Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  “Then ask her. You’ll see. We were together when Madame Noël was murdered.”

  Inspector Fortier gave me a tight-lipped smile. “I see how it is. And I can’t say I blame you. She is quite attractive.”

  “Exactly what are you saying, Inspector?”

  “I am saying that you hope your lover will protect you, which means that I will have to interview her again, that is, before you have a chance to corrupt her testimony.” He rose and gestured toward the door. “Will you come peacefully, or must I call the commissaire?”

  “Where do you want me to go?”

  “To prison where you will await trial for the murders of Jacqueline Noël and Victor Cousineau.”

  Chapter Six

  The hairs on my neck stood on end. The urge to escape, to run away like a frightened dog seemed overwhelming, but then I would look more guilty than ever. “I will come peacefully.” I nodded toward my carpetbag. “May I bring anything along?”

  “You may, but the prison officers will likely take it from you.”

  I picked up my bag, exited with the inspector, and, after securing the door, walked to street level. “Which way?” I asked.

  He pointed toward the east. “To Rue de la Roquette.”

  “La Grande prison?”

  “That depends. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Too old for La Petite.” He gestured with his head. “Come along. I have a fiacre waiting for us.”

  We walked abreast, taking a different course than Marc and I had the night before. Since our section of the arrondissement still lacked Monsieur Haussmann’s vision of checkerboard perfection, the road took us on a meandering path that eventually wound back toward the carriage house. Along the way, the inspector stepped aside and spoke to a commissaire out of range of my hearing, most likely the officer who would have apprehended me had I refused to cooperate. Since the officer went on his way, I assumed the inspector told him his services were no longer needed.

  Soon, we boarded a single-horse, uncovered fiacre, and I set my bag at my feet. Normally I would have enjoyed a ride like this. Warm sunlight dried the cobblestones, allowing children to romp on this holiday weekend, but now the delights seemed like cruel reminders that today might be my last to savor freedom.

  Along the way, Inspector Fortier said nothing as he stared straight ahead. Perhaps he was preoccupied with the details of our recent conversation, or perhaps he was watching me out of the corner of his eye, wary of any move I might make to escape.

  Of course, thoughts of escape dominated my mind, but where would I run? Where could I hide? I would be caught, and a visit to the guillotine would be assured. Only a guilty man would take such a risk.

  The driver, on the other hand, asked a string of questions, which I felt obliged to answer. He learned that I was a translator, a student, and an actor, that I traveled here when I was seven, and that I enjoyed French cuisine much more than English, to which he responded with a cheerful recollection of his days as a chef.

  At a pause, I said, “I haven’t had a chance to read the papers today. Have you?”

  “Yes, but I saw nothing of interest. Politics, fashion, social events, the weather. It’s always the same.”

  I gave the inspector a glance. He showed no reaction to the driver’s summary. Either the murders occurred too late for the reporters to write about them, or the police had kept them quiet, at least for now.

  After a few minutes, a boy darted into our path. The horse veered sharply to the side. Our carriage tipped over, and the inspector and I flew from our seats to the road. His head struck a stone, and I landed on top of him, cushioning my own impact. The driver also fell and slid to the edge of the road.

  As several men and women hurried toward us, I climbed to my feet. My ribs ached and the city spun. While one man steadied the horse, wet and dirty from its tumble, another checked on the inspector and driver as they lay motionless on the cobblestones two steps away. “Are they dead?” I asked.

  A thin man kneeling over the inspector shook his head. “Unconscious.”

  I looked at the street but found no sign of the boy who had startled the horse. “And the boy?”

  “What boy?” The man opened the inspector’s shirt down to his waist and grimaced. “He’s bleeding badly. Clarice, go for a doctor. Hurry.”

  “Yes, Father.” A young woman dressed in a calf-length skirt ran down the street.

  Now less dizzy, I knelt at the inspector’s other side. A deep cut below his ribcage spurted blood. At that rate, he would be dead in minutes. “We need to cauterize the wound.”

  The man gave me a puzzled stare. “What will that do?”

  “Keep him alive.” I withdrew the nail and thread from my pocket and plucked the needle from my shoe. “I need a flame. A lantern or a candle.”

  An older woman wearing an apron and a coif called out, “I’ll get a lantern.”

  While I waited for her to return, I pressed a hand over the cut. The warm, sticky sensation raised memories of Marc as he lay bleeding under my cold, trembling hand. Yet, now my hand was steady, my confidence elevated. Still, with so many eyes aimed my way, the scrutiny threatened to fracture my poise. I had to distract myself. “How is the driver?”

  “He took a blow to the head,” the man said, “but no broken bones, I think. He responded to my questions.”

  “Good. Good.” I looked at the street once more, still strewn with puddles in the low areas. The children had scattered. Whoever the boy was, he must have dodged the fiacre.

  “Here is the lantern.” The woman set it next to me, lifted the glass, and blocked the breeze with a hand. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Not yet. Thank you.” I inserted the nail into the flame. As it reddened, the metal heated in my grip. I had forgotten to shield my skin with a cloth. Since I hoped to instill the onlookers with confidence in my meager skills, I endured the pain and held on until the tip became bright.

  Mother, as you often taught, urgency empowers instinct while character is revealed by contemplation. At the time, I had no thought that trying to save this man’s life threatened my own, that I might be acting against my own best interests. Letting Inspector Fortier die meant freedom for me, at least for long enough to seek refuge until Marc recovered. Granting him life, on the other hand, increased my chances of visiting Madame La Guillotine, a deadly lady I hoped to avoid at all costs.

  My impulses told me to help the man. If I had contemplated the matter, would I have done the same? I truly do not know, which is why my life-saving efforts added no luster to my character. At the moment, I was nothing more than a creature of instinct.

  When I touched the hot metal to the wound, a sizzle erupted. The inspector’s muscles tightened. A few onlookers gasped. But when the bleeding slowed, they whispered cheery words among themselves, which heightened my confidence.

  Unlike during my previous surgery, my mind stayed clear during the stitching portion. Each time I pierced the inspector’s skin with the needle, I flinched, though with less intensity as the procedure continued. The inch-by-inch closing of the wound buoyed my hopes and settled my nerves. I was saving this man’s life.

  A moment after I tied the final stitch, the doctor arrived, and, with the help of three other men, put the inspector and the driver back in the fiacre and hauled them away. My carpetbag now sat on the street, most likely tossed there by the spill or to make room for the ailing passengers.

  As the clatter of the horse’s hooves faded, I stood at the side of the street, staring blankly at the retreating carriage. The first man who had cared for the inspector patted me on the back, whispered something that failed to register, and walked away with the others.

  When I picked up my bag, a small hand slid into mine. “I’m glad I found you.” A boy with a familiar face stood at my side, looking up at me.

  “Jean?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’m sorry the men got hurt. I was just trying to stop the horse s
o I could tell you something.”

  “Then you’re the boy who ran in front of the carriage.”

  He nodded again.

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  “That I didn’t kill the woman. The one who was hanged. Joan told me you thought I did it.”

  I looked at our clasped hands. Blood oozed from mine to his, but he seemed not to care. And again I felt completely comfortable in the company of a ghost. “Do you have any idea who killed her?”

  “No, but Joan does. She said if you come to the catacombs, she’ll tell you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Although Jean spoke in a normal tone, catacombs invaded my mind like a haunting specter. Millions of corpses lay in those underground chambers, a maze of quarries, many filled with bones. Michael had mentioned the place, and Joan had confirmed it, but now that I was actually invited there, the thought incited a fresh shudder. “Where do I enter?”

  “At the burned schoolhouse. It has a secret door.” He pulled my hand. “I’ll show you.”

  Still carrying my bag, I gave in to his pull. The road led us around a curve and toward the Seine. “How did you find me?”

  He looked up at me with a friendly smile. “Joan guessed where they would take you, so I found the street that goes there.”

  “Why do you care if I think you’re guilty or not?”

  “You tried to help me, and I want to make sure you don’t get punished.”

  “I see.” As we walked, our earlier encounter came to mind. Jean seemed so different now, confident and carefree. “Speaking of punishment, why did you say your master would beat you? I met him, and he said he has never hurt you.”

  “I was playing a trick. But then I heard that you got in trouble.” He pulled again. “Let’s go faster before someone tries to catch you.”

  I looked back. The scene of the accident was now out of view. Indeed, if the inspector recovered quickly, he might send someone to apprehend me and escort me to prison. What else was I to do but escape?

  Jean and I walked at a brisk pace toward the schoolhouse. Along the way, I washed my hands in a discarded mop bucket and straightened my hair and clothes. I hoped to make us look like a pair of brothers out for a romp on this sunny Saturday. Bloody hands would surely draw stares.

  After about half an hour, we crossed the brook, still swollen by the storm. At the deepest point, the chilly water rose to my chest, and Jean had to swim. When I reached to help him, he jerked his hand away, saying that he had already crossed it once. He could do it again. Trying to keep the shivering in check, I waded to the edge and trudged to dry land. After wringing as much water as possible out of my clothes, we hurried on, though the cool air incited more shivers.

  Soon, we arrived at the schoolhouse, now a burnt shell. The upper two stories had collapsed into piles of ashes at the center, leaving only a surrounding wall of blackened bricks, head high in most places, a bit higher or lower in others.

  Jean led me through an open arch that used to be the doorway. We meandered around piles of broken beams, bricks, and charred books. Smoke rising from the debris provided a variety of odors, most of them noxious.

  Near the farthest corner, close to the area where Madame Noël drew her final breath, Jean pulled on a short rope that lay on the floor and lifted a trapdoor. The wooden square stood upright, held in place by a pair of hinges. “It was hidden under a rug,” Jean said.

  I peered into the darkness below. Wooden slats had been attached to a wall on a side of a square pit, not much wider than a man’s shoulders. “How far down does it go?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t count those wooden things. More than sixty, I’d guess. Could be a hundred.”

  “Then it’s quite far to the bottom.” I set my bag down, knelt, and touched one of the slats. “I assume they’re strong enough to support me. I am no bigger than Michael.”

  “I think so, but some are loose. Since we’re wet, we have to be careful.” Jean scrambled into the hole and lowered himself until only his head remained above floor level. “I’ll tell you which ones are loose on the way down.” He then descended out of sight, calling, “Close the door over you.”

  I looked at my carpetbag. Carrying it that far would be difficult at best. I could leave it here, at least for now. I grabbed the edge of the trapdoor, stepped onto the highest slat, and, bracing with my other hand, lowered myself one careful step at a time.

  When the hole’s lid dropped into place, darkness filled the narrow chamber. A shiver swept across my wet legs, though the air seemed no colder here than in the open. Ever since the night I ascended those foreboding stairs to discover the truth about my murderous father, dark, tight places had been the theme of every nightmare.

  “Keep going.” Jean said. “I think a loose one is coming up.”

  With no need to see anything, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the slats, imagining my hands and feet applying pressure to them. Jean guided me with precision throughout the ordeal. Once I grew accustomed to the effort, I opened my eyes and looked down, yet nothing but blackness appeared.

  Jean called, “I’m at the bottom. Just a few more. The rest are solid.”

  Seconds later, my foot touched an uneven surface that moved and crunched beneath my feet. “Do you have a source of light down here?”

  “I’ll get it.” More crunching sounds followed, slowly diminishing as Jean walked away.

  Soon, a wavering yellow glow appeared, giving light to my surroundings. I stood with my head still in the vertical passage I had descended, the rest of my body in a tunnel-like chamber. I lowered my head and looked around. Carrying a lantern, Jean walked on a carpet of bones and skulls that stretched as far as the lantern cast its light.

  I looked past the boy. “Where is your teacher?”

  “In our room, the last I saw him. He’ll be back soon.” He walked along the corridor, his clothes now drier than seemed possible. “This way.”

  My head still low, I followed at his pace, though the bones provided an uneven foundation that forced me to set a hand on a side wall to keep my balance. After about twenty steps, Jean led me through an opening in the wall on the right that led to a larger chamber with a higher ceiling and a floor free of bones.

  A cross constructed with two long bones, perhaps an arm and a leg, and tied at the center with a ragged cloth, leaned against the wall on the left. Spiny brambles encircled the cross’s top, a fair representation of a crown of thorns. On all four walls, multicolored French words had been painted on nearly every open space, at least the spaces within reach by a diminutive teacher.

  I read a few phrases, apparently from the gospels, if I remembered my childhood lessons well enough.

  Jean set the lantern next to an unlit lantern on the floor and turned up the wick, then remained standing. Joan and Pierre sat in opposing chairs with a small worktable between them. A book lay open in front of Pierre, though he stared at us rather than the book, likely because Jean had taken his light source.

  “Welcome,” Joan said. “I’m glad Jean was able to find you.”

  Pierre rose and bowed. “Sit in my chair.”

  Joan smiled. “Yes. Please do. It has taken me months to teach Pierre the simplest manners.”

  “As you wish.” I sat in the chair, a wooden straight-backed one that creaked under my weight. My damp clothes would probably leave a wet spot, but maybe it wouldn’t matter.

  As I looked at Joan, her visage seemed different in this lair of death. Her unkempt hair, shorn for battle, and her sun-bronzed skin made her look like a ragged fugitive hiding in a cave, though her youthful face and shining eyes countered that visage. “Where is Michael?”

  “He is conducting”—Joan glanced upward as if searching for a word—“an investigation.”

  “May I ask what he is investigating?”

  “The hanging of the woman at the party.”

  “Ah. Jean said if I came to the catacombs you would tell me who you think the culprit is.”

>   Joan cast a scolding glance at Jean. “Then he has said too much. He often takes liberty with words and uses them to manipulate others to do his will. I suspect that he has taken a liking to you and wishes to be in your company.”

  Jean averted his eyes but stayed quiet.

  I leaned close to Joan and whispered, “So you have no idea who did it?”

  Joan whispered in reply. “Unless Pierre is a suspect, I have no reason to speculate. The same is true regarding Michael and Jean. Although Jean has denied all wrongdoing, Michael wishes to verify his claims. It is crucial that we make sure our students are trustworthy and do no harm.”

  “Does Michael believe Jean?”

  “Yes.” Joan resumed a normal tone of voice. “Although Jean is unusually precocious and is capable of hanging a woman from a rope tied in the rafters, Michael thinks it is highly unlikely that he killed anyone.”

  “Well, he is precocious, to be sure.” I gave her a summary of the carriage accident and thanked her for teaching me the skills necessary to save the inspector’s life. “Where did Michael go to investigate?”

  “I don’t know. He is a scientist who is skilled in analysis. I trust that he will find the answers he seeks.”

  “A scientist, you say? Which field of science?”

  “Biology, I believe. He knows much about how the human body functions.”

  “As do you.”

  She looked away, a flush in her cheeks. “I learned on the battlefield. When bodies were split open for all to see, my education accelerated far too quickly.” She returned her gaze to me. “Yet, Michael’s knowledge dwarfs my own. He is also a philosopher and a theologian.”

  “You mentioned that Pierre was your persecutor. Did Jean persecute Michael when they were alive?”

  “It is not my place to tell another person’s story. Perhaps when Michael returns he will answer your questions.” She nodded toward Jean. “Or you could ask his ward.”

  When I turned toward Jean, he lowered his head, his chin nearly touching his chest. It seemed that my conversation with Joan had cast a dark shadow over his mood. “Jean, could you tell me—”