by Bryan Davis
“I’m leaving.” Jean pivoted and walked out of the room.
“Jean,” Joan called. “You must not leave again. Michael would oppose it.”
Jean’s voice filtered in like a dying echo. “Tell him I’m going to help him find the murderer.”
Chapter Eight
Silence followed. I looked at Joan and Pierre. They both stared at me. The stillness felt stifling.
I tugged at my collar. “Should I go with him?”
“If you wish, but you would risk capture, thereby undoing Jean’s efforts to save you.” Joan’s smile took on a peaceful aspect. “Fear not. Michael knows how to find Jean. They will return together in due time.”
“Then may I watch you teach Pierre? Perhaps I will learn something.”
“I trust that you will, as do I with each session. Sometimes I wonder who is the teacher and who is the student.”
I rose and gestured for Pierre to sit. When he did, I lifted the lantern to the table and sat on the floor against a wall.
The scene that followed is impossible to describe in mere words, but I will make an attempt. Imagine if you can, two actors on a stage. Why actors? Because these two people could not possibly be who they claimed to be. Yet, they believed themselves to be with all their hearts. And their ardor convinced me, as well. At that moment and in this place, they could be no one else.
Imagine also that the script had been written by Shakespeare himself. No, someone greater than Shakespeare. An angelic majesty. A muse without equal. A goddess who wields a flaming quill.
Finally, imagine emotions unleashed—heartfelt, unbridled, unashamed—two combatants sitting eye to eye engaging in verbal jousts, stabbing each other with anger, passion, and, yes, even love.
An earthquake sometimes begins with a tremble. For a time, Joan and Pierre discussed politics in the fifteenth century, and both agreed that corruption at every level nurtured dissatisfaction and grumbling within the lower and middle classes. They conversed as friends—Joan spoke with the natural wisdom of a rural farmer combined with the experience of a seasoned general, yet with the sweet lilt of a girl. Pierre spoke with the gravity of a bishop who took seriously his responsibility of caring for a needy flock, yet with the juvenile tenor of a child. The combination proved to be mesmerizing.
Peace reigned, that is, until the topic turned to religious issues. A veritable sword severed their harmony.
“You will confess,” Joan said with utter calmness, “that the church hierarchy is filled with men who are more concerned with outward appearances than with inward purity. They are whitewashed tombs that carry dead men’s bones.”
“No, indeed.” For the first time, Pierre’s voice sounded older, no longer like a child’s. “Unlike the political sea of filth, the clergy are remarkably unstained. Only a few have soiled their garments, which is why the Church should always have its hand in the political processes. We must maintain a purifying influence.”
“Purifying?” Joan let out a huff. “As sewage purifies a latrine. You would have me drinking bilge water.”
Pierre’s brow dipped low as he growled through his words. “There was a day when you would have thanked me for bilge water.”
“Only because you set fire to my tongue.” Joan braced her elbows on the table and glared at him, the lantern’s flame flickering in her eyes. “Because of you, I cried for relief, and now you mock my agony. Yes, I pleaded for water. I begged for a merciful quenching, but you gave me none. Not even a drop. When I begged for relief, you offered only a scornful smirk.”
Pierre shook his head. “You suffered only for a moment.”
“You lie.” Her teeth set on edge, she pressed a fist on the table, as if aching to pound it. “You blinded yourself to my torment. Even now you hope to excuse the brutal torture of an innocent woman, but you cannot blind God. Until you realize your guilt, until you confess your sins, you will be forever imprisoned. No man can be set free from chains he refuses to see.”
Pierre’s voice deepened further. “I prosecuted a heretic, a peasant woman who foolishly heeded the voices of demons, a Jezebel who dressed like a man, a siren who gathered followers by means of dark arts.”
“Pierre.” Joan reached across the table and grabbed his shirt, her eyes aflame. “Come back to me, Pierre. Reject the cynical blinders placed upon you by sweeping robes and kissed rings. You are to be a child, not a judge. A servant, not a king.”
His face twisted in rage as he bellowed, “I am a bishop of the Most High God who has appointed me as a judge over blasphemers. A servant cannot carry out this duty, nor can a child. Only fire can purge the blackness in the heart of a heretic.”
“No, Pierre. You are wrong.” Joan marched around the table and drew Pierre into her arms. As she stroked his head, she whispered, “Kindness begets compassion. Compassion begets love. And only love can purge the blackness in a soul.”
Pierre raged on, fighting to break free from Joan’s embrace, but, like the warrior she is, she held on. Slowly, ever so slowly, his masculine shouts transformed into quiet whimpers. After a moment of silence, she released him and kissed his forehead. “Are you all right now?”
He nodded and added a sniffle. “I’m sorry.”
“All is well. Your eruptions have been less frequent of late, and they last only a few moments.” She smiled and tousled his hair. “But your timing was likely divinely appointed to allow our guest to see what our sessions are sometimes like. The path from darkness to light is often fraught with setbacks.”
Pierre looked at me, tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry I acted that way.”
“Oh.” I climbed to my feet and dusted off my trousers. “That’s quite all right.”
Joan tilted her head and stared at me as if prompting for more, but I had no idea what she hoped for, so I just added a genial nod.
“What Justin means,” Joan said to Pierre, “is that he was not offended by your bad behavior, but surely he doesn’t think it was all right. That is a figure of speech, not literal truth.”
I nodded again. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Warmth coursed through my cheeks. It seemed that my ability to say the right thing was crippled even in the land of the dead. “Joan is correct. Your behavior was not all right, but I was not harmed by it.”
“While Pierre reads his lessons, let us have a private conversation.” Joan took my arm and led me into the corridor. The bones under our feet emitted their now-familiar crunch. As we walked toward the exit hole, the light from the teaching chamber dimmed. Soon, she stopped and faced me, looking up from her shorter stature. Her eyes, still visible in the low light, sparkled with tears. “I have a terrible dilemma, Justin Trotter. May I ask your opinion about it?”
“Yes. By all means.”
She glanced at the chamber. “Did you see Pierre’s eyes when he raged at me?”
I nodded once more. “Terrifying.”
“Indeed. He displayed the same look while I was being tied to the stake. He lusted for my death. Oh, as surely as a ravenous dog hungers for meat, Pierre Cauchon hungered to see me burn.”
“And he wanted to murder you again? Just now?”
“That’s what his eyes told me.”
“What is your dilemma?”
“Michael is of the opinion that Jean could not have killed that poor woman, but Jean has eruptions similar to Pierre’s. While in that state, his strength surges. He is capable of hanging a woman, or worse.”
“But you seemed to agree with Michael that it’s unlikely.”
“Unlikely, but not impossible. During the minutes Pierre was raging, my doubts returned. If you could have felt his strength as I held him, you would understand. If not for my training and his respect for my authority, he might have broken free and unleashed a violent attack. Jean is no different.”
“I see. Then may I assume that Pierre could set a man on fire and knock bookshelves over in an attempt to crush people? Do you doubt his word that he is innocent?”
Her lips firm, she nodd
ed. “He claims to hate lies, but he is not so condemning with regard to his own falsehoods.”
“So is your dilemma whether or not to challenge Michael’s opinion?”
“Yes. He is a wise man, and I have willingly submitted to his opinions in the past. As you might know, I am not shy about asserting opinions of my own.”
“What are your options? If you decide that Jean and Pierre are murderers, what would you do about it?”
She trembled as she spoke. “Abandon them.” Her words echoed in the corridor, as if spoken by the dead souls entombed within. “As I mentioned to you before, Pierre and I have been put together so that he can learn love. Yet, I am not certain of the reason for this trial or what would happen to him if our sessions are successful. I do know, however, what will happen if they fail. Pierre will be banished to everlasting fire, and I have the option to end the trial if I decide that he is too recalcitrant or dangerous to continue.”
“In which case,” I said, “I assume he would be banished immediately. Since it seems that he might have hurt others, it could be your duty to walk away while he is delivered to the fire.”
“Yes.” Her chest heaved as she wept through her words. “Can you see the dilemma? I, who suffered flames myself, one who knows the torture of burning flesh, have the responsibility to decide whether or not to abandon another soul to such flames, not for moments, but for eternity.”
She wrapped her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder as she sobbed. “I who was judged must become a judge. I who was executed must choose whether or not to execute. I who burned to ashes must decide if ... if a boy, mind you ... if a boy should be banished to the flames of perdition, not to become ashes, but to suffer torture for years without end, scream for succor without deliverance, beg for death without the mercy of annihilation.”
Spasms now overwhelming her words, she wept bitter tears while her entire body shook.
I patted her on the back. “But if you abandon him, it’s because of his own actions. You aren’t really the one casting him into the fire. You’re giving him over to the true judge. What happens to Pierre at that point is up to God, isn’t it?”
She spoke into my shirt, muffling her voice. “You’re right, but the judgment I have to make is still almost too heavy to bear.”
After a few moments of silence, I whispered, “My guess is that Michael sympathizes with your dilemma. He also has doubts, which is why he’s investigating. We need to learn the truth. If Jean and Pierre are innocent, then all is well. If they are not, then we can address the consequences at the proper time.”
After a final spasm and an echoing shudder, she drew back and brushed tears from her cheeks. “You’re right, of course. I apologize for my outburst.”
“No need. As you said to Pierre, compassion begets love. And love can purge the blackness in any soul. Your love for Pierre will work wonders. You’ll see.”
“Again, you’re right.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “If I don’t believe in him, who will?”
I spoke with an upbeat tone. “I’ll go to the Noëls’ home and do some investigating myself. Maybe Marc has awakened. Maybe my danger has already passed. Then I could search for clues freely.”
“What would you look for?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps Madame Noël’s enemies, anyone who hated her enough to kill her. She had a number of business interests. It could be that someone wanted to get her out of the way.”
“Then Godspeed to you.” She set a hand on my arm. “And if you are so inclined, return to me with news of your efforts. If you find that Pierre is not the culprit, I will be greatly relieved.”
Chapter Nine
I found the makeshift ladder and began climbing. Without Jean as a guide, I took more care to test each slat, which greatly slowed my progress. Of course, battling gravity further added to the difficulty, forcing me to rest from time to time.
When I finally reached the top, I pushed the door open an inch and peered out. A woman’s dress swept past, hiked up to avoid the debris, thereby exposing thin ankles and flat shoes. She walked away, revealing more of her svelte frame, accentuated by a gray, form-fitting house dress. Even from the back I had no trouble recognizing Francine Noël, especially since her reddish tresses had escaped the costume wig. Her mode of dress violated the usual mourning etiquette, but challenging customs was certainly not unusual for her.
Moving as quietly as possible, I climbed out and set the door back in place. Francine picked through the rubble with a pair of fireplace tongs, unaware of my presence.
I cleared my throat.
She spun, gasping, then laid a hand on her chest and exhaled. “Justin. You frightened me.”
“I apologize.” I spread my hands. “In a place like this there is no sure way to approach someone without inciting a scare.”
“I suppose that’s true.” She pointed toward my carpetbag, still near the trapdoor. “I thought you might be close by, so I shouldn’t have been so surprised. But I heard you were arrested and then escaped. There’s talk about a fiacre accident.”
“All true.” I gestured with my thumb toward the brook. “An Inspector Fortier was escorting me to prison, and the horse took a fright. The carriage spilled, and the inspector was rendered unconscious. I had no idea what to do, so after making sure the inspector and driver were taken care of, I left.”
“It’s a good thing you left when you did. A manhunt is underway. The police are searching everywhere for you.” Francine tapped a finger on her chin. “And I know this inspector you mentioned. He questioned me about my mother’s murder.”
“Did he talk to Marc? Is he well enough to answer questions?”
She shook her head. “He murmurs now and then. And he says my name when I speak to him. A good sign, I think.”
“May I visit him? Maybe he will respond to me.”
“Yes. That might be exactly the medicine he needs.”
“Let’s hope so, but I will have to come in without being seen, perhaps through your back door.”
“Of course. You have to avoid the manhunt.” She glanced from side to side. “Why did you choose this as your hiding place? It’s the scene of the crime.”
“What place is less likely?”
“The home of the murder victim is less likely.” She looked across the brook toward the city center. “When you come, go to the back door. If you find it ajar, then it’s safe to enter.”
“Safe? Why wouldn’t it be safe?”
“When I spoke to Inspector Fortier, he said he would come to my house this evening for a more thorough interview. Now that he has been injured, maybe he won’t come.”
“Did you mention our, shall we say, romantic relationship?”
She laughed as she replied. “Justin, it’s hardly a relationship. We aired our interest in each other only this morning. My conversation with him took place before we agreed to pose as lovers, but I already had the idea, so I dropped a hint. I’m sure he took note.”
“Then it won’t be out of line for me to call on you tonight.”
“Not out of line, but still dangerous for a wanted man.” She touched my arm. “Our neighbors are inquisitive. Be sure to stay in darkness.”
“I will. Thank you.”
She used the tongs to lift a blackened book. “Although you didn’t ask, I’ll tell you that I have been searching for a brooch my mother wore to the party. Not on her jester’s costume, mind you. On the dress she wore underneath. I took no thought of it until the undertaker asked me about her burial attire. When I looked at her body, she wasn’t wearing the brooch. How she could have lost it is a mystery.”
“Her burial. I forgot about that. When is it?”
“Monday morning. Nine o’clock. At Père Lachaise. We will have mass at the cathedral an hour before.”
“Then I will be there.”
“Even as a fugitive?”
“I will come in stealth. No one will recognize me.”
“A
s you wish.” She let out a sigh. “I have nearly lost hope trying to find the brooch. I had no idea there would be so much rubbish here. If I can’t find it, she will be buried without it.”
“What does it look like?”
She formed an oval with her thumb and finger. “It’s about this size with gold trim. It has a pearl-like surface on the front, and it opens on a hinge. It looks like a beetle. Mother kept a key inside, a key to a box of other heirlooms.”
“Well, at least you could break the box open if necessary.” I reached for the tongs. “May I?”
“Certainly.” After handing them to me, she looked at the trapdoor. “Do you know where that leads? I looked down but saw only darkness.”
“It leads to the catacombs.”
Fear and delight crossed her face. “Did you go down there?”
“I did. It is far, far down, and the way is narrow. The floor is covered with bones.”
“How do you know?” She glanced around. “I see no lantern.”
“I felt them under my feet. Long and short bones. Even skulls.”
Mother, I know what you’re thinking. Truth can be a lie if it is intended to deceive. Although I did, indeed, feel the bones under my feet, I also saw them with light from a source not my own. I wanted Francine to think that I was alone down there. Therefore, I lied to her, though indirectly.
I often wonder why I always found it difficult to tell a bold lie but easy to tell a deceptive half truth. Yet, every time I tried to deceive, a pitchfork stabbed my heart. I never seemed to learn how to avoid the scolding of my conscience.
I slid a hand into my pocket as if searching for my dwindling soul. “It’s a morbid place. I don’t recommend going there.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay right here.” She stepped on the door and looked around as if orienting herself. “Might the real killer have escaped this way? Isn’t this where the room was, the place he hanged my mother?”
“I believe it is.”