Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  The inspector nodded. “That explains a great deal. And it gives me something to go on. Thank you.”

  “Anytime I can help, let me know.”

  “Maybe you can help more.” He set the satchel down, opened it, and withdrew an empty glass vial, crouching as he showed it to me. “I found this in Dr. Cousineau’s pocket.”

  “Oh? Was it empty when you found it?”

  “Yes, except for traces of arsenic.”

  “Arsenic? Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.” He returned the vial to the satchel and straightened. “Madame Noël was poisoned. She was dead before she was hanged.”

  “Dr. Cousineau killed her?”

  “That seems to be the obvious answer, but he likely had an accomplice. And maybe you can help me ascertain who.”

  “If I can, but how?”

  The inspector again looked toward Marc and Francine’s house. “You have spent time at the Noëls’ home. Have you noticed if they keep a supply of rat poison?”

  “What? Do you think—”

  “Just answer the question, please.” His face was expressionless, no hint of suspicion toward anyone.

  “I haven’t seen any. I’m sure thousands of homes have a ready supply.”

  “Yes, but their occupants didn’t stand to inherit wealth from Madame Noël’s death.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” No doubt the inspector was targeting Marc or Francine, but which one? Maybe both?

  “One more question that might seem odd.” The inspector furrowed his brow and stared as if daring me to speak a lie. “Do you know if the Noëls ever owned a dog?”

  “A dog?” Francine’s story about the attempted poisoning flashed to mind. Since the inspector asked about a dog, he probably already knew about its demise. “They had one. It died not long ago.”

  “Old age? Sickness? An accident?”

  “It was young, so most likely an accident.”

  “Thank you.” Crouching again, he reached into the satchel and withdrew a portfolio. “On a separate topic,” he said while rising, “this dossier arrived on the late train. It contains more information about you and your family than I expected.”

  “From Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes.” He drew a single sheet from the portfolio and read it aloud. “Your father, Cameron Trotter, murdered his wife, Cassidy Trotter, when you were seven years old. You ran outside to—”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No, that’s not true. He didn’t kill my mother. She’s still—”

  “Still alive?” He pulled out several more sheets and flipped through them. “I read about your protestations. You said that your mother was with you, and it was another woman he killed. Yet your mother’s corpse was identified by your neighbor.”

  I looked at the pages, but the small letters made reading them from a distance impossible. “I remember, but my neighbor barely knew us. She misidentified the victim.”

  “Did you see the victim?”

  “Not her face. I ran as soon as my mother told me to. I just saw that it was a woman.”

  The inspector set the final page on top and scanned it. “According to this report, a teacher accompanied you to France. Is that correct?”

  I nodded. “A French teacher. Everyone thought it best that I have an interpreter, at least for a few weeks.”

  “Even though your adoptive parents were bilingual?”

  “They both worked for a living. They didn’t have time to teach me as quickly as I needed to learn.”

  “That makes perfect sense.” He restored the papers to the portfolio, then the portfolio to the satchel, with slow, deliberate moves, as if letting his questions settle. When he finished, he picked up the satchel and looked at me. “Thank you, Monsieur Trotter. That’s all for now.”

  “You’re welcome, but I don’t think I helped you much.”

  “On the contrary. I am now more certain than ever of the murderer’s identity. Combining your answers with the testimony of various neighbors, I have pieced together enough evidence to draw a reasonable conclusion. Now I have to prove it.”

  “Who is the murderer?

  He smiled. “Now, Monsieur Trotter, what kind of inspector would I be if I revealed that information before the proper time?”

  “But if you were certain that I did it, you would arrest me again.”

  “I will neither confirm nor deny your assumption.” He set a hand on my shoulder. His touch felt oddly comforting. “But I will say this. The murder of Madame Noël made you look guilty. Dr. Cousineau’s death may well have been merely an accident, or perhaps you killed him to conceal your earlier crimes. In any case, if another murder happens and you have no alibi, it will be impossible to avoid arresting you, especially since the papers will unleash a firestorm of fearmongering.” He looked straight at me. “Go into hiding. Escape from the world’s watchful stare. Allow me to investigate without interference.”

  We looked at each other. The sincerity in his eyes was undeniable. Maybe it would be best to trust him with information about the latest murder, even though it might put me in danger. My honesty could pay dividends in the long run. “Inspector, you need to go back to the Noëls’ house. Ask them what happened last night.”

  His brow lifted. “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Because …” I slid a hand into my pocket and averted my eyes from his piercing gaze. “Just go. Trust me. You need to know what happened.”

  “Very well. Since you won’t divulge the information.” He glanced toward the house. “Where were you going at such an early hour?”

  “To search for clues, exactly as you were.” I looked around the graveyard as its details clarified in the brightening morn. In the daylight, with more tombstones and mausolea visible, it seemed ghostlier than ever. “Something strange is going on, Inspector. Perhaps sinister. Even unearthly.”

  “Unearthly?”

  I had said too much. He wasn’t ready for stories about resurrected martyrs and their students. “Unearthly in the sense that it has to do with the departed.” I touched the mausoleum’s door again. “I think this girl is Madame Noël’s firstborn, and somehow she was involved in the girl’s death. If I go into hiding now, I won’t be able to look into it any further.”

  “Then trust me to investigate. I will get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’m sure you will.” I turned and walked toward the gate. “Until next time, Inspector.”

  “Where will you go?”

  I kept my focus on the gate well ahead. “If I told you, my hiding place wouldn’t be secure, now would it?”

  “I suppose not. I will wait here until you’re out of sight.” His voice faded. “But I might need to contact you about my findings.”

  I called, nearly shouting. “Then tell Marc and Francine. I will speak to them from time to time.”

  “I can do that.”

  I hurried on, now at a fast trot, taking a winding path through the city to ensure that no one could follow. As had happened during my other lonely journeys, Justice came to mind. When we were young, we often frolicked happily along forest paths, through pristine meadows, and beside busy city streets, not caring about hidden dangers, never worried about the future. We just lived. We loved. We needed nothing else but each other.

  Tears welled. I suppressed a sob. How I wished I could go back to those bright, innocent days. But it was too late. Much too late. Somehow I had to make her happy in spite of the darkness.

  I returned to the brook. A temporary bridge had been constructed to span the water, nothing more than three logs tied in parallel, a challenge to cross since they were not fastened securely. Every step caused the logs to separate slightly, but I managed to get to the other side without a spill.

  When I arrived at the school, I climbed into the shaft and shut the trapdoor. Enclosed in the dark tube, a sense of security wrapped me in a comforting coil as if I had reentered my mother’s womb—safe from harm and probing eyes.

  Below, a weak light appe
ared. I accelerated my descent, calling, “Joan? Michael? Who’s down there?”

  No one answered, only a slight breezy sound—the passage of air in the subterranean corridor.

  When I set my feet on the bone-littered floor, careful to make as little noise as possible, I looked around. The light came from the schoolroom. As I walked toward it, I called again, “Joan? Michael?”

  I peered around the corner. Joan lay on the floor, motionless. Her lantern burned nearby, its flame low and weak.

  Breathless, I rushed in, sat next to her, and pulled her into my lap. I checked for a heartbeat but found nothing. She was dead.

  Yet, wasn’t she a ghost, dead for centuries?

  I spoke sharply into her ear. “Joan. Can you hear me?”

  Her eyes fluttered open. A smile broke through on her gaunt face. “Justin?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed to quell a spasm. “Joan, what happened?”

  “Pierre … he stole my life lantern.”

  I nodded toward the one on the floor. “That’s not it?”

  “No. Pierre suffered one of his fits of rage. He said he was going to end my new existence in this world, so he took my lantern and ran away. In this maze of passages, it was impossible to find him. It was all I could do to return here and find Michael. He and Jean are looking for Pierre now.”

  “I should help.”

  When I shifted her to the floor and set her upright with her back against the wall, she grasped my arm, her eyes pleading. “Stay with me. I beg you.”

  “But I need to find the—”

  “No. You’ll get lost.” She pulled me closer. “Justin, when I died, I was surrounded by villains who wanted me to suffer, also by strangers who did nothing to stop the injustice. When I leave this world again, I want to be held by a friend. Don’t let me perish alone … again.”

  “Of course not. Never.” I sat next to her and wrapped her in both arms. “Michael told me you have a connection with your lantern. Do you feel it?”

  “I do, but I think Pierre kept moving, so I could not follow the sensation. I had not the strength.”

  “So if you had the strength, you could keep trying to find him?”

  “Yes, but I don’t—”

  “Then let’s go.” I pushed the lantern’s handle into her hand and scooped her into my arms. “Guide my steps.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Joan held the lamp and whispered directions, I hurried through low, narrow corridors, some littered with bones, some covered with ankle-deep water, and others clear and dry. The lantern provided enough light to see only two or three steps in front, making the forks and turns appear without warning.

  Although Joan weighed no more than a hundred pounds, after a mile or so, her weight became quite a burden. I whispered to her, “I know you’re able to disappear or become semitransparent. What would happen if you did that now? Could I still carry you? Could you travel with me?”

  “No, Justin. I would become immaterial and pass through your grasp, and I am too weak to travel on my own.” She sighed. “Stop. You should rest.”

  “This passage is wet. Let’s find a place where I can put you down.” I turned into a wider, dry corridor and set Joan next to a wall. The lantern’s glow revealed the wall’s construction—stacked skulls from floor to ceiling. “Do you still feel your life lantern?”

  “Yes. It is close. We should start looking again when you’ve rested.” Joan stared at our surroundings with sad eyes. “Hundreds of people lie entombed in this chamber. Maybe thousands.”

  “And millions more in other chambers.” The diary’s entry returned to mind. Could this be the wall of skulls it mentioned? A stone glittered from the nose hole in a skull near the floor, likely placed there by a devoted visitor. I plucked it out and looked it over—a white oblong quartz stone, worthless to thieves but perhaps valuable to the deceased or his visiting loved one.

  After setting the stone back in place, I reached into my pocket and touched the brooches. Maybe soon they would light the way to solving a mystery.

  “Joan, I have to check something. I won’t go far.” I took the lantern and walked along the wall, holding the light close to the skulls. Their hollow eyes seemed to stare with black orbs, and their dark mouths called out in silent mourning, as if crying, Why have we been abandoned here? They once lay in places of honor and respectful memory. Now they were nothing more than an odd curiosity for occasional visitors, a wall of macabre humor to draw gasps from thrill-seeking adventurers.

  I paused and tried to recall the exact message in Francine’s book. Didn’t the last sentence say something about finding the ring near the wall of skulls?

  “Just another minute, Joan.” I walked across the corridor to the opposite wall, this one made of a conglomeration of bones and fewer skulls.

  “Justin?” She extended a hand, gasping. “Justin, I need you.”

  I rushed to her side and let her lean on my shoulder. “What is it?”

  “My last moment is nigh. I feel the end coming. Pierre Cauchon has killed me again.”

  “No. No. I don’t believe it. I won’t.” My thoughts scrambled, but one question bullied to the forefront. Might the ring really provide protection? If I could find it, maybe I could stop her second death.

  “Joan,” I whispered, “did you have a ring during your battles?”

  She nodded weakly. “Two. One given to me by my parents at my first communion, and one given to me later by my brother. They were too big for my fingers, so I wore one on each thumb.”

  “Did the rings protect you during your battles?”

  “Of course not, Justin. God’s holy angels protected me.”

  “Then why did your persecutors take your rings?”

  “To accuse me of witchcraft. Pierre … Bishop Cauchon … was filled with superstition. He believed the rings protected me by dark arts.”

  “And maybe he believed the rings might protect you from the fire. He wanted you to burn.”

  She blinked. “What prompted you to ask about my ring? How would you know about it?”

  “Joan, your fame reaches from one end of the world to the other. You are the most revered heroine in history, save for Mother Mary herself. Stories about you have passed down from generation to generation. To France, you are the darling of the ages, which is the reason Francine tried to imitate you at the masquerade party. She adores you.”

  She stared at me. “I had no idea.”

  “Is it possible, Joan, that God endowed the ring with protective power? Is it possible that the holy angels made sure that you wore it every day?”

  She lifted her thumb and looked at it. “It is possible. I suffered a wound once that many thought must be fatal, but I recovered. Perhaps the ring allows injury but prevents death.”

  “Then hold on.” I eased away from her and cast the lantern’s light on the wall of bones. As my eyes adjusted, a distinct cross took shape—femora, tibiae, and fibulae in the vertical piece, ending with a pair of feet, and humeri, radii, and ulnae in the horizontal piece, ending with a hand on each side. A single skull had been wedged where the head of the crucifixion victim would be.

  I examined each hand closely. Neither wore the coveted ring.

  I withdrew the brooches and joined them into a dual scarab. As before, they emitted a green glow. A girl wailed from far away. I set the scarab close to my ear, heightening the call. I extended the scarab toward Joan. “Do you hear that?”

  She shook her head.

  I walked to her and held it close to her ear. “Now?”

  “No. Nothing at all.”

  How could she not hear it? When Francine entered my bedroom and set the scarab over my face, was she somehow testing me to see if I could hear the cry? Did passing the test assure her that I would be able to find the ring? If so, how could I use this ability?

  I retraced my steps to the cross. My line of sight met that of the skull, as if the intended victim were my exact height. This skull’s mouth seemed more eeri
e than the others, locked in a forever scream of torment.

  I set my ear close to the mouth. The same wail came forth—distant, forlorn. I set the scarab inside and balanced it on the mandible. The green glow spread upward and flowed from the skull’s eyes. The wail strengthened, louder and louder, reaching a painful volume.

  Joan covered her ears. “I hear it now.”

  A cracking noise issued from the skull. The forehead split vertically at the center. Blood poured from the fissure and flowed into the mouth. As it covered the scarab, the glow turned red and shot out through the eyes like red fire.

  More cracking noises followed, this time from the cross’s hands and feet positions. The bones split at every endpoint. Again blood flowed from the wounds and drained across the bones below them.

  I shifted the lantern from wound to wound, searching for any sign of the ring. The left hand sizzled, and the fingers burned away, revealing another hand behind the first. A ring encircled one of its fingers.

  I set the lantern down and, with a respectful touch, slid the ring from the finger. The moment it was free, the wailing ceased. I retrieved the scarab from the mouth, wiped the blood against my trousers, and slid it into my pocket.

  The wall rumbled. Grit and pebbles rained from the ceiling inches above my head. The chamber might collapse at any moment.

  “Justin?” Joan pointed farther down the corridor. “I see a light. It’s coming this way.”

  A weak, wavering light drifted toward us. As it drew closer, the outline of a boy carrying a lantern clarified.

  “It’s Pierre,” I whispered.

  Pierre halted barely out of reach. “Your time on earth has elapsed, Joan.” His deep voice sounded more like a man’s than a boy’s. “Now you will die at my hand a second time.”

  I took a hard step toward him, but he backed away just as quickly. “You cannot catch me. I am faster, and I know these tunnels far better than you do.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To watch Joan die.” He looked at the lantern. “The fuel should run out in a few minutes.”