The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) (11 page)

A Ghost of a Girl

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

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

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

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

"Blue?"

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

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

"Ferris? As in the great Ferris family?"

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

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

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

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

"Did he tell many stories?"

"We spoke mostly of poetry."

"And his manner?"

"As if Philadelphia would make a fine
footstool."

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

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

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

"Yes, it
is
a considerable mystery."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dear, God," Eddie said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Answers and Questions

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

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