by Bryan Davis
“No, no. You just took me by surprise. After all, we have had some ... shall we say ... intense conversations.”
“True. Your surprise is warranted.”
“In any case, as I told everyone last night, I went upstairs to bring you back to the party. I never denied seeing you there, so I won’t be contradicting myself when I confirm that you were in the library at the time of the murder.”
“A lie?”
“A white lie. To protect the innocent.”
I looked at Marc. “And what of the guilty?”
“Yes. Marc.” Francine withdrew a handkerchief from an insert in her costume and dabbed her eyes. “All we can do is allow the investigation to take its course. Mother had a few guests who hated her, so you won’t be the only suspect.”
“Will Marc be a suspect? Will you tell the police what you know?”
She slid her feet into her shoes, simple black leather, nothing ornamental, perfect for Joan of Arc. “Only if the investigation leads to pointed questions.”
“For example, if an inspector learns of your mother’s recent rat poison purchase.”
She nodded. “Or our dog’s untimely death.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s a reasonable lead to follow.”
“I had better go.” She rose and kissed me on both cheeks. “Au revoir, my newly discovered admirer. As I said, I will speak to the officer and send someone for Marc.” Without another word, she walked out and closed the door.
I stared at the wall, my muscles flaccid. Were Francine and I now a couple? It seemed so. One of my dreams was coming true. I just had to survive the investigation.
Mother, I hope you can understand my perspective at that time. I saw many fine qualities in Francine. Of course you would not approve of her lies, no matter the shade, but in my view, perhaps colored at the moment by emotion, her motivations were pure. It would have been easy for her to blame me for Madame Noël’s death, absolve her brother, and share the inheritance with him. She could have turned on me that very day and used her wealth against me. A few Napoléons in a judge’s pocket weigh far more than a peasant’s plaintive cries for mercy.
My legs weak, I rose and picked up my carpetbag. Obviously I couldn’t leave now, but what if an inspector decided that I was the most likely suspect after all? Maybe he wouldn’t believe my alibi. The danger was not yet over. It would be better to keep my bag packed and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
After changing to my travel clothes, I sat on Marc’s bed near his bare feet. Since sunshine infused our room with a healthy dose of warmth, he would be comfortable uncovered.
I whispered, “Marc, can you hear me?”
He stirred, and his eyes shifted under their lids, but he stayed quiet.
Warmth and silence opened the gateway to exhaustion. Since I had slept so little, it would be best to try to recover. Sleep would be a welcome retreat from my worries.
I took off my shoes and lay on my bed. As I drifted toward sleep, images of the previous night again swam through my thoughts. Jean, Michael, Joan, and Pierre were so real. How could they have been figments? Even Dr. Cousineau had seen Pierre. If the boys really were the murderers, then Marc and the doctor, of course, were innocent. But how could I find the truth, or, even more difficult, prove it?
My respite proved to be short lived. After less than an hour, a police officer arrived accompanied by two large, muscular men. While the men lifted and carried Marc out, the officer glared at me, his thick eyebrows dipping low and his mustache twitching as if incited by suspicious thoughts.
He glanced at my carpetbag, still sitting near the door. Although he said nothing about it, he likely came to the conclusion that I was planning to leave. At that moment, fear insisted that I run for my life, and in the same breath it demanded that I stay put. The second command won out, mainly because my legs refused to budge.
When the men left, I lay down again, this time unable to sleep. After a few moments, my door swung open, but no one stood in the stairway. Perhaps the officer had left the door ajar, and a breeze from downstairs pushed it open.
The moment I sat up to close it, Francine, wearing the pageboy wig once again, peeked around the jamb. “The men are gone?”
I rose to my feet and nodded. “Come in.”
When she walked in, her shoes drew my attention, made of thick leather, earth tones instead of black. My gaze shifted to her face, darker and void of freckles. A shudder ran through my body. “Joan?”
“Yes, of course.” She pivoted and looked at the stairwell. “Don’t be scared. He won’t hurt you.”
Pierre walked in and took Joan’s hand. Today the boy seemed much less sinister. In fact, he appeared childlike as he looked around with wide eyes.
The idea of two ghosts entering my flat affected me in a peculiar way. I felt no terror as I might have expected, though my legs quivered as I stared at these two apparitions, or whatever they might have been. Yet, even the tremors seemed void of fear. Their source seemed to be excitement, perhaps even familiarity.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I asked.
Joan touched the boy’s head. “Pierre wishes to tell you something.”
“By all means.” I gestured toward my chair. Joan took that seat while Pierre sat cross-legged on the floor. I rested on my bed, folded my hands, and gave him a nod. “What do you want to tell me?”
He looked me in the eye. “I didn’t set the fire. I didn’t kill that man.”
His quiet yet firm voice helped settle my tremors. “That man is Dr. Cousineau. He said that you did do it.”
“I scared him but not on purpose. I only told him my name. He fell, and his candles dropped on some books. Then when he tried to get up, he pulled more books down on himself. I think maybe he broke a bone. That’s why he couldn’t get up.”
Pierre’s story seemed unlikely. Although the books were old and falling apart, how could they catch so quickly without the addition of a flammable fuel? And who thwarted our rescue efforts?
I gave the boy a hard stare. “How did the shelves tip over?”
He shrugged. “Maybe the wind? I don’t know.”
“No, I closed the window before it happened.” I looked at Joan. “Have you questioned Jean about this?”
She shook her head. “I have little to do with Jean and know only what Michael tells me.”
“Could such a small boy have pushed the bookshelf over? Or climbed the rafters to fasten a hangman’s rope?”
Her expression turned sorrowful. “Jean is capable of almost anything. His heart is still quite dark and filled with malice.”
“Joan …” My hands began shaking, though again I felt no fear. I refolded them tightly and set them on my lap. “I need to know who you really are.”
She touched her chest. “I am Joan, the Maid of Orléans, daughter of Jacques and Isabelle from the village of Domrémy. In my time, I was in command of the army of France.”
“What I mean is, what are you now? You died centuries ago.”
She smiled. “You are asking how I rose from the dead and came to be in charge of Pierre.”
“Yes. Are you able to spare the time to tell me?”
“Only a little. Pierre gets anxious if he is in the company of strangers for too long.”
“I understand. Feel free to leave whenever you must.”
Chapter Five
As if copying my pose, Joan folded her hands on her lap and looked at me with attentive eyes. “Pierre Cauchon was the primary instigator of my persecution and the main reason I was burned at the stake. He was cold and calculating. He longed for my death. In his eyes, I was a witch, a sorceress. How could any woman, an untrained peasant, hear directly from God, especially one who wore the garments of a man? At first I thought he was simply protecting the clergy and his office of bishop, but his obsession with my trousers convinced me of his insanity.
“In any case, I resurrected in my nineteen-year-old body, while Pierre resurrected as a c
hild. I am teaching him how to love and not hate, how to see beyond his blinders, to understand that God is not a respecter of educational status or wealth or clothing. God can speak to a king or a peasant, to a scholar or a knave, whether they wear finery or rags. He even used an ass to deliver a message to a prophet, so choosing a woman in trousers as his message bearer should be no surprise. Surely we are of greater nobility than an ass.”
I stared at her while processing her nearly inconceivable explanation. Many questions rushed through my mind. I asked the one that seemed the most obvious. “What is the purpose? If Pierre heeds your teaching and reforms, what then?”
“I do not know. I am merely carrying out what I have been called upon to do. I have ventured guesses, of course. Perhaps he will be given another chance at life, become a true shepherd of souls, wielding a gentle crook instead of a harsh whip. And perhaps I will find better rest in heaven knowing that I played a part in his reformation. Yet, there is no way to be sure. Since Pierre is so stubborn, he might never reform. Maybe this exercise is simply a way to show him that he deserves the punishment reserved for hypocrites like him.”
“Did one of your angels tell you to teach him?”
She nodded. “Saint Michael the Archangel.”
Her answer reminded me of the events on the night of the murder. Although I steeled myself for more shakes, they failed to come. It seemed that I was growing accustomed to being in fellowship with ghosts. “Is the Michael I saw in the library doing the same as you are? Teaching Jean, I mean.”
“He is. We have been teaching together since we started, first in the catacombs, then in the school. He thought the library would be a better environment, especially because of the easy access to books.”
“Was Jean an adult who persecuted someone?”
“He was.” Joan cocked her head. “Did you hear something?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Someone is coming. I must leave.” She rose from the chair and reached for Pierre’s hand. He got up quickly and took it.
“Wait,” I said. “What kind of being are you? Since Jean disappeared suddenly, I thought he might be a ghost, but you and Michael are both able to manipulate physical objects.”
She glanced at the door, her eyes wary. “Ghost is an inadequate term, but since we are able to shed our physicality, it is reasonable for you to use it. I have no other word to give you.”
“If you can shed physicality, why the rush to avoid being seen?”
“There is too much light to shift without being noticed during our transparent stage.” She walked toward the door. “Good-bye, Justin. When I find Jean, I will take him to the catacombs. If you have further questions, you may seek us there.” They walked out.
Two sets of rapid footsteps descended the stairs, replaced moments later by a heavier pair, ascending at a casual pace. I hurried to the door and looked down. A thirtyish man with a full mustache approached. Wearing a top hat, pressed trousers, and a double-buttoned vest under a frock coat, he appeared to be a gentleman.
When he saw me, he offered a nod. “I am Inspector Paul Fortier. May I ask you a few questions?”
“Of course.” I gestured with a hand. “Come in.”
As he entered, he unbuttoned his coat and took off his hat, revealing neatly combed short hair. “It’s warmer today than I expected.”
“Yes, it seems the rain ushered in a warm spell. But I don’t think you came here to discuss the weather.”
“No, I did not.” The inspector tossed his hat to Marc’s bed. “I am investigating the murder of Jacqueline Noël.”
I touched my desk chair. “Sit. Please.” As he shed his coat and seated himself, I pulled Marc’s chair over and sat in front of him. “What are your questions?”
“First, let’s dispense with formalities and friendliness. I hope we can be straightforward with each other.”
I nodded. “Very well. I appreciate frankness.”
“Good.” The inspector laid his coat in his lap and gave me a hard stare. “What brought a young rosbif like you to Paris?”
I ignored the mild insult and, in the spirit of frankness, gave him a direct answer. “My father was accused of murder and sent to prison, and my mother went missing. My mother’s sister and her husband took my sister and me in and became our adoptive parents. When his London business failed, they moved here because he had a brother in Versailles. My adoptive parents died of cholera when my sister and I were ten, at which time—”
“So you and your sister are twins.”
“Yes. As I was saying, when our adoptive parents died, we were put in an orphanage. My sister contracted smallpox and went blind. No one, of course, wanted to adopt a blind girl, and I refused to be adopted without her. When we came of age, we left the orphanage, and I found employment and paid for my sister’s keep at various homes that would take her in.”
“What is your employment?”
“I work as a translator for a publisher. I am fluent in English, Gaelic, and French.”
“Interesting. So you are an educated peasant. I assume, however, that your sister is little more than rabble, worthless for anything useful.”
Although my hands ached to curl into fists, I inhaled deeply and kept my voice calm. “Inspector, I said I appreciate frankness, but base insults are a different—”
“Monsieur Trotter,” he said, waving a hand, “please take no offense. I was merely testing your temper. I heard how Madame Noël treated you, and I wanted to see how you comport yourself.”
“I see.” I straightened in my chair. “And?”
He laughed. “You passed. Most Englishmen I know would have socked me in the nose.”
“Well, good.” I sat more at ease. “So the question about coming to Paris was a ruse.”
“No. Actually I am quite interested.” He laid the coat on my bed, easily within reach. “I learned about your birth parents from an interview with Francine Noël. That prompted me to send a telegraph message to Scotland Yard requesting more information, which should arrive soon. Fortunately, like you, I am fluent in English, so it won’t require translation. But to save even more time, perhaps you can tell me what you remember about the tragic circumstances in your homeland.”
“I don’t remember much. Images, mostly. I heard a noise in our attic, so Mother and I went upstairs. We found my father standing next to a woman who was hanging by a rope from the rafters.”
The inspector’s brow lifted. “Hanging, you say?”
I nodded. “My father had blood on his hands. I don’t know how it got there.”
“Go on.”
“Mother told me to run, so I did. I called for help. When a police officer came, I told him what I saw. After that, everything is a blur. I never went home again. My adoptive parents told me the rest, that the police arrested my father, and my mother was nowhere to be found.”
The inspector’s eyes locked on me. “That must have been a terrifying experience.”
“It was. I still have nightmares.”
“Then why did you copy your father by hanging Madame Noël?”
“What?”
“Like father, like son. I’ve seen it before. A son is haunted by his father’s ways, but deep inside the son knows he will follow in his father’s footsteps. It’s only a matter of time. It is ingrained. A demon seed waiting to sprout.”
I shook my head hard. “No, no. That’s not true. I had nothing to do with Madame Noël’s death. Nothing.”
The inspector’s brow dipped. “You were the only one in the library, the only one with access to the rope’s fastening point. And you were the last to see Dr. Cousineau alive.”
My heart raced, and my tongue tripped over my words. “Marc was with me. When he recovers, he’ll tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“That I didn’t kill Dr. Cousineau. He was already burning when we found him.”
The inspector narrowed his eyes. “Already burning?”
I nodded. “Buried under
a pile of burning books.”
“Buried, you say. How do you think he managed to get into that position?”
“Someone else was in the library. Dr. Cousineau told me his name.”
“And?”
“Pierre. That’s all I know. Marc was there. He heard the doctor.”
“And this Pierre, presumably, is the man who murdered Madame Noël.”
“That I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t kill anyone, and there was someone else in the library.”
“Well, as they say in your home country, that is a horse of a different color.”
A sense of relief filtered in. “So, you believe me.”
The inspector again looked me in the eye. “Monsieur Trotter, I interviewed five other guests, and their statements were identical. No one mentioned anyone named Pierre, and no Pierre appeared on the list of guests Francine provided. Not only that, the only body we found in the rubble was that of Dr. Cousineau.” He huffed in a haughty way. “I don’t believe you in the slightest.”
“Then why the idiom? The horse of a different color. And the test. You said I passed.”
“Regarding the test, experience tells me that murders related to passion and hot tempers are usually carried out with pounding fists or slashing knives. This murder required a calculating mind, a deliberative strategy, and a steady hand. A man with a bad temper could never have carried it out. Regarding the horse of a different color, I assumed you would have no alibi whatsoever, but now you have claimed Marc Noël as a witness, which means that I must wait for him to recover before I finish this investigation. In any case, it seems that your friend is your only hope for escaping prison … or the guillotine.”
My neck tingled. I had seen the blade’s work at the La Grand Roquette prison. The public executions there left an indelible mark. My only hope now lay with Francine’s willingness to falsify her testimony. “When did you interview Francine?”
“Late last night. Why do you ask?”
“Did she tell you she was upstairs with me when Madame Noël was found?”
“She told me she went upstairs looking for you. She did not mention finding you.”