Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  I set Hamlet on the bench and walked with the candelabrum toward the source of the sound. With my light only one fifth of its former strength, making the floor ahead a dim mystery, I shuffled my feet to avoid tripping. At the same time, I reached for the lit candle, hoping to reignite the others, but its flame fell prey to another breeze.

  Darkness enveloped me. If not for the frequent lightning, I would be lost in a sea of shelves. With each flash, I took note of the distance to a shelf or corner, walked to it, and waited for the next bolt, taking care to make my way toward the mysterious thump.

  A new sound arose, a sort of mewing. Perhaps a cat had found its way to the open window and taken advantage of its good fortune—a dry place to spend the night.

  Now tracking the cat’s cries, I strode with more confidence that I had found the right path. Yet, as I drew closer, the cries took on a new character, more like human whimpering than a cat’s lament.

  A bright flash lit the room. Two paces away, a small boy sat with his back to a shelf, sobbing with his hands over his eyes. When darkness again veiled him, I imagined the son of a party guest becoming weary of the inane conversations. He had wandered upstairs to seek adventure and become lost in the maze of shelves.

  Not wanting to startle him with a call, I whistled a nursery-rhyme tune, though I no longer remember its name.

  Words blended in with his sobs. “Who’s out there?”

  A new flash provided another momentary view. The boy was looking straight at me, trembling, tear tracks evident on his cheeks. How he could see me in the dark was a mystery. Perhaps he was catlike after all.

  I attempted a cheery tone. “I apologize for disturbing you, young man. I heard a noise in this direction and wondered if perhaps a window had blown open. I feared for the well-being of the books.”

  He said nothing. Total darkness blanketed everything.

  Of course, suggesting that he was lost or afraid of the dark might injure his pride, so I thought it best to allow him to confess his own fears. “I heard your travail. Are you hurt? May I help you in any way?”

  “I’ve lost my primer.” His whimpering restarted. “If I don’t find it, my master will beat me.”

  “Your master? You mean a schoolmaster? Your teacher?”

  A lightning flash provided a glimpse of his tearful nod.

  I took a step closer, knelt within reach, and set the candelabrum down. “Well, we’ll just have to find it, won’t we? I will go downstairs and relight my candles. Then I’ll come back, and we’ll look for your primer together.”

  When I imagined leaving this poor, weeping boy alone in the dark, I decided against it. “Better yet, why don’t you come with me?” I reached for his hand but touched only air. Lightning flashed. The boy was gone. Vanished.

  I shot to my feet, stumbled back, and fell against the opposite shelf, my heart racing. Yet again lightning flashed, revealing a small book where the boy once sat.

  My hands trembling, I picked up the dust-covered volume and walked toward my reading bench, taking small steps to avoid tripping in the darkness. How could the boy disappear without a sound? No child could get up and run that quickly, could he? Perhaps the lightning pulses had disoriented my sense of time, and thunder masked the boy’s sounds.

  Having convinced myself of that idea, I settled my nerves. The boy had to be around somewhere. I thought to call out to him, but not knowing his name gave me pause.

  A glow appeared in the midst of the darkness, drawing closer. Perhaps Marc or Francine had arrived to escort me back to the party. I slid the book into a pocket in my breeches, picked up my candelabrum, and walked toward the glow. With no new lightning strokes brightening my path, I was glad for the radiant guide.

  As I neared the newcomer, five candles distinguished themselves, similar in arrangement to my own. The flames illuminated an unfamiliar man, slender and sporting a pointed beard. Dressed in what appeared to be a scholar’s robe from centuries past, he was obviously a party guest, though he wore no mask. Perhaps the first hour’s masquerade had ended.

  When we came within a few steps of each other, I stopped and gave him a nod. “Greetings, friend. Will you do me the favor of allowing me to light my candles?”

  “With pleasure.” He extended his candelabrum.

  As I lit mine, I spoke in a casual manner. “What brings you to this dusty book jungle?”

  He glanced around. “I am looking for a boy. He seems to have run off.”

  “I saw a boy, but he also ran from me. I lost him in the darkness.” When I lit the final candle, I looked him in the eye. “Are you his father?”

  The man offered a thin smile. “No, no. I am Michael, his teacher.”

  “His schoolmaster?”

  “A reasonable synonym, though I prefer teacher. I am master to no one.”

  I studied his face, the contours of his nose and chin. He appeared to lack the typical lines of the local Parisians, and his skin, darker than most, also gave evidence of foreign heritage, though he might have been wearing makeup. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from?”

  “I hail from Spain, but I have been in France for quite a long time.”

  “Which explains your perfect French.”

  “I certainly have had plenty of time to practice it.” Michael looked me over. “And I assume you’re an Englishman, a military man of some sort.”

  “From London, sir, but the uniform is merely a disguise for the festivities. My name is Justin.” I slid the book from my pocket and held it under the light—an old Latin primer. Had the boy been sitting on it the entire time? “When your student ran away, he left this book behind. Do you recognize it?”

  Michael took the primer and sighed. “Yes, this is Jean’s.”

  I gave him a disarming laugh. “He feared that you would beat him if you knew he lost it.”

  “Beat him? Nonsense. I have never laid a hand on that boy.” Michael’s brow bent. “If Jean had it with him before he ran, why did he fear punishment for losing it?”

  “I think he was sitting on it. He didn’t realize it was underneath him.”

  “No, he is never absentminded. He was playing a game, a mean one.” Michael looked past me. “Which way did he go?”

  “I don’t know. I reached for him to guide him downstairs, and he was gone in a flash. I was startled, but boys can be quick, I suppose.”

  Michael gazed at me in a quizzical manner for a moment before nodding. “Ah. I understand now.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Your confusion. Jean is, indeed, quick to disappear, especially under the cover of darkness. You are not the first to be startled by his antics. He enjoys such pranks.”

  I lifted my candelabrum. “I’ll be glad to help you search for him.”

  Michael shook his head. “It would be better if you stay away from him.”

  “Stay away? Why?”

  “He has a violent streak.”

  I laughed. “He’s just a boy.”

  “An unpredictable boy. Even a rogue. I am thankful that you escaped unharmed.”

  “Escaped unharmed?” I gave him a doubtful stare. “He’s no older than seven. What could he possibly—”

  “I have already said too much.” He patted my shoulder. “Perhaps you should get back to your festivities while I look for Jean.”

  “My festivities? Aren’t you also one of the guests?”

  “I am a guest, to be sure, but that is neither here nor there. The people on the ground floor are the reason I am looking for Jean. He is likely to give them a fright … or worse.”

  “Is he …” I searched for the right words. “Mentally unstable?”

  Michael cleared his throat. “He is … recovering … I hope.”

  “If he is unstable, then why are you here in this abandoned school?”

  His tone turned condescending. “Perhaps the building is not as abandoned as you assume.”

  “Then is it … an asylum?”

  “In a mann
er of speaking.” He nodded toward the spiral staircase and clipped his words. “I suggest that you go. Now. Leave Jean to me. Your presence here will serve only to agitate him.”

  I looked at the stairs. As before, the darkness below seemed terrifying. Apparently Marc and Francine had not yet succeeded in mollifying Madame Noël. “I prefer to stay. I am more comfortable with books than I am with people.”

  “I cannot force compliance, but you must be careful lest something evil befall you.” Michael’s dark eyes seemed penetrating as he altered to a warning tone. “If you see Jean, stay away from him and call out to me. I am the only one who is able to handle him.” He walked away in the direction I had seen Jean.

  As he faded into the darkness, I sat on the bench, set the candelabrum down, and picked up Hamlet. I stared blankly at the pages and listened to the violin downstairs. The new mysteries stirred in my mind. What an odd place to house an asylum, especially since Monsieur Haussmann planned to destroy it. Did Michael know of the demolition plans? And how could that boy harm anyone?

  Mother, the confusion raised reminders of what we discovered in the attic. Father looked like a stranger. Blood dripped from his hands, a man who had never harmed a fly. I will never forget his face, a mask of rage as you screamed for me to run. Although I wanted to know the identity of the woman who hung from the rafters, I obeyed. I ran and never stopped running.

  If such a man as my father could do harm, then maybe a boy could devise a harmful scheme. A prank, perhaps? A trip line that causes a stumble? Who could tell what evils a lunatic boy might conceive?

  Then a counter idea dawned on me. Could it be that Jean was the victim, and Michael, the unassuming teacher, was actually a predator? Was his story a lie? Had I betrayed Jean by giving his approximate whereabouts to a vindictive schoolmaster? Certainly I owed it to Jean to find out.

  I dropped the book, snatched the candelabrum, and walked toward the area where I had met Jean. Again a breeze threatened to snuff the flames, prompting me to cup my hand in front of the candles as I hurried on.

  After meandering around various shelves, I found the open window and shut it, stifling the breeze. I held the candelabrum high. Nothing but shelves and books met my view, certainly no sign of Jean or Michael.

  “Captain?”

  I turned toward the voice. A woman holding a lantern walked toward me, my costume’s hat in her other hand. As my eyes adjusted to her lantern’s brighter glow, she came into focus. Francine had finally come for me, still dressed in her Joan of Arc costume, though now without a mask. “Francine, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  She walked to a point just out of reach and stopped, her expression blank. “My name is Joan.”

  I narrowed my eyes. For some reason, she looked more gaunt than usual. “If the masquerade game is still going on, why did you remove your mask?”

  “Mask?” She tilted her head. “Why would I wear a mask?”

  “Ah. Right. No one can see you while you’re up here.”

  When she gave me the hat, her expression hardened. “Captain, you should go now.”

  I put the hat on. “Has your mother’s anger subsided?”

  She blinked in a confused manner. “My mother is no longer with us.”

  “Did she fall ill?”

  “No, she is not ill.” She curled her arm around mine. “Come. I will lead you out.”

  I resisted her pull. “Francine … I mean, Joan. I saw a boy here. Scared. Crying. He feared his schoolmaster. I’m concerned for his safety.”

  She shook her head. “Michael is not a danger to Jean.”

  “You know them?” I nodded. “Of course you know them. You know everyone here. Then why is Jean so frightened of Michael?”

  “It is a ruse, I assure you.” She pulled again. “Come. You must leave at once.”

  This time I walked with her, matching her hurried gait. “Where is Marc … I mean, Bishop Cauchon? Is he behaving himself tonight?”

  “No better than usual.” She halted near the spiral staircase and squinted at me. “Have you seen him?”

  “Not since I came up here.”

  “Good. I told him to stay out of sight.” She lifted the lantern and let the glow seep into every crevice in the walls and bookshelves. “I will search for Jean. If he is here, my lantern will find him.”

  A woman’s scream pierced the air, coming from the first floor. Another followed, along with a third, then silence. Even the violin hushed.

  Francine set a hand on my back. “Go. Hurry.”

  With the candelabrum still in hand, I ran down the spiraling steps while blowing out the tapers. On the first floor a group of about ten party guests crowded an interior door near a far back corner of the assembly hall. Marc stood high within the inner room, perhaps perched on a chair. With a knife in hand, he sawed a taut rope as his cassock sleeve swayed with the effort.

  I squeezed through the crowd until I made my way into the room, apparently a small lounge where more guests stood shoulder to shoulder. A woman dressed in a jester’s costume dangled limply at the rope’s end, a noose around her neck.

  I dropped the candelabrum. Madame Noël?

  When the rope severed, Marc and another man guided the woman to the floor. Then Marc straightened and waved an arm, shouting, “Get back, everyone. Give her room.”

  As the guests pulled away, murmurs and whispers buzzed in my ears.

  “Is she dead?”

  “Did anyone see what happened?”

  “She wasn’t feeling well. She excused herself to sit here for a while.”

  I again pushed past guests and broke through to the inner circle. Madame Noël lay on the floor with Marc’s helper kneeling next to her, setting a hand on her neck and another on her chest.

  I grasped Marc’s arm. “Is she …” I couldn’t speak the word.

  Marc heaved quick, shallow breaths. “I don’t know, Justin. Dr. Cousineau will tell us.”

  The doctor, dressed as a gendarme, poked and prodded. His long nose twitched, raising an image of a sniffing hound searching for a scent. The bald spot atop his middle-aged head, however, brushed the image away.

  He looked up. “She is dead. Her neck is intact. I assume she strangled to death.”

  The news spread across the room like a fanned wildfire.

  “Suicide?” a man called from the crowd.

  “Murder?” a woman asked.

  Marc stood on tiptoes and scanned the room. “Has anyone seen—”

  Footsteps clattered from the assembly room staircase. The party guests divided. Francine ran into the room, holding a lit candelabrum. When she saw her mother’s corpse, she staggered toward Marc, gasping, “Marc? Marc? She’s alive. Tell me she’s alive.”

  “Sister …” He took her candelabrum, handed it to a nearby woman, and wrapped Francine in his arms. “She’s dead.”

  “No, no, no!” Francine buried her face in Marc’s cassock and let out a wordless wail.

  While others wept with her, Dr. Cousineau rose and looked into the crowd. “Who found Madame Noël?”

  One of the cat sisters raised her hand. “About an hour ago she said she wasn’t feeling well. When she didn’t return to the party, I came here to check on her.”

  The doctor pointed at the chair. “Was this here?”

  She shook her head. “Marc dragged it over.”

  “Then suicide seems unlikely. We should call an inspector.”

  A woman dressed as a pirate spoke with a shrill voice. “If we have a murderer in the building, shouldn’t we leave? One of us could be the next victim.”

  “We all have to stay here,” Marc said. “The bridge over the brook washed out, and the Seine is flooding. Travel is unsafe. We will have to conduct an investigation ourselves.”

  Dr. Cousineau scanned the room. “Did anyone see anything peculiar? A stranger in our midst, perhaps?”

  The cat sister pointed at me. “He’s the only person I don’t know. He insulted Jacqueline, so she told him to leave.
I thought he was gone, but here he is.”

  “Now, Sabina,” Dr. Cousineau said, “let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m sure the storm prevented his departure.” He turned toward me with an arched bushy brow that seemed friendly enough. “Where have you been, young man?”

  “Upstairs. Reading.” My voice trembled. “Marc’s suggestion.”

  “It’s true,” Marc said. “Francine and I told him to go.”

  “And I was there the entire time,” I added. “I ran down when I heard the screams.”

  Still supporting Francine with one arm, Marc grasped my wrist. “Did you see anyone up there? A stranger?”

  “Marc, everyone here is a stranger to me, but I did see two people, a man and a boy. Michael and Jean.”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  I ran my hand along an imagined beard. “He has a beard that tapered to a point. Dressed in a scholar’s robes. Dark. A Spaniard, he said. He claimed to be the boy’s schoolmaster.”

  Marc shook his head. “He doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Francine knows him.” I pointed. “Ask her.”

  She brushed tears from her cheeks, her voice fractured by sobs. “I don’t … know of any guest named … Michael. And no children … are here.”

  “No children?” The little girl who looked like Justice came to mind, but I decided not to contradict Francine. “You were in the library with me only a moment ago. We were together at the top of the staircase when we heard the screams.”

  “Justin …” Francine took a deep breath, which seemed to settle her spasms. “Justin, I went up there to bring you back to the party. When I heard the first scream, I was at the far side of the library. I had to run through a dark maze of bookshelves before I could get to the stairs.”

  As I gazed at her, confusion swirled. How could she lie without a hint of guilt? And why? While upstairs, she had been mysterious, even macabre when she said, My mother is no longer with us. Francine knew Madame Noël was dead. Could she have committed the murder? If so, why did she go upstairs and tell me about her mother’s death? Nothing made sense.