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

by Shaughnessy, Monica

  Eddie laid his hand on my back. "I hope the constable pays Mr. Ferris a visit before he flees, for surely he will when Miss Ferris tells him of my visit. I was overly curious about her eyes, and that detail will not escape a businessman like him." He pressed his mouth into a grim line and stared out the window. "Think of it, Catters, that black-hearted fellow may be leaving Philadelphia—right now—as we journey to Constable Harkness's house." A half block later, he rapped on the glass. "Driver, turn around and take us to Rittenhouse Square, Walnut Street."

  I rubbed my head along his arm, cheered by the discussion of Rittenhouse and the swerve of the carriage. My gambit had worked! When we reached the park, the driver stopped at the end of the block, nowhere near the correct address. Very well. Eddie had taken me this far; I would take him the rest of the way. As he exchanged money with the driver, I hopped to the sidewalk and dashed down the street until I arrived at Mr. Uppity's home. In the bright afternoon sun, the structure looked even more ramshackle than it had before. Paint peeled from the shutters like dead snakeskin and cracks disgraced the walkway. When Eddie approached, I climbed the front steps to the porch and waited.

  "Catters!" he shouted. "You must stop running from me. My heart cannot take it." He leaned on the brick fence that closed the yard and studied the house. When he'd caught his breath, he joined me at the door and read the tarnished brass plate beneath the bell box. "Mr. Gideon Ferris." The astonishment on his face amused me beyond description. "I don't believe it. I simply do not believe it," he said. "How did you know?"

  I meowed, prompting him to turn the ringer. Did I have to do everything myself? When the bell failed to summon anyone, Eddie knocked. No response. Minding an overgrown thistle patch, he crossed the lawn and shouted into a partially open front window. Again, no response. Eager for answers, I jumped to the sill and listened through the gap. Bump-bump. A sound not altogether human reverberated from the structure. Mr. Uppity may not have been home, but something was inside.

  "I tell you, Sissy," Eddie said, "Caroline Ferris was as beautiful as she was sad. But a single glance of her dull, lifeless eyes is enough to send a man to his grave."

  Eddie hadn't given me a chance to investigate the odd bump-bump. He'd whisked me from the sill and down the street where we hailed an omnibus to Constable Harkness's neighborhood. I say this in warning: the omnibus is a torture device wherein humans squeeze together on little bench seats, sneeze and cough at intervals, and natter on about the weather. Private transport agrees with me so much more. Once we arrived at our destination, Eddie told the constable countless stories of Mr. Ferris while I listened from the front windowsill. Throughout the day, I began to understand that Mr. Ferris and Mr. Uppity were one and the same. But he would always be Mr. Uppity to me. Shortly after, the Poe family gathered in the front room of our little house on Coates.

  "Send a man to his grave?" Sissy sat on the chaise and fanned herself with a lace fan, her face flushed. "How you exaggerate, husband."

  "A skill for which I am paid," Eddie said.

  "Not often enough," Muddy said. She rocked her chair. Squeak, squeak. I sat on the hearth near her, swiping my tail back and forth in a little game with the rails. They'd caught me once. But only once.

  "Mother," Sissy said, "must you always turn the talk? Let Eddie finish."

  "Actually, Virginia, she reminded me a little of you." He leaned back in his desk chair, hands clasped behind his head, and began the full account of our adventures. Even though the fire had died, the hearth retained enough heat to warm me during the retelling. From the length of his speech, he'd spared no detail. He finished by adding me to the story. "We have Catters to thank for the outcome. If not for her, I wouldn't have met Miss Ferris or known where to find her uncle." He looked at me. "You ran right to 207 Walnut and waited for me, didn't you?"

  Sissy smiled. "Detective Dupin would be proud."

  "That doesn't matter," he said. "As long as you are proud."

  "I am, very, but I wish Mr. Ferris had been caught. Is there nothing else we can do?"

  "No. Constable Harkness will handle the rest." Eddie sat forward and rubbed his hands together. "At any rate, I am glad that you're feeling better. My thoughts scarcely left you today."

  "Yes, the nap did wonders for me," she said.

  I approached Sissy and let her pet me. I liked Caroline, but she was no substitute.

  Muddy yawned. "Now I am tired." She resettled her shawl around her shoulders and nestled into the chair.

  They talked awhile longer, speaking of tea and dinner and other things that made my stomach go grumbly. So I turned to groom my back haunch, noticing I reached it more easily today. Perhaps running about town had trimmed my middle. I stretched to the other side and found those curves equally easy to navigate. I'd lost Mr. Uppity, but I'd also lost weight. I could live with that—for now. But that sound, that blasted bump-bump, gnawed at me.

  A loud knock drew our attention to the front door. Eddie rose to answer it, speaking to the guest with incredulity. "Constable Harkness? I didn't expect to see you here. Come in. Please." He showed the man into the front room and introduced him to his "sweet wife, Mrs. Poe."

  Nodding and hand shaking and so forth.

  "I'm here to let you know about Gideon Ferris." The constable's tone had taken on newfound civility since his last visit to Coates Street. But I still didn't like him.

  "What happened?" Sissy asked. She sat upright on the chaise and closed her fan.

  "He's left Philadelphia," Constable Harkness said. "We spoke to his houseboy, Owen. He'd just come from the livery stable, complaining of a bum knee. Seems a horse had thrown him that morning. Once we pressed him, he told us how Mr. Ferris killed those women and stole their eyes. He even said Ferris admitted to murdering the Wills patient, Tom Sullivan."

  "He's growing bolder," Eddie said. "But why take a leg?"

  "Hah! To make your doll," Muddy added with a snicker.

  "What's that?" the constable asked.

  "She suffers the occasional spell," Eddie whispered to him. "Please continue."

  "Owen, the houseboy, was half out of his mind, scared to even speak with us. I'm sure he knew we'd come to send his employer to prison. Nonetheless, he invited us in, we had a look around, and saw no sign of the old man." He fingered the brim of his hat. "Apparently, Mr. Ferris rode west this morning by train, bound for Virginia, without so much as a goodbye to his niece." He nodded to the women, then headed for the door. "Just thought you should know."

  Eddie saw him out and returned, his face darkened by disappointment. "They will never find him. Never," he said. "Gideon Ferris is gone."

  Sissy rose and put her arm around him. "You did your best, Eddie. Why don't you go out and get some air, clear your head. It will be good for you." She smiled. "And you're in need of a new pen, aren't you? Why don't you visit the stationer's store? Have a look around. Cheer yourself up."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Mother will keep an eye on me."

  Muddy waved dismissively.

  "And bring me back a sweet from Jersey's Dry Goods on the way home," Sissy said. "Licorice cats if they have them."

  "Of course." Eddie rocked back on his heels. "I may stop by Shakey House to tell Murray, Abbot, and the rest of the boys about this business. But I won't be long."

  Shakey House? I had no intention of following him there.

  "Just be back by dinner," Sissy said.

  He kissed her on the cheek and left, giving us the quiet house. I yawned with the growing afternoon, tired as Old Muddy. But I had not abandoned the hunt as Eddie obviously had. I leapt to the windowsill to watch him leave for the pub. This was no longer about writing or despondency or any other damnable thing. It was about my satisfaction now. Mr. Uppity would not best me. I would not let him. I pictured him hiding in his house, waiting for cover of darkness to either kill or escape. And that bump-bump… I could not rest until I learned its source.

  When Sissy and Muddy left for the kitchen,
I tripped the front door latch and started for Rittenhouse with the goal of luring Mr. Uppity to the Eastern State Penitentiary. I would put him where he belonged with a bit of humbuggery, for it would take a thief to catch a thief. And I prayed Midnight would help devise a plan.

  Bump-bump

  After my earlier apprenticeship in public transport, I embraced these ways, hopping on and off the backs of carriages to reach Rittenhouse in half the time. If anyone noticed me, I jumped down and waited for another horse and buggy to pass. I became so adept at this game that toward the end, my paws rarely touched the ground. I even stooped to catching an omnibus at one point. While I loathed these high-occupancy coaches, they let me ride inside when the roads grew too crowded. Cats are adept at underfoot travel, and with proper concentration, they can slip in and amongst human legs with near invisibility. So I gained egress with no appreciable hardship, save for a bent whisker.

  Some time between lunch and tea, in the squishy middle of the afternoon, I arrived at Midnight's house, confident that he could devise a scheme for drawing Mr. Uppity to the penitentiary. I yowled and yowled outside his front door, but only little Sarah came to greet me. A slip of a girl, she wasn't much more than two braids and two skinned knees clothed in velvet. She gave me a ham rind, which I accepted, and a red ribbon around my neck, which I did not. So I left for the grocer's, thinking Midnight might've gone back to steal another sausage. I wish I had not been right.

  His voice drifted from the entrance as I neared the shop. "It's easy to steal," he said. "Watch me, and I'll show you how it's done. Which do you want, the jerky or the salted cod? Or both. I can get both, I know it."

  I waited for a woman and her two children to pass. Then I ducked around the doorframe to catch Midnight and another cat, a beautiful tiger-striped molly, at their plotting. They sat beneath a teepee of mop handles, surveying the baskets and bins. At the sight of them together, my hackles rose and my claws unsheathed. Midnight must have meant more to me than I'd realized.

  "The salted cod," the molly said. She flicked the tip of her tail. "That's my favorite."

  If Auntie Sass were here, she'd have given them the "ol' spit and hiss." It took some effort, but I pulled my claws back and smoothed my hackles. A fight would only delay the search for Mr. Uppity, and, whether I liked it or not, I had no claim to Midnight. We didn't share a connection like Snow and Big Blue or even Eddie and Sissy. Yet I could not leave without inflicting some sort of wound. I switched my tail and said, "I prefer the sausage. Pity I shared mine yesterday with a cad." The bon mot zipped through the air and landed at the center of Midnight's chest.

  He looked at me with big, round eyes. "Cattarina?" I turned to leave. "Wait! Cattarina!"

  I ignored his pleas and dashed up the block, detouring through Rittenhouse Square. A group of nannies and baby carriages provided cover along the paved paths that intersected the lawn. The wheels rolled over my paws at several turns, but these pains paled to the one in my heart when I exited the park alone. Midnight had given up without effort. I swallowed. Then again, so had I. Blasted pride. Now I had no one to help me with my plan or, rather, absence of plan. I uttered a curse far more scathing than "fiddlesticks" and crossed the street to Mr. Uppity's house. I sat before the three-story building and licked my aching paws. I had started this hunt alone; I would finish this hunt alone. Except without Midnight's help—or even Eddie's—the logistics of depositing a full grown human inside a fortress of stone seemed impossible. I couldn't very well carry him by the scruff of the neck, though not for lack of want.

  A light breeze blew, fanning my whiskers and stirring the curtains in the front window. Mr. Uppity had yet to close the sash. I hopped on the sill and examined the slender gap below the casing, an opening too small for my ample figure. What an embarrassing predicament to get stuck! Excuse me, sir, would you mind laying a boot to my backside and pushing me through? There's a good boy. Now come along to prison. Humph. I blew out my breath, wiggled a bit, and slipped through with unexpected ease, slumping into the parlor with a thump. I'd lost more weight than I'd thought.

  I crouched behind the curtains and waited to see if the noise of my unfortunate landing would call someone from another floor. When it did not, I emerged and surveyed the room. The man had no furniture, well, none to speak of with any fondness, and what little he did have had been pushed against the walls, as if in anticipation of a dance assembly. I blinked at the busy striped wallpaper, dizzied by the pattern. Mr. Uppity already lived in a prison of his own making, complete with bars! Most men had no decorating sense. Thinking of our own home, the pieces that gave it a cozy feel had been supplied by Sissy. Pillows and doilies and the like. Yet Eddie was not without these sensibilities. He had many strong opinions on the placement of furniture and exercised them to Muddy's consternation. I lingered in the doorway and swiveled my ears, listening for human activity. I heard not a thing, not even the bump-bump of before. This emboldened me to enter the hallway.

  The house smelled of rancid meat and dander enough that I wondered why the man hadn't opened all his windows. Perhaps he'd grown used to the scent or even liked it. Either way, I had no interest in the idiosyncrasies of a killer, save for those that would help me catch one.

  My pulse intensified as I entered the kitchen. Beyond a scrap bucket full of cabbage leaves, I found nothing of interest, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, my heart began to beat faster still as I reentered the hallway. I followed it to what I guessed would be the drawing room or even the dining room. My assumption, however, proved wrong, and I discovered a bedchamber instead. I had never seen one on the first floor of a house so grand. Then again, I hadn't been inside any grand houses aside from Mr. Coffin's. Curiosity got the best of me one day, and I followed him home for tea.

  I stood in the open doorway of Mr. Uppity's private abode. The shades had been pulled, casting the room in shadows that flitted between the bed and dresser in a most unsettling way. They weren't real. They couldn't be. I scolded my imagination and entered the room. The further I progressed toward its center, however, the faster my heart pounded until I thought it would leap from my chest, such was the ferocity of its tempo. Bump-bump, bump-bump. The constant drumming drove me mad as it shuddered along my bones, my skin, my muscles. I sat back to consider this strange turn in my health—bump-bump—and solved the conundrum. My chest cavity didn't contain the beat; the floorboards did. The sound lay beneath my haunches.

  Bump-bump.

  I shot forward and arched my back.

  Fright pricked me with her pin-sharp claws. What the devil lived beneath the floorboards? Ignorance seemed like a reasonable state in which to remain. Yet I could not give in to my fear. Not only was my pride at stake, Philadelphia's citizens depended on my success. I listened once more.

  Bump-bump.

  My toes vibrated with the sound. At first, I thought it mice. But the pulse was too strong. It writhed beneath me with the strength of a full-grown man. I had to take a closer look. I reentered the kitchen and found the cellar entrance—a whiff of damp earth beneath the jamb told me as much. With the help of a close-by worktable, I pawed the knob and had it turning in no time.

  The door swung open. I descended the steps.

  Bump-bump. Bump-bump.

  The rhythm grew louder as I entered the chilly subterrain. Clever as I may be, I hadn't mastered the working of a gas lamp or candle. So I crept through the dark, unsure of my route until my eyes adjusted. Even then, footing remained far from certain. The smell, however, did not. Decaying flesh had an unmistakable odor.

  Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump

  I followed the noise to an area directly beneath the bedchamber. Owing to the quality of the home, workmen had finished the space with more lumber and white plaster. However, someone or something lived between the cellar ceiling and the first floor because a large, wet stain marred the patch overhead. Using a cannery shelf as a viewpoint, I located the entrance with little difficulty. Carved in the ceiling atop the sta
irs, the black mouth hung wide and round, waiting to be fed. I reached it by scaling the handrail and jumping to a sconce. The size of the opening gave me courage, for it appeared no bigger than my head. Whomever or whatever lay in wait could not be any larger than this, I reasoned. I said a little prayer, leaped into the unknown, and belly-crawled between the floors.

  Bump…bump.

  The thumping stopped. I paused. I crept forward. I paused. I sniffed. The odor of rotting meat mingled with that of another: rat urine. My whiskers shot forward.

  Silence.

  The rodents must have caught my scent, too, because they began to scramble in countless number. They scurried between the joists, knocking the bedchamber floor with their backs as they tried to flee. Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump. I'd never caught a creature this large before, and I could hardly count that chicken last summer. She was an old, fat pillow—mostly feathers. But I'd come too far to let a little thing like teeth stop me. Ahead I forged. I hadn't gone three steps when I broke through the mysterious wet patch I'd seen earlier. From this small hole grew a very large one that unraveled half the ceiling. I fell in a jumble of blood-soaked plaster and rats upon the cellar floor. Great Cat Above! Half the rodent population of Philadelphia had been living here.

  And they'd been feasting on Mr. Uppity.

  A Leg Up

  Pieces of Mr. Uppity's body lay scattered in the rubble. An arm here, a leg there—still clothed, I might add. They could've belonged to another human if not for the head. That familiar item lay near my front paws, nose pointing north like a sundial. Covered by a milky veil, his eyes were no more useful than Caroline's, an irony that did not escape me. Yet even in death, the blue orbs still had the power to terrify. I let the rats slither into the corners, undisturbed, and contemplated this bizarre outcome. Even if Mr. Uppity had been the one to kill those women, someone else had killed him.

  The front door opened and slammed shut.