The Black Cats (7 page)

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

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

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

I approached
him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What
have you got?” Eddy asked her.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harkness?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tiny
footsteps to my left.

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

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

I was
trapped.

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

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 about
me
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 have focused 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 the kitchen. 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 René 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 behind her. 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 the
drunk
old 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.