wheezing
from the exertion, he arrived at the Arnold’s razed home and set me on the
sidewalk. Easily half the neighborhood had gathered to view last night’s
accident, including Mr. Cook and Mr. Eakins. The men and women clustered around
the debris, forming a wall of parasols, flat-brimmed Quaker hats, and the odd
top hat. “Pardon me,” Eddy said, pushing between them. “I must get to the
front. I am here on important business.”
I
slipped through the human fence and meowed for Eddy to join me near the alley. The
fire had blackened the bricks of the brownstone next door, but the building had
experienced no real hardship. The blaze hadn’t jumped the alley or the street
either, which meant I’d caused no harm to the innocent, unless you counted Mrs.
Arnold. The guilty, however, had paid dearly. The cobbler shop, adjacent to the
rear of the property, had suffered damage to its back wall but remained largely
intact. Little remained of the home, save for a charred timber skeleton and a
few determined walls.
“I do
not see Mr. Pettigrew’s supernatural evidence, do you, Catters?”
I
meowed and sniffed the still-wet pile of wood.
“By the
by, I feel sorry for Mrs. Arnold,” he said to me. “Though I am not sure about
Mr. Arnold. If he did hang the black
cat, this may be divine retribution.” He smoothed the back of his hair. “Or
maybe he went on a spree before coming home and fell asleep with candles
aflame. Mr. Arnold was quite the tippler, Catters.”
“Tippler,
indeed,” said the woman at Eddy’s elbow. A lady of some wealth—not a
Quaker—she wore a silken blue gown with a lace-paneled neckline. She
closed her parasol with a snap. “In all my days, I’ve never seen a man more
taken with drink than Abner Arnold. I don’t know how his poor wife copes. She’s
up half the night, crying and pacing, waiting for him to come home from the
tavern.” She pointed to the charred home next door with her umbrella. “I live
right there, and I see everything. Everything .”
“Madam,
was Mr. Arnold a cruel man?” Eddy asked her. “Capable of, say, cutting out a
cat’s eye?”
She
touched her breastbone and frowned. “He’s never been a kind man, always quick
with his fists. Many a night I’ve heard them quarrel, and many a morning I’ve
seen bruises on Mrs. Arnold’s face. But these last few months, he’s gotten
worse. Much worse.” She shook her head. “It’s the drink, I tell you. It rots a
man’s brain. And don’t tell me otherwise, because I read it in Godey’s. Thank
goodness the temperance movement is taking hold in Philadelphia.”
Eddy
pressed her. “The accident…do you think it was supernatural?”
“That’s
what Mr. Pettigrew says. He’s been in and out of the shops this morning,
spouting nonsense about ghost cats and revenge from the grave. He’s a regular
Dickens.” She huffed. “It’s got nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do
with spirits.”
Eddy
nodded thoughtfully. The woman tried talking to him a while longer, but he’d
already withdrawn into his thoughts. I brushed his leg to bring him round. “I
do not like keeping company with Abner Arnold, Cattarina. I am convinced he
killed Pluto in a drunken rage, and it frightens me that I—”
“Look!”
Mr. Cook shouted. “It’s the ghost cat!” One large, flabby arm shot forward, and
he pointed to a plaster wall near the center of the wreckage. It had fallen
straight down from the second story and remained upright, bolstered by scorched
furniture and twisted stovepipe.
The
woman in blue shaded her eyes. “Wait! I see it! Mr. Pettigrew was right.” She
caught her breath. “And it’s got a rope around its neck!”
Try as
I might, too many legs prevented me from seeing the ghost cat.
“Oh,
me! A sign from the Other Side,” Mr. Eakins said above the crowd. “I knew Abner
Arnold killed the poor creature, and this proves it!”
A
series of exclamations rose from the men and women: “Strange!”
from the exertion, he arrived at the Arnold’s razed home and set me on the
sidewalk. Easily half the neighborhood had gathered to view last night’s
accident, including Mr. Cook and Mr. Eakins. The men and women clustered around
the debris, forming a wall of parasols, flat-brimmed Quaker hats, and the odd
top hat. “Pardon me,” Eddy said, pushing between them. “I must get to the
front. I am here on important business.”
I
slipped through the human fence and meowed for Eddy to join me near the alley. The
fire had blackened the bricks of the brownstone next door, but the building had
experienced no real hardship. The blaze hadn’t jumped the alley or the street
either, which meant I’d caused no harm to the innocent, unless you counted Mrs.
Arnold. The guilty, however, had paid dearly. The cobbler shop, adjacent to the
rear of the property, had suffered damage to its back wall but remained largely
intact. Little remained of the home, save for a charred timber skeleton and a
few determined walls.
“I do
not see Mr. Pettigrew’s supernatural evidence, do you, Catters?”
I
meowed and sniffed the still-wet pile of wood.
“By the
by, I feel sorry for Mrs. Arnold,” he said to me. “Though I am not sure about
Mr. Arnold. If he did hang the black
cat, this may be divine retribution.” He smoothed the back of his hair. “Or
maybe he went on a spree before coming home and fell asleep with candles
aflame. Mr. Arnold was quite the tippler, Catters.”
“Tippler,
indeed,” said the woman at Eddy’s elbow. A lady of some wealth—not a
Quaker—she wore a silken blue gown with a lace-paneled neckline. She
closed her parasol with a snap. “In all my days, I’ve never seen a man more
taken with drink than Abner Arnold. I don’t know how his poor wife copes. She’s
up half the night, crying and pacing, waiting for him to come home from the
tavern.” She pointed to the charred home next door with her umbrella. “I live
right there, and I see everything. Everything .”
“Madam,
was Mr. Arnold a cruel man?” Eddy asked her. “Capable of, say, cutting out a
cat’s eye?”
She
touched her breastbone and frowned. “He’s never been a kind man, always quick
with his fists. Many a night I’ve heard them quarrel, and many a morning I’ve
seen bruises on Mrs. Arnold’s face. But these last few months, he’s gotten
worse. Much worse.” She shook her head. “It’s the drink, I tell you. It rots a
man’s brain. And don’t tell me otherwise, because I read it in Godey’s. Thank
goodness the temperance movement is taking hold in Philadelphia.”
Eddy
pressed her. “The accident…do you think it was supernatural?”
“That’s
what Mr. Pettigrew says. He’s been in and out of the shops this morning,
spouting nonsense about ghost cats and revenge from the grave. He’s a regular
Dickens.” She huffed. “It’s got nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do
with spirits.”
Eddy
nodded thoughtfully. The woman tried talking to him a while longer, but he’d
already withdrawn into his thoughts. I brushed his leg to bring him round. “I
do not like keeping company with Abner Arnold, Cattarina. I am convinced he
killed Pluto in a drunken rage, and it frightens me that I—”
“Look!”
Mr. Cook shouted. “It’s the ghost cat!” One large, flabby arm shot forward, and
he pointed to a plaster wall near the center of the wreckage. It had fallen
straight down from the second story and remained upright, bolstered by scorched
furniture and twisted stovepipe.
The
woman in blue shaded her eyes. “Wait! I see it! Mr. Pettigrew was right.” She
caught her breath. “And it’s got a rope around its neck!”
Try as
I might, too many legs prevented me from seeing the ghost cat.
“Oh,
me! A sign from the Other Side,” Mr. Eakins said above the crowd. “I knew Abner
Arnold killed the poor creature, and this proves it!”
A
series of exclamations rose from the men and women: “Strange!”
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