Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

When the street had emptied of everyone except Mr. Cook and Mr. Fitzgerald, Eddy drew Sissy and the two men to the threshold of the hardware shop to discuss the event, speaking the phrase “killed the cat” more than once. Every so often, Sissy would glance at the tree and shake her head. Soon, the talk turned to lighter subjects, for the men began to chuckle and gesture with their hands. That was when Sissy left their company for mine, the dear girl. She stared up at me with a mournful expression, the rims of her large eyes wet. “Who would do such a thing, Cattarina? And why?”

From the lilt in her voice, she had questions for which I had no answers. Though I could not comprehend her speech, more than a language barrier prevented my response. The brutal killing of the tom had stripped me of reason. Who could have harmed the noblest of creatures? The finest, cleverest, handsomest of creatures?

“Well, we can’t leave him up there, can we? There has to be some dignity in death.” She laid her rosemary aside and reached for the rope around the cat’s neck. But the dear girl was too short to grasp it. So she tried to knock the cat’s body down with a slender branch she found near the roots. The more she twisted and turned the corpse to free it, however, the tighter the noose grew. Overcome by failure, she tossed the stick, leaned against the tree trunk, and wept into her handkerchief.

Eddy did not notice.

Brush, brush, brush. The sound from the Arnold’s shop would plague my dreams tonight. I joined Sissy on the ground and rubbed along her skirt, doing my best to comfort her. The cat’s death had upset her more than I had imagined. Throughout our previous adventure, I had grown to…respect Sissy—yes, respect , that was the right word—and it pained me to see her in such a state.

She touched the tip of my tail, her fingers wet with tears. “No one should die in their prime, Cattarina. No one.”

While the black cat’s death presented me with another killer to catch and another story to inspire, it also filled me with dread. A murderer and torturer lived in our new neighborhood, and I, for one, would not sleep until the scoundrel was caught.

The Peaceful Society of Friends

ONCE SISSY’S WEEPING REACHED Eddy, he left the gentlemen and joined us by the sassafras. “You mustn’t cry, Virginia. It isn’t good for you.” He brushed the tears from her cheek. “This has been a most unsettling morning for all of us. I think we should go home. Muddy will be expecting us for lunch.”

I trilled in agreement. Eddy and I shared the same concern: lunch . Yet I could delay my mid-day meal if it meant gathering more evidence. Last autumn, I learned the importance of early clue discovery; the longer one waited to find them, the more likely they were to sprout wings and fly south. In truth, I had become a ratiocinator in my own right, with powers rivaling Eddy’s Detective Dupin, and I had certain duties to fulfill. The fact that Constable Harkness hadn’t been summoned made my presence even more crucial. This crime fell under feline jurisdiction.

“She’s serving cheddar and ham,” Eddy added. “And sour pickles. She told me on the way out—”

“How can you think about eating?” Sissy said. “We can’t leave until we bury this unfortunate soul.” She laced her fingers in front of her, signaling her resolve.

Eddy lifted his palms in supplication. “Be reasonable, Sissy. My tool is the pen, not the shovel. I am ill-equipped to dig.”

“I am not moving, husband, until that cat is down from that tree.” She pointed to both objects, underscoring her words.

Eddy would attempt to win the quarrel with appeals, but he could no more refuse Sissy than I him. Confident in the outcome, I headed toward the shops to look for evidence, entering the cobbler’s first to learn the source of that infernal brushing sound. I found the aged proprietress inside, hard at work. Tabitha Arnold sat near the window on a low stool, her back to the door and her face to the sun. In her hands she held a pair of black boots and a stiff horsehair brush dipped in—I wrinkled my nose—a mixture of beeswax and soot. She raked the bristles across the toe of the shoe. Brush, brush, brush. At least one mystery had been solved.

I sniffed for the human scent I’d noted earlier, but an examination of the floorboards bore no fruit. The murderer had certainly worn shoes, masking his scent with a layer of leather. Had he been a customer? Further examination revealed nothing, not even a trace of citrus and lavender cologne. Before I could steal back to the street unnoticed, Mr. Fitzgerald appeared, blocking the doorway with his legs. I slunk to the shelves on the rear wall and hid behind a row of wooden foot forms in varying sizes.

The woman greeted Mr. Fitzgerald with a cool stare. “Have you something to say for yourself?” she asked. She set the boots on the floor and wiped her hands on her apron, smearing it with polish.

“Have I ?” Mr. Fitzgerald asked. “Have you ?”

She tucked a loose strand of gray behind a hairpin. “What do you mean by that?”

He tapped his thin bottom lip. “The cat. It was Abner’s doing, wasn’t it? Instead of settling the hash like gents, he used violence to make a point. How English of him.”

She sprang to her feet. “How dare you accuse him of something you’ve done, you…you bogtrotter!”

Mr. Fitzgerald and Mrs. Arnold stared at each other, two mongrels on the brink of war. I shrank against the wooden feet and waited for blood. The woman surprised me when she sat down and picked up her horsehair brush again. “What’s the talk on the street?” she asked.

He leaned against the doorframe and crossed one ankle over the other. “ Craic is, Mr. Cook blames Mr. Eakins, and Reverend Bray blames the devil.”

“And you blame Abner.” She pointed the brush at him and scowled. “If you go spreading rumors about him that aren’t true, Mr. Fitzgerald, you won’t like the results. You’ll do well to keep your mouth shut.” She looked to her empty shop. “I ask you this: who’s going to shop near such a horrible scene? Business is bad enough as it is, what with that—”

Mr. Fitzgerald held up his hand. “Don’t say it. We’ve enough trouble this morning.” He crossed his arms. “Mr. Poe said it might bring people in,” he said. “The cat, that is. Curious onlookers and the like. You never know.”

“Harrumph. Only in Mr. Poe’s world.” She resumed her polishing. “He’s an odd bird, isn’t he? Flitting about in black, no matter the season. Dresses like a pallbearer, for heaven’s sake.”

“I think it suits him,” Mr. Fitzgerald said.

Sensing the shift in mood, I stepped from my hiding place and padded toward the door. Mrs. Arnold spied me and clicked her tongue in disapproval. “We have a trespasser,” she whispered to Mr. Fitzgerald.

“We needn’t whisper in front of Cattarina,” he said. “She keeps all kinds of secrets. Don’t you, girl?” I meowed at my name, giving him a good laugh, though I knew not why. He stood at the threshold, preventing my departure. “Well, I’m gone,” he said to Mrs. Arnold. “The saws won’t sell themselves.” He hesitated. “Where is Abner, by the way?”

“Under the weather.” She gave the boot a last pass with the brush.

Mr. Fitzgerald touched his protruding Adam’s apple with a look of concern. “Is something going round?”

“Yes.” She set the boots aside and picked up a new pair to shine. “Something’s going round, all right, and that’s Abner—round the tavern.”

Mr. Fitzgerald shifted, and I shot past his ankles into the street again. The scratch of the shoe brush had penetrated my teeth. I could not stand it any longer!