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 he may 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 the mouse, 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. The cat-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 usually reads 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, simply must 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 about danger and disease 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. But indoor 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. “It is 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.
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. “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 Black Cats Page 6