by Jim Musgrave
The door was finally burst open by the men, who then piled inside, out of breath and brandishing pistols, rifles and even a few swords. McKenzie himself walked up to me, his great chest heaving, and he said, “Which way did he go, O’Malley? The bugger was right down the street from us, did ya know? My man followed ya here.”
“You won’t catch him, Walter,” I said, “He’s gone by boat below. Look after Becky inside that casket.” Thank goodness, Walter had kept a bodyguard on me after all!
Walter turned to look at the tall casket and opened the front door slowly. Seeing the sharp spikes aimed at the lovely woman’s breasts, legs and arms, he cursed, “Damnation!” But when Becky began to laugh at him, Walter became enraged. “What’s this?”
“He drugged her. Get her out of there. Reynolds said he would get to me later,” I said. “What do you think he meant by the cat already being out of the bag?”
“Ya missed somethin’, me boy-o. There’s a person you’ve passed by without lookin’ at ‘em close enough. Go back over yer case and see who it is. That’s all I can tell ya,” said McKenzie, and he huffed as he picked up Becky and stood her outside the Maiden.
After untying both of us, McKenzie told us he wanted to go out and search for Reynolds anyway. Three of his men had already left before him, so he was going to catch up.
I walked over to him and hugged his huge shoulders as best as I could. “You saved our lives, Walter. I will never forget it. I owe you my life,” I said, and I looked into his eyes with admiration. “And I’m so very sorry about your wife,” I added, remembering his other motivation.
“All right, O’Malley. Stop yer blubberin’. Take the lady home and give ‘er some whisky. She needs to get serious!” said McKenzie, and he walked daintily over the broken slats and pieces of wood to get to the outside.
I took Becky back to my cottage. She was still unnerved from the nitrous oxide in her system, and I didn’t want to risk leaving her downtown in her “office.” We were going to stay together until this monster Reynolds could be stopped permanently.
I looked up into the night sky. The clouds passed the full moon in slivers of gray. One cloud was shaped like a cat, and my thoughts returned to what Reynolds had said. There was something I missed when I questioned one of these suspects, and I was going to do everything in my power to find out before Reynolds could make another attempt at my life. Next time, I might not have the Plug Uglies to come to my rescue. There is a guard outside my cottage, however, just in case.
Chapter 11: The Visitor
The next morning, Becky was at the little pantry fixing breakfast. She was in her white muslin underdress, and her blonde curls bobbed provocatively upon her neck as she stirred the pancake batter.
I sat at the table in the tiny kitchen. I wore my nightshirt and slippers. We resembled a couple at home enjoying the beginning of a new day instead of two survivors of a kidnapping and attempted murder.
“Do you recall anything that happened to you yesterday?” I asked, hoping to perhaps elicit some new information about Reynolds that I had not heretofore known.
Becky turned around to face me with the spatula dripping batter. She held her hand under the drippings to catch them. “All I can recall was a sense of complete joy and thoughts of humorous frivolity. In fact, my entire idea of what happened was a belief that my father had taken me to a circus that was in town. I thoroughly enjoyed the sideshow of inventions. What really happened, O’Malley? I am quite fearful to ask.”
“I finally met Mr. Joshua Reynolds. It appears he now is not adverse to hire thugs of his own to assist him in his work. I had set a trap for him right here. Reynolds, however, appeared out of nowhere to inflict a drug into my body that worked instantly to disable me and render me unconscious. This was what happened to you, as well. He used nitrous oxide, known as laughter gas, on you. That is why you were acting with such frivolity.”
“I see! I am certain this drugging played no part in my being here, now did it? Not that I am entirely disappointed at our rendezvous. I have never had the immanent pleasure of seeing you in your lounging attire, for example. That in itself is worth laughter gas.” Becky poured the pancake batter upon the skillet on the wood-burning stove. The odor that emanated from the browning cakes set the entire cottage aglow with delicious temptation. In addition, she threw two long slabs of side pork into a greased frying pan. When that began to pop and sizzle, Poe’s cottage became a wonderland of homespun decorum.
“We need to think about what happened last night. How does it fit into the overall case? This Reynolds could have done us in without any problem. Why did he take us to that macabre den of torture?”
Becky brought over the stacks of pancakes and set some on my plate and then fewer on hers. She then returned to the stove and brought over the two slabs of bacon. She placed these slices on our plates as well, and we began to eat.
“Obviously, Reynolds was not pleased that I set him up with my little business ruse. I don’t know about what he told you. I was quite out of the picture because of the drug he administered to me.” Becky chewed a forkful of pancake, smothered in butter and maple syrup.
“He told me about his fascination with Poe and his writings. He also admitted that it was he who killed the author, and he wanted to somehow pay tribute to Poe’s work by using those instruments of torture on special victims such as ourselves.” I took a piece of pork and put it together with the pancake on my fork and shoveled it into my mouth. Becky was quite a good cook. It was much better than the fried steaks and potatoes I had eaten for many days.
“Do you think he’s just toying with us? Was he actually going to kill us, or did he simply want to show us how he used the instruments?” Becky was being the excellent devil’s advocate once again.
“I think he was serious. It was simple happenstance that he had his little den in the same neighborhood as McKenzie and his gang. I just cannot get the cat image out of my mind. He told me the ‘cat was out of the bag already.’ What can that mean? I know, McKenzie said it meant I missed something when I was interviewing suspects, but what did I miss?” I picked up my coffee mug and took a healthy draft.
“Remember what I told you about your feminine side? This is a chance to utilize it. You must relax, first of all. I have been meaning to get you relaxed for years now. There is only one way you can become supremely relaxed enough to be able to focus on the past and remember exactly what you might have missed.” Becky smiled conspiratorially at me from over the brim of her mug. Her green eyes were magnetic.
“Do you seriously believe that having an intimate relationship with you will give me the power to see things?” I was quite doubtful, and my masculine stubbornness did not want me to accept such a ridiculous proposal. I had successfully repelled Miss Charming for over four years, through battles and gunfire, and I did not want to break down my defenses now.
“Think about where we are, Patrick,” she said, rising up from her seat and walking, very cat-like, over to my side of the table. She then sat down on my lap and put her arm around my neck! I was frozen with more fear than if I were facing a row of Confederate cannons on the horizon. Her perfume wafted into my nostrils and permeated my very existence. “Edgar Allan Poe, your benefactor, lived in this very cottage with his only bride, Virginia. They shared the most intimate moments together. Where do you think he got his inspirations to write such interesting mysteries?” Becky reached over to her silk sleeve and brought it down over her breast. There it was, staring me right in the face. It was a pleasantly rotund mound of pinkish flesh with the nub of paradise at its center. “Now, just imagine this is a pancake, Patrick. I’ve put a cherry on the top for you to enjoy! Please, take your pleasure, and we can proceed from there.”
My mind was filled with the past. Explosions of cannon fire, shots fired past my head, screaming comrades falling over in the mud, the cold winter frost biting into me, and all these horrors were making my body contract and pull inward. It was as if my body was at wa
r with the feminine presence of Becky. I did not want to go into her deep, passionate embrace, but I kept remembering what she had told me about finding my inner female and the ability to intuit what I needed to know about this case, so I found myself succumbing to her charms. “Becky Charming,” I whispered, as my mouth moved over her breasts, gently lapping my tongue over her hills and valleys. At last, I picked her up and carried her to Virginia’s bedroom.
We were both breathing heavily as I set her down on the mattress and followed her lead. She guided my hands most skillfully, showing me how to arouse her most native passions. The room began spinning, and I clutched at her before the moment came to enter the void. This was a moment I had always feared as a boy and as a young man. Would I be devoured? Would I lose my strength and become a weakling?
The explosions were all around me and I began, but as we slowly started moving together, in a most natural and sustaining rhythm, the fear and the violence of my life gradually started to fade. My body took over the moment, and the past became obliterated inside her. I felt cleansed as I became the one who exploded, and I fell back, completely exhausted, on the bed. Beneath me, Becky was writhing and humming to herself. She looked up at me and said, “See? Now you can become a vessel for the other world.”
I then fell into a deep sleep on that bed where
Edgar Allan Poe’s young bride finally passed on, leaving her man a broken and dark figure in the world of lonely spirits and plotting men of fortune. I dreamed of the cat from Poe’s story, “The Black Cat.” Its one-eyed ferocity made me squirm and become fearful, and yet it was coming toward me, its back raised in anger, its hissing fangs snapping in the air like tiny daggers. I then saw the inside of John Anderson’s mansion. I was following those Garibaldi twins down the passageway and to my right and to my left were the animals. I seemed in my dream to be in the heart of a great jungle, with waterfalls and misty rainforest vegetation all around, and the stuffed animals came alive. Anderson stood alone at the end of the hall, beckoning me forward with his hand. The two cats were on his shoulders, digging into his coat like demons; one feline was pitch-black and the other was a tortoiseshell, like Poe’s pet, and yet they both seemed crazed and growing out of Anderson’s body. Yes, there was no point where the claws of the cat ended and Anderson’s shoulder began. They were fused together into one creature! This screaming and hissing being came toward me, and I awoke, shouting, “Poe! Edgar! I shall save you!”
“Patrick! Darling, what is it?” Becky moved toward me in the bed, her two breasts grazing my chest.
“I saw Anderson, the crazy tobacco store tycoon, who employed the girl who was murdered—Mary Rogers. The cats were in it as well. They seemed to be perched on his shoulders. However, they were part of his body! Their claws were fused into him. What could this mean? Do you suppose Anderson was involved in Poe’s murder? If so, how did it happen?”
Becky stared hard at me. “I told you it would work. The moment you broke through your barrier to women, you were able to see the clues you had missed previously. What was in Anderson’s house that gave you this premonition? This will perhaps lead you to the final break-through you were looking for in your investigation.”
“Let me put the facts together. If Poe wrote the story for Anderson to mislead the press and the police, then Anderson could have something to cover up. Mary Rogers had at least one aborted child. She also lived in the Anderson home with her mother. If John Anderson got her pregnant, then he must have wanted her to get rid of the child to avoid the scandal. But, according to McKenzie, it was Anderson’s wife who came to see him about getting Mary to Madam Restell. Why did she come to McKenzie? What was the link between Poe and the Anderson family?”
“I think you will have to visit Anderson again to answer that. Also, what about the cats? I promise you, Patrick, your intuition is now at its greatest power. You must find out if it works. Go now, before you lose the thread of gold,” said Becky, wrapping both her arms around my neck. I knew I would have to leave at once before I was pulled back into her garden of earthly delights.
I rode Sherman II over to Sleepy Hollow and Anderson’s place. As I rode past the forest, this time I felt the uncanny presence of Poe permeating the atmosphere. His dark reality made the willows weep with extra fervor, and the sounds of the primitive force that kept things in the universe balanced, the way the Transcendentalists said it was, filled my head with reverberations that sent my mind reeling with fantasies. Was I at last on a path to finding out who killed my revered Edgar?
A tall man in black clothes stood in front of me on the path in the moonlight. He was beckoning me to stop. I pulled up Sherman II and the man called out, “Don’t be frightened, my good man! I am Pastor Ralph Newsome. Are you headed to the Anderson mansion?”
I was surprised that someone would be out in the woods at this time of the evening, but the gentleman looked to be in distress. “Yes, I am. What ails you, my good man?”
“I am concerned about the master of the house, John Anderson. Passersby had reported to me that he has been acting quite strangely these days. I did not want to report him to the authorities, as he is a well-respected neighbor and a contributor to our community in many ways.”
I was interested in what this reverend had to say. If my theory about Anderson were correct, then this could be corroborating evidence. “What say you then? How should I be concerned?”
“People have reported that he runs outside to warn them of ghosts and other spectral apparitions. We are worried that he might do harm to himself or others. If you go there, could you please tell him we are concerned?” The pastor looked very disturbed.
“Thank you for the information. I will try to advise him, and I will be discreet.”
“I thank you, kind sir. I hope Mister Anderson’s mental faculties are better tonight. Please tell him Ralph Newsome asked after him. We used to play chess together when he was less encumbered.”
“I will do that. I have noticed his peculiar behaviors, and I am happy to hear the community is aware of them.” I gave Sherman II the heels of my boots, and I was on my way again, but I was perhaps even warier about what I would discover when I arrived.
The mansion looked even more foreboding as I pulled up. I noticed that the grounds had not been taken care of and there were extra steel bars on the windows. It also took almost fifteen minutes before anybody answered my knocking on the front door. When the door finally opened, the usual Garibaldi guards did not greet me. Instead, it was the master of the house, John Anderson. His appearance was quite disheveled, and his hair and beard were in disarray, as if he had not groomed himself in days. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep or from some drug, and his voice sounded distant and much less authoritative than at our previous encounters.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, pulling open the door. “Won’t you come in? I was just going to sit down to eat.”
I followed the short man into his abode, looking around me as if I were back in my dream. Certainly, there were the stuffed animals on all the tables. Why hadn’t I noticed them before? Anderson led me back into the kitchen. There was no butler or maid to do the cooking, so the room was filled with used pans, pots and iron skillets. The smell was disgusting. Rats were running back and forth among the spilled garbage, and maggots had infested some of the leftover meat that was on the pewter plates.
“Would you care for some victuals?” Anderson asked, and he pulled a long pan from the oven. It was covered with a large lid, and he grunted as he carried his dinner over to the table. The long table was stacked with even more plates and wine glasses, strewn all about over the surface. “This is the delicacy I prefer most these days,” he added.
I watched the old man as he sat down on the chair. He kept waving his hands in the air at something only he seemed to be aware of. “I already ate. But you may certainly go ahead,” I told him.
“He has been visiting you also, hasn’t he?” asked Anderson, tucking the large, previously
used napkin inside his white shirt collar.
“He? I don’t understand.”
“Poe, of course. He has come to drive us mad. I suppose he believes he can relieve his own murderous guilt by haunting us, but I have my own ways of handling this kind of torture.” Anderson raised the metal cover from the pan, and inside were two roasted cats! They had not been cleaned of their fur. They were whole and open-mouthed, their fangs showing amidst the gravy from the juices of their bodies. I felt an immediate need to vomit, but I held back with great effort.
“What is this? Have you lost your mind completely?” My voice was filled with suppressed rage.
“The witch who visits me gives me these recipes to keep Poe’s devil spirit from attacking me. I can send her around to you as well, if you wish.” Anderson began to plunge his fork into the meat on the leg of one of the cats, and his eyes bulged out with frantic eagerness as he pulled the meat off the bone.
Despite the conditions of his mental depravity, I knew I had to question him about the murder. This was my last chance to solve the mystery of Poe’s death, and I needed one more clue to fit into the puzzle.
Chapter 12: The Solution
“Why did you want Poe killed?” I asked him. There was no longer any time for niceties. My life had been threatened, and Becky’s safety was also at risk.
“I never wanted Poe killed. I want his haunting to stop, that is all. He is the murderer! He killed Mary, and he’ll kill anybody who stands in his way.”
