1. THE TELL-TAIL HEART
Philadelphia, 1842
An Object of Fascination
Eddie was never happier than when he was writing, and I was never happier than when Eddie was happy. That’s what concerned me about our trip to Shakey House Tavern tonight. An official letter had arrived days ago, causing him to abandon his writing in a fit of melancholy—a worrisome event for this feline muse. Oh, what power correspondence wields over the Poe household! Since that time, his quill pen had lain lifeless upon his desk, a casualty of the gloom. But refreshment only intensified these frequent and unpredictable storms—hence my concern. Irritated by his lack of attention, I sat beneath the bar and waited for him to stir. He’d been studying a newspaper in the glow of a lard-oil lamp for most of the evening, ignoring the boisterous drinkers around him. When he crinkled the sheets, I leapt onto the polished ledge to investigate, curling my tail around me. I loved the marks humans made upon the page. They reminded me of black ants on the march. They also reminded me that until I found a way to help Eddie, it would be ages before he’d make more of his own.
“A pity you don’t read, Cattarina,” he said to me in confidence. “Murder has come to Philadelphia again, and it’s deliciously disturbing.” He tapped a drawing he’d been examining, a horrible likeness of an elderly woman, one eye gouged out, the other rolled back in fear, mouth agape. “Far from the City of Brotherly Love, eh, Catters?”
I trilled at my secret name. Everyone else called me Cattarina, including Josef, Shakey House’s stocky barkeep. He’d taken note of me on the bar and approached with bared teeth, an odd greeting I’d grown accustomed to over the years. When one lives with humans, one must accommodate such eccentricities.
“Guten Abend, Cattarina,” Josef said to me. His side-whiskers had grown longer since our last visit. They suited his broad face. He reached across the bar and stroked my back with a raw, red hand, sending fur into the smoke circling overhead.
I lay down on Eddie’s paper and tucked my feet beneath me, settling in for a good pet. Josef was on the list of people I allowed to touch me. Eddie, of course, held the first spot, followed by Sissy, then Muddy, then Mr. Coffin, and so on and so forth, until we arrived at lucky number ten, Josef Wertm?ller. Others had tried; others had bled.
“Tortoiseshell cats are good luck. Yes, Mister Poe?” the barkeep continued.
“I believe they are,” Eddie said without looking up. He turned the page and folded it in half so he wouldn’t disturb me.
“Such pretty eyes.” Josef scratched the ruff of my neck. “Like two gold coins. And fur the color of coffee and tea. I take her for barter any day.”
“Would you have me wander the streets alone, sir? Without my fair Cattarina?” Eddie asked, straightening. “Without my muse?”
“Nein,” Josef said, withdrawing his hand, “I would never dream.” He took Eddie’s empty glass and wiped the water ring with a rag. “Another mint julep. Yes, Mr. Poe?”
At this suggestion, Eddie turned and faced the tavern full of drinkers. A conspiracy of ravens in black coats and hats, the men squawked, pausing to wet their beaks between caws. Eddie called out to them, shouting over their conversation. “Attention! The first to buy me a mint julep may have this newspaper.” The bar patrons ignored him. He tried again. “I say, attention! The first to buy—”
“We heard you the first time, Poe,” said Hiram Abbott. He sat by himself at his usual table by the door. His cravat had collected more stains since our last visit, some of which matched the color of his teeth. Once the chortling died down, he challenged Eddie. “A newspaper for a drink? I’d hardly call that a fair trade.”
“Perhaps for a man who can’t read,” Eddie said.
Laughter coursed through the room, ripening the apples of Mr. Abbott’s cheeks. I longed to understand Eddie the way other humans did, but alas, could not. While I possessed a large vocabulary—agrandiose vocabulary in catterly circles—I owned neither the tongue nor the ear to communicate with my friend as I would’ve liked. Yes, I knew the meaning of oft-repeated words: refreshment, writing, check-in-the-mail, damned story, illness, murder, madness, and so forth. But a dizzying number remained beyond reach, causing me to rely on nuance and posture to fill gaps in understanding—like now. Whatever he’d said to Mr. Abbot pricked the man like a cocklebur to the paw.
Eddie continued, “My news is fresh, gentlemen, purchased from the corner not more than an hour ago. The ink was still wet when I bought it.”
“You tell a good tale, Poe,” said Mr. Murray, a Shakey House regular with a long, drooping mustache, “but I’ve already learned the day’s gossip from Silas and Albert.” He jabbed his tablemates with his elbows, spilling their ale.
“I see. Then you and your quilting bee are aware of the latest murder.”
Murder set the ravens squawking again. Josef, however, remained silent. He wrung the bar towel between his hands, blanching his knuckles.
“Speak, Poe!” said Mr. Murray. “You have our attention.”
A chorus rose from the crowd. “Speak! Speak!” Mr. Abbott sank lower in his seat.
Eddie shooed me from my makeshift bed, folded the sheets, and waved them above his head. “The Glass Eye Killer has struck again. The penny dreadful tells all, in gory detail.” His mustache twitched. “And for those of strong stomach…pictures on page twelve.”
The portly man who’d kept his shoulder to us most of the evening lunged for the paper, knocking Eddie with his elbow by accident. I returned with a low-pitched growl. The man stepped back, hands raised in surrender, and asked Eddie to “call off the she-devil.”
“I will if we can settle this like gentlemen,” my friend said.
The man tossed coins on the bar, prompting Josef to deliver a julep and Eddie to calm me with a pat to the head. But I had more mischief in mind. I sprang for the glass, thinking to knock it sideways and end our evening early. Muddy would be expecting us for dinner; she worried so when we caroused. But Eddie’s reflexes were still keen enough to prevent the “accident.” Disappointed, I hopped to the floor in search of my own refreshment.
Weaving through the forest of legs, I sniffed for a crust of bread, a cheese rind, anything to take the edge off my hunger. If I didn’t find something soon, I’d sneak next door to the bakery for a pat of butter before they closed. I could always count on the owner for a scrap or two. Above me, the room returned to its usual cacophony.
“Read! Read!” a man in the back shouted. “Don’t keep us waiting!”
Once the tavern settled, the gentleman who’d received Eddie’s paper spoke with solemnity. “The Glass Eye Killer has claimed a second victim and a second trophy, striking terror in the hearts of Philadelphians.” He paused, continuing with a strained voice. “This afternoon, fifty-two-year-old Eudora Tottham, wife of the Honorable Judge Tottham, was found dead two blocks north of Logan Square. Her throat had been cut, and her eye had been stripped of its prosthesis—a glass orb of excellent quality.”
“Mein Gott!” Josef said. “Another!” He left his station at the bar and began wiping tables, all the while muttering about “Caroline.” I didn’t know what aCaroline was, but it troubled him.
The reader continued, “Mrs. Beckworth T. Jones discovered the body behind Walsey’s Dry Goods, at Wood and Nineteenth, when she took a shortcut home. Why the murderer is amassing a collection of eyes remains a mystery to Constable Harkness. The case is further hindered by lack of witnesses. Until this madman is caught, all persons with prostheses are urged to take special precaution.”
I jumped from Hiram Abbott’s path as he neared, his strides long and brisk. “Let me see the picture,” he said to the portly gentleman. “I want to see the picture on page twelve. Imust.”
“I paid for it, sir. Kindly wait your turn.”
“Do you know who I am?” Mr. Abbott asked. “I am Hiram Abbott, and I own acres and acres of farmland around these parts.”