The Black Cats (14 page)

“Make
fun if you will,” Sissy said. Her earlocks bobbed as she spoke. “But Tabitha
told me she’d be at the temperance meeting this morning. She would never close
shop on a Saturday. And by the by, Mr. Fitzgerald’s not out of the stew pot yet.
He and Tabitha have been arguing over that tree for months. What if he did
something to her—”

“My
dear! I have heard enough! We will speak to Mr. Fitzgerald and get the story
from him.”

It
didn’t take long to reach the shops of Franklin Street. We discovered Mr. Fitzgerald
sitting in the shade of the sassafras tree, his back to the trunk, sipping a
cool drink. I wasn’t sure we’d find Midnight here, but my ideas had run their
course. After pleasantries about the weather—did they not understand the urgency?—Eddy
and Sissy recounted much of what they said on the walk. It did not match word
for word but contained many of the same themes, including
Tabitha Arnold
. This gave me courage, for if we found her, we’d probably
find my pal.

“Abner Arnold
is a right fibber,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “It’s true. I paid them a visit last
night. But I left alone, coming back to the store to tidy up. There’s been a
run on buckets since the fire at their house, and I can’t keep the display in
order.” He took another sip from the glass. I admired the bony apple bobbing along
his neck.

“How lucrative,”
Eddy said.

Sissy elbowed
her husband. “Did Mrs. Arnold seem well, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“Not at
all. In fact, I think she and Mr. Arnold had been arguing. A real knock-about
if you ask me. I’d bet anything the old man had just come from the grog shop.”
He winked at me. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Cattarina?
You’re a lady.”

I
turned to show off my tail.

“Thank
you, Mr. Fitzgerald. You’ve been most helpful,” Sissy said. She pulled her
husband in front of the cobbler shop, and I joined them. “You see!” she
whispered. “Mrs. Arnold
is
in
trouble.”

Eddy
frowned. “I think we should call Constable Harkness.”

I
swiveled my ears, catching the name. Though I did not hold much stock in
Constable Harkness’s rationation skills, he
did
serve on the side of justice. A shame he hadn’t been summoned for Snip’s
killing. This could have all been avoided.

CONSTABLE HARKNESS LIVED ON
Green Street, but much farther west than I could’ve traveled by paw—nearly
half way to the Schuylkill River, by all accounts. For expediency’s sake, Eddy
hailed a private car for us, an open carriage meant, I was certain, for bird
watching. I
so
admired the acrobatics
of the purple martin. Presently, the driver parked in front of a brownstone
hung with potted ferns. Smoke filled the sky here, blanketing the firmament with
the haze of burnt metal. This stench ruined an otherwise handsome neighborhood.

We strode
the sidewalk, and Sissy coughed straightaway in the foul air. Eddy touched her
shoulder with concern, but she proceeded to the constable’s stoop and rapped on
the door. We waited. The constable shuffled inside, moving and shifting things
around, as if our arrival had taken him from an important task. “I’ll be right
back, Matilda,” he said from the interior. “Never fear.”

The
door opened.

An
older, white-haired gentleman I hadn’t seen since the fall stood before us in a
brown suit and blue waistcoat. I hadn’t been the only one to pack on flesh
since our move, though Constable Harkness wore it better than I. He held a
watering pot that dripped onto the toes of his shoes. “May I help you?” he
asked.

Sissy assumed
the lead. “We’ve come to—”

“By
God, it’s you! It’s really you!” the constable said to her. He smiled at me, teeth
hidden by his bushy mustache. “And you’ve brought that cat of yours! Fine
specimen, she is. Beautiful tortoiseshell.”

A cough
escaped her mouth instead of a greeting.

“Come in! Come in! The air is terrible
here.” The older man led us, rather
her
down the tapestry hall runner. “You can thank the iron works for the smoke. The
factory’s almost next door.” We entered the parlor. On my last visit, I’d
stayed outside and eavesdropped from the window. The interior had a brassy, bright
feel, more so than I would’ve imagined given the man’s tarnished demeanor. “How
have you been? Why I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since
you came to our house on Coates,” Sissy added.

“Harumph,
yes, of course,” he said.

The
constable offered us the couch, a tufted affair that poked my hindquarters with
buttons. Eddy and Sissy sat on either side of me, and I made a home between
their knees. Skulls, a strange brass tube, a raccoon tail, glass orbs in every
size, a collection of dead butterflies, and other oddities beckoned me from a
large curio cupboard spanning the wall adjacent to the fireplace. While these
items intrigued me, they paled when compared to the large ivy sitting atop the
cabinetry. A fantastical plant, its numerous tendrils tumbled over the woodwork
and cascaded toward the floor, giving one the impression they had entered not a
brownstone, but a jungle. I longed to scale the greenery and explore the upper environs.
Alas, a diversion was out of the question. Any tomfoolery on my part would
unravel the investigation faster than lace tatting between the claws. Muddy had
still not forgiven me for shredding her favorite doily.

“So you
and Constable Harkness are acquaintances?” Eddy asked his wife. “You spoke only
briefly last October.”

Sissy
shook her head at Constable Harkness. Eddy did not catch it as I did.

“I am a
memorable fellow,” the constable said to him. He set his watering can on a side
table.

“And my
cat?” Eddy asked.

“Cattarina?
Why I barely know her,” he replied.

When the
constable called me, I jumped from the couch and rubbed along his pant leg,
ingratiating myself to him. I had escaped parrot prison, battled fire, grappled
with a killer, survived bodily harm, and yet
this
act took the most courage. I am not, nor have I ever been one
to grovel. Nevertheless, Constable Harkness had the resources to find Midnight.
The older gentleman sidestepped my generous deposit of fur. Odd. Had he not spoken
my name? He retreated to a wingback chair near the fireplace and flapped his
fingers, discouraging me from further attempts.

“
Barely know her
. I see,” Eddy said. He
turned to Sissy.

Her
cheeks flushed more than usual. “We should explain ourselves, Constable
Harkness,” she said. “We have much to tell.”

“It’s
not a social call?” He glanced at the sprawling plant. “Matilda and I get so
few.”

“No,
it’s a matter of urgency,” Eddy said. “We fear a woman’s been harmed.”

The
constable scowled and clutched the arms of his chair. “Mr. Poe, you should work
on your story openings. You might’ve told me this in the first place. Now take the
work of Washington Irving—”

Eddy shot
to his feet. “Washington Irving is much overrated. And there is nothing wrong
with my storytelling.”

“Really,
sir, I must object. Washington Irving is a brilliant writer, a
visionary—”

“Visionary?
I’ll grant you Irving is a pioneer. But
sir
,
he is no writer.”

Sissy
tugged Eddy’s coat sleeve and coaxed him back to the couch of many buttons.
“Husband, we are here to discuss Mrs. Arnold, not debate literature.”

I
jumped on his lap to keep him seated. Midnight could not afford another delay.

Eddy stroked
my back and settled onto the cushions. Once he began the oft-told story, I left
him in favor of the curio cabinet. I pawed open the door to inspect the skulls.
Some belonged to humans, others belonged to dogs and rabbits, others still
belonged to species of unknown origin. I wondered if the gentleman had hunted
them himself. If so, my estimation of him had just increased whiskerfold.

“Those
are
suspicious circumstances, Mr. Poe,” he
said at the end of Eddy’s tale. “What is your account, Mrs. Poe?”

Eddy
crossed his arms
and
his legs. “Yes,
Mrs. Poe, I am awaiting your account as well. Your
full
and
truthful
account.
Will you give it?”

She
laughed gaily, an odd response to what should have been a serious conversation.
“You must excuse my husband, Constable. We’ve had an unsettling day. And we owe
it to Abner Arnold. He is up to mischief, I know it.” She fixed the older man
with a dark stare. “I
feel
it.”

Constable
Harkness pursed his lips then said, “I don’t like the sound of that Arnold
fellow. I’ll round up the watchmen and question the neighbors, new and old. Don’t
worry, Mrs. Poe. We’ll find Tabitha Arnold if she’s alive.” He offered his hand
to her, helping her from the couch. “Or even if she’s dead.”

***

“Quiet!
Quiet!” Constable Harkness shouted over the voices. A familiar crowd assembled near
Mr. Arnold’s house on Logan, evidently at the behest of the watchmen. A pawful
of these black-cloaked enforcers lined the sidewalk, spacing themselves like
crows on a clothesline. They held their long, pointed poles at an angle,
forming a crisscross between each man to keep people from wandering. I did not
count Watchman Smythe among their number. A pity. I’d met him during my last
adventure and considered him trustworthy.

“Thank
you all for coming,” the constable said to the people once they’d settled. “If
you are forthcoming, I will be brief. If you are not, you will stand beneath
this hellish summer sun until I am satisfied.” He mopped his brow with a
handkerchief and tucked it in his waistcoat pocket.

I climbed
to Eddy’s shoulder and surveyed the gathering over the top of Sissy’s bonnet: Mr.
Eakins, Mr. Cook, Mr. Fitzgerald, Mr. Pettigrew, Mr. Jolley, even the old lady
with the parasol whom we’d spoken to near the Arnold’s old home, and of course,
Abner Arnold. Anyone with knowledge of the cobblers had been invited. I
couldn’t have done a better job if I’d picked them myself. The watchmen must
have escorted them here while Eddy, Sissy, and I dined at home with Muddy.

“Can we
get on with this nonsense?” Mr. Jolley asked. “I left my cook in charge of the
till, and I’ll bet my dying breath he’s filching it.”

“Very
well,” Constable Harkness said. “Today, Mr. E. A. Poe and his wife paid me a
visit, claiming that a Mrs. Tabitha Arnold, citizen of the Spring Garden
District, has gone missing from her home.
This
home.” He motioned to the shanty behind him.

Abner Arnold
leaned against the garden gate, his shirt collar damp with sweat. His
perspiration didn’t register as peculiar on a summer day. The sun had dampened
my coat, too. But when combined with his vacant stare and yellowing skin, it pronounced
health problems for all to see. This illness had affected his reason, for he
seemed less concerned with the citizens gathered against him than the object in
his pocket, which he fingered beneath the fabric.

“We’ve heard
as much from the watchmen,” Mr. Pettigrew shouted. “Tell us why we’re here.”

“There
were too many conflicting stories about the woman,” the constable said. “So I
brought you here to sort it out. Some believe Abner Arnold is behind her
disappearance. Who holds this opinion? Speak now.”

“Oh,
me,” Mr. Eakins said. “Anyone who can kill a cat is deranged enough to kill a
human.” He scratched his elbow.

“Kill a
cat?” Constable Harkness asked.

Kill a cat.
Yes,
now
they were snapping the reins. What
had taken me a day to solve had taken these people over a moon. Poe family
excluded, most humans exhibited a feebleness of mind I found appalling. For
this very reason, cats allowed themselves to be domesticated. Had we not,
humans would have gone extinct from sheer stupidity. One had only to witness
the use of a chamber pot to agree.

“Yes,”
Mr. Eakins said. “I set him up with a black tom named Pluto. A few weeks later,
the poor creature was hung from a tree near his shop…with its eye gouged out! Who
else could have done it?” He motioned to the cobbler with a gnarled finger. “Out
with it, Arnold. Acknowledge the corn.”

The
accusation woke Mr. Arnold from his daze, and he took his hand from his pocket,
giving full attention to the crowd.

“It’s
true,” Mr. Pettigrew said. “Pluto’s ghost visited that same night, burning Mr. Arnold’s
house down and leaving a demonic mark as a warning for all to see.”

Eddy
touched my tail. “A fine likeness of you, eh, Catters?” he whispered.

I was
too busy avoiding Mr. Arnold’s cold stare to reply. The man had noticed my
personage atop Eddy’s shoulder and gazed at me with consternation, as if he
recognized me but couldn’t sort the particulars.
Pardon, but do we frequent the same stationer’s? The same grocer’s? No,
no, I burned your house down and drove you insane. Ah! That clears it up! Good day,
miss!
The few instances we’d met, he’d been inebriated, and I attributed his
memory loss to this. For once, I thanked liquor.

The
lady with the parasol nodded. “You won’t find a more pickled human being than
Abner Arnold. The devil drove him to drink, and the drink drove him to kill. I
lived next to him on Green Street.”

“What superstition!” Constable Harkness
said. “Who has
evidence
of the cat’s
killing?”

“I do,”
Sissy said. She opened her white tasseled wrist bag—she’d secured the
carryall after our luncheon—and produced the page I’d torn from Mr.
Eakins’s Book of Cats. “This proves Mr. Eakins gave Mr. Arnold the black cat.
It contains the Arnolds’ old address and a drawing of the creature.” She ignored
Eddy’s sharp inhale and offered the clue to the constable. “And many witnessed Pluto
hanging from the tree. The courts aren’t interested in animal cruelty, I know.
But this proves he’s capable of dreadful things.”

Mr.
Eakins gave a little hop and clap. “Hee! That came from my book all right. But
I don’t know how
you
got it, Mrs. Poe.”

“I-I
found it in the street,” she said. She glanced at me, then back to the crowd.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, tell everyone about the rope Abner Arnold bought from your
shop.”

Eddy
gave Sissy a wry smile and whispered, “This is
your
affair, not the constable’s, is it not? Superb orchestration,
my dear. Detective Dupin may yet have a rival.”

Sissy
put her finger to her lips.

“That’s
right, Mrs. Poe,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. With his near-emaciated frame, he was
the only one among us not sweating. “He bought the rope from me in May. I’ve
long suspected Abner of the cat’s hanging. And just last night, I witnessed the
couple arguing.”

Abner Arnold
forgot about me. He shook his head as a dog might after a good rain shower then
took a series of slow, labored steps toward Mr. Fitzgerald. Had he been this
feeble last night, Midnight might’ve escaped unharmed. I wondered what had
caused the stark change in his personality.

“This
is all very interesting,” Constable Harkness said, “but I fail to see how the
killing of a cat—”

“Forget
the cat,” Mr. Arnold said with a rasp in his throat. “Fitzgerald took Tabitha from
me. Then he killed her!”

Whispers
rose from the crowd, the loudest of which came from Mr. Pettigrew, “Pshaw, that
Irishman couldn’t scare a crow from a cornfield.”