by Bryan Davis
“Ah, yes. I wasn’t able to sleep, so …” I couldn’t think of a believable lie.
“You were rehearsing. Marc told me you had a play coming up.” Smiling, she gave me a playful push. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed about that. You sounded wonderful, especially when you used that deeper voice, the one with precise diction.”
“Well …” I bowed my head. “Thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.” Her smile melted as she touched my arm. “Justin, I must speak to you about something important.”
“By all means.”
She sat on the bed and gestured for me to sit next to her. When I did, she opened a hand, revealing the combined brooches. The greenish glow bathed her palm. “Do you know what this is?”
My eyes felt locked in place, unable to pull away from the scarab’s pearl-like surface. “No. What is it?”
“Part of a puzzle. My mother’s brooch was half, and a key inside unlocked a door that led to the other half. Now that they are combined, they provide a way to get to the next part of the puzzle.”
“The next part? What is it?”
She closed her hand, hiding the eerie light. “I don’t know. I was hoping you would help me figure it out.”
“How do you know there even is a next part?”
“My mother’s diary. When she died, I went through her possessions and found it. That’s how I learned that her brooch had a mate and where to look for it.”
“Where was it hidden?”
She bit her lip and looked down. “I can’t tell you, Justin. It’s a secret place. A family secret that needs to stay in darkness.”
I suppressed a smile. She could have easily lied. The fact that she told the truth increased my desire to help. “If you have to keep the secret, how do you expect me to help you?”
“With your knowledge of languages. According to Mother’s diary, the puzzle is connected to a legend about Joan of Arc. She had a ring that gave her protection during the battles. If that’s true, it would be a priceless treasure. Imagine, nothing of this world could bring harm to the ring’s wearer.”
“If the ring protected Joan, then how could she die in the flames?”
Francine twisted a ring on her own finger. “According to legend, her persecutors took her ring, suspecting that it might be a protective device. Although they claimed to be servants of the Church, they feared superstitions.”
“So whether or not the ring actually works is based on a legend.”
“Yes, but even if the protective power is a myth, the ring would be quite valuable, don’t you think?”
“Without a doubt. But if you find it, will it rightfully be yours?”
She nodded. “One of my ancestors purchased it in the sixteenth century. I am certain of the lineage, because Mother kept a diagram of our family’s genealogy. According to the diary, my grandmother hid the ring and devised a complex puzzle to keep it safe. Mother’s diary says that one step to finding the ring is written in a language she didn’t understand. She intended to do more research, but obviously she died before she could find the answer.”
“May I see the diary?”
“Well …” She glanced away. “Much of it is personal.” When she focused her eyes on me, she added, “You understand, I’m sure.”
“I do, but how can I be of help if you won’t let me study the clues?”
“I will show you what is pertinent, the portion written in a foreign language.” She withdrew a small book from a dress pocket and turned it to a marked page. As she stepped closer to the candles, she read out loud. “Grandmother Claire’s journal says that once the brooches are attached, the next step is to …” Francine pointed at the page. “Can you read this?”
I blinked at the odd handwriting. As I studied it, the poorly formed letters took familiar shapes. “It’s written in Gaelic. It says, roughly speaking, ‘The jewels make light that pierce his bones. I set them in the shape of a cross. You will find it near a wall of skulls.’”
“A wall of skulls,” Francine repeated in a whisper.
“There are such walls in the catacombs. Actually I hear there are quite a number of them.”
“The catacombs?” She looked at me with wide eyes. “I have to search there?”
“It seems so.” I read the text again and verified that I had translated it correctly. “Whose bones is she referring to?”
“Maybe Adolphe’s. Her husband’s. He died long before she did. A fever, I think.”
My thoughts drifted to the little girl in the crypt. Maybe this was my chance to learn more about her. “Where is the genealogy diagram you mentioned?”
“Mother used to keep it on a wall in her bedroom, but when I looked for it, it wasn’t there.”
“Not there? When did you look for it?”
“Just moments ago. Before I came in here.”
I tried to hide my shock. “Stolen?”
“I can’t imagine who would steal it. It has only sentimental value.”
“Why were you looking for it?”
“Mother’s diary mentioned that the words you translated were related to someone in the family. I thought the diagram might help, but, as I said, it’s missing. That’s when I heard you rehearsing.”
Another knock came from the door. “Justin?” Marc called. “Francine?”
Francine leaped to the door and opened it. “Marc, how embarrassing that you should find us here with the door closed.” She gestured toward me, her smile disarming. “But, as you can see, all is well. I was helping Justin rehearse his lines.”
“Is that so?” Marc walked in and glanced around the room. “Where is the script?”
“I have it all memorized,” I said. “Even Zara’s lines, a role which Francine is remarkably suited for.”
“Really?” Marc crossed his arms. “Please continue. This should be entertaining.”
Francine grasped Marc’s arm. “No need for that. We were passing time waiting for you to wake up. I closed the door so you wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“It’s five in the morning,” he said. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
Francine shook her head. “The funeral has dominated my thoughts. So much to do, but I didn’t want to make any noise. Then I heard Justin rehearsing, so I thought I’d join him.”
“Sleeplessness is contagious, I see.” Marc let out a sigh. “All right. Fine. But I will not scold myself for thinking that you two might have been rehearsing for your wedding night.”
Blushing, Francine looked everywhere but at me. “Marc, I am fond of Justin, and we have discussed possible courtship, but we are far from being lovers.”
“Sure. Keep acting. I’ll play along.” Marc spread an arm toward the doorway. “Shall I brew coffee for us?”
“I’ll do it.” Francine walked out, not bothering to give me another glance.
Marc looked at me with a bent brow. “Justin, although I approve of you courting my sister—”
“Marc, it was nothing. Trust me. Not even a kiss or an embrace. Our relationship has barely begun.”
“Still, it would be better to avoid compromising situations. If I had suspicious thoughts, neighbors and strangers will find you guilty without a trial, and you can’t afford bad publicity, especially after what the papers are likely to print today.” He gestured with his head. “Let’s put it behind us and get a cup of coffee. This could be a difficult day for all of us. Marguerite and Francine had to chase away five reporters yesterday. More are sure to come.”
As we walked toward the sitting room, questions roared within, demanding answers. Why didn’t Francine want Marc to know about her search for the ring? Should I reveal her quest to him? What might she be hiding? Maybe a stealthy conversation would provide the answers.
With coffee in hand, we entered the sitting room where Francine had set a table and slid chairs up to each side. Once we sat and began drinking, I nodded toward Francine. “Marc told me that your paternal grandmother has Celtic roots. That came as quite a surprise.
”
Francine finished a sip and set her cup down. “Yes, she does, but why the surprise?”
“I thought you were French for many generations.” I raised my brow at Marc. “If you were to trace your lineage, where would you find the first Celtic or Irish name?”
“Not far at all,” Marc said. “We had a half-sister named Siobhan.”
I nodded. “Definitely Irish. I’m not sure I remember what it means.”
“God is gracious,” Francine said. “It is an Irish form of Joan.”
“Joan,” I whispered. “How interesting.”
“Interesting indeed.” Marc sipped his coffee before continuing. Although his casual action appeared nonchalant, a facial tic gave away more than a little anxiety. “Mother grew up poor. Poor as dirt, actually. One of five daughters. According to all accounts, she was desperate to get out of the squalor her family called home, but her father wouldn’t let her leave.”
He set his cup down, a slight tremor in his hand as well as his voice. “You see, her mother had died, and as a young teenager she was the only daughter old enough to keep house. She also attracted male customers to her father’s shop by dressing more provocatively than most and spending time outside close to the door. That led her father to encourage the behavior. As you might expect, eventually one of the customers decided that looking wasn’t enough, so he took advantage of her.”
Francine gasped and raised a hand over her mouth, though she said nothing. I shifted in my seat, not knowing what to say myself. How does one respond to the rape of a child?
Marc drummed his fingers on his thigh while biting his lip and staring at his cup. After a quiet moment, he looked at us with misty eyes and continued at a slower cadence. “When she became pregnant and could no longer hide the fact, she told her father what happened. It turns out that the attacker was quite wealthy, an Irishman of noble descent, so her father, knowing that an unwed, pregnant daughter wouldn’t be able to attract customers or a husband of any worth, demanded that the man give him a sizeable bride price and take her away. Otherwise, he would have the scoundrel arrested.”
“A scoundrel, indeed,” Francine said. “Beheading was too good for him.” Her cheeks suddenly flushing red, she waved a hand. “I apologize, Marc. My emotions got the best of me. Please continue.”
“I understand. I can barely contain my own emotions. But I think it’s important to realize what our mother suffered.” Marc settled back in his seat, appearing more comfortable now as he finished his tale quickly. “Not wanting to soil his reputation, the man acquiesced and took Mother into his home. Although they never married, he supported her, and when the baby was born, she suggested the name Siobhan.”
“Because she was obsessed with Joan of Arc,” Francine said.
Marc offered a tight smile. “And it seems that she passed along her fascination with Joan to you.”
“I suppose she did.” Francine tilted her head. “Marc, I have never heard this story before. Why haven’t you told me?”
“Because Mother made me swear to secrecy. She said I could tell you after she passed.”
Francine gave him a nod. “Go on.”
“There isn’t much more to tell. I don’t even know the man’s name. But he died in the eighteen-thirty-two cholera epidemic, just two years after Siobhan was born. A judge awarded her a portion of the man’s estate, so Mother was able to live well enough, and by the time she married our father, she had established herself as part of the bourgeoisie.”
“How could she do that with a bastard child?” Francine asked.
“I asked her that question in a more delicate way, but she wouldn’t answer. I suppose it will remain a mystery.”
“How did Siobhan die?” I asked.
“That, too, is a mystery. Mother refused to tell me, but there were no cholera outbreaks that year, though smallpox and consumption are always around. In any case, we don’t even know where Siobhan is buried. Mother kept that a secret as well.”
I cast a stealthy glance at Francine, wondering if she would mention the mausoleum she had recently visited, but she stayed quiet.
Marc arched a brow. “Speaking of secrets, Mother told me that Grandmother Claire had secrets of her own. Apparently she hid some valuable treasures, and Mother often wondered where they were. Not that she needed the money, of course, but what a shame it would be to lose precious family heirlooms.”
“What kind of heirlooms?” Francine asked.
“A ring of some sort.” Marc touched the top of his chest. “And a diamond pendant that hung from a necklace. Supposedly it was too valuable to wear openly, so Claire put it away for safekeeping.”
Francine touched her own chest as if caressing an invisible pendant. “Were there any clues to its location?”
“None that I know of, but now that Mother is dead …” Marc rose from his chair slowly, apparently still weakened by the blow to his head. “Now we can search for answers to our questions. Mother has a trunk—”
“I’ve already gone through it,” Francine said. “I found nothing but clothes she hasn’t worn in years.”
“The family tree, then. She stared at it so often, I’m sure it holds secrets.”
Francine set her coffee cup down. “It’s missing.”
“What?” Marc furrowed his brow. “Missing? Since when?”
“Since last night. It was on the wall then, but this morning it was gone.”
“Who could have taken it? It has no value to anyone but us.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Perhaps Marguerite moved it.” Marc ambled toward the master bedroom. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
When he had walked out of earshot, Francine spoke in a low tone. “You raised that topic intentionally, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “I suspected that he might know more, since he’s older than you and has access to your mother’s papers. I thought it might be a good way to learn something without telling him what you’re looking for.”
She let out a resigned sigh. “Well, we learned quite a lot.”
“Why don’t you want him to know about your search for the ring?”
“Because if he killed Mother for her money, it wouldn’t be right for him to get a share of any heirloom’s value.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“I’ll wait for the investigation to complete. If he is innocent, then of course I’ll share it with him.”
I glanced down the hall. Marc was nowhere in sight. “Speaking of the investigation, do you think the inspector will be at the funeral?”
“I think so. He’ll want to interview people who were at the party, which would be impolite to do that day, of course, but he can make appointments.”
“It sounds like this could drag on for quite some time.”
“Not likely. Publicity will hurry it along. We’ll know the truth soon, but until then, let’s take care about what we tell Marc and what we keep to ourselves.”
I leaned closer to her. “Do you really think Marc might be the murderer?”
She leaned as well. “Sound reasoning says no. If he were, why would he help you? It would have been easy for him to deny your alibi. The investigation would be over, he would be free, and you would be facing the guillotine.”
My throat tingled. “Trust me. I have thought of that many times.”
“Yet, as intelligent as Marc is, perhaps he knew that helping you would cast suspicions away from him.”
“I wondered about that possibility as well.”
“Here it is.” Marc walked in with the document, one hand on each side of the frame. “It was in the spare bedroom.”
“The spare bedroom?” Francine asked. “With Marguerite? Wasn’t the door locked?”
“No. The door was partially open. That’s why I looked there.”
“And Marguerite?”
“Asleep, I assume. I didn’t check on her.”
Francine looked down the hall. “How odd that it would be there.”
Marc laid the document flat on the table. As the three of us looked at it, my eyes shifted immediately to Siobhan’s place on the tree, but her name as well as Marc’s and Francine’s had been scratched out by three lines, each colored in red, though the words were still readable.
“Look,” I said, pointing. “Is that blood?”
Marc set a finger on one of the abrasions. “It seems so. It’s still a bit tacky.”
“How could it have happened?” I asked.
“I have no idea. It wasn’t like this the last time I saw it.”
Francine crossed her arms. “Marguerite must have done it. After all, you found it in her room.”
“Or someone hopes we think so,” Marc said. “She was scared of Justin, so I’m sure she locked the door.”
“True. The open door is curious.”
“Mother kept a key to that door on her dresser. Finding it would not be difficult.”
“Marc …” Francine curled her arm around his and pulled him close. “Someone is playing pranks, and I don’t like it.”
“Cruel pranks.” Marc looked at me. “Did you see or hear anything unusual last night?”
I attempted a disarming smile. “Would you call rehearsing a play in the middle of night unusual?”
“Normally I would appreciate the levity, but not now.” He turned to Francine. “Did you hear anything?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
I kept my face slack. Of course I failed to tell the whole truth, but so had Francine. Obviously she wasn’t ready to trust him yet.
After giving her a long, hard look, Marc grasped her hand. “I think it’s time you and I had a talk.”
She glanced at the hand clasp, then at him. “About what?”
“Family matters. Private matters.”
“Then we should go outside.” Francine nodded toward the door. “I want to show you something.”
“Very well.” Marc looked at me. “Are you comfortable staying here alone?”
“I think so. This prankster could have easily attacked us in our sleep. I doubt that he or she has the courage to face one of us.”
“Just in case …” He looked around the room. “You should have a weapon of some kind.”