Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  Marguerite, a woman in her forties, lithe and lovely for her age and wearing a black dress that molded to her feminine form, served us with professional aloofness, though she watched me with a nervous eye from time to time.

  When she set a pastry before us as the final course, she looked at Francine. “Will you need anything else?” Her tone was pleasant though guarded as her eyes kept wandering toward me.

  “No, Marguerite,” Francine said. “Thank you. The meal was marvelous. Feel free to retire.” She gestured toward an empty chair. “Or you may join us for conversation.”

  Marguerite glanced at the chair, then at me before looking again at Francine. Her wavy blonde locks shifted over one eye. “I’ll retire, but may I ask if your guest is staying the night as well?”

  “Justin?” Francine tilted her head. “Yes, he is. Why do you ask?”

  Marguerite shuddered. “I want to be aware of who is here at night so I won’t be taken by surprise. A murder suspect under the same roof is—”

  “Marguerite,” Marc said with a rebuking tone, “Justin did not kill my mother. You have no reason to fear him.”

  Francine nodded toward the front door. “No one is making this house your prison. Your nighttime service has always been voluntary.”

  “It’s too late to go home now,” Marguerite said, her eyes moistening. “I will stay.”

  Francine’s tone remained firm. “The door to your bedroom has a lock. Use it if it will make you feel safer.”

  “Thank you.” Marguerite turned and walked away with long, quick strides.

  “Well …” Marc dabbed his lips with a napkin. “That was … awkward.”

  Francine glared in the direction Marguerite had exited, her teeth set as she spoke through them. “She should know better than to insult a guest.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, waving a hand. “After all, I am the prime suspect.”

  Marc picked up a bottle of wine from the table. “May I suggest an extra glass to take the edge off our anxieties?”

  “By all means.” I slid my glass toward him. “I need a good night’s sleep.”

  After we finished the pastry and drank enough wine to settle our nerves, Marc leaned back in his chair. “I saw on the calendar that we have a funeral in the offing.”

  Francine nodded. “Monday morning. This is Saturday evening, in case you didn’t know.”

  “Then I don’t need to get up early.” Marc turned to me. “If you’re not too tired, we can talk.”

  Francine gave Marc a questioning look but said nothing. She rose, bade us both goodnight, and walked out.

  Marc and I returned to the sitting room. He reclined on the sofa, his head propped by a pillow, while I chose the chair closest to him.

  He folded his hands over his chest and looked straight at me. “Justin …” His pained expression dragged through the pause. “Justin, I apologize for my part in drawing you into this mess. You didn’t want to come to the party, but I insisted.”

  “You did, but I still had the option to refuse. Part of me wanted to come.”

  “The part that wishes to court Francine.”

  Warmth flooded my cheeks, but in the dim lantern light, Marc probably didn’t notice. It wouldn’t be right to mention that Francine and I had already agreed to see each other. She needed to be present for that announcement. “I do admire her qualities. She has an impressive strength of spirit.”

  “Indeed she does. She is taking Mother’s death remarkably well.” Marc glanced toward the hallway for a brief moment. “Justin …” His voice grew quieter. “The murders are puzzling. I could count people who hated my mother all day long. Those who had a motive are aplenty, but no one had the opportunity. Mother was mingling as she always does, constantly in the company of multiple people.” He set a hand over his wound and winced. “At least as far as I can remember.”

  “One of the cat girls said your mother wasn’t feeling well and went to the lounge.”

  “Right. Sabina. I remember now. So the opportunity was there.”

  I lowered my tone. “Did you notice if anyone in particular stayed close to your mother?”

  “Only Francine. But, as the inspector said, she’s not strong enough to commit the crime.”

  The fact that Marc mentioned Francine and then defended her in the same breath gave me pause. Did he secretly suspect her while doubting his own suspicions? Of course, asking him directly might be offensive. I had to draw his thoughts out. “I suppose no woman could do it alone.”

  Marc raised a finger. “A valid point. But a woman could do it with help. Perhaps two women, or a woman and a man.”

  “Especially if your mother was first incapacitated with a drug of some sort.”

  Marc gave me a weak smile. “You said that because I mentioned poison, didn’t you?”

  “Francine told me about your mother trying to poison you with arsenic. It was on my mind.”

  “You should be the inspector’s assistant. You have more ideas than he has.”

  I couldn’t help but smile myself. “I’m sure he’s considering all the possibilities. If he really suspects Francine conspired with someone, he wouldn’t tell her so.”

  “True. But since he was ready to arrest you, he must believe you are the murderer.”

  “A ruse, maybe? An arrest to make the real murderer less wary?”

  “Only the inspector knows.” Marc’s countenance darkened. He looked away, staring at nothing that I could discern.

  “What’s troubling you?” I asked.

  He returned his gaze to me. “Justin, I’ve always been able to confide in you before …” His voice trailed off.

  “And you may continue confiding in me.” I slid my chair closer. “What’s on your mind?”

  His pained expression returned. “Ever since Mother tried to poison me, Francine has acted strangely. Moody. Argumentative. Even pugilistic. You have experienced one of her bouts yourself.”

  “A mere spat, Marc. A disagreement over politics.”

  He wagged a finger at me. “You think I don’t know about the fight you two had after mass that day. But I know. She ranted to me long after your verbal fisticuffs.”

  “Did she tell you what I said that made her so angry?”

  He nodded. “Four times.”

  “Four times?” I slumped in my chair. “I was an idiot.”

  Marc’s smile reappeared. “She said that as well.”

  “I hoped my note of apology would help, but I suppose it didn’t.”

  “Oh, it helped. She threw it away, but she stopped cursing your name. In fact, it was her idea to invite you to the party. And she was genial to you there, at least as far as I could tell.”

  “She was. Much friendlier than I expected.”

  “Then her vendetta was temporary. She has a short fuse, but her explosions last only a few days.” Marc’s expression turned somber again. “Still, the row you two had proves my point. She can be volatile.”

  We both drifted into silent contemplation, for how long, I don’t remember.

  Now is a good time, Mother, to return to a topic I mentioned earlier, that I would dispel notions that Francine was a bad-tempered woman, in spite of Marc’s accusation.

  The altercation came about one Sunday when I attended mass with the Noëls. The cathedral was magnificent—a towering steeple, marble columns, lovely stained glass, and much more. Most of the parishioners were dressed in finery that made my only suit appear impoverished by comparison, but Marc gave assurances that no one would look down on me.

  Once inside, I sat between Marc and Francine with their mother to Francine’s left, farther from the aisle. Although the singing was grand, the homily was surprisingly harsh—a diatribe from the bishop against the Protestant reformers. No member of that clan escaped his sharp tongue. According to his polemic, Hus, Luther, and Calvin were all spawns of the devil, demonic characters charged with conspiring to destroy the holy institution that Christ built upon the rock, Saint Peter hi
mself.

  Furtive glances at Francine revealed her approval of this character assassination. I was appalled at her stern countenance, punctuated by nods at the bishop’s most damning pronouncements.

  Mother, although you raised me in the Church of England, I later held no special affinity toward it. My adoptive parents never attended services and spoke little about religion, so any love that I had for the Church or its founder had grown cold by this time.

  I found it nearly unbearable to listen to a frocked clergyman who, I assume, espoused the golden rule, rip these men and their cause to shreds. They were dead and could not defend themselves. Would this bishop have wanted one of his polemical targets to speak of him in such a manner?

  Although I endured to the end, the storming condemnations continued assaulting my mind, and I maintained silence as we left the church and walked toward the Noëls’ carriage, me next to Francine, and Marc and their mother a few steps in front. I hoped no one would ask my opinion of the message, but that hope was quickly dashed.

  “What did you think of the homily?” Francine said.

  I cringed inwardly but kept a calm expression intact as I whispered, “This is a topic that is better discussed in private.”

  “Very well.” She grasped my arm, pulled me to a stop, and called ahead. “Mother. Marc. Justin and I will join you in a moment.”

  “Take your time,” Marc said, glancing back. “Mother wants to talk to her banker.”

  When they walked away, Francine turned toward me and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

  I shifted my weight from foot to foot. “He has a forceful delivery, to be sure.”

  Francine nodded, gaily unaware of my cheerless tone. “The holy church has been assaulted by these pretenders for centuries. I’m glad to hear someone putting them in their place.”

  “What is their place?”

  “Damnation. The eternal flames.”

  “Flames? That’s quite harsh, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed not. No one should be forgiven for blaspheming Christ’s church. Ever.”

  “Like Joan of Arc?”

  Francine tilted her head. “Why do you mention her?”

  “She was consigned to flames for blasphemy. Was Joan a pretender? Did she assault the holy church?”

  “That was different. She loved the Church. She never spoke against it.”

  “But it spoke against her. How can a church be called holy if it would kill one of its most devoted daughters?”

  Her face turned stony. “A group of men made an error, a murderous error. Men are fallible.”

  “They are, and you are right to criticize them. Yet, you are ready to burn others who criticize men of the Church who, at least in the eyes of the critics, have also made mistakes.” Then my tongue seemed to come unhinged as I committed the foolish blunder I regretted ever since. “Doesn’t your own murderous desire against these reformers make you a hypocrite? Maybe you deserve burning at the stake yourself.”

  She raised a hand as if to slap me. Her fingers curled into a tight fist, but the blow never came, at least not a physical one.

  “Justin Trotter …” She spoke through clenched teeth. “When I was little, we lived on a farm. At the age of seven, I learned how to castrate a horse. Trust me. My gelding blade is still sharp.”

  She lowered her arm to her side, turned, and stalked toward the carriage.

  Not knowing what else to do, I followed. With every step, I cursed my unbridled tongue. Perhaps my statement bore some truth, but my words were foul, uncalled for, not in keeping with proper manners or chivalry.

  We rode to the Noëls’ home in awkward silence. From there, I excused myself and walked to the flat. Marc joined me in the evening but mentioned nothing about my altercation with Francine, so I assumed he was ignorant of it at the time.

  Now you understand, Mother. Francine’s fiery tongue was unleashed by my own. I set the spark to the fuel. At all other times, she was kind and thoughtful, as you have learned from my story to this point.

  After our moments of quiet reflection, Marc spoke up. “You look tired.”

  “I am. The last twenty-four hours have been a nightmare.”

  “Which is why we should retire for the night.” He slid his hands behind his head. “Take my room. I’ll sleep here. That will save me some effort.”

  “Thank you.” I picked up the lantern. “Will you need a light?”

  “The moon is sufficient. It’s nearly full.”

  “Very well.” I gave him a nod. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Guided by the lantern, I walked to his room, which was situated next to Francine’s. Beyond hers lay their mother’s room and the spare bedroom, now occupied by Marguerite. Since my clothes were clean and comfortable, I kept them on, blew out the lantern, and slid into Marc’s bed and under the covers.

  While I lay there, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. As Marc had indicated, moonlight coming through the room’s window illuminated my surroundings enough to see a closet and a dresser. Although he lived in our flat most of the time, he kept a second home here. Now I knew another reason for his home away from home. Who would want to live with a woman who tried to kill you?

  Numbed by wine and exhausted, I fell asleep in mere moments. I dreamed about wandering lost through the catacombs. Demons chased me, wielding bones as clubs. Whenever one caught me and struck me with a bone, I awakened with a start, then slept again, only to return to the same troubling dream.

  After several such cycles, I awakened to see Michael standing at the side of my bed, holding a short black candle. When I gasped and tried to rise, he set a hand on my shoulder, gentle yet firm.

  “I am looking for Jean. Have you seen him?”

  Battling a narrowed throat, I whispered, “Not since yesterday afternoon. He led me to the catacombs, then he left without me.”

  Michael nodded, his face tight. “Joan told me about his latest escapade.”

  “She said Jean is … well … volatile. He has episodes of violent behavior.”

  “Violent is an understatement, which is why I need to find him.”

  “If he has episodes like that, why were you separated in the first place? Shouldn’t you stay with him constantly?”

  He laughed under his breath. “If only it were so easy. Jean despises his lessons. He is not one who enjoys being corrected, and he is elusive.”

  “Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “I suspect he has been following you. For some reason I have not yet discovered, he has taken a liking to you and is keenly interested in your well-being. He knows you are innocent, and I suspect that he is angered by the investigation. And any anger can cause him to act in an irrational manner, which is why I must find him as soon as possible.”

  “If I see him, should I try to catch him? Hold him?”

  “No, no. Definitely not. If he is in a rage, he might hurt you.”

  “A little boy?”

  Michael sighed. “He has hurt many people.”

  “You mean in the past? When he was alive?”

  “Yes, but he is still capable of harming people now.”

  “Who is he? Or rather, who was he? And who are you?”

  Michael’s face hardened. “He was a scoundrel. A villain. As a pastor, he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A wretched—” He shook his head and took in a deep breath. “I apologize. Memories of torture broke down my guard.”

  “Jean tortured you?”

  “By proxy. I burned at the stake while wearing a crown of straw infused with sulfur. Jean’s minions used green wood to prolong my suffering.” He looked toward the bedroom door. “I have no time to tell you more. I must search for Jean. If you see him, please notify me.”

  “How? Should I go to the catacombs?”

  “No.” He blew out the candle and extended it. “Light this, and I will come.”

  I took the candle, still visible in the moonlight. About four inches long, it fit in the palm of my hand. “Is this some
sort of magic?”

  Michael smiled. “Not at all. I have a spiritual connection to it. When the candle is fully consumed, my time here and Jean’s will be finished. I feel it burning, as if my own life is dwindling, and I am drawn to it. Joan has the same connection with the lantern she carries. When it runs out of oil, her time will come to an end.”

  “I see. That’s why she had two lanterns in the catacombs. One stayed dark while I was there.”

  “Yes, it would be foolish for her to burn her remaining time unnecessarily.”

  “Then why were you burning your candle just now?”

  “The light seeks for Jean. It led me to this house.”

  “So he might still be near.”

  “That is my hope.”

  I scanned the room. If Jean were hiding somewhere within, Michael would probably have found him. “Joan said you’re investigating the murder. Have you discovered anything yet?”

  “Besides the fact that Madame Noël was a cruel, vindictive woman? Nothing of substance, but …” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “A shadow of evil lurks here. I can feel it. Perhaps I sense only the echoes of the victim’s cruelty, but, in any case, be wary, my friend. Watch with wide-open eyes.”

  I fought off a cold shiver. “I will.”

  “Since you are here, I assume you are currently safe from prosecution. I will suspend my investigation and leave it up to you. I must find Jean.”

  “Won’t you need your candle?”

  “I have already burned too much time. My remaining days with Jean are precious. For both of us.” He walked from the room and faded from view.

  I slipped out of bed and pushed the candle into my pocket. Since I might see Jean most anywhere, I would have to find matches to carry with me. And if my search led me outside, I would also need my shoes.

  With moonlight allowing a view of my path, I walked on tiptoes through the kitchen to the scullery, where I found my shoes and stockings on the floor as well as a box of matches on a shelf. After sliding the matchbox into my pocket, I made my way to the sitting room where Marc slept. His deep, steady breathing indicated restful sleep.

  Just as I sat in one of the chairs and began putting on my stockings, a flickering glow appeared from the corridor leading to the bedrooms. I lowered myself to all fours and crawled behind the chair.