming the timber with appetite. Since I had no desire to join Snip, I tried to squeeze through the window before roasting in this self-made oven. Mr. Arnold, however, had other plans. He threw back the quilt and smothered the bed flames before dragging me back to wring my neck. How I scratched and spit, fought and bit! Pickled by spirits, the old man shrugged off the prick of my teeth and the terrible heat suffocating us both. When smoke clouded my vision, I lashed out wildly, catching Mr. Arnold’s nightshirt or what I mistook for Mr. Arnold’s nightshirt. I’d hooked the unlit portion of curtain instead. I tried flexing my claws to remove them, but they’d become tangled in the tieback cord. That was when the rogue picked me up and threw me against the plaster wall, curtain cord and all.

“I will not stand for this judgment!” he screamed. “I will not! Do you hear me?”

I dove for the window, squeezing under the sash and falling—feet first, I should add—to the alley below. Aside from sizzled whiskers and a blackened tail, I had escaped relatively unharmed. Mr. Arnold was not so lucky. He fell from the window, nightshirt ablaze, and landed beside me with a skull-ringing thump.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_13]

A Wicked Impression

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Constable Claw,” Sissy said under her breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“What can I bring you?”

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Edgar Allan Poe, petrified of the dentist.”

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

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

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

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

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

“A eulogy.”

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

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

Mr. Pettigrew scratched his head.

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

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

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

“The cat, Mr. Pettigrew?” Eddy asked.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Êàðòèíêà: img_14]

The Hundred-Dollar Bug

A MIRACLE OCCURRED AFTER Eddy and I left the Arnold house that day. He gave up spirits, home and away. Sissy’s mood and overall health improved, too. I cannot say that Eddy’s sacrifice caused the upturn—it may have been the dry weather—but more and more time passed between her coughing spells. This, in turn, lifted Muddy’s spirits. For the next half moon, Poe House took on a breeziness I could not explain but enjoyed nonetheless. Sissy filled our home with piano music and laughter again, Muddy whistled during chores, even waltzing with her broom on occasion, and Eddy wrote. He took up a quill pen each morning, prepared his ink and paper, and wrote to my heart’s content.

Musing occupied me most days. There were papers to weight and desktops to tail-dust and curtain cords to be batted when Eddy needed distraction. But when my companion took a much-deserved break, so did I. During one such respite, I caught an omnibus to Rittenhouse and told Midnight about Mr. Arnold and the penalty he’d paid for killing Snip. Midnight and I decided to remain friends and nothing more since neither of us fancied a long-distance relationship. I also made several trips to Green Street to gossip about the ghost cat, giving the facts of the case to George and Margaret, Silas and Samuel. During one such visit, I learned that while Mr. and Mrs. Arnold still ran their shop, they had taken up residence a few blocks north. As for the Snip’s grave, one could scarcely see it through the morning glory vines.

One summer afternoon, after a long session at his desk, Eddy and I entered the parlor in search of Sissy and Muddy. The two women sat on either side of the hearth in their rocking chairs—the elder knitting, the younger darning. “It is official,” he said to them. “I have finished ‘The Black Cat.’ It is an excellent eulogy, if I do say so myself.”

Sissy set down her mending and took the scroll he offered. She unrolled it and crossed to the open window. The sheer curtains blew into the room, fluttering against the page.

Eddy put his hands on his hips.“You don’t have to read it now, my—”

“Shhh!” Sissy said. “It has been weeks, and I cannot wait any longer.”

Eddy left to pace the hallway. I stayed, alighting to Sissy’s square piano. Certain we’d turned in our best work, I wanted to receive congratulations first. Sissy read to herself for a spell then finished by speaking aloud. “‘The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.’” She glanced at me, her eyebrow arched.

She continued,“‘Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse, and this lack of regret sentenced me to a hell beyond any imagined. The Black Cat had taken his revenge!’”

Muddy stopped knitting.“Is that it?” she asked.

Sissy flipped the scroll over and found it as Eddy had left it—free of letters. “Yes, that’s it.” She dropped into her rocking chair and gave her mother a troubled look.

The creak of wood called Eddy into the room. His hair stood on end, as if he’d been pulling it again. “Well?” he asked.

“It is…amusing,” Sissy said.

Muddy resumed her knitting. The needles clicked furiously.

“Amusing?” His eyes turned dull. “Is it not to your liking, Virginia? I worked so hard on it. I thought for certain—”

She rose to take his hands.“It was a good story, Edgar. I liked the supernatural elements. And the main character is sufficiently mad. I’m just not sure of the ending.”

“Did it not satisfy you?”

“It lacked your usual…well, your usual severity.”

He let go of her and crossed to the piano. I nudged his fingers. They remained limp. From the furrow on his brow, I knew we had more writing ahead of us.“Since the story is for you, wife,” he said. “I will try again. It must be perfect.”

“Don’t make it too perfect,” Muddy added. “You need to sell it and make rent.”

Sissy joined him.“The parts about the cat were realistic.” She tousled the top of my head. “Perhaps a little too realistic, considering Cattarina’s involvement in the fire.”

“Alleged involvement,” Eddy corrected her. He chucked me under the chin.

“Yes, yes, alleged. But the ending felt, I don’t know, incomplete, as if the horror hadn’t run its full course yet.”

“Did you at least like the beginning? Because I spent—”

A knock at the door cut him off.

Eddy left to greet the visitor and returned a moment later, his teeth in full view.“I have done it, ladies! I have won thePhiladelphia Dollar contest with‘The Gold Bug.’” He waved the torn envelope, and I wondered if someone had mailed him a bug and if they had, why it pleased him so.

“Husband, I could not be prouder!” Sissy said. She clapped her hands.

Eddy handed the mail to Muddy and bowed.“Mr. Alburger’s rent, Mrs. Clemm. One hundred dollars ought to cover it!”

***

The gold bug turned our lives catawampus, and Eddy forgot about the black cat story. After the letter, Poe House overflowed with goodness. The first night, we celebrated with a feast to shame Christmas: corned beef with brown gravy, cod cakes, potato whip, succotash, cold slaw, rolls, and teacake. I could not attest to the vegetables or the sweet finish, but the beef and cod were delicious and their supply plentiful.

In the following days, Eddy lavished everyone with gifts. Muddy, he bought a brass soup ladle. He called it ascepter, and told the old woman togo forth andrule the kitchen when he gave it to her. I did not pretend to understand this. Sissy received a new dress to replace the one she’d burned after burying Snip. Sewn from grey-green silk, the frock rippled about her frame as she walked, mimicking the current and hue of the Delaware River. Tiers of bows, crafted from the same fabric, adorned the skirt hem and neckline. She called it her newtown dress. But I thought it more a river dress. Eddy also gave her a mother-of-pearl cameo that she pinned at her bosom and a red leatherette box in which to store the trinket.

And me, he bought the most wonderful gift of all.

One hot, prickly afternoon, Eddy snuck from the house and left me napping on the settee. When he returned, he called Muddy and Sissy into the parlor and set a cat-sized wooden box on the floor in front of me.“Watch and be entertained,” he said to the women.

Sensing the chest had been purchased for me, I obliged him and jumped to the floor to investigate. Wonder of wonders! The smell escaping the interior drove me wild. I bounced straight in the air and chattered my teeth. Had Eddy bought me a hen? When I pawed at the lid latch, he unfastened it, revealing the treasure inside—chicken feathers, heaps and heaps of glorious chicken feathers. I dove into their midst, sending the smaller, lighter ones into the air.

Sissy and Eddy laughed.

Even Muddy laughed and stamped her foot.“Where did you buy such a thing, Eddy?” she asked.

“I bought the box from Fitz. But the feathers came from the butcher. Didn’t pay a penny for them.”

I poked my head above the box rim and let the feathers cascade around me like falling snow. I loved the smell. I loved the squish. Far and away, this was the best gift I’d ever received, outside of Eddy’s love. I dove again and buried myself amidst the Poe family’s laughter. Sissy laughed loudest until a coughing spell overtook her, and she had to be led upstairs to bed. The gold bug had fixed many ills but could not right the one that mattered most.

Alas, our joy lasted only until the next wave of misery. After Sissy’s health scare, Mr. Cook gave a copy of theDaily Forum to Eddy that sent my companion into a rage.“‘The Gold Bug,’” he read from the paper, “a decided humbug? What rot!” I wanted to understand the new words that surfaced in the wake of Mr. Cook’s delivery—accusations andplagiarism—to comfort Eddy. But alas, I could not. Then things got worse, proving once and for all that misery plaguedevery member of the Poe family.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_15]

The Other Black Cat

LATER THAT DAY, SAMUEL charged into our front garden, crushing the hydrangeas with his immense frame. His white chest puffed in and out with heavy panting.“Cattarina! Silas and I need your help! Urgently!”

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked. The toad I’d been stalking hopped away.

“Abner Arnold is adopting another cat!”

“Goodness gracious.” Earlier this summer, I’d told the brothers about Mr. Arnold and his nefarious deeds, embellishing the tale with my own exploits. Now, they possessed all the facts of the case. “How do you know?”

“He came to see our Robert about adopting again.” A hydrangea petal sat atop of his head. “After an alarming exchange, Robert threw him out of the house. Told Mr. Arnold togo home and pray for salvation. I think that meant‘no.’”

“Most assuredly,” I said. “Then what happened?”

“Mr. Arnold laughed! Laughed, all the way down the street.” Samuel raked the petal from his head. “That’s not the end of it. As he left, he shouted more things about cats, things I didn’t understand. But I know he means to look for one elsewhere. I feel it in my whiskers.”

“Your whiskers? Oh, my.” I thought of my own, half-grown at this point.

“We can’t let that happen, Cattarina. Mr. Arnold must not be allowed to adopt again.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” I walked to the gatepost and waited for him to catch up. “Where is Silas?”

“He was too afraid to come. But if it’s urgent, I can persuade him to leave by the hole in our roof. That’s how I escaped. Robert is sleeping and won’t miss us for a while.”

“Gather George and Margaret Beal and Silas and meet me in your front garden. I will be there when the sun is at mid-point.” I said on my way to the sidewalk.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To Rittenhouse!”

***

Midnight needed no convincing. I had but to utter Samuel’s words, and he accompanied me to the omnibus stop for the return trip. Coaxing him onto the conveyance, however, took every argument in my arsenal. When words failed, I bit him in the rump, and he boarded the horse bus without further quarrel. We arrived at Mr. Eakins’s house in time for the meeting. Per my request, George, Margaret, Silas, and Samuel waited for us in front garden by the zinnia patch. Mr. Eakins must’ve still been asleep since the cat social on his lawn had not drawn him from the house.

Once we’d dispensed with the how-do-you-dos, I opened with a question: “How can we stop Mr. Arnold from killing again?”

“We show him the error of his ways,” Margaret said. “If he repents, he will be a changed man.”

“My dear,” George said, “even with the help of an entire meeting house, that sounds impossible.”

“I know! I know!” Silas said. “We find a giant cage—like the one our Robert uses, but bigger—and we trap Mr. Arnold in it. Then we set him free in the country.”

“He’s not a rabbit, brother,” Samuel said.

I glanced at Midnight and thought how very much he looked like Snip.“Does the Thief of Rittenhouse have anything to offer?” I asked him.

“I’m sorry to not be of help, but—” His eyes grew wide. “I’ve got it! We can steal his shoes. Without them, he can’t leave the house and find another cat.”

“Did I not mention Mr. Arnold is a cobbler?” I said. “And that hemakes shoes?”

Midnight’s tail tapped the walkway.

“We could lure a pack of wild dogs to his house,” Samuel offered. “They would do our work for us. I’d tie a mutton chop round Silas’s neck and—”

“I am against violence,” George said.

“So am I!” Silas added, his whiskers aquiver. “Listen to George, brother. Oh, listen!”

“No one is tying meat around anyone’s neck unless it is mine,” I said. “And lunch is near.”

“What about you, Cattarina?” Margaret asked. “You’re the cleverest molly I know. You must have an idea you’re saving. Tell us.”

“I am clever, aren’t I?” I cleaned my face, pretending to think. Then I reallydid think. Mr. Arnold had useddevil andhell the night of the fire—two words I’d learned through Eddy’s work—and he’d treated me like a creature possessed. Mrs. Arnold had also usedhaunt, another term of familiarity, when she looked into the cellar. While I’d never faced these things in real life, I understood their gist, at least in human terms, and I took the cobblers for a superstitious couple. We cats have our own underworld, filled with fanged demons and ragged souls, but it is largely relegated to lore, stories used to scare kittens into behaving. After a fashion, I said, “I think you are right, Margaret.”

“I am?”

“You said to show Mr. Arnold the error of his ways, and I have a way to accomplish this feat. I’m not sure he’ll repent, but he may be frightened enough to leave cats alone. Forever. Except my plan involves a fair bit of danger…” I glanced at Midnight. “For one of us.”

“I’ll do it, Cattarina, whatever it is,” Midnight said. He fixed me with a round-eyed stare. “I can’t let another cat suffer.”

“Tell us your plan, Cattarina,” Samuel said.

I narrowed my eyes.“Snip is about to pay Mr. Arnold a visit…from beyond the grave.”

***

We reached agreement. Midnight would masquerade as Snip and scare Mr. and Mrs. Arnold into giving up the notion of pet adoption. The rest of us would take turns keeping watch over our pal from outside the home, lending a paw if danger surfaced. How I worried for Midnight’s safety! Abner Arnold had already killed once. If he killed again, I’d never forgive myself.

In order for Midnight to look like Snip, he needed to undergo certain transformations. For this, he accompanied me to Poe House. Outside our garden gate, I asked him to stand by until I secured a route since the last thing we needed was for Muddy to give him the sweep. I crept into the kitchen and found the old woman at the sink scrubbing a cooking pot and talking to herself. I encountered Sissy in her top floor bedchamber, napping. Eddy—my biggest concern—was not home. With the women of the house busy and the man of the house elsewhere, Midnight and I stole through the parlor window and upstairs to Eddy’s chamber.

“You are lucky to live here, Cattarina,” Midnight said.

“Our home is cozy, but it is not grand like yours,” I said.

We leapt to the desk and sat on the blotter pad.

“What does a cat need, beyond a bowl and pillow? I’m talking about what a catwants.” He blinked. “You have purpose. A companion who sees you as an equal, not a plaything.”

I nudged his cheek.“Your Sarah may surprise you one day. She is young.”

He looked out the window, his pupils narrowing in the sun’s light. “She will never treat me the way your Eddy treats you.”

I could not disagree.“You have purposehere, Midnight, with Snip. Why don’t we work on your costume?”

He faced me again.“Where do we begin?”

I flipped the glass stopper from the inkbottle and drew my paw through the blackish-brown liquid speckling the blotter. Then I wiped it over the snowy mark on his chest, thinking to cover it and make him all black. The effect was less than convincing. The ink obscured part of the fur, leaving several visible patches of white that, when observed at a distance, appeared to form a gallows and noose…or a broiled chicken astride a galloping horse—I could not be sure which. Fiddlesticks. My lack of thumbs had never been a problem before.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Purrrfect,” I said as convincingly as I could. “Now for your eye.” I jumped from the desk and nudged Eddy’s shallow closet open, following the scent of wax to hair pomade on the third shelf. The tin opened like a steamed mussel when it hit the floor. I dabbed a bit on Midnight’s eyelidto seal it, and hoped it would not cause an infection later. “There we are! You look just like Snip.”

“Do you have a mirror?”

“Er, no. We do not believe in such things in our house,” I said. “Vanity and all that.” I walked to the doorway and waited for him. He seemed to have difficulty navigating with one eye closed and bumped into the chair. “Are you okay?” I asked him.

“Purrfect,” he said.

We were both terrible liars.

***

Unsure of Abner Arnold’s whereabouts, Midnight and I headed to the cobbler shop first. Mr. Arnold was not there, but we noticed his wife outside near the sassafras, a small hand axe in her grip. It would’ve taken days to fell the colossal tree with this implement, especially when wielded by a woman of her stature. Yet Mrs. Arnold appeared resolute. She reared her arm back and let the blade fly. At first chop, Mr. Fitzgerald marched from his hardware shop and into the courtyard to confront her. He stood in the path of the woman’s swing, preventing another. Midnight and I scurried to the mouth of the cut-through and watched the argument unfold.

“We’ve been through this before, Mrs. Arnold,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “You will not touch this tree. Not so long as I own my shop.”

“Go away.” She circled the trunk and whacked it again.

Mr. Fitzgerald met her on the other side and grabbed the axe handle. They wrestled over the tool, stumbling over tree roots. Mr. Cook stuck his head from Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop and shouted, “I say, Fitz! Can I leave payment for the purchase?” He waved a handful of money. “Well?”

The shopkeepers ignored him.

“Leave me to my work!” Mrs. Arnold screeched at Mr. Fitzgerald. “Leave me, or we will pay!” She pushed the axe toward him, almost cutting his cheek.

Mr. Fitzgerald fell backward and, in doing so, wrenched the blade from her grasp. He scrambled to his feet and pointed the weapon at her.“No,you will pay, Mrs. Arnold, if you touch this tree again! Do you hear me?”

She picked up a chunk of fallen bark and wagged it in his face.“Leave me to my business,” she said, sticking it in her pocket, “and I’ll leave you to yours.” Then she entered her shop and slammed the door.

Still carrying the woman’s axe, Mr. Fitzgerald gave an exasperated cry and returned to help Mr. Cook with his shopping.

“What a ruckus,” Midnight said. “Did you understand any of it?”

“Not a word. But Mrs. Arnold’s aversion to shade is obvious.” I approached the tree and sniffed the newly hewn trunk. It smelled similar to the tonic Eddy purchased every now and again—spicy and sweet.Sarsaparilla, that was the word.“If Mr. Arnold is not here, then he is either at home or at the tavern. Which should we visit first?”

“I’ll leave that to your intuition,” he said. “I trust it completely.”

We left at once for Jolley Spirits, traveling at a slower pace than usual because of Midnight’s closed eye. Franklin teemed with fast-rolling carriages and wagons and gigs; it also stunk with the byproduct of progress: manure. One didn’t need street signs to navigate Philadelphia; one only needed a nose. The sidewalks were no less congested. Once, I lost my pal in the folds of a lady’s voluminous skirt until he muddled through the fabric and into the light again. Oh, that eye! We traveled east on Spring Garden, passing by the open-air market across the street, until I spied the familiar ripped awning. Someone had placed an empty rum barrel near the front door of the tavern, providing Midnight and I with a platform. We sprang to the cask and peeked through the window.

“What does Abner Arnold look like?” Midnight asked.

“He is the cruel one,” I said matter-of-factly. “With a brooding face and eyes devoid of soul.”

Midnight ducked his head.“There! The old man who looks like beef jerky!”

“No, that is Mr. Jolley. He is no friend to cats, either, but Mr. Arnold is—” I set my paws on the glass, aghast at the figure of Mr. Arnold weaving across the tavern floor. The fire had contorted his neck and chin, giving his skin a molten appearance, like that of a melted candle. Bald patches, interspersed with tufts of hair, covered his head. “He’s coming! He’s coming!” I dove from the barrel and hid behind a stack of egg crates next to the grocer’s.

“Cattarina, how will I know him?” Midnight asked. His closed eye weeped from the pomade.

Mr. Arnold opened the door before I could answer. He hung onto the frame with hands the color of rare lamb and leered at Midnight.“Hello, pusssssss,” he said to him. “Don’t I…don’t I know you?” He hiccupped. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight, pussssss? I could use the company.”

Midnight’s good eye opened wide.

Mr. Arnold looked even more hideous in the daylight. A man of competing ills, his scabby neck and chin contrasted with the sallow tones of his cheeks, forehead…even eyes. He laughed and gave Midnight a shove, depositing him on the sidewalk. As I shadowed the pair to his new home—blocks from Poe House and from the help of feline friends—dread settled in for the journey.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_16]

Big Game Haunting

MR. AND MRS. ARNOLD lived a few blocks north of Green Street, in an area filled with shanties. The destruction of their old house and the partial ruin of their cobbler shop had put them in league with humans of low means. The wooden cottage had but a single story, no shutters, cracked or broken panes in almost every window, a walkway made of hand-dug stones, and a lopsided chimney I wagered kept more smoke in than it let out. Mr. Arnold staggered up the walkway, opened the door for Midnight, and shooed him inside with his boot.

The door shut behind them, sealing my friend inside.

A window ledge provided a perch from which to observe the interior. This proved less than fruitful since Abner Arnold slumped to the front hall floor after entering, too drunk to stand. There he fell into a deep slumber, allowing Midnight and me the full range of his property.“Hurry!” I said to my friend through a broken pane. “Explore every door and window. You may need an escape route later. I have some experience with this.”

“I’ll look inside,” he said to me. “You look outside.” With this, he vanished into the next room, but not before bumping into the doorframe.

The cottage had more in common with a produce crate than a home, yet I turned up no extraneous portals, save for a locked back door. On to the cellar. The home’s lower environs opened onto the street, guarded by a set of wooden panels warped by rain. I slipped through the crack between them, certain I could escape again if necessary, and descended to the flagstone floor below.

Abner Arnold’s cellar contained nothing of interest, save for a bag of quicklime, a bag of crushed rock, and a tower of bricks in the corner. The earthen room bore but one interesting detail—a recess in the wall near the kitchen stairs. The alcove had the makings of a fireplace, abandoned in early stages by bricklayers. Coincidentally, our cellar at home had a similar niche. Muddy had lined it with boards to store her summer canning.

A door opened and shut above me.“I’m home, Abner!” Mrs. Arnold shouted.

I left the cellar and retraced my steps to the rear of the home. With growing concern for Midnight, I became more brazen, alighting to the kitchen windowsill in full view. On this fine and fair day, the sun on my back, the cobblers would never catch me. Mr. Arnold had arisen from his stupor and sat with his wife at the kitchen table. They stared not at each other but at their new guest, who’d situated himself in the dry basin on the washstand. At first Midnight did not notice me. So I scratched one of the intact panes, loud enough for him and no one else to hear. Our gaze met briefly.

“Where did you find him?” Mrs. Arnold asked.

“Outside of Jolley’s,” Mr. Arnold said.

The window glass blunted their words.

She tilted her head.“Except for the white fur on his chest, he reminds me of—”

“Don’t say it.” Mr. Arnold crossed his arms. “Not sure if we should keep him.”

“Of course we should keep him,” she said. “It’s your chance to make amends.” Mrs. Arnold rose, poured a pitcher of water into a kettle, and set the kettle on the cook stove.

Mr. Arnold and Midnight eyed each other with an unbroken gaze. The room bristled with confrontation, though Mrs. Arnold seemed oblivious. When the teakettle whistled, the man reached for a pot of ointment in his pocket and applied it to the wounds on his neck, chin, and hands, turning his skin shiny. I thought of the salve Muddy put on my paws and licked my lips.“I liked the look of him before,” he said. “Now I don’t know.”

“He’s a fine cat, even if he’s missing an eye,” Mrs. Arnold said. “You didn’t do it…did you, Abner?”

“No. I swear it. It was missing when I found him.” He rubbed his stomach. “Don’t know why I eat at Jolley’s. Makes me sick every time.”

“I’ll fix you up.” Mrs. Arnold put several heaping spoonsful of loose tea in a cup and poured boiling water over the top of it. Then she set the refreshment on the table before her husband.

Mr. Arnold sat forward and pushed the cup aside.“Do you see a picture in his fur?” He pointed at Midnight. “There, on his chest.”

“Now that you mention it, the whitedoes make a pattern.”

“What do you see?” he asked.

Mrs. Arnold chuckled and said,“Roast chicken on horseback!”

“Bah,” he said, rising from his chair. “You think too much about food. I’ll be in the parlor.”

Mr. Arnold left the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Arnold and her tea tray a short while later.

Midnight hopped to the floor and approached the window.“They’re keeping me, Cattarina, just as we planned. Let the haunting begin.”

***

Throughout the waxing moon, Samuel, Silas, George, Margaret, and I kept watch over Midnight as he performed his otherworldly duties. This effort alone wouldn’t convince a man like Abner Arnold to abandon cats, so we all played a part. In the morning, I would follow him on errands, usually to the tavern, hissing and spitting from the shadows. If he stayed home, I’d dart to his bedchamber windowsill, careen off the glass, and leap to the ground in a continuous arc, performing this action over and over until he lifted the sash. “W-who’s there?” he’d say, followed by, “Is it the g-ghost cat?” Come afternoon, Silas and Samuel would sneak out of a hole in Mr. Eakins’s roof and gallop across the Arnold’s roof. The pitty-pat of the brothers’ footsteps kept Mr. Arnold on the threshold of insanity until dinnertime, when George and Margaret would take over. They caterwauled from the garden to upset Mr. Arnold’s digestion.

These efforts supported Midnight’sreal work inside the home. Eye ablaze,“Snip’s ghost” would stalk our victim room to room, unnerving him with an eerie low-pitched growl. I’d heard the sound more than once during my rounds, and it chilled evenme. If the man tried to sit—in the parlor, in the bedchamber—Midnight would linger in the doorway and gaze at him with a hypnotic stare we cats reserve for mice and birds, the kind that turns prey into pudding. “What do you want from me? Leave me alone!” Mr. Arnold would shout.

Whenever the man of the house left, our pal turned into a different feline, different even from the one who lived in Rittenhouse. I’d never seen Midnight so vulnerable, so kitten-like. Over the days, he endeared himself to Tabitha Arnold, becoming an indispensible companion by warming her bed, catching her spiders, and listening to her stories. She did the same for him, scratching himjust so, moving his blanket to follow the sun, even squiggling the odd piece of yarn for him.“There’s a good boy,” Mrs. Arnold would croon when he sat on her lap. Yet as soon as the man returned, Midnight would assume his role as specter.

And these exertions worked. I’d never seen a twitchier human than Abner Arnold. In a misguided attempt to restore her husband—I’d witnessed my share of useless home remedies—Mrs. Arnold plied her husband with tea every morning and every evening. But it was little use against the liquor he consumed and the mental anguish we doled out. Each day, his eyes grew yellower, his neck redder, and his stomach greener, the latter evidenced by daily purging.

Our“ghost’s” health fared only slightly better. Though the pomade had worn off days ago, Midnight’s eyelid remained closed. Poor thing. The infection I dreaded had become a reality. He’d showed me one afternoon while the Arnolds attended church. “Does it look bad?” he asked. “Will I lose the eye and become like Snip? Tell me the truth.”

“If you do, you will be evenmore handsome,” I told him.

I should state here that these shenanigans came at no expense to the Poes. Muddy supervised the house during my absences, but I always—always—returned home to Sissy each night to warm her. The other cats took turns sleeping in the Arnold’s front garden so night duty wouldn’t fall derelict. Eddy didn’t write much these days and had no need for a muse, though a secretary might have been useful. He departed the house on more than one morning with a messy satchel of manuscripts and scrolls, scattering a paper trail up and down North Seventh. The first time, I tailed him as far as the omnibus stop, and overheard him tell the driver, Mr. Coal, he wasoff to file a libel suit. I couldn’t hazard what became of thislibel suit for Eddy never wore anything other than his somber black uniform.

While pulling these capers at the Arnold house, the loose friendship I had with Silas, Samuel, George, and Margaret tightened into a genuine troop—the Green Street Troop—and I began to think of them as family. Midnight, however, I thought of as more than family.

***

Around mid-summer, I met the Coon Cats by the Arnold’s garden gate as they headed home for dinner. I’d just finished my own meal and had come to fill in for George and Margaret since Margaret had caught a cold and could not rid herself of it. Even though this upset our schedule, the impending storm would’ve been the death of her. “Smell the rain? It’s coming,” I said to them. “It’s been so dry lately, I can’t complain.”

“I hope we make it home before the downpour,” Silas said. “It takes my coat ages to dry.”

“Cattarina?” Samuel asked. He rubbed against the picket post and scratched his back. “Do you think Midnight has taken a liking to Mrs. Arnold? The comfort he gives her seems more genuine these last few days.”

“And not at all pretend,” Silas added. He licked his nose.

“I am not sure,” I said. I did not wish to voice my concern to the others. “But I can tell that Mrs. Arnold has taken a liking to him. When she is with Midnight, her face shines.”

“Changed by the love of a good cat,” Silas said.

Samuel trilled in agreement.

“Until Mr. Fitzgerald enters the picture,” I said. “They fight like couple of rabid dogs. Oh, the fist shaking and screaming!Axe this andtree that. Humans.”

“The heat drives them insane,” Samuel said. “Makes them do things they normally wouldn’t. They should try weathering it with a coat.” He turned and bit his rump, as if mentioning the coat caused the itch. “How much longer will it take Mr. Arnold to give up cats I wonder?”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I shan’t expect much longer,” I said. “What’s the report?”

“Mr. Arnold’s mood is fair to poor,” he replied. “He’s been pacing a lot.”

Silas chimed in,“They are just about to dine—beef stock and crackers. If the haunting doesn’t do them in, starvation will, right brother?” His stomach rumbled. “Speaking of starvation, our Robert will be serving dinner soon. We must be home by then.” He nudged Samuel toward the street.

“I will be back for the overnight shift,” Samuel said as they left. “Until then, Cattarina!”

As I watched the brothers disappear down the street, I, too, wondered how much longer it would take to break Mr. Arnold of his“fondness” for cats. Soon, I hoped. I couldn’t see keeping this pace until fall. And Midnight’s eye needed to be washed and cared for lest he lose it. I approached the house and jumped to the kitchen sill to observe the goings-on.

Tragically, the answer to“how much longer” presented itself this very night.

During my brief conversation with the Coon Cats, Mr. Arnold had turned hysterical, evidenced now by his tortured expression and gnashing teeth. Perspiration darkened the shirt fabric under his arms, and his skin gleamed with sweat. Just as Samuel said, the man marched back and forth across the kitchen with large, angry strides. Soup and crackers lay on the table, untouched. Mrs. Arnold cowered in the corner. The grave situation grew worse when Mr. Arnold snatched Midnight and deposited him on the kitchen table, upsetting a soup bowl.“I see it! I see it!” he yelled.

Midnight quivered on the tabletop, no longer play-acting. I leaned in closer and bumped my nose on the window frame. Dash it all, I’d never catch the brothers in time.

“What is it, Abner? What do you see?” Mrs. Arnold said from the corner.

“The pattern on the cat’s chest.”

She joined him.“For pity’s sake, have you lost your mind?”

“It’s a gallows and hangman’s noose.” He turned Midnight around. “See for yourself.”

She inspected the white fur.“I see no such thing.”

“Look again,” he demanded. “It’s a sign from the devil. I know it. He’s come to make me pay for killing the black cat.”

Killing the black cat. I didn’t need his admission of guilt but got one all the same. I paced the sill. George and Margaret could not be expected until morning, and the brothers were half way to Green Street by now. If Midnight ran afoul, I’d have to save him by myself. I inspected the cracked glass in the window. Should Ibreak it and give my pal passage? Or should I go round front and create a diversion first? If the old man saw me, he would recognize me from the fire, and—

“You’re drunk,” Mrs. Arnold said, crossing her arms.

“No! No! Not a drop since lunch! I swear it!” Mr. Arnold clasped his hands and pleaded with his wife. “Oh, Tabitha, relieve this misery and confirm my greatest suspicion, that this cat is from the underworld!” He fell to his knees and grabbed his ears. “I am weary from the meowing and hissing and spitting—it follows me everywhere! I cannot escape it! The fire, the ghostly imprint upon the plaster… There is no corner of Philadelphia safe from four-legged demons, not even my home!”

“You need to rest, dear,” she said. She brushed Midnight from the table and tried to push him into the next room. I think she meant to save him, except the stubborn tom refused to leave and hid behind the washstand instead. The old woman turned to her husband with an insincere smile. “Abner, why don’t I fix—”

“No more tea! No more cats!” He sprang to his feet and grabbed her by the throat. “Mark my words, Tabitha Arnold. This hell ends tonight.”

[Êàðòèíêà: img_17]

Ravages of the Storm

THE BROKEN PANE SHATTERED with my charge, scattering glass to the kitchen floor.“Flee, Midnight!” I screeched. “He’s going to kill you!”

Abner Arnold twisted toward the window, fingers tight around his wife’s throat. His bottom lip trembled. “The hell c-cat lives! She’s b-back from the fire!”

Hell cat?Fire? All hope of anonymity vanished. This mattered less compared to a much bigger fix. Midnight had not moved from behind the washstand.“Have you lost your wits?” I said to him. “Run, you fool! Run!”

“I can’t leave without her, Cattarina,” he said. “She’s my companion now.”

“Tabitha Arnold?”

Abner Arnold released his wife and lunged for the window. I could not risk another go-round with this madman. As his hand burst through the jagged hole, I jumped from the sill, escaping his fingers at the last instant. He withdrew and slapped the window, depositing bloody handprints on the glass.“I will kill you, hell cat! I will strangle you with my own two hands!”

But these were not the words that haunted me on my race to Green Street. They were Midnight’s. “Save me, Cattarina!” he pleaded as I left. “Save us both!”

***

The wind blew me south toward my own neighborhood, shortening the time to Mr. Eakins’s home. I reached his front garden with scant daylight remaining. As luck would have it, the Coon Cats sat at the parlor window and witnessed my approach—frominside the house.“Silas! Samuel!” I yowled to them. “Midnight is—”

Bang, bang, bang.

I looked skyward. Mr. Eakins sat astride the roof peak, a hammer in his hand and nails between his teeth.Bang, bang, bang. He brought the tool down again and again, striking a board that spanned a hole…just big enough for a cat to escape through. “Rain’s coming, mister,” he muttered to himself. “Better hurry or you’ll have your indoor plumbing yet.”

I bounded up the walkway and laid my paws on the large front window.“Midnight’s in trouble!” I said to the brothers. “You’ve got to help me!”

“We can’t,” Samuel said. “Our Robert found the hole and is sealing our route as we speak.”

Silas hung his head.“We are sorry, Cattarina.”

Bad luck, indeed. I left without goodbyes and ran to Mr. Beal’s home down the block to fetch George and Margaret. They, too, had been locked inside. They stood at the front window, their faces forlorn. “It’s the rain, Cattarina. Our Thaddeus wants to keep us safe,” Margaret said. She sneezed. “And warm. I am sicker with this weather.”

“There’ll be no talking him out of it,” George said. “It’s up to you to save Midnight.”

His words choked me, and I experienced—if but partially—the anguish Snip must have felt as the noose tightened around his neck.

***

As I entered the Arnold’s neighborhood, the magnificent ball of yarn disappeared from the sky, ushering in the night. We cats operated best in the dark, so I prayed this would be to my advantage. My heart pounded, more from my mental state than my physical, as I dashed past rows of houses. If anything had happened to Midnight while I’d gone for help, Mr. Arnold would pay with his life, if not tonight, at some point in the future. I reached the familiar front gate and skidded to a stop near the post.

Great Cat Above! Would this night of horrors never cease?

Mr. Fitzgerald stood at the couple’s door with Mrs. Arnold’s hand axe—the object of their continued bickering. He knocked with the back of the metal head and waited, his tall, gaunt frame mirroring the gables on either side of the eaves. The wind blew again, lifting his thin hair. I did not move for fear of drawing attention to myself.

Mrs. Arnold answered, her hair tangled and about her shoulders, the skin under her eye swollen. The fight between her and her husband had raged on in my absence.“Mr. Fitzgerald?” she said. She wiped her face and straightened her dress.

“Good evening, Mrs. Arnold.” He raised the axe and spoke in monotone. “I think we should bury the hatchet once and for all.”

In her fear, she committed the unthinkable. She opened the door and let him into her home. As the door closed behind them, sealing Midnight inside, I thought of our salvation: Eddy.

***

Sissy’s protestations echoed down Minerva. “How could you?” she wailed from inside the house. “How could you go back on your word?” Her voice carried far enough to give Mr. Cook something to gossip about tomorrow. Raindrops pelted my fur, urging me up the walkway and into our home through the open kitchen window. I located husband and wife in the parlor. Eddy lay on the settee, his suit coat turned inside out, his hair brushed onto his forehead. Sissy stood in the center of the rug, arms crossed.

“You promised you would stop, Edgar,” Sissy said. “Promised.” She stamped her foot.

I slunk into the room and sat on the hearth, pondering this new turn of events. If Eddy had taken ill, I couldn’t engage his help. The front door opened and closed, and Muddy entered the parlor still wearing her straw bonnet, the one with faux cherries. Much too gay a hat to be paired with her somber black dress, it nonetheless suited her. She’d always been a woman at odds with herself. “The storm is coming, Virginia. We’d better latch the shutters and—” She spied Eddy on the settee. “What’s this?”

“It’s what it looks like, Mother,” Sissy snapped.

The old woman approached her son-in-law, laying a hand on his forehead.“Don’t be too hard on him, dear. You can’t expect him to shed his condition in a single month. Not without help.”