by Bryan Davis
“Justin,” Marc said, breaking into my dark reverie, “you appear to be spellbound. Were you going to say something else?”
“I … uh …” I averted my gaze. “Nothing at the moment. Apparently my memory is failing. I feel as if I have taken a blow to the head.”
“As we all feel, I’m sure.” Marc stared at me as did everyone else in the room. Their eyes felt like daggers, pointing fingers. I had to help them find the killer as quickly as possible.
I looked at the ceiling a few yards above. The rope appeared to run through a gap between two broken boards. “The murderer must have fastened the rope to something in the library. Some of us should search for clues up there.”
“I will go,” Dr. Cousineau said.
“And I.” Marc retrieved Francine’s candelabrum and vaulted onto the chair. He swung toward the assembled group and spoke with an authoritative voice. “The three of us will go upstairs to see what we can learn. Everyone else stay together. No one is to go anywhere without escort.”
He jumped down to the floor, kissed Francine, and strode into the assembly room while I followed and the doctor trailed. As we ascended the stairs, the candles cast a familiar glow. When we reached the library, Marc lifted the candelabrum high. Light poured into the gaps between the shelves, though not as brightly or with as much depth as the lantern had.
I stared at the candelabrum. Francine had it with her when she descended the stairs. Yet, when I met her here, she was carrying a lantern, the one she claimed she could use to find Jean, which meant that it was still somewhere in the library. Why would Francine switch from one to the other?
Dr. Cousineau pointed toward the area where I had found Jean. “The rope’s fastening point has to be in that direction.”
Marc led the way again, now with more deliberation. Taking uneasy steps, he shifted the candelabrum from side to side and peered between shelves. As when I walked along this same path, lightning flashes added to the illumination. I watched for any glimpse of movement, whether from Jean or Michael. Of course, calling out their names would be foolish. After contradicting Francine in front of her friends even while she suffered wretched grief, I, the stranger in their midst, was likely already a prime suspect, or at least considered insane. Why confirm either suspicion by calling for people who, according to Francine’s most recent words, weren’t here?
When we reached the farthest corner, Marc’s light passed across a rope that ran from the floor upward into darkness.
“We should get a ladder,” Dr. Cousineau said. “A knot can provide a clue to who tied it.”
Marc nodded. “A sailor’s hitch, for example.”
I hoped my captain’s uniform wasn’t the reason for Marc’s suggestion. I decided against asking. “There are ladders leaning against some of the shelves.”
Dr. Cousineau looked at Marc. “I saw one a few rows back. Perhaps the two of us should get it.”
“No,” I said. “We should stay together.”
The doctor gave me an icy stare. “I prefer that Marc and I conduct this investigation from this point on. Without you.”
“Without me? What exactly are you saying?”
“I am saying that it would be better for you to be ignorant of our findings.”
“But …” My retort died. He probably already considered me guilty of the crime. How could I insist on anything?
Marc patted Dr. Cousineau’s back. “Please give me a moment with Justin.”
“Very well.” The doctor plucked a taper from the candelabrum. “I’ll find the ladder. Call me when you’re finished.”
As Dr. Cousineau walked away, Marc looked at me, the glow of the four remaining candles highlighting tears in his eyes. “Justin, I …” His lips trembling, he looked away.
“Marc, I’m your friend. What are your thoughts?”
He heaved a deep sigh. “My thoughts are a jumble. I barely know which way is up. My mother is dead and …” His voice pinched. “And my last conversation with her was an argument, just an hour before she died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Very sorry.” I dared to probe further. “What did you argue about?”
His voice became a hammer. “About you, Justin.” The words bounced off the walls in echoed shouts. After a moment of silence, he whispered, “I apologize.”
“No need. These are tragic moments. I understand the pain.”
“As well you should.” A flash of lightning highlighted Marc’s sympathetic expression. “Justin, how old were you when the police arrested your father?”
“Seven. A month past my birthday.”
“And they never found your mother.” He averted his eyes again. “You suffered two tragedies in one night.”
I didn’t bother to claim once again that my mother was still alive somewhere. He had heard my attestations many times before, calling them questionable theories at best. “I have had time to heal. Your tragedy is fresh and raw. Don’t hold back. Say what’s on your mind.”
He lifted his brow in a skeptical manner. “Really, Justin? Do you really want me to say what’s on my mind?”
The pain in his voice gave me pause, but I couldn’t retract my offer of solace. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Well, I’m thinking what Francine is likely thinking. What everyone at the party is likely thinking.”
As he took in a deep breath, his pause swelled, ready to explode. “And that is?” I prompted.
He followed with a longer, louder sigh. “That you killed my mother.”
My own voice rose. “What? Marc, are you serious? You know I could never hurt anyone.”
“You asked me to say what’s on my mind. It’s madness, of course, and the better part of me doesn’t believe it, but my thoughts are barking dogs that refuse to stay quiet. And judging the way the other guests looked at you, I’m certain they have already found you guilty. Dr. Cousineau has as well, which is why he doesn’t want you to help us investigate.”
“Because I’m the stranger in their midst.”
“And because you insulted the victim. Because you were out of sight and had plenty of time to conceive and execute the murder. No one else had motive or opportunity.”
A foolish thought entered my mind—to mention Francine’s statement about her mother no longer being with us—but I thought better of it. “You’re right, Marc. I am the obvious suspect, but I assure you—”
“No need. I know you’re innocent. We just have to find the real culprit. I merely wanted a moment to explain Dr. Cousineau’s hesitance.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “we have left him alone too long.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Marc turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dr. Cousineau? Can you hear me?”
Only a distant rumble of thunder replied.
Marc sniffed. “Do you smell smoke?”
I inhaled, detecting a waxy odor. “Candle fumes?”
“No. It’s more than that.” Light erupted from beyond a nearby shelf—a fire.
Chapter Three
We ran toward the fire, past two sets of shelves and into a gap between two others. A heap of books burned in wild, crackling flames. Something moved underneath.
I whipped my coat off and beat the flames with it while kicking books. Marc set the candelabrum down, stripped off his cassock, and used it to smother the fire. Soon, we extinguished it except for a few scattered embers.
Dr. Cousineau, his clothes burned away and his body blackened, moaned. Marc and I knelt next to him, one on each side. “Dr. Cousineau,” Marc said, coughing in the midst of thick smoke. “What happened? Who did this?”
The doctor’s mouth opened, though his melted lips clung to each other by thin strands. “A boy. P … Pierre.”
“Pierre?” I looked at Marc, clearer now as the smoke lifted toward the ceiling. “Remember I mentioned Michael and Jean? Michael is Jean’s schoolmaster. Maybe he has another student named Pierre.”
“My sincerest apologies for doubting you.” Marc grasped
the doctor’s ankles. “Let’s get him downstairs.”
I wrapped my hands around the doctor’s hot, sticky wrists. The moment we lifted, something thudded nearby. The sound repeated again and again. Then the bookshelf to my left toppled, slammed into the shelf to my right, and knocked us down. Loud cracks erupted as the fragile wood snapped over my back.
I lay sprawled over the doctor. A pile of books and the fractured shelf pressed me down. I called, “Marc, are you all right?”
No one answered.
Setting one hand on each side of the doctor, I pushed against the floor. The shelf cracked further, and books slid off my back. As I straightened, I rose until I stood upright.
Unable to see through the darkness, I reached down and felt Dr. Cousineau’s wrist. I detected no pulse.
The smoky odors choked me. “Marc?” I pushed forward, breaking shelves with my feet and fists and tossing books aside until I found him. I felt along his body and found his wrist. His pulse throbbed, fast and even.
Now heaving quick breaths, I cleared the debris away, grabbed Marc under his arms, and dragged him to a clear part of the floor, guided by helpful flashes of lightning. After laying him on his back, I knelt at his side and patted his cheek. “Marc, can you hear me?”
He offered no response.
I felt for broken bones but found none. I ran my fingers across his scalp and came upon a gash, perhaps five inches in length, though it was impossible to tell how deep. Blood matted his hair, warm and wet. “I have to get you downstairs. You probably need sutures.”
The moment I slid my hands under his arms again, a light glowed in the distance, coming closer at a rapid pace. Within seconds, Francine appeared, running while holding a lantern. When she arrived, she set the lantern down, knelt next to me, and looked Marc over. “He is breathing.” She was calm, strangely calm, as she ran her fingers through his hair. “He has a severe cut on his head.”
“Yes, the bookshelves fell over.”
“I can see that.” Her terse reply added to her unusual demeanor. “I smell smoke.”
“Someone set Dr. Cousineau on fire. Before he died, he said a boy named Pierre did it.”
Francine swung her head toward me, her eyes aflame. “Pierre set a man on fire?”
I nodded. “Do you know him?”
“I do, indeed. He is my student.”
“Student? I knew you teach sewing, but to a boy?”
She returned her gaze to Marc. “I have taught many men how to sew. Now you must learn if you want to save his life.”
“I’ll be glad to. But why can’t you stitch his wound?”
“I must search for Pierre while you stitch.” She peered at Marc’s cut again. “The bleeding is profuse. We should cauterize the vessel.”
“Cauterize? Do you know how to do that?”
“Of course.” She picked up the lantern and hurried away, calling back, “Use your hand to put pressure on the wound. I will return in a moment with what we need.”
As the light faded, I sat on the floor and pressed a trembling hand against Marc’s head. Hot and sticky, his scalp seemed feverish next to my cold skin. In contrast to my shaking limbs, Francine seemed calm, miraculously calm, in spite of her brother’s dangerous wound and her mother’s tragic death. Perhaps some sort of survival mechanism had taken control, an instinct implanted by God Almighty for such a time as this.
Soon, a bobbing light appeared. Francine ran into view, carrying a small wicker basket. When she arrived, she set the lantern and basket on the floor, removed the lantern’s glass enclosure, and withdrew a long metal nail from the basket. She wrapped a black cloth around the nail’s head and placed the point in the wick’s flame. When the nail reddened, she passed it and the cloth to me and continued talking while threading a needle. “Now do exactly what I tell you. First, lift your hand from the wound.”
I did so, staring at Francine’s steady countenance. I had never seen such a commanding aspect in her personality before. When she finished with the needle and set it down, she slid the lantern close to Marc’s head, picked up a white cloth and scissors from the basket, and cleared hair and blood from around the wound. “Do you see where the bleeding is heavy?”
“At the middle of the cut?”
She nodded. “When I finish cleaning the wound, apply the hot nail. I will show you how. Then I will guide you through the first few stitches. After that, I must find Pierre.”
Other than the initial sizzle of the cauterization and the renewed stench of burnt flesh, I remember little of the actual surgery. Perhaps my own survival mechanism came upon me, and stress and urgency wiped the details away. Still, Francine must have taught me well. My senses returned as I was tying the final stitch. The bleeding had stopped, and the gash had become a line of black, knotted threads.
When I finished, I put the nail and thread in my pocket, pushed the needle into my shoe leather, and used the cloth to absorb the remaining blood, then looked around. Francine was gone.
After finding the cassock and making it into a pillow for Marc, I rose to my feet, picked up the lantern, and lifted it high. The bright light washed over the toppled shelves. Five had fallen, the last of which leaned against an upright shelf that stood ninety degrees askew from the others. The mysterious arrangement had kept the remaining shelves from toppling.
A small human shape moved beyond the upright shelf. I took a step closer and extended the lantern as far as my arm would reach. Francine had said something about the lantern being able to find Jean. Maybe his mental illness caused him to be drawn to its light.
I called, “Jean? Is that you?”
A pair of eyes glowed in the midst of the darkness, but the child, whoever he was, stayed quiet. Yet human eyes don’t glow in the dark. Light had to be casting a ray upon them from somewhere.
Still, the haunting visage sent shivers across my skin. Perhaps a murderer stared at me from the shadows. I shook off the feeling and ventured another call. “Pierre?”
“Who are you?” The reply was soft, timid, definitely the voice of a boy.
“I am Justin Trotter. And you?”
“Pierre Cauchon.”
The name raised memories from my history studies. Pierre Cauchon was the bishop who persecuted Joan of Arc. Why would this boy claim that name? Considering Francine’s and Marc’s disguises, the coincidence was too incredible to believe. “Pierre, I know you set a man on fire.”
“He deserved to die. He lied to me.” Pierre walked into the light. Dressed in a long, white shirt and black hose and shoes, he appeared to be the same age as Jean, perhaps six or seven. His piercing eyes added a sinister element.
Not wanting to give him access to Marc, I stayed in place. “I heard that Francine is your teacher.”
He shook his head but offered no explanation.
“Come now. She told me herself that she’s your teacher.”
“Then she lies.” His face reddened as he spat out, “I hate lies.”
I shuddered. Pierre’s venom removed all doubt that he, indeed, murdered Dr. Cousineau.
“Pierre?” Francine appeared from the shadows behind Pierre and grabbed his wrist. “I have searched everywhere for you.” He tried to pull away, but she held tight.
Still extending the lantern, I took a step closer. “We should call the police. The little demon is a murderer.”
“He is a demon and a murderer.” Francine pulled him toward me, forcing him to stumble along. When they came within a few paces, she stopped. “Yet there is no need to call the police. We must make sure the people downstairs leave at once.”
Francine’s manner of speech once again struck me as odd. Her usual diction had changed. And why would she call her guests the people downstairs? “Didn’t you hear that the bridge washed out? Travel is dangerous.”
“Remaining here is also dangerous, likely more so than leaving.”
“Because this is an asylum for the criminally insane?”
Pierre tried to run, but Francine je
rked him back to her side. “That is not quite accurate, but if using that label will help you chase the people away, then so be it.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand. If you knew this place is dangerous, why did you have a party here? And Pierre said you’re not his teacher. What’s going on?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Pierre said that? It is not like him to lie.”
Pierre tried to pull away again. “I didn’t lie. He said someone named Francine is my teacher.”
“Francine?” She cast a hard stare at me. “Who is this Francine? You mentioned her earlier.”
The strangeness of her words added to my confusion, a stormy nightmare that wouldn’t end. For some reason she had decided to play a role, to continue the game, perhaps for her dead mother’s sake. Who was I to object to her means of coping with grief? I could play along. “I apologize, Joan. You look very much like a Francine I know.”
“I accept your apology, but apologies are not going to protect your friends downstairs. Jean is still missing, and he is unpredictable.”
“Did he hang Madame Noël?”
“It is possible, though using fire is more common for both him and Pierre.”
Again her words fomented turmoil. How could she be so intimately acquainted with these murderously insane boys? “Will you help me carry Marc downstairs? Since the people are your guests, you have to be the one to dismiss them.”
“You are mistaken. They are not my guests.”
“What?” I shook my head. “You’re not making sense.”
“Marc?” A woman who sounded like Francine called from the direction of the staircase. “Justin? Are you up here?”
My hands trembled. “Yes,” I called in return. “Who are you?”
“Francine. Are Marc and Dr. Cousineau with you?”
I stared at the woman and boy in my company. Who were they? Were they both mad? Lunatics in an asylum? Yet, how could this Joan of Arc impersonator look exactly like Francine?
“You should answer your friend,” Joan said. “With Jean lurking, she could be in danger.”