by Bryan Davis
The bishop stared once more, his jaw tense.
After several seconds of awkward silence, the inspector spoke again. “Monsieur Trotter, when we last talked, you insisted that I return here to learn something important. I assume you meant the tragic murder of Marguerite Arnaud. My investigation concluded that the Noëls’ fire poker was the weapon that slashed and killed her.”
“I assumed the same,” I said.
“Did you, in fact, have that poker in your possession when the Noëls returned home from their morning walk?”
I nodded. “I did, but—”
“And was the end of the poker cleansed of all blood and ash?”
“Yes, but let me explain—”
Marc raised a finger. “He presented the poker to me voluntarily, stating that it might be the murder weapon. I’m certain he didn’t commit the crime. No murderer in his right mind would—”
“Isn’t that the only question remaining?” the inspector asked. “Whether he is a cold, calculating murderer or instead an insane one?”
“What?” I clutched my chair’s armrests. “I am not a murderer, nor am I insane.”
The bishop’s cheeks flamed. “Let me settle the question once and for all.” He turned to me and pointed a finger. “What is engraved on the ring?”
“Why don’t you ask Joan? She is far more articulate than I.”
The bishop vaulted from his seat and stormed toward the door. “I refuse to continue this charade. We are mollifying a madman. Arrest him and be done with it.”
Joan whispered, “I am hurting your cause, Justin.” She slid the ring off and laid it in my palm. Her voice faded along with her presence. “Thank you for everything. I will pray for you.” Seconds later, she was gone.
My throat tightened, and my arms wilted. Joan had flown to heaven. Yet, I had to stay strong.
I gestured toward her chair. “You see. She vanished. Now do you believe me?”
“Oh, Justin.” Francine covered her face with her hands and wept. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
The bishop stalked back and pointed at Francine as he shot a hot glare at me. “Do you see what your madness has wrought? You have broken this woman’s heart many times over. In spite of the shaky alibi Marc provided out of loyalty, it is clear to me that you killed Francine’s mother and her doctor. Then you turned your murderous rampage on her housekeeper, and now you’re playing the fool, pretending that Joan of Arc is here.”
“Was here,” I said.
“Impertinent fool.” He slapped my face. The blow nearly tipped my chair over, but I recovered and straightened. The sting of the slap burned my cheek.
I gave him a defiant glare. “The other cheek awaits you.”
He reared back, but, after glancing at Francine, he lowered his hand and muttered, “You will get what’s coming to you.”
“You asked what’s engraved on the ring.” I opened my hand, revealing the ring sitting on my palm. “See for yourself.”
He plucked the ring and drew it close to his doubtful eyes. As he examined it, the tension in his brow eased, and his mouth slowly dropped open.
“Well?” the inspector prompted.
“This is …” He cleared his throat and turned to the inspector. “This is, without a doubt, the ring that belonged to Joan of Arc. It bears the engravings that she described during her trial.” He stared at me again, this time with genuine curiosity instead of anger. “Where did you get it?”
“I followed a trail of clues.” I looked at Francine. She gazed at the ring with tear-filled eyes, leaning forward as if yearning to touch it. “She gave me the first clue.”
While everyone looked on with rapt attention, I related the events regarding Madame Noël’s brooch, its partner in the mausoleum crypt, the Gaelic note in the diary, and the discovery of the ring near the wall of skulls. Although I included Joan’s role, I omitted any reference to other ghosts. They already believed me insane. Why add to their evidence?
As I spoke, I glanced at Marc and Francine. He gave her curious looks, obviously learning some of the facts for the first time. Whether or not he was offended by her lack of forthrightness, I couldn’t tell.
I concluded with, “Francine saw the ring when she visited me in the catacombs. Joan was wearing it then.”
The bishop showed Francine the ring. “Is that true? Had you seen this ring before now?”
She fixed her gaze on the bishop. If I could ever read an expression, this was the time. She begged for an indulgence to lie, but she could not bring herself to speak anything but the truth to a bishop of the Church.
She exhaled as she replied. “I did see it in the catacombs.”
“On the finger of Joan?” the bishop asked.
She shook her head. “In Justin’s hand. We were alone there.”
Mother, you once told me that those who love with pure passion and those who hate with hot fury have one aspect in common. What is plain to everyone else is hidden from their eyes. Even at my tender age, I understood what you meant. And now, after I had experienced the depths of both love and hate, the meaning of your wise words struck more profoundly than ever.
My love for Francine and for Joan had blinded me to the truth. Francine never saw Joan, nor had anyone else—not the people in the room, not the fiacre driver, not the people in the streets who stared at the weeds hanging from my trousers rather than at Joan. I had sat like a fool next to an empty chair, at least in everyone else’s eyes. It was no wonder they thought me insane.
“I was looking for him,” Francine continued, “because I was supplying him with food. I saw that the food was gone, so I ...” She looked away. “I descended into the catacombs to make sure it was he who took it.”
The bishop’s eyes widened. “That hideout of murderers and thieves? What possessed you to do something so dangerous?”
“Mercy possessed me, Bishop. Once I verified that Justin had taken the food, I left immediately.”
“As any good Christian woman should.” The bishop set the ring in Francine’s hand. “Even by this madman’s account, the ring belongs to you.” He then turned to the inspector. “Although he is clearly insane, an asylum would be a waste of time and money. My judgment is that he should be executed. He is a deranged murderer.”
The inspector spoke in a calm, soothing tone. “He is deranged, to be sure, but I still doubt his guilt.”
The bishop roared, “What? How can you have doubts? He had the poker. He was the only person in the house when Marguerite was murdered, and he hallucinates visions conjured by demons. The evidence is overwhelming.”
The inspector waved a hand. “I am aware of the facts of the case, and I assume there is sufficient evidence to convict Monsieur Trotter of perhaps one murder, but that doesn’t make him guilty of any. Too many questions beg for answers.”
“We’ll see about that.” The bishop stalked across the room and left the house, slamming the door. We jumped at the sound, then stared at each other as if trying to read minds.
After a quiet moment, Francine brushed tears from her cheeks. “Inspector, what questions remain unanswered?”
“It would be premature to reveal that at this time.” The inspector rose and bowed. “Watch Monsieur Trotter closely. Perhaps even hide him. Insane or not, he is not the murderer. It would be unjust for him to suffer the guillotine or the bishop’s wrath.”
Marc thanked the inspector and escorted him to the door. While they chatted there for a moment, Francine looked at me, her gaze intent, piercing. “Do you know which questions beg for answers?”
“All I know is he received a report about me from Scotland Yard, but I didn’t read it. Maybe something in the report raised questions.”
“I see.” She glanced at the clothes under my chair. “What did you do with the dress I lent you?”
“I laid it on your bed. Joan thought it better to stay in her battledress, because …” I shook my head. “What’s the use explaining? You don’t believe she was here.
You think I’m mad.”
“Shouldn’t I?” She looked at the door until Marc and the inspector walked outside. She then laid a hand on my arm. “Justin, give me a reason to believe you. I don’t want to think you mad.”
“Where did I get a needle and thread to stitch Marc’s wound? How did I learn to stitch or to cauterize his wound? Or the inspector’s wound. How could I possibly find the ring in a dark, endless maze of bones?” I slid my hand into hers. “I’ll tell you how. Joan guided me step by step. It would have been impossible without her.”
“Justin, you could have learned those surgical skills elsewhere. And finding the ring as you described might have happened, but it also might be the result of mere chance. How can I be sure you’re telling the truth? Do you have any proof that is undeniable?”
I searched my memory. What proof could I supply? Had Joan said anything that no one else could have known? Then the answer came. I whispered again. “Joan told me the words you prayed while you thought you were alone in the library. You said, ‘Mary, Mother of God, drive the demons away from me now, and purge my own demons as I pursue the path set before me.”
Francine gasped. “That prayer was a bare whisper. No one but Mary herself could have heard me.”
“Except for someone standing next to you.”
“That’s true, Justin, but it could have been you standing close, and I was unaware.”
“Except for another fact Joan told me. She said your costume was accurate except for the rivets in the armor. Yours are metal. Hers were wooden.”
“I knew that. I hoped for perfect authenticity, but the metal rivets are more …” Francine’s mouth dropped open. “You really did see Joan, didn’t you?”
“As clearly as I am seeing you now.”
She lifted the ring, pinched in her fingers. “And this really is a protective ring.”
“Without a doubt. It protected me from a ceiling collapse in the catacombs, and it kept Joan from leaving this world.”
Francine looked up, as if contemplating. “Then it’s all true. Every word of it.”
“Every word of what?”
She withdrew the diary from a dress pocket and flipped through the pages, scanning them with frantic eyes. After a moment, she stopped and looked at me. “Remember what Marc said about Grandmother Claire’s diamond pendant?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Francine touched a page. “I found more about it here. She says it’s a priceless treasure created to honor Joan of Arc after her death. The pendant was given to the family and came into her possession, but she was greedy and paranoid, and believed others in her family were trying to steal it. Such were her delusions. She, therefore, hid it in the catacombs and set a deadly trap for anyone who might try to steal it.”
“A trap? How strange.”
“Yes, but that’s all she wrote about it.” Francine closed the diary. “I thought the idea was absurd, perhaps rambling madness, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Are there any clues that might give away the location?”
“None at all. It would be such a shame for a priceless treasure to rot in that horrid place. If I sold it, think of all the good I could do with the money. Feed the hungry. Clothe the naked. Everything Joan would have wanted.”
I nodded. “I can’t argue with that motivation.”
“Then help me find it. Think, Justin. Think.”
“Well, if Claire set a deadly trap, then she would have to be able to avoid the trap herself.”
“Perhaps, but then might others find the way to avoid it as well?”
I imagined a woman creeping through the catacombs and coming upon a dragon guarding the pendant. No one could pass such a beast without getting burned alive. Unless …
“Claire could wear the ring. It would protect her from the trap.”
“Of course.” Francine seemed to effervesce. “She hid the ring so no one else could find the pendant. Since she knew where it was, she could retrieve it and be under its protection.”
“And since no one wants to linger in the catacombs, the pendant is probably close to the ring. The collapsing ceiling might have been the deadly trap. Maybe it exposed the pendant’s hiding place.”
“And at the time you didn’t know to look for it, but now you can.” Francine pushed the ring into my palm and closed my fingers around it. “Put it on and flee to the catacombs.”
“Today? Now?”
She nodded. “The bishop’s fury always leads to action. You must leave at once.”
“What might he do?”
“Any number of things. Perhaps incite a mob. Send them to my house to demand your head.”
“I can’t allow you to suffer that.” I rose from my chair. “When should I come out of hiding?”
“I will give you a signal.” She stood and tapped her chin as she spoke. “I will pretend that I am helping the bishop by telling him that you would never return to the catacombs because that’s the obvious place to search, that you told me you would take refuge in the countryside, that you are an experienced huntsman who can survive for months in the wild.”
“Which is far from the truth,” I said.
“No matter. He will believe me. Then you will hide in the catacombs and search for the pendant. I will bring food to the school each night along with a note that will include any relevant news. I have a friend who knows Gaelic, and I will ask him to write my message. That way, no one else will be able to understand it.”
“That should work.”
“Let’s hope so.” She reopened my hand, revealing the ring. “Justin Trotter, someday your torment will be over. When that blessed day comes, return to my arms, put this ring on my finger, and marry me.” She kissed me, her lips soft and supple on mine. When she drew back she whispered, “I will look forward to our union.”
My mouth dried out, but I managed a coherent reply as I put the ring on my little finger. “Whether I find the pendant or not?”
“Of course. But I’m certain you will find it.” She touched her bodice well below her neckline, her hand lingering over her mother’s brooch, its former greenish glow no longer evident in the light of day. “Then you will set it right here.”
I swallowed, though I tried to conceal the motion as well as my uncertainty. “I will do my best. Of that you can be sure.”
Chapter Seventeen
When Marc returned, Francine told him about my escape plan, though she said nothing about my hope to find the pendant. After giving me one of his carpetbags filled with provisions and also furnishing me with an oversized cloak, she shooed me through the scullery and out the back door with a warning to make sure no one was following.
I walked toward the old school yet again. Wind and cold rain forced me to turn my collar up and keep my head low, a benefit for a fugitive who hoped to scurry unnoticed into the shadows.
As I had hoped, no one followed. When I crossed the bridge Joan and I had made, I looked back and carefully scanned the road. Rain swept across the scene, painting a veil over the city backdrop. A steeple loomed less than a mile away, the standard bearer for the cathedral, the largest of the churches in my persecutor’s diocese, the same church I attended with Francine not long ago. Then it represented a mere annoyance. Now it stood as an enemy. I had to stay clear of its stalking shadow.
I salvaged the tie lines from the broken log bridge and fashioned a long rope. After fastening one end to the open trapdoor, I tied the other to the bag and lowered it to the bottom. Then, I descended into the catacombs. No light shone from below, telling me that Michael and Jean were probably not there.
Once I set my feet on the bones, I lit a match and ignited the lantern, then pulled the rope to close the door. When it shut, my lantern seemed brighter than ever, prompting me to turn it down to save fuel.
After untying the lantern, I carried it into the schoolroom, retrieved a blanket from the carpetbag, and laid it neatly on the floor. Then I doused the lantern and reclined on my makeshift bed, such th
at it was.
As I lay in total darkness, a gentle prodding nudged my thoughts. What about Justice? She would expect me to come for her, as I promised. But that was now impossible. Somehow I had to get a message to her.
Once I had pledged to do so, the prodding quieted along with every other sound, save for my heartbeat and breathing. I drifted toward sleep thinking about the daunting task ahead. Claire’s deadly trap might be much more dangerous than a fragile ceiling. A dragon was out of the question, of course, but who could tell what other ideas she might have invented?
In any case, it would probably be good to rest and regain my strength. The search for the pendant might require a lot of stamina. I had to be ready.
I slept, but for how long I did not know. When I awakened, a new light appeared in the corridor. Michael walked in with his black candle in hand. A small flame burned on the wick, and a sad expression weighed down his features. “Justin,” he said with a melancholy tone, “your presence tells me that not all is well.”
I rose to a sitting position and relit my lantern. “And you being alone while burning your life candle tells me that things might be worse for you.”
“True.” He sat next to me and blew out his candle. “Jean has left again. This time I don’t think he will return. My candle can find no trace of him.”
Michael’s sad eyes spoke of deep sorrow, even agony. “How does Jean escape so often, so easily?” I asked. “You seem to allow him a lot of freedom.”
“Jean has always been free to come and go as he pleases. When I search for him, it is to remind him of his responsibilities to learn his love lessons, but I never take him by force.”
“But why wouldn’t you force him? His eternity is at stake.”
Michael chuckled. “How do you force someone to love? Do you put him in a cage? Do you tie him down? You might drag him to his chair and force him to listen, but love cannot be bought with a leash and bell collar.”
“I understand, but haven’t you told him he will go to condemnation? That is, if you believe in that sort of thing.”