The Black Cats

by Monica Shaughnessy

  “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. “That is 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 are your 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 a tsk-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 caught fire and Abner Arnold and even cat. These I had anticipated; humans love their gossip. But Eddy seemed to expect them, too, for he did not show interest until he heard supernatural. 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 the Pioneer last winter. Unnerving story. How did you think of it?”

  “Yes, how did 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 about westward expansion and Oregon 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, I knew 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 he did 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’s brain. 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.

  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 the Philadelphia 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!”