Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

Francine pointed toward the fireplace. “The poker?”

  “Perfect.” Marc took the poker and handed it to me. “For your protection.”

  I gripped the handle and tested its weight. “Thank you. And I’ll check on Marguerite as well.”

  “Find something for breakfast,” Francine said. “Or you can wait for Marguerite to get up. She is an early riser.”

  “You’ll be gone that long?”

  “It’s possible. I need to take Marc out of the neighborhood for a little while.”

  I nodded. Maybe she was ready to show him the girl in the crypt. “Take your time.”

  When they left, I returned to my seat next to the table and studied the family tree. The scratches were narrow and well defined, as if they were made by pointed fingernails. But what was the source of the red coloring? Perhaps the prankster’s own blood?

  A knock at the main door drew my attention. Who would visit so early in the morning? A reporter, maybe?

  I rose, walked to the door, and opened it, revealing a petite woman wearing a simple white dress. Carrying a lit lantern by its top handle, she bent her knee in a shallow curtsy. “My name is Siobhan. May I come in?”

  Chapter Twelve

  I backed away, stuttering. “Y—yes. Of course.” As Siobhan entered, I couldn’t help but stare. Not only did this visitor bear the name of the mysterious sister, she looked like an adult version of the girl in the crypt. Her hair and the style of her dress were identical.

  When I closed the door, she squinted as if examining me. “You are an Englishman, are you not?” Her words carried an Irish flavor.

  “I am, and my guess is that you are familiar with the Isles yourself.”

  She smiled demurely. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Probably not to most. Your French is perfect.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced around. “I am looking for someone, and all signs pointed to this house.”

  “Signs? What signs?”

  Her smile stiffened. “It would be impossible to explain. May I search for her?”

  “Her? A woman?”

  “A girl.” She walked toward the hall. “Are the bedrooms this way?”

  I strode ahead and blocked her path. “The master and mistress of the house are not here right now. It wouldn’t be proper for you to search without their permission.”

  She lifted the lantern. “If she is here, this light should find her in mere moments. So I ask again, may I search?”

  I stared at the lantern. Similar to Joan’s light, the flame within leaned on its wick as if pointing down the hall. From that direction, a draft breezed by, cold and fetid.

  I coughed, nearly gagging. “Yes. Yes, go and find her.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Siobhan walked down the hall, extending the lantern in front.

  The poker in hand, I followed. With every footstep, the air thickened and grew fouler. Breathing felt like drinking sewage. It seemed that the flame called the stench from a festering hole, as if drawing pus from a wound.

  Siobhan walked into Marguerite’s room. I stopped at the door and peeked inside. At the foot of the bed, a girl dressed in rags sat cross-legged. When she saw the light, she leaped to her feet and backed against a wall. Her eyes wild with terror, she clawed at the air and growled.

  My own eyes widened. This was the same girl I had seen scrubbing the scullery floor. Had she sought a place to sleep after finishing her cleaning assignment?

  “Fear not, Jacqueline,” Siobhan whispered as she eased toward the girl. “I am here to help you.”

  I withheld a gasp. Jacqueline? Jacqueline Noël?

  As Siobhan drew closer to the girl, her voice softened further, forcing me to step into the room to hear.

  “I will be your teacher,” Siobhan said. “You are safe with me. I will take you away from this scary place, and we’ll have many good talks. Would you like that?”

  Jacqueline brushed a tear with a fist and nodded. Barely covered by a ratty dress, and her shoulder-length hair in disarray, she looked like one of the street urchins, far from the grand woman Jacqueline Noël had portrayed herself to be, and certainly less pretentious than the fool dressed in motley.

  “Then come with me,” Siobhan said, extending a hand. “All will be well.”

  Jacqueline slowly lifted a hand and slid it into Siobhan’s.

  “Good girl.” Siobhan walked with her toward the door. As they passed me, Siobhan gave me a sad sort of smile. “Thank you for allowing me to search.”

  I breathed a stammering, “You’re welcome.”

  As they walked down the hall, I stared at them, a teacher and a student hand-in-hand, now silhouettes in the lantern’s fading glow. Seconds later, they turned a corner, and the sound of the door opening and closing announced their exit.

  Scarcely able to breathe, I looked around the spare bedroom as if waking from a dream. With the poker in hand, I felt like a fool holding a weapon out of fear of a frightened little girl. She was barely more than a shadow, a mist reborn, lost and drifting in a strange world.

  The first rays of dawn crept through a window, giving light to the room. A lump under the bed covers raised a start. I had forgotten about Marguerite. Although we had stayed relatively quiet, it seemed odd that she had slept through Jacqueline’s growls.

  My mind filled with dread, I touched her shoulder. “Marguerite?”

  She stayed motionless, no sign of breathing.

  I shook her. “Marguerite?”

  Again, she showed no signs of life. As the room grew brighter, it became clear that she was supine, her face exposed. I pulled her covers down. Blood covered her nightgown, torn to shreds.

  I gasped. My heart thumped. Staggering back, I grasped for support but found only air until my hand clutched the side of the doorway. Now steadied, I stared at the brutalized corpse. Who could have committed this terrible crime? Little Jacqueline? But with what? Surely the murderer used a sharp weapon of some kind.

  I lifted the poker and stared at it. Free of bloodstains, this could not have been the murder weapon unless someone had cleaned it thoroughly.

  The moment I first saw it came to mind, when I walked into the sitting room while the inspector was there. At that time, it was still hot from stirring the fire, and now it carried no hint of ashes or even the odor of smoke.

  Indeed, someone had cleaned it.

  But who? Maybe Marguerite herself had cleaned it as part of her evening duties. Yet, who would routinely clean a fire poker?

  My heart still thrumming, I hurried toward the front door. When I drew near, it opened, and Marc and Francine walked in, both with sour expressions. The urge to hide the poker behind my back nearly overwhelmed me, but I resisted.

  “You should have told me sooner,” Marc said to Francine. “She was our sister.”

  “I just learned about it yesterday,” she replied. “You were unconscious until late evening.”

  When Marc saw me, he cleared his throat and gave me an uneasy nod. “Well, I see that you are safe and sound.”

  At that instant, a trance enveloped me. A hush descended, and the three of us stood as statues. A memory resurrected, the moment I saw Father with the hangman’s rope in his grasp. He held the instrument of murder. Yet, in my youth and trusting naïveté, I assumed him to be innocent of the crime in spite of the blood coloring his guilty hands. And now I held the poker that likely ended the life of poor Marguerite. Since no blood stained either skin or metal, would my friends give me the benefit of the doubt? Perhaps not. But, being innocent, I had to act innocent, to declare innocence with fervor.

  Time restarted. Motion returned. Trying to quell rising bile, I swallowed, but my voice squeaked all the same. “Marc, Francine …” I licked my lips. “Marguerite is dead.”

  Francine sucked in a gasping breath. Marc’s mouth dropped open. He stuttered in reply. “D … dead? How? Who?”

  “I don’t know who did it.” I extended the poker. “But I think this might be the weapon.”

&nbs
p; They both stared as if caught in another trance. A moment later, Marc took the poker. “Is she in her room?”

  I nodded. “Come.”

  We hurried to the spare bedroom. When Francine saw Marguerite, she crouched and sobbed. Marc examined the body and verified that the wounds appeared to be inflicted by the poker or something similar in size and sharpness. Someone had plunged the point into her chest five times, piercing her heart and lungs. Since she had no blood in her nose or mouth, she likely died in an instant, unable to take another breath.

  Marc showed me the point of the poker. “Someone cleaned it.”

  I nodded. “No ash or odor. And no blood.”

  “But why clean it? Why not take it and throw it away? Instead, the murderer put it back where it belongs. I think he would be in too much of a hurry.”

  “You’re right. It is odd behavior.” The little girl in the scullery came to mind, the way she scrubbed the floor with such meticulous care. Could the resurrected Jacqueline have murdered Marguerite? In her nightmarish state, she might have rushed to hide the instrument of her crime in the only way she knew how.

  “Marc,” Francine said as she brushed tears from her eyes. “Was it clean when you took it from the fireplace this morning and gave it to Justin?”

  “I … I don’t remember.” He looked again at the poker’s point. “Maybe.”

  Francine turned to me with an acidic glare. “Justin, you stayed here alone even though we wondered if someone might be stalking us. Now Marguerite is dead, and we found you holding the murder weapon.”

  I pointed at myself. “Do you think I killed her? You know I could never—”

  “Of course you couldn’t,” Marc said, giving Francine a burning glare of his own. “Someone is playing a cruel, murderous game, and he wants to blame Justin for the crimes.”

  Francine crossed her arms over her chest. “This is no game. When we report Marguerite’s death”—Francine cast a doubtful eye on me—“we have to tell the truth. Surely the inspector will come to only one conclusion, that Justin is the murderer.”

  “But he has no motive,” Marc said, “no reason to kill an innocent woman.”

  “Well …” Francine looked away. “She did insult him last night.”

  Marc shook his head. “Saying that he is a murder suspect is hardly an insult. Fear is a natural response.”

  “True,” Francine said, “but since everything points a finger at Justin, he won’t be able to escape arrest this time. Maybe it would be better for all of us if he were in jail until the investigation is complete.”

  Tension shot through my muscles, but I forced myself to relax. “If I am arrested, they will halt the investigation. Why bother working on a case they believe to be solved?”

  “What is the alternative?” Marc asked. “You cannot deny that you’re the most obvious suspect, though it seems impossible to me.”

  “I can leave. Go into hiding. Maybe being out of the inspector’s view will allow me to do some investigating myself.”

  Marc clasped my shoulder with a firm grip. “When we report the murder, we’ll have to tell the truth, of course, but I will do everything in my power to convince the inspector of your innocence.”

  “He should turn himself in,” Francine said. “Running will add to the evidence against him.”

  I laughed under my breath. “Better to be an intact suspect than a headless prisoner.”

  “Agreed,” Marc said. “And your running will give us time to find the real murderer.”

  Francine kept her arms tightly crossed. “Assuming for the moment that Justin is innocent, that means this murderer could still be lurking nearby. We’re all vulnerable.”

  Scowling, Marc scanned the area as if looking for someone to attack. “The murderer is lily-livered. Hanging a woman, burning a doctor in a dark library, and stabbing a sleeper are cowardly acts. I have no fear of him.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but I do. I would feel much safer if I had a gun.”

  “I’ll get a revolver for you,” Marc said. “I assume you remember how to shoot.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “And I will search the house thoroughly. Whoever killed Marguerite probably left long ago, but I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

  “One problem with our plan.” I pushed a hand into my pockets and withdrew the carriage fare. “This is all the money I have for food. It won’t last long.”

  “Then come here in the dead of night,” Marc said. “We’ll set something out for you.” He looked at Francine. “Right?”

  She gave a resigned nod. “Of course. Far be it from me to turn anyone away.”

  “Agreed.” Marc touched my arm. “Where will you go? Obviously we won’t tell anyone.”

  The urge to glance at Francine made my eyes hurt, but I kept them trained on Marc. “I shouldn’t tell you. That way you won’t have to lie for my sake.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Marc shook my hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “If I may offer a suggestion …” Francine pulled me close and whispered, though Marc could hear her with ease. “Go to the catacombs.” As she spoke, she slid something into my pocket out of Marc’s view. “Even if the inspector looks for you there, you could easily evade him.”

  I gazed into her imploring eyes. She wanted me to search for the ring, which meant she hadn’t told Marc about it yet. “I will certainly do my best to avoid the inspector.”

  “You should go now.” She set a hand on my back and pushed me toward the rear door. “You can return for your personals later.”

  “Why the rush?” I asked while resisting her push.

  “The inspector said he might visit again this morning. Remember? The report from Scotland Yard?”

  I gave in to her push but stopped just outside the door and turned back. “If he has the report, please learn as much as you can and pass the information along to me.”

  “How will we get it to you?” Marc asked.

  “Francine knows where the entrance to the catacombs is. I’ll stay nearby for a little while.”

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll come to the school this evening. Right before dark. Look for me then.”

  “What about your mother’s funeral? Won’t you be busy with arrangements?”

  “Marc will help. Don’t worry.”

  I gave them both parting nods and hurried toward the school once again. Along the way, I checked my pocket and found the brooches inside. Francine had entrusted me with a valuable treasure. Maybe she wasn’t suspicious of me after all.

  As I continued at a slower pace, I tried to gather the scattered fragments of this mystery and piece them together. Since I, of course, did not kill Marguerite, the only potential suspects were Marc, Francine, and the newly resurrected Jacqueline, or, perhaps, a stalking stranger who had not yet been revealed. If a murderer were still about, it seemed odd that Marc and Francine would be so calm. They reacted strongly to Marguerite’s death, but only for a few moments. Afterward, they carried on as if they had experienced only a minor incident—spilled coffee or a broken teacup.

  Yet, even that was explainable. They were still grief stricken over their mother. Another death merely added to their numbness.

  The thought of a lingering stalker gave me pause. I halted and turned. The house still lay in view about two hundred yards away. A figure wearing a hooded cloak and carrying a satchel walked from the side yard, stopped at the street, and looked at me, his eyes shaded by the hood.

  I resumed a quick stride and glanced back. The stranger walked in the same direction and at the same pace, obviously following me.

  As I accelerated, he did as well. Soon we were out of sight of the house and nearing the graveyard where Siobhan’s body lay. Dread pounced on me like a ravenous beast. Was I the murderer’s next target?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Just as I flexed my muscles to run, Marc’s words came to mind. The murderer is lily-livered. I have no fear of him.

  Emboldened, I
stopped and turned toward the stranger. When he noticed, he slowed his pace but continued toward me. Although the beast gnawed at my confidence, I hardened my frame and set my feet. I had to belie my fear and give this stalker reason to fear me instead.

  As he drew close, he lowered the hood, revealing the familiar face of Inspector Fortier.

  I relaxed my muscles but kept my mind on guard. Surely he would ask questions I couldn’t answer. Maybe striking first would work to my advantage.

  “Inspector, why were you sneaking about the Noëls’ home, and why are you following me now?”

  At first his thinned lips communicated annoyance, but they bent into an agreeable smile. “I hoped to ask for your help in my investigation.”

  “Of course. How may I help?”

  “By answering some questions. And perhaps in another way.” He looked toward the house, though it was now far out of sight. “I arrived about an hour ago. The comings and goings have been most interesting.”

  “If you mean Marc and Francine, they left the house for a little while to have a private conversation.”

  “Private might not be the best word. Perhaps macabre.” He nodded toward the graveyard. “They went in there.”

  “Really?” I feigned surprise.

  Still carrying the satchel, he gestured with his free hand. “Come. Let me show you.”

  I followed him into the graveyard through the iron gateway, left partially open by a previous visitor. We walked straight to the mausoleum and stopped at its closed door. “They went inside,” he said. “They opened a girl’s crypt. Since they whispered, I don’t know who she is or why they visited her.”

  I ran a hand along the stone door. “How did they get in?”

  “Mademoiselle Noël had a tiny key.” He ran a finger across the keyhole. “It was small, but it worked.”

  “How interesting.”

  “Do you know anything at all about this girl or why they came?”

  I hesitated, which was enough for him to conclude that I did know something. I had to provide a tidbit, something to satisfy him without giving away too much. “She’s a family member. A sister, I think. My guess is that brooch Francine searched for held the key. Her mother’s death incited her and her brother to visit their departed sister’s tomb.”