The Raven of Liberty: Cattarina Mysteries, #3

By Monica Shaughnessy

The untold story behind Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven."

In this final installment of the Cattarina Mysteries, Poe House is thrust into turmoil when Constable Harkness's cousin enlists Sissy and Cattarina's help in finding his missing fiancée. The only clue resides in the nest of a raven, and it's up to a certain feline to retrieve it. So begins the hunt that takes the two ratiocinators from the Delaware waterfront to the Liberty Bell. 

As the mystery deepens, Cattarina reconnects with a friend who’s vital to finding the missing woman or at least her body. But this dredges up the past and reveals Cattarina’s growing dissatisfaction with Eddy and their tumultuous relationship. At the story’s unexpected conclusion, Cattarina is left to wonder whether her life is one she’s chosen or one to which she’s been doomed. 

With their hilarious, sometimes hair raising plot twists, well-developed characters, and immersive Victorian settings, the Cattarina Mysteries are a purrfect match for fans of cat cozy mysteries, historical mysteries, and Edgar Allan Poe. If you like a little cat hair with your literature, download a copy today! 

>>Cattarina Mysteries (in order)<< 
To the River: Rescue by the Schuylkill (the prequel) 
The Tell-Tail Heart 
The Black Cats 
Mr. Eakins' Book of Cats (the illustrated companion to The Black Cats) 
The Raven of Liberty

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jumping Jackalope Press
• Release date: Feb 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524284701

Monica Shaughnessy

Monica Shaughnessy has a flair for creating characters and plots larger than her home state of Texas. Most notably, she's the author of the Cattarina Mysteries, a cozy mystery series starring Edgar Allan Poe's real-life cat companion. Ms. Shaughnessy has seven books in print, including two young adult suspense novels, a middle grade superhero novel, an Easter picture book, a cozy mystery novella, and numerous short stories. Customers have praised her work time and again, calling it "unique and creative," "fresh and original," and "very well written." If you're looking for something outside the mainstream, you'll find it in her prose. When she's not slaying adverbs and tightening plots, she's walking her rescue dogs, goofing around with her family, or going back to the grocery store for the hundredth time because she forgot milk. The best way to learn about her books is to join her mailing list, which can be found on her website: www.monicashaughnessy.com. You'll receive advance release notices, special discounts, and the occasional ARC.

Book preview

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Philadelphia, 1843

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The Death of a Beautiful Girl

AUTUMN ARRIVED WITH THE subtlety of a hungry dog, menacing Philadelphia with biting frost and howling winds far earlier than usual. This change in weather darkened my already perilous mood. Several moons had passed since my old pal Midnight’s departure on the wagon train, yet the tom’s memory still troubled me. I’d persuaded myself some time ago that staying behind to care for Eddy, Muddy, and Sissy benefited everyone, even this particular cat. And I believed it until George and Margaret Beale, my feline neighbors on Green Street, had kittens. With this seemingly happy event, I sank deeper into my melancholy until I wondered if Eddy and I had switched places. Thank the Great Cat Above, a singular and somewhat bizarre event roused me from self-pity.

One dampish afternoon, I perched on the parlor windowsill to watch Sissy work the square piano. Frequent coughing spells prevented young Mrs. Poe from singing, but she could still tap the keys in exquisite patterns. I watched her fingers until a tickle at the end of my tail compelled me to look beneath the half-lifted sash and onto the street. Cats possess an intuition humans do not, and mine had warned of the approaching stranger—a young man with a dark suit and bright-blue waistcoat.

Enjoying the music, Cattarina? Sissy asked me. I am playing Brahms, just for you.

I flicked my ear in response. I couldn’t take my gaze from the gentleman outside. As he walked along North Seventh, the street nearest our kitchen, he would pause at each house, appraise it with a mumble, and move on to the next. In between stops, he would set and re-set his top hat on his head, as if no angle suited his skull. While I couldn’t predict his desired destination, my tail did so with ease: Poe House. My appendage may be a scoundrel at times, attracting burrs as wantonly as kittens to spilled cream, but it does not lie, and the severity of my itch increased with the young man’s growing proximity.

While Sissy played, her eyes closed and her earlocks danced. The hem of her claret wool dress cloaked her feet as they pressed the pedals. Eddy entered and sat in the rocking chair nearest the hearth. Naïve souls. Neither knew of the impending visit. Once the last piano key had been struck, Eddy clapped. Marvelous! You see, Sissy? Your abilities remain, even after a month of bed rest.

My abilities remain, but my spirits do not, Sissy said. She closed the piano lid and took another rocking chair next to Eddy’s. Do tell, what are you working on today, husband? I am beside myself with boredom.

At present, I am writing a poem about a parrot, trained by some unhappy master, who taunts a grieving lover.

The gentleman turned down Minerva, our street, and glanced at the markings on our front post. Then he struck up a conversation with himself, shrugging several times in reply. My whiskers shot forward, detecting his anxiety.

A parrot, you say? Sissy said with hesitation. What an interesting choice.

"Henry Hirst likes my choice, and he owns a bird emporium. He tucked his thumbs in the V of his waistcoat. However, I will defer to your judgment, wife, as you have been helpful in the past."

The gentleman opened our garden gate and walked toward our door with a halting stride. I meowed, announcing our guest. Eddy and Sissy had descended too deeply in conversation to notice.

You are the celebrated author, Eddy, not me. Sissy winked. "I read it in Godey’s last week."

"In Godey’s, you say? Heavens, I must be the talk of the town. Eddy rocked his chair, squeaking the runners. That was no mere puff piece. The editors admired my Prose Romances. His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘The reputation of this author is deservedly high for originality, independence, a perfect command of the English language, and a certain easy and assured mastery of every subject which he handles.’ Or at least, that’s what I think they said."

She laughed. Have you have memorized the entire review, my dear? In only a few days?

I must occupy my time somehow, he said. I am determined to please both the critics and the public with my writing. The more I know, the more I am convinced of my strategy. Nothing excites popular tastes more than the death of a beautiful girl. But if the tale is told masterfully—

The stranger’s knock interrupted him. I continued to watch through the window as old Muddy answered the door. The young man removed his hat, releasing a bramble of whisky-hued hair untamed by pomade. More mumbling. He’d tied his cravat tightly round his neck, giving his chin an artificial incline.

Are you expecting anyone? Sissy asked Eddy.

Before Eddy could answer, Muddy leaned into the room. She clutched the doorframe with a veined hand, her skin chapped by hard work. It’s for you, Virginia.

Sissy sighed and rose to her feet. Thank you, Mother. Tell Doctor Leabourne to come in, and I—

It’s not the doctor. It’s another gentleman. She glanced at Eddy. And he wants to speak in private. She lowered her voice. He’s waiting for you outside.

Eddy raised his eyebrows.

I’m sure it’s nothing, Sissy said to him. A tin man or a tincture peddler. I’ll be right back. She left the room, her face bright. An instant later, she exited onto the porch.

The gentleman whirled to face her. Are you Virginia Poe? he asked, his cheeks flushed. Of course she is, Nathanial. What an imprudent question, he said, seemingly to his shoes. He looked up again, addressing Sissy, I just didn’t expect you to be so young.

I am twenty-one, sir, she said, and old enough to know I shouldn’t talk to strangers.

He thrust his hand forward to shake. He withdrew with embarrassment when she did not accept. Forgive me. I’m Nathanial Hodge, Librarian for the Philadelphia Athenaeum.

Eddy tiptoed across the room and sat on the settee near the window, settling in to listen.

That is well and good, Mr. Hodge, Sissy said, but why have you come today? Did my husband forget to return a book? He takes so many, I shouldn’t wonder.

No, no, it’s a personal matter, he said.

Eddy cocked his head toward the window. "Did he say personal?"

Then I am not sure I can help, Sissy said to her caller.

I should explain. Will you walk with me? the man asked. Mr. Hodge, I presumed. People usually followed handshakes, even failed ones, with this pronouncement. I do not pretend to understand the inner workings of the human mind. Their crude speech patterns, however, are easier to intuit, even if most of the language is lost in translation.

I don’t know you, Mr. Hodge, Sissy said. I should think not. She reached for the door handle.

Eddy straightened and nodded. Quite sensible of her, eh, Catters? He stroked my back, releasing a crackle of sparks.

Please, Mr. Hodge said. It’s a matter of importance. He lowered his voice to a whisper. Constable Harkness is my second cousin. He says you have certain...criminal insights.

Constable Harkness? Had a crime been committed?

Blast it all, I can’t hear, Eddy said. He leaned closer to the window and huffed. Is he hoping to court my wife? Beneath my gaze? What gumption.

Your second cousin? I see. Sissy clasped her hands together. Then tell me, Mr. Hodge, how is Matilda Harkness these days? I hear she’s busy with charity work at the almshouse.

Oh, Mrs. Poe, Mr. Hodge sputtered, I’m ashamed tell you, but Matilda is a house plant and a very large one at that!

Sissy laughed. Then you really are whom you say you are, and you must need my help. She nodded in the direction of Spring Garden. You can walk me to the market and back. That should give you time to explain.

I was hoping to visit the Christ Church Burial Ground.

Sissy’s lips parted.

Christ Church Burial Ground? Eddy said. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. Had Doctor Leabourne stopped by, he would’ve given my companion a tonic and sent him to bed on suspicion of rabies. What can this man want? he said more to himself than to me.

Mr. Hodge continued, It’s terribly far, so I’ll hire a cab. And Mrs. Poe? Can your cat come along?

Cat and come along—at last, terms of familiarity. Ignoring Eddy’s protests, I slipped through the open window and landed on the soft earth below. An invitation had been proffered, and concern had driven me to accept it, for I had yet to form a complete opinion of Mr. Nathanial Hodge. Moreover, a summer of axes and cellars and murderers had sapped Sissy’s vitality. Even after bed rest, her constitution was still as thin and weak as the soup Muddy had served for luncheon. Someone needed to mind the dear girl. Besides which, an afternoon frolic suited me. Eddy hadn’t written anything weightier than correspondence since late summer, and I’d become more of a paperweight and less of a muse these last few days. I whisked along Sissy’s skirt, offering my services or, at the very least, my fur.

I think she’s eager to come along, Mr. Hodge said, stooping to pat me on the head. I rebuffed his advance and hissed. I have always been a stickler for proper introductions. Cousin Harkness said your tortoiseshell is a feisty one. Now I see for myself.

Sissy scowled at me. Let’s just say she knows her own mind, Mr. Hodge.

As does her mistress, he said to his shoes again. Odd man.

Sissy picked me up and whispered into my ear, Behave, Constable Claw. She leveled her gaze at Mr. Hodge. "Before I go anywhere, I must know why you need my help. But please, speak softly."

It’s my fiancée, Frances Dowdrick. She disappeared three days ago, and I fear harm has come to her. She may even be dead. Mr. Hodge blinked to clear his eyes. His cravat moved beneath a heavy swallow. That’s why we must leave at once for the burial ground. I’ve stumbled upon a clue, you see, and I’m hoping your cat can retrieve it. Cousin Harkness boasted of her cunning as well. When Sissy bit her lip, he added, And we would be back before dark.

Eddy lifted the sash and hung his head out the window. Virginia? Are you returning soon? Or should I come out and introduce myself to your gentleman caller?

Sissy lifted her reticule from a hook inside the door. You have convinced me, Mr. Hodge, she said under her breath. Let us hurry. Still holding me under her arm, she strode the front walkway and exited the garden gate with our visitor close behind. I’ll return by dinner, Edgar. Mr. Hodge is taking me to the market for turnips. You will not miss me. You have your parrot poem!

The Flying Cattarina

A BLOCK FROM HOME, Mr. Nathanial Hodge hailed our cab. As a frequent passenger of omnibuses, I had forgotten the luxury of private conveyance. What hardship, public transport, traveling without benefit of silken curtain and velvet cushion! From Sissy’s lap, I peered out the carriage window and marveled at the patchwork of colorful neighborhoods and a large public garden she called Franklin Square. It reminded me of Rittenhouse Square but had an orderliness that bored me. Imagine my surprise when our rig stopped before a cemetery. Since Constable Harkness’s name had been uttered, I assumed we were bound for a murder. Well, if one had been committed here, the killer had saved relatives the trouble of carrying their loved one to his or her final napping place—all in all, a tidy piece of thinking.

Won’t be long, Mr. Hodge said. He flashed his teeth. Just a short walk.

Once Sissy carried me through the wrought iron gates, I railed against her grip until she set me near a marble headstone. A vast piece of land, the burial ground held the usual carved markers and statues and