Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  “Then we should notify the police. He might be hiding down there at this moment.”

  “Francine, the catacombs run for many miles with dozens of ways to get in and out. It would be a hopeless search.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She tapped her foot on the door. “Were you planning on sleeping down there?”

  “Among all the bones?” I laughed. “No. And carrying my bag down there would be a chore I want to avoid.”

  “Then let’s do this.” She walked over and picked up the bag. “I will take your bag, go home, and ask Marguerite to prepare a lovely meal for us while you search for the brooch. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

  At that moment, my stomach rumbled. “Yes. Very much so.”

  “Good. It will be dark in a couple of hours. You can come then.” She glanced toward the brook. “Do you remember how to get there?”

  I nodded. “But that’s a long way to walk with the bag. Let me take it.”

  “I came by carriage. The bridge is out, so we had to cross the next bridge some miles upstream. My driver is waiting for me around the forest bend.”

  “Why not closer?”

  “The grass is thicker there. For the horse.” She patted me on the chest. “Feel free to get dirty while searching. You can wash at my house. Marc’s clothes fit you if I remember correctly.”

  “They’re not too small, if that’s what you mean. But I brought clothes with me.”

  She looked at the bag. “Yes. Of course.” During the ensuing pause, she stared at me. Her eyes probed mine as if asking me a question. As usual, I felt awkward. What was I supposed to say?

  After a few seconds of silence, she drew close and kissed me. Her lips were hot and dry, but they felt like heaven. I luxuriated in the touch and ran a hand along her silky hair, hoping to communicate that I wanted the moment to last.

  She eased back, her lips still pursed. “I’m glad you escaped, Justin. An innocent man should never suffer in a locked cage, much less face the guillotine.”

  She turned toward the road and walked away. Sooty streaks on her dress became apparent, evidence that she had been searching with diligence, not caring how dirty she made herself. Her mother’s brooch was precious to her.

  The kiss provided a surge of energy. I took to the task immediately, tongs in hand, concentrating on the murder scene before moving to places where party guests likely danced. One of the livelier dances might have shaken the brooch free, and it could have been kicked without anyone noticing.

  As expected, I became saturated with sweat and smeared with grime during my search, but I found nothing but broken wine glasses, burnt books, and other scorched items. The only real oddity was a military boot with no mate, perhaps from Dr. Cousineau’s gendarme costume, though it was not as blackened as everything else in the ruins.

  When daylight gave way to twilight, I left the ruins and walked toward the city. I waded across the brook again, this time enjoying the coolness of the water. As I crossed, I washed my face and hands. I could bathe more thoroughly at the Noëls’ house, perhaps in warm water.

  Now under the cover of evening shade, I hurried toward the house, a reasonable walking distance from the school. All the while, the terrors and wonders of recent hours stalked my mind.

  Only a day ago, I would have thought it madness to believe the real Joan of Arc had returned to Paris, not to rally soldiers in battle, but to teach love to a young version of her persecutor. But I could not deny what I saw on that macabre stage—two ghostly performers revisiting an ancient nightmare, the hunted now in control of the hunter.

  And what of Michael and Jean? They seemed to be impossible phantoms as well, another young persecutor and his prey whose identities I had not yet divined.

  As Joan indicated, Jean was unstable, perhaps ready to strangle or burn another victim. Yet, Michael allowed Jean to go where he wished, apparently unfettered by restraints. Who could tell when the boy might revert to a murderous monster?

  And thoughts of Justice returned. My fugitive status threatened my plans to rescue her from Madame Dupont. How could I meet my dear sister without exposing myself to public scrutiny and possible recognition? If I were to be captured and sent to prison, what would become of her? With no more payments coming in, Madame Dupont would throw her out. Then where would she go? She didn’t know Marc and Francine well at all and, even if she did, she wouldn’t be able to find them. With no friends or family, how could she possibly sustain herself?

  I shook the nagging questions away and hurried on.

  When I reached the house, a one-story townhome in a traditionally bourgeoisie section of the city, I skulked to the rear and climbed three stairs to the door, which stood ajar, a signal for safe entry.

  I pushed it open and looked inside. Although I had visited the Noëls several times, I had never entered this way. The door led to a dingy scullery where linens lay folded on a table and washed dishes had been piled in neat stacks, illuminated by light coming from somewhere beyond.

  A young girl on hands and knees scrubbed the floor with a bristle brush. Since she wore a tattered peasant’s dress, she was likely a temporary hire. Marc had told me that Francine sometimes offered work to beggars in exchange for food.

  Not bothering to give me a glance, the girl pushed hard to clean a dark spot and added her fingernails to the effort as if her life depended on pleasing her employer. Considering her thin frame and bony hands, maybe it did. She likely hadn’t enjoyed a decent meal in a long time.

  Voices filtered in from the direction of the front sitting room—Francine’s and that of a man I did not recognize, though it seemed familiar.

  After closing the door in perfect silence, I tiptoed past the girl and into the hallway leading toward the front. When I drew near, I peeked around a corner in view of the sitting room. Now wearing a more presentable black dress, Francine sat on a sofa adjacent to an upholstered chair occupied by Inspector Fortier, dressed in the same clothes as when he arrested me, a hole in one elbow giving evidence of his tumble. His hat lay on the sofa next to Francine.

  A small flame crackled in the fireplace, adding a hint of wood-smoke odor to the room. A poker leaned against the wall, its pointed end on the hearth, still smoking from recent use.

  I stepped back. Why had Francine left the door ajar? Perhaps the inspector had shown up only moments ago, and she had no opportunity to alter the signal. Or maybe she had already provided my alibi, making it safe for me to enter. But how could I be sure? I could wait for him to leave, perhaps check on Marc who probably lay in his room down the hall. That option would be safer.

  Yet, even if she had not spoken about my alibi, she would do so if the inspector chose to try to arrest me. It would be better to end the law’s pursuit here and now instead of hiding.

  I walked in and bowed my head toward each of them. “Francine. Inspector.”

  The inspector rose from his chair. He winced, his wound likely still excruciating. “Well, Monsieur Trotter, I must say that you are the last person I expected to see here.”

  “Francine invited me. The back door was open.” I gestured toward a second chair that stood opposite his. “May I sit? The journey has been tiring.”

  Francine gave the inspector an odd glance before nodding. “Of course, Justin.”

  I lowered myself, but when I remembered how wet and dirty I was, I straightened. “Maybe after I bathe.”

  The inspector also remained standing. “First,” he said with a polite nod, “thank you for saving my life. The eyewitnesses cheered your efforts to no end. They called you a hero.”

  “You’re welcome, Inspector. I couldn’t leave a bleeding man to die. That would be the act of a scoundrel.”

  “Yes … I suppose it would.” He picked up his hat and worried the brim with both hands. “Second, although it would have benefitted you to allow me to die, and although you risked your life to save mine, I cannot allow your actions to dissuade me from pursuing justice in the matter of the death of Madam
e Noël.”

  His words appeared to be leading to a bad conclusion, but I stayed calm. “As I would expect from an honorable servant of the law.”

  “Then you will understand why I must arrest you again and take you to prison.”

  I gave Francine a pleading glance, but her expression was blank, giving me no sign of help. “No, I don’t understand. I did not kill Madame Noël. Ask Francine. She’ll tell you. We were together at the time of the murder.”

  The inspector turned to her. “Were you?”

  Francine’s cheeks flushed. “I … I didn’t believe he was the murderer, so I told him I would say that to protect him, but the situation has changed.”

  Her words drove into me like a charging bull. I couldn’t speak or even move, as if fastened to the floor.

  Francine rose and picked up my carpetbag from behind her chair. “I lost a precious heirloom last night, so I went to the school to search for it. After an hour or so, Justin came and volunteered to continue my search. Since I was tired and dirty, I gladly accepted his offer and invited him home to visit Marc once it was too dark to search. I also took Justin’s bag in my carriage so he wouldn’t have to carry it on foot. When I arrived here, I decided to see if his clothes needed laundering.” She pushed her hand into the bag and withdrew a brooch. “And I found the heirloom. My mother was wearing it the night of her death.”

  The inspector took the brooch and looked it over. “Interesting. It looks like a scarab.”

  Although dizziness made me sway, my voice returned. “I have no idea how it got in my bag. I have never seen it before in my life.”

  “Yes you have, Justin.” Marc hobbled into the room. Wearing a thin, silken nightshirt over his trousers, he appeared pale and gaunt. “My mother was wearing it when you first met her.”

  “Marc?” Francine rushed to him and guided him to the sofa.

  When they sat, Marc looked at the inspector. “Justin did not kill my mother. He and I were together in the library when someone set fire to Dr. Cousineau. As the good doctor lay dying, he told us that someone named Pierre was the culprit. Then a bookshelf fell over us. Justin was with me at that moment as well. And from what I gathered during my semiconscious periods, he rescued me and repaired a cut on my head.” Marc took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Inspector, these are not the actions of a murderer.”

  The inspector touched his shirt over his own wound site. “No, they are not.” He returned the brooch to Francine. “And a murderer would not give his bag to the victim’s daughter knowing that evidence against him lay inside.”

  Marc nodded. “Nor would he continue a search for something that he knew wasn’t there.”

  The inspector scanned me from head to toe. “Your filthy state is testimony to the doggedness of your search.”

  I smiled. It seemed that a heavy weight lifted from my shoulders. My innocence had been exposed to the light.

  The inspector kept his gaze on me. “Monsieur Trotter, was the bag ever out of your sight after you left your flat?”

  “Yes. The school has a trapdoor, and curiosity led me to investigate. I found a primitive ladder leading down into darkness, but the way was too narrow to take my bag, so I left it behind. It was out of my sight for quite some time.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Bones, Inspector. The ladder led to the catacombs.”

  “The catacombs? Why did you stay there for, as you said, quite some time? I would have left as quickly as possible.”

  “It was a long way down, perhaps a hundred rungs. I rested at the bottom and took several rests on the way back up.”

  The pitchfork stabbed again. My half truths were multiplying, inviting more punishment.

  “I see.” The inspector stroked his chin. “You say you saw bones. Did you see anything else?”

  More deception begged to be dispensed. It was time for a bold lie. Hang the pitchfork. “No. Nothing. It was dark. I only felt the bones. I didn’t see them.”

  “Did you hear anything? Perhaps footsteps or other noises? Any sign of a living human? Criminals have been known to hide in those old quarries.”

  “Only my own footsteps.”

  “Therefore,” Marc said, “the murderer took Mother’s brooch, decided that it had no monetary value, and put it in Justin’s bag, hoping to make him look guilty, thereby throwing the investigation off the trail.”

  Inspector Fortier shook his head. “Nonsense. That would be true only if the murderer knew that someone other than Justin would find the brooch, which is a wild guess to say the least.”

  “The carriage driver?” Marc turned toward Francine. “Who drove you to the schoolhouse?”

  “Denis. As always.”

  “Did he drive you and Mother to the party?”

  “Of course. But he didn’t stay. He had instructions to return later. That’s why we had to walk in the rainstorm.”

  “Did Denis and your mother ever argue?” the inspector asked.

  Marc and Francine glanced at each other. “A quarrel or two,” Marc said. “Nothing unusual.”

  Francine nodded. “Mother was not the most agreeable person. She had quarrels with everyone we know.”

  “Including everyone at the party?” the inspector asked.

  Marc sighed. “Unfortunately … yes. But there were no guests named Pierre. It’s possible, however, that I misheard Dr. Cousineau. His lips were badly damaged.” He turned toward me. “True, Justin?”

  Although Marc likely wanted confirmation that Dr. Cousineau’s speech had been garbled, I opted to mention the only truth I could confirm. “His lips had nearly melted. It was truly awful.”

  The inspector stroked his chin. “Then that name is not a trustworthy clue.” He looked at Francine. “Was this Denis fellow the only person who had access to the bag?”

  “As far as I know,” she said. “Besides me, of course.”

  Inspector Fortier gave her a clumsy smile. “Mademoiselle, if not for the fact that you lack the strength to subdue your mother and hoist her by a rope, you would be my primary suspect.”

  She blinked. “Why so?”

  “Your inheritance. You must have guessed that I would look into the amount of money you and your brother will receive. It is much more than substantial. Madame Noël saved and invested wisely.”

  “Really?” Francine said with a tone of naïveté. “I haven’t been privy to her business affairs.”

  “I have,” Marc said. “Francine and I will both be quite wealthy, which raised a concern in my mind that I would be a suspect.”

  “Until I solve the murder, Monsieur Noël, everyone at the party is a suspect, especially any man who has motivation, opportunity, and no substantiated alibi.” The inspector set his hat on his head. “I am expecting a report to arrive tonight, information from Scotland Yard about Monsieur Trotter’s family records. If it does, I will return to discuss it in the morning.” He nodded to each of us in turn. “Good evening. I will let myself out.”

  Chapter Ten

  When the inspector left, Marc exhaled and looked at me. “Well, Justin, it seems that we’re both high on the list of suspects.”

  I nodded. “Since we provided an alibi for each other, maybe he thinks we conspired to kill your mother.”

  Marc touched the stitches on his scalp. “And I intentionally cut my head as a diversion.”

  “Gentlemen,” Francine said, “there is no profit in speculating. The inspector seems to be a careful, honest man. Since we are innocent, we have nothing to fear.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” I asked. “What about Denis?”

  Francine huffed. “Denis is eighty-five years old. He can barely step up into our carriage, much less overpower and hang my mother. When the inspector questions him, he’ll drop from the list.”

  “Which men at the party might have enough animosity toward—”

  “No one,” Marc said with a sharp tone. “I said everyone had quarrels with Mother, but this crime was pure ins
anity. Only a madman would hang Mother in a public place. A sane killer would commit the crime in stealth, maybe poison her.”

  “Yet,” I countered, “even in public, the murder happened without any witnesses, without any real suspects.”

  “Besides the three of us,” Francine said.

  Marc let out a loud sigh. “I can’t blame the inspector for suspecting us. Like I said, you and I will both inherit a lot of money.”

  “I care nothing about money.” Francine rose. “Come to the dining room. Marguerite is preparing a soufflé, and we’ll have some wine. I’m sure both of you are hungry.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That would be wonderful.”

  She fanned the air with a hand. “A bath for you first. You smell like a pig. By the time you finish, the soufflé should be ready.”

  “Excellent.” Marc rose to his feet and balanced himself as if dizzy. “Is Marguerite staying overnight again?”

  Francine nodded. “A few more nights until we’re used to Mother’s absence.”

  “Even so, she’s busy with dinner. I’ll draw Justin’s bath.”

  “Nonsense. You can barely stand, much less carry water without spilling it.”

  I raised a hand. “I can do it myself. I know my way around.”

  “Just be sure to find my soap,” Francine said. “You need a new aroma.”

  “I will.”

  After I enjoyed a warm bath, complete with Francine’s perfumed soap, I put on the last remaining set of clean clothes from my bag and transferred the carriage fare from the soiled trousers to the new set. I then reconvened with Francine and Marc in the dining room, where the three of us sat at the formal table, Marc at the head and Francine and me adjacent to him, one at each side. Although the place settings were humble, lacking real silver or china, the lacy tablecloth spilled over every edge and nearly touched the floor—a handsome decoration.

  Marc warned us not to discuss the murder during the meal or else we might suffer indigestion. We chose instead to talk about our hopes for the next theater production, Francine’s tutoring, anything to get our minds off the lurking shadow of death.