Моника Шонесси - The Tell-Tail Heart

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The next morning, a staccato rap-rap-rap on the front door startled Eddie and me. At the sound, he scratched a line of ink across the page, spoiling an otherwise well-penned sheet of paper. "Dash it all," he said, tossing the quill onto his desk.

We'd been at writing awhile.

After breakfast, he'd announced his intention to work and called me into the front room, shutting the door and stoking the fire. There, I assumed my post—the corner of his desk—with unusual cheer. Even though Mr. Uppity was still free to kill, I'd shaken Eddie from his melancholy, and this had been my goal from the start. Success had, indeed, come from failure. Taking solace in this notion, I set aside my qualms over the botched hunting expedition and immersed myself in Eddie's genius, watching his feather dance to the complicated waltz in his head.

Until the knock interrupted the music.

Muddy greeted our guest—mumbled niceties in the hallway—and showed him into the front room. Constable Harkness entered, hat in hand, and eyed our meager surroundings. Eddie rose from his chair and dismissed Muddy with a shake of his head. To comfort my friend, for I could smell his anxiety from across the desk, I stepped over the scattered papers and nudged his hand. He stroked my head with fingers damp from worry.

After the usual formalities, the constable stated his business. "Well, Mr. Poe, you are officially above the district's suspicion."

"I am delighted," Eddie said. He relaxed his posture and leaned on the desk.

"Doctor Anderson confirmed the woman died well before you discovered her, by several hours. Rigor mortis had just begun to set in when we carted her over. That's when the body—"

"I am aware of rigor, sir."

Constable Harkness fingered his watch chain.

Eddie cleared his throat. "Who was she, and how was she killed?"

"Her name is, or was Minerva Paulson, a socialite who'd recently moved to Rittenhouse. Dr. Anderson spoke to her family and confirmed she wore a prosthesis. Lost the original in a childhood accident." He rubbed his mouth. "And she was killed like the others. A knife to the throat."

Eddie winked at me and whispered, "It was the Glass Eye Killer, Cattarina. Never wager against me."

"There is no satisfaction in death, Mr. Poe, save for meeting one's maker," Constable Harkness donned his hat in the house, a sign of disrespect apparent to even me.

"I agree it is a tragedy. I only meant—"

"You spend too much time dwelling on the misery of others, Mr. Poe, and while you haven't committed any crimes—that I'm aware of—I find you altogether disagreeable. I bought a copy of The Gift this morning, read your 'Pit and the Pendulum,' and nearly lost my breakfast on the ride over. You should stick to poetry. Good day to you, sir."

Eddie offered no reply. He waited for the front door to shut and then let out a sigh strong enough to stir a windstorm. "What a relief," he said.

Muddy stuck her head in the room, her cap strings swaying. "Mrs. Busybody's been tongue wagging to all of Fairmount about the constable's visit." She lowered her voice. "Even the fatted goose knows about it."

Mr. Coffin appeared over her shoulder, causing her to jump. "Hullo, Poe," he said. "Are you in a fix?" He'd arrived without benefit of jerky, but I forgave him since concern tempered his usual merriment. I heard it in his voice when he spoke to Eddie about the murder. I tried to leave and find Snow for an introduction, but someone had wrapped a piece of leather string around the latch, preventing my escape. The old widow, Mrs. Busybody, followed next with skirts so wide they dragged the doorframe and knocked Sissy's bric-a-brac from the side table. "It's too horrible for polite discussion!" she cried. "I feel a faint coming on. Who will catch me?" She fanned herself with chubby fingers, all the while smiling demurely at Mr. Coffin. Then came quiet Mister Balderdash, who listened more than he spoke, and Mr. Murray from Shakey House, and Dr. Mitchell, Sissy's doctor and long-time friend, and on and on until the front room bulged like a stuffed hen at Christmas.

Shortly after Mrs. Busybody's arrival, I began to suspect I was the guest of honor, for when Eddie recited his tale—and he did so many, many times, to the delight of his audience—he spoke my name. Though I longed to vanish into the upper floors of the house, what could I do? With so many guests to entertain, I hopped on the mantel and provided a living, breathing illustration to Eddie's account. With each retelling, my friend grew more animated, flapping his arms in a sort of pantomime when he reached the part about the vultures. I hadn't seen him this happy since he'd gotten that slip of paper in the mail he called "the gift." Yet I took no pleasure in his stories. They reminded me of my own futile efforts and made my stomach go all gurgly. I had never—never!—failed at hunting. My claws ached at the very thought of it.

During the initial stages of revelry, Sissy crept into the room. She sat at Eddie's elbow, commenting when she could, and took coins in exchange for his poetry pamphlets. Muddy, meanwhile, scurried between the front room and the kitchen, exclaiming, "What's a visit without tea? Guests must have tea!" Yet with but one jar of leaves on the shelf, each brew grew lighter and lighter until she finally served something she called "an invisible blend grown in the mountains of the Orient." Fiddlesticks. I knew plain water when I smelled it.

Alas, all this excitement was not without price.

Naturally, I sensed Sissy's downturn first. But from the first cough, Eddie stood and asked everyone to leave. "You must excuse us now," he said to the visitors. "Mrs. Poe has grown tired and must rest. I know you understand." By the time we reclaimed the house, midday sun streamed through the windows.

"To bed, my girl," Muddy said.

"To bed, my wife," Eddie said.

Sissy did not object.

Once she disappeared up the stairs, I paced the hallway with scant awareness of Eddie and Muddy's quarrel in the kitchen. Everywhere I looked, the color blue: the cornflower shawl hanging on the coatrack, the deep twilight covers of Eddie's leather-bound books, the tufted blueberry pillows on the couch…the hue taunted me from every crevice of the house until it drove me partially mad. How could I give up catching Mr. Uppity now?

When Muddy gave us permission, Eddie and I climbed the stairs to pay Sissy a visit. The old woman met us at the landing and spoke in hushed tones about "keeping her daughter quiet and calm." After this solemn warning, she left to gather the guest dishes, a conclusion I drew from the careless clink of china below. Sensing Eddie's need for privacy, I let him enter alone but kept watch through a crack in the door. He spoke to the dear girl and stroked her forehead with a tenderness he usually reserved for me. Uncommonly possessive of my friend, I made the odd exception for Sissy. I batted the door and opened it a little wider.

"I will stay here," Eddie said. His back was to me, shoulders stooped. "I want to, my darling."

"No, please, go to Mr. Lorbin's office," she said. Her complexion had gone the way of the tea, turning paler with each shallow breath.

"But Constable Harkness says I'm no longer a suspect."

She clutched the bedcovers and restrained a cough that could've been much deeper had she allowed it. "You want to solve a mystery like Detective Dupin. Admit it."

Eddie grew quiet. I couldn't see his face, but I knew the conflict that must've been written upon it because the damnable feeling had already waylaid me in the hallway. Despite a rational desire to set aside the hunt for Mr. Uppity, my pride would not allow it. But with this change in Sissy's health, I wondered if I should leave the house. My tail swished back and forth as I contemplated the dilemma. I had grown to love the girl almost as much as I loved Eddie.