Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  I called out, “Francine, we’ve had an accident. Bring some men to help me carry Marc. He’s alive but unconscious.”

  “Unconscious?” Her voice spiked with alarm. “Yes. Right away.”

  Again I stared at the woman. She returned the stare—patient, emotionless. I whispered, “Who are you, really?”

  Michael stepped out from behind a nearby shelf. “Joan, we have already risked too much exposure.”

  She looked at him. “This man deserves an explanation. I sense integrity in him.”

  “Few of us receive what we deserve.” He extended a hand toward her. “Help me find Jean. We must all return to the catacombs before investigators arrive.”

  She let out a sigh and turned back to me. “I hope you are in a state of grace, Justin. I fear that your trials have only begun.” She took the lantern from me, and the three of them walked out of sight behind a shelf. The light from Joan’s lantern slowly faded.

  Now in darkness, I searched in vain for Marc’s candelabrum. New lights appeared, approaching at a rapid pace. Three men hurried toward me, one carrying a candelabrum. When they arrived, Francine appeared behind them, also carrying a light. Two men lifted Marc by his wrists and ankles and, without a word, began carrying him away, guided by the third.

  Francine stayed and swept her light across the fallen shelves. “Is this the accident you mentioned?”

  I nodded. “One of the shelves struck Marc. I stitched a cut on his head.”

  “You stitched it?”

  “He was bleeding to death.” I showed her my bloodstained hand.

  “So you saved his life.” She scanned the floor and spied the basket. “Where did you get the supplies?”

  Of course I ached to tell her everything, but surely she would think that I was a lunatic in an asylum. “I found it here in the library.”

  “You found the basket and stitched Marc without a light?”

  “I had a light. It’s a long story.”

  “Very well.” She again guided her light across the shelves, sniffing. “What is that odor?”

  My throat caught. “I ... I hesitate to tell you.”

  Her brow knitted tightly. “Where is Dr. Cousineau?”

  “Dead. Under the bookshelves.”

  She gasped. “Dead?”

  I nodded. “As I said, it’s a long story.”

  Trembling, she backed away. “I … I must see to my brother.”

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Francine, it was an accident. You can see for yourself that the shelves toppled. And if I were a killer, I wouldn’t have sewn Marc’s cut.”

  She halted and swallowed hard. “This is true.”

  “Something strange is afoot. I think the murderer is lurking here in the library.”

  Her eyes darted. “Then we’d better go. Now.”

  “Should I? Your friends already think I murdered your mother.”

  “You decide for yourself.” She removed a burning candle and gave it to me. “As I said, I must see to my brother. I will send someone for Dr. Cousineau soon, that is, if anyone is brave enough to come.” She turned and strode toward the staircase. Seconds later, she disappeared from sight.

  I stood alone, holding a single white taper.

  It is impossible to relate the many feelings that flooded my mind, but I will attempt to explain a few. In the midst of turmoil and shivering fear, I doubted my own sanity. And why wouldn’t I? The other options were too strange to believe. Either this old library housed four deranged people, or I had encountered ghosts who could walk in physical form. In either case, the boys had apparently committed two murders and had the potential to commit more.

  Not only this, but why was the martyr, Joan of Arc, acting as a teacher for a young version of her persecutor? Could the other pair, Michael and Jean, have a similar relationship? If so, who were they?

  I determined to investigate the matter, but with danger all around, both in the library and below on the ground floor, this was not the time, even though the thousands of books could lend a hand in research. Now I had to decide how to explain myself to Francine’s suspicious friends.

  Hoping to relax, I inhaled deeply. The odor of smoke and burnt flesh returned, now with more intensity. With the candle extended, I walked toward Dr. Cousineau’s resting place. A flame flickered. Smoke rose in a thin curl of gray. At any moment, these old books could erupt in an inferno.

  I pushed through the toppled debris again. When I reached the doctor’s body, I grasped his gendarme coat with my free hand and rolled him toward me. The moment he moved, flames shot up and spread like fiery locusts, devouring shredded books and splintered shelves.

  I stumbled back through the debris. “Michael,” I shouted. “Joan. Are you in here?”

  The growing fire roared and crackled, dashing any hopes that they could hear me. Maybe they had already left the building as Michael had indicated. I prayed for their safety and continued trudging through piles of books to escape the flames.

  Once in the clear, I ran toward the staircase and hurried down the dizzying spiral. When I reached bottom, I shouted, “The library’s on fire,” but found no one in the assembly room.

  The front door banged open. A wet breeze poured in. The chrysanthemum pots were scattered, some tipped over, as if a herd had stampeded into the storm.

  Breathing heavily, I scanned the room again. Whatever incited the escape must have been more frightening than lightning and floods. Perhaps another murder?

  I ran to the door and looked outside. Dozens of people hurried away on the carriage path, their heads low. Near the back, two men dragged something on a tablecloth, perhaps bodies. Covered by a cloak, it was impossible to tell who lay there, perhaps Marc and his mother. A man held a lantern at the front and another did the same at the rear, both constantly looking around as if ready to ward off a potential attack.

  Since they left me behind, they must have concluded that I was the murderer. They had to carry Marc to a physician, of course, but that mission of mercy required only a few capable men. And since they went on foot instead of carriages, they fled knowing the roads were washed out. They simply wanted to escape a greater danger by braving a lesser one.

  I sighed. Francine didn’t bother to come for me or even shout her intentions. She must have agreed with the others that I was the culprit, and the only person who knew otherwise lay unconscious on a makeshift litter.

  When the group had moved nearly out of sight, I retrieved my raingear, walked out of the school, and ventured into the storm. Although it rained heavily, the lightning had subsided. The only peril might be a stumble into a rainwater ditch.

  Cupping my hand over the candle, I slogged behind the others while keeping my distance. As long as I stayed in their path, I could watch their progress and avoid high water.

  To my rear, flames sprouted through the roof and sizzled on contact with the downpour, a battle between the fire and the storm. With so much fuel inside, the fire would likely win the clash, and the entire building would soon be engulfed.

  Maybe this result was a blessing. Surely the party guests could see the conflagration. Francine was sure to tell them that she left me behind. If I disappeared from society, everyone might assume that I perished in the blaze. The supposed murderer received his just deserts.

  Then again, my life would be ruined in a different way. No home. No job. No money. And worst of all, no way to rescue Justice from her travail.

  Somehow I had to survive, maybe take on a new identity and work for a different publisher. Since practically no one at the party knew me, maybe the police wouldn’t be able to track me down. If I revealed my new identity to Francine and Marc, maybe they would stay quiet for my sake. Their help would make my task easier, but I couldn’t count on their help or anyone else’s.

  As the rain eased, I trudged on. My only hope was for Marc to wake up and tell Francine of my innocence and how Dr. Cousineau died at the hands of Pierre. I
f I could stay out of sight until he recovered, perhaps all would be well.

  Chapter Four

  After walking a few miles to find a safe passage over the brook and later spending a chilly night in a barn under a horse blanket, I awoke to sunshine peeking through a hayloft window. A new day had dawned. The storm was finally over. I rose, stretched my stiff limbs, and returned the blanket to the horse stall. Now I had to emerge from my hiding place and learn whether or not I was a hunted man.

  I left the barn and walked the muddy path toward the city center, thankful for the boots and cloak that had kept me relatively dry. With a sun-warmed breeze flowing through my clothes and hair, I would be as good as new by the time I arrived at my flat.

  When I drew close, I lowered my head and slowed my pace. In weeks past, I had always been glad of the commissary in the building’s first floor. Its presence meant police protection. Who would burglarize our flat with a law-enforcement office in the way?

  Yet, now the office was my obstacle. If Francine or one of the guests reported me as a murder suspect, surely this office would be the first to be contacted by police headquarters. One or more officers might be happy to track down a penniless immigrant from England and throw him in jail.

  After passing the office without being accosted, I climbed the stairs and checked my pocket for the key. It lay next to the candle stub that had guided my way last night. I quietly unlocked the door and entered. Inside, Marc reclined on his bed and Francine on mine, both uncovered and still in costume, as if they had collapsed from exhaustion.

  I crept close to Marc and listened. He breathed easily, and his color was good. A quick check on Francine yielded the same observations. The wig now removed, her ginger hair spread across the bed, and the makeup that had discolored her face had been washed away, revealing her fair, freckled skin, including the oval birthmark on the side of her neck. No more the hardened soldier, she had transformed back into the feisty socialite.

  Why she and Marc came here instead of her house or a hospital, I could only guess, and I couldn’t stay to learn the reason. I had to pack my essentials and leave as quickly as possible.

  Moving without a sound, I withdrew a carpetbag from under my bed and filled it with my clothes and other personal items, though I omitted the book I was translating. Once I finished, I tiptoed toward the door.

  “Justin Trotter,” Francine said in a calm tone.

  I pivoted. She sat on the bed with her bare feet on the floor next to her shoes. Her expression was stoic, unreadable. “Yes?”

  “Where are you going?”

  I glanced at my bag. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I spoke to the officer in charge downstairs. I suggested that he allow you to come home. Staying here would indicate innocence. Fleeing would indicate guilt. If you leave, he will arrest you the moment you reach the street.”

  I set the bag down. “Why are you warning me?”

  Her voice and facial expression stayed perfectly calm. “Because I believe you are innocent.”

  “Then who reported the crime to the police?”

  “I did, Justin. She was my mother.”

  “Of course. I apologize.” I pulled my desk chair over and sat in front of her. “I hoped to stay out of sight until Marc wakes up. He was with me when someone set Dr. Cousineau on fire. He knows I’m innocent.”

  Her eyes sparkled with tears. “The fact that you stitched Marc’s cut is proof enough for me, but the police might think otherwise.”

  “Who do you think killed your mother?”

  She averted her eyes. “I hesitate to tell you.”

  “Why? I have no ties to any of your party guests.”

  When she returned her gaze to me, a tear rolled down her cheek. “You have ties to my brother.”

  My mouth dropped open unbidden. I looked at Marc, then back at Francine. “No.” I shook my head. “Just … no. Marc would never do that. His own mother? Francine, how could you—”

  “You don’t know Marc as well as you think.” She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Marc and Mother have had terrible fights in recent weeks. She kept threatening to remove him from her will if he didn’t alter his course in life.”

  I whispered in return. “Marc told me of their disagreements, including the disinheritance threats.”

  “Disagreements?” Francine laughed under her breath. “Justin, once she flew into a drunken rage and tried to stab Marc. On another occasion, she tried to poison him.”

  “Poison him? With what? How did he avoid it?”

  “Arsenic, I assume. Mother keeps it in the house for rats. One evening, she was drunk and kept insisting that he eat his soup. He threw it outside without considering that Mother’s new puppy was nearby, eager to eat any castaway food.”

  I imagined the scenario, including the unfortunate pup. “Did she confess?”

  Francine shook her head. “She swore she had no idea, but I knew better. She bought a supply of rat poison only two days earlier.”

  “Is it possible that she has offended others with her recent ill behavior?”

  “Possible, yes, but she tried to kill her own son. He had a clear motive.”

  “Revenge?”

  She nodded. “And survival, not to mention his inheritance.”

  “Marc is strong, but how could he have hanged her by himself?”

  “I have a theory.” Francine glanced around as if wary of ears in the walls. “Dr. Cousineau had a recent surgery mishap that resulted in death, and many of his patients are now going to other doctors. Rumors say he became an opium addict and needed money to maintain his habit.”

  “Do you think Marc promised him part of his inheritance?”

  “Maybe.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Justin, I feel like a traitor for even mentioning this, but what are the chances that Marc and Dr. Cousineau would be the first men at the scene with a knife ready to cut her down? And no one else examined her body. How do we know they didn’t kill her in an easier way and then hanged her so it would look like someone upstairs was to blame?”

  “Are you suggesting that Marc wanted to implicate me? That would be treachery.”

  A second tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry, Justin. It’s a terrible theory, I know, but it has more than crossed my mind. It has taken up residence there, and I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “Let me think a minute.” I closed my eyes. Images of the previous night streamed past. The idea that Jean could hang Madame Noël seemed ridiculous now. Here, in the light of day, the existence of a little boy living in a library asylum was absurd. Had I imagined it all? Michael, Joan, Pierre, and Jean? Was I losing my mind?

  Not only that, now Francine was more than hinting that her own brother murdered their mother. Did she expect me to agree with such a shocking assertion? Marc had been my friend for three years, and, besides a few snide remarks, he never showed any animosity toward his mother, certainly never an attitude of revenge or a threat of violence.

  I buried my face in my hands. “This is too much to take in.”

  “I know.” She touched my knee. “Let me change the subject for a moment and tell you why we’re here in your flat. I had Marc carried in because the way to my house was flooded. Then I sent for our physician, and he was able to make his way here and attended Marc during the night. Although he is worried about Marc staying unconscious ever since the party, the head wound doesn’t appear to be life threatening, and he should awaken after sufficient rest, which will allow the swelling to diminish.”

  “That’s a comfort.” I looked out the window. The water in our own street had abated. “The flood is receding. Will you go home now?”

  “I will see if the road is clear. If so, I will arrange for Marc to come home with me. But first I will speak to the officer and tell him that you’re staying, that there is no need to arrest you.”

  “But a murder has taken place, the killing of a wealthy woman. You know how Paris reacts to stories like this. To
morrow’s papers will set fire to kindling. The police will be pressured to arrest someone for the crime as soon as possible, and your party guests will point their fingers directly at me.”

  Francine let out a deep sigh, as if trying to summon the courage to say something difficult. “Justin, you claimed that we were together in the library right before the screams. I will gladly confirm that alibi if it will keep you from losing your head. I doubt if anyone will remember that I said otherwise.”

  “The two of us together? Do you mean …” I cleared my throat. “What of your reputation?”

  She bit her lip before replying. “That is a risk I am willing to take. Scandal is not as destructive as execution. I will recover.”

  New heat burned my ears. “I can’t let you do that, Francine. You can’t lie for my sake. The truth will come out.”

  “Let’s hope so, but I am still willing to be seen as your lover in order to save your life.” She gave me a coy smile. “Being matched with me wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

  “No. Of course not. I wouldn’t mind that at all. It’s just that I don’t want any shadow of scandal to fall on you. You don’t deserve it.”

  “I am thankful for your chivalry.” She grasped my hand. “Let’s do this. We can portray ourselves as courting. We’ll say that was the reason you came to the party, so I could introduce my suitor to my friends. Then if the tide turns against you, and it appears that you will be condemned, I will reveal our tryst in the library. That way, the revelation won’t come out of the blue.”

  Her coy smile returned. “Truth be told, I have admired you for quite some time. I need a man who speaks his mind, a man who isn’t afraid of my sharp tongue. It won’t take much for me to convince people of my affection toward you. And since you’re an actor, you won’t have any trouble either.”

  “Francine …” I enclosed her hand in both of mine. “Showing affection toward you won’t be an act. Be sure of that.”

  “Oh … I see.” Her cheeks reddening, she withdrew her hand. “I didn’t know.”

  “Does my confession spoil your plan?”