by Bryan Davis
“Ah. You have raised the crux of the issue yourself, the tension between what he has been told and what he believes.”
“And what does he believe?”
“That all things are predestined. His fate is determined. He can do nothing to change what has been ordained.”
“Even so, why follow a path that leads to destruction if you hope to avoid it?”
“One of the many points I have made to him.”
“Do you believe everything is predestined?”
Michael laughed again, this time with a hint of derision. “Of course not. Such an idea is pure folly. If God put us on the earth merely to watch us act out a script, and he then punishes us with eternal fire simply because we played a villain’s role that he wrote for us, a role that we had to play, mind you, then he would be quite the cruel monster, don’t you think?”
“Indeed. The cruelest.”
Michael rolled the candle over and over, now not much longer than a stub. “God is love, not cruelty. Jean gives lip service to God’s love, but his words and actions indicate that he flinches when God lifts a hand.”
“Which is why he thought you would beat him for the loss of his primer, if it wasn’t all just a prank.”
“That is a good example.” Michael heaved a sigh. “Failing to convince Jean of God’s love has been my greatest disappointment.”
“How much time do you think you have left?”
“A week or two at the most. Why do you ask?”
“I thought he might accompany me for a while. I hope to visit my sister. Her love is beyond compare. Seeing is believing, especially when it is shown from a new point of view.”
“You don’t mind a little boy tagging after you?”
“Not at all. Besides, no one can see him, correct?”
Michael pointed at me. “You can see him. And the horse saw him, the one that spilled the carriage.”
“That’s true. Then tell me, who can see you and Jean, and who cannot?”
“I don’t know for certain. Perhaps those who possess an innocent or hopeful outlook on life. Or maybe those who have seen something so traumatic that it ripped away all blinders, making them able to see the spiritual world.”
“Like seeing my father with blood on his hands after he hanged a woman?”
Michael stared at me for a moment, pity and compassion in his eyes. “That is likely the reason. The tragic sight burned scales away from your eyes.”
“At least there was one benefit.”
“And a drawback,” Michael added.
“A drawback?”
“From what I have seen, a gift of vision often comes with blindness. The gifted one is able to see what others cannot, yet at the same time he cannot see what is apparent to everyone else.”
I nodded. “My mother used to say something like that.”
“She must have been a wise woman.”
“Is a wise woman. She’s still alive … somewhere.”
Michael’s eyes probed deeply, as if his own gift of vision pierced a veil. As he looked at me, only his gentle respiration added to the sound of my own. “Justin, have people told you that your mother is dead?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“It was apparent in your tone.” He breathed another deep sigh. “I am a physician, Justin, and it seems that my diagnosis is correct.”
“What diagnosis?”
“Blindness. You cannot see what everyone else sees.”
“Are you saying my mother is dead?” Unbidden anger infused my voice. “I know she’s not. After my father was arrested, I talked to her. She comforted me for days.”
“For days? What happened after that?”
“She said she had to leave, but she would come back someday.”
“And you’re still waiting.”
“What choice do I have? It’s not as if I sat around doing nothing. I went on with my life.”
Michael shook his head. “Oh, Justin, Justin, Justin, you are so perceptive, but your blindness will be your downfall.”
“But I’m not blind to the truth about my mother. I tell you I was with her. How can you deny a personal eyewitness?”
“I will speak no more on that topic. Whether or not you are right, the result is relatively harmless. My concern is that you are blind to more current facts that could bring you harm.”
“Blind to what? Tell me.”
“If I told you, you would not believe me. You need to learn to see the truth for yourself.”
I spread my hands. “But if I’m blind, how can I do that?”
“As the Scripture teaches, a little child shall lead them.”
“Lead me where?”
“Is a funeral still in the offing?”
“I think so, but I’ve lost track of time. It’s tomorrow, I think, or maybe later this morning.”
“Then my advice is for you to attend the service. I will persuade Jean to accompany you. He has vast insight into many things and the courage to speak with brutal honesty.” A flame reappeared on Michael’s life candle. “Maybe Jean will help you open your eyes.”
“All right. Thank you.” The need to find the pendant returned to mind, but it could wait while the funeral could not. Still, attending the service carried a great risk. “I’m somewhat of a fugitive, at least from church persecutors. The bishop is likely to go over the inspector’s head in his efforts to take my head. If I go to the funeral, someone will recognize me.”
“If it is well known that you are a fugitive in hiding, no one will look for you. After all, what murderer would attend his victim’s funeral? A simple disguise will keep you safe. Perhaps a fake mustache or beard.”
“I suppose I could come up with something.”
“To be safer, you could avoid the church service and attend only the committal rite at graveside. That should be enlightening enough. I am assuming, of course, that normal Catholic ritual will be followed.”
“With Francine, normal isn’t often the best assumption, but I’ll follow your advice and go straight to the cemetery.” In the light of the candle, I retrieved my pocket watch and looked at the time—almost five o’clock in the morning. If it was still working properly after all the brook crossings, I had slept most of the night. “Michael, you should douse your candle. My lantern has plenty of fuel.”
“Thank you, but I am using the candle to call for Jean.”
“Why would he come now when he wouldn’t before?”
“We have a connection. He knows that I call with an interesting opportunity instead of a scolding rebuke.”
Wax dripped to the floor, further decreasing the candle’s remaining life. “I hope he hurries.”
While we waited, I ate some of the food Francine had provided. Then I found a knife and small mirror among the supplies and began cutting my hair. It was already fairly short, barely covering my ears and not quite reaching my collar, but I was able to cut enough to alter my appearance and collect hair to fashion a wispy mustache. The only missing item was some sort of glue to apply the hair to my face.
Another drop of black wax fell to the floor. I touched the drop, stickier than expected, and the color matched my hair. Maybe it would do. I would just have to stay away from close inspection as well as heat. I also opted to take the knife along to scrape the disguise off if needed, and since I now often traveled alone and at night, the blade could serve as a means of protection, even if only to frighten a potential attacker away.
After about fifteen minutes, Jean arrived, and Michael blew out the candle. “Jean,” Michael said, “how would you like to accompany Justin for a while?”
He smiled. “On the surface? Out in the open?”
“Yes. Justin wants to attend a funeral, and he needs you to pretend to be his …” Michael looked us both over. “His nephew, I suppose, or perhaps his younger brother. Justin doesn’t look old enough to have a son your age.”
“I assume you think some people will be able to see him,” I said.
�
�Yes, which might make interactions difficult, since some people will see him, and others will not.”
“That could be confusing.” I took Jean’s hand. “You will be my brother. I never had one, so I think I’ll enjoy this bit of theater.”
Jean looked up at me. “You’ll need a new name.”
“You’re right.” I looked in the mirror and studied my face. Although the facial hair masked my identity fairly well, I was still obviously born an Englishman. “I will be Charles.”
Jean and I climbed to the surface. With dawn still waiting to break the darkness, we were able to creep out of the school area and cross the bridge undetected. By the time we reached a main thoroughfare, the first rays of Monday morning arrived. We walked hand in hand toward the cemetery, nodding and smiling at the market owners and other businessmen as they swept entryways, washed windows, or set wares out to be scrutinized.
When we arrived at the cemetery’s entry gate, we found it open again. We stayed outside, waiting for other mourners to join us. Might they arrive individually or come en masse from the church? Since I had arrived in Paris, I had witnessed a number of religious processions, usually in celebration of Corpus Christi or to install a newly arriving bishop. Whether or not Madame Noël’s funeral would give rise to processional pomp remained to be seen.
I checked my pocket watch—8:25. Francine said the burial would be at nine after the mass. We would just have to wait. As the sun rose, the topcoat Francine had given me grew warm, but I kept it on. Although she might recognize it, no one else likely would, and the size made me look larger than I really was.
Soon, people dressed in black began to arrive, some on foot and some disembarking from carriages. They gathered in groups here and there outside the cemetery, all talking quietly. A few carried notebooks—reporters, most likely. The papers couldn’t let an event like this go by without telling the world every detail, along with adding the usual dose of hyperbole.
At exactly nine, a hearse stopped in front of the gate, its horse and driver draped in black. Several men unloaded a coffin and carried it into the cemetery. Marc and Francine walked behind the coffin with hands folded in front. Dressed in black and her face covered by a dark yet sheer veil, Francine kept her gaze forward, as did Marc.
I exhaled. They didn’t see me. And no one else seemed to pay any attention to the mustachioed stranger and his young companion.
When the pallbearers had proceeded about thirty yards into the cemetery, the other mourners followed. Jean and I blended into the crowd and maintained their pace.
Keeping my head low, I glanced around. To my left and a few steps ahead, Inspector Fortier walked with elegant precision, his hat off and his hair lifting in a freshening breeze, but I recognized no one else. And no priest seemed to be in the procession. Whoever was officiating either had not yet arrived or was not wearing his vestments.
Soon, the pallbearers stopped at an open gravesite with no tombstone. While two men dressed in work clothes helped them set the coffin next to the grave, Francine held a handkerchief over her face and wept. Marc draped an arm over her shoulders and whispered into her ear—words of comfort, no doubt.
Moments later, Marc broke away from Francine, lifted his head high, and scanned the crowd. “Has anyone seen the bishop?”
Several heads shook while others turned this way and that as if searching for a telltale cassock.
While we waited, I looked at Jean. “What do you think of this so far?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Strange. I hope my mourners didn’t do this. Why make such a fuss over a body that will be food for worms?”
I contemplated his words. Indeed, as Michael had indicated, Jean did have a lot of wisdom, and his manner of speaking belied his apparent age. If he decided to converse with people who could see him, they might wonder at his intellect and maturity.
A man approached me, perhaps thirty-five years old and dressed in a splendid black suit. He held the hand of a pretty young girl. Adorned with black curls that brushed her shoulders, she appeared to be about eleven or twelve years old. “Are you a friend of the family’s?” the man asked.
“An acquaintance.”
“An Englishman?”
“Until seven years old. I have fully adopted Paris.” I extended a hand. “Charles Bennett.”
“I also hail from England.” He shook my hand. “Cameron Trotter.”
I pulled free and stepped back. That was my father’s name. I studied his face. Indeed, he looked exactly like my father. Then I shifted my gaze to his shoes. Since my father owned a shoe company, he always wore the finest shoes, and the Oxfords this man wore were exquisite. Moments earlier, I had given him a mere glance and failed to notice the resemblance. Now it seemed obvious. Yet, my father would be considerably older now, fifty at least.
He tilted his head. “Is something wrong? You’re staring.”
“No. No.” I blinked and forced a smile. “It’s just that you remind me of someone.”
“Ah. I have heard that before. I suppose I have a common face.”
“And is this young lady your daughter?” I asked.
“Yes. This is Justice.”
“Justice?” A light-headed feeling washed through. A second look revealed that this girl resembled my sister, though my Justice was already blind by this age. How odd that, in such a short span of time, I would meet two girls of different ages who looked so much like her.
The girl smiled at me. “What does the writing on your ring mean? It says JHSMAR.”
“Oh, that?” I took the ring off and showed the inscription to her. “The letters stand for Jesus and Mary.”
She studied the ring for a moment before looking at me again. Her gaze seemed to search my mind for something. I know not what.
I slid the ring back on. “How could you see the letters from where you stood?”
She shrugged. “It was easy.”
“Justice often sees more than she should,” Cameron said. “I am trying to teach her to turn a blind eye when the occasion calls for it.”
A mental vision of my Justice appeared. Her pitiful early attempts at learning to weave baskets had often sent me from the room weeping, though her efforts had improved of late. “How can blindness ever be desirable?” I asked.
“Blindness to race. Blindness to nationality. Blindness to circumstances. These are all precious gifts. Unfortunately, Justice has much to learn in these areas. She sees everything.”
“Interesting.”
Jean pulled away from me and took Justice’s hand. “I’m Jean. Would you like to play?”
“Yes.” She looked up at Cameron. “May we?”
“Very well.” He nodded toward a patch of grass. “Play over there, and stay out of trouble.”
Jean’s departure provided the opportunity I needed to question Cameron further. Could he and Justice be a ghost pairing? If so, how could that be since Justice was still alive?
Then dread overwhelmed my senses. Was my sister still alive? Had something happened to her?
A firm hand gripped my elbow. “Monsieur, may I have a private word with you?”
I turned toward the man—Inspector Fortier. Cameron excused himself and walked toward Jean and Justice.
The inspector studied my face. “Well, that is a fine disguise. I thought you might come, so I have been watching for you.”
“You are thorough, I must say.”
“I try to be.”
“I thought when you couldn’t find me at the church service you wouldn’t look for me here.”
“There was no church service. We gathered there, but after Francine looked out over the mourners, she announced that the mass and all rites would be conducted at graveside.”
“By what authority could she do that?”
The inspector offered a wry smile. “Money, most likely. Whatever the reason, I heard that her announcement caused quite an uproar, and the bishop is still furious. It might take some time, or a few more coins in his cassock, for
him to regain his composure.”
I studied the inspector’s face for a hint of anger. Apparently his relationship with the Church was less than genial, but his expression revealed nothing. Perhaps an event in his past damaged his faith. “Pardon my ignorance,” I said, “but conducting mass at graveside seems highly irregular, even for Francine’s whims.”
“It is unusual, but I suspect it’s not a whim. She made the decision after studying the crowd at length. I am still considering possible reasons. It’s all part of my investigation.”
“I see.” I lowered my voice. “Have you made any progress?”
“Yes, but my discoveries have to remain a secret for now.” He nodded toward the grassy area. “Who is the boy? I saw him with you earlier.”
I wanted to blurt out, “You can see him?” but I kept my composure. Yet, I had to invent a new role for Jean since the inspector likely knew by now that I had no brothers. “His name is Jean. I just met him. Considering the clothes he’s wearing, I assume he might be the son of one of the diggers.”
“A friendly boy, then, considering that he was holding your hand.”
“Yes, quite affectionate.”
“Is that so?” The inspector gave me a sideways glance and lowered his voice. “Justin, may I speak frankly?”
I replied in like manner. “Please do.”
“I am one of your few allies in this investigation. It is of paramount importance that you tell me the truth at all times.”
“Do you mean about Jean?”
“About Jean or anything else. And let me give you more advice. Trust no one, not even Marc or Francine.”
“Do you still suspect that they were involved in the murders?”
“I am leaving all options open. Just guard your words with everyone.”
“I agree, but everyone includes you.”
“Touché, Justin. Yet keep in mind that I cannot fully investigate the murders unless I am aware of all potential suspects.” He backed away. “If you decide to talk, leave the trapdoor open. I will find you.”
A rise in murmurs turned my attention to the gravesite. The bishop now stood in front of the grave with a crucifix in hand. While people gathered around, Jean rejoined me. Justice returned to Cameron and held his hand as they took places in the midst of the crowd.