Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  “I like Justice,” Jean said. “I hope she can be my friend.”

  Before I could reply, the bishop began speaking. “Welcome. I apologize for being late. We will begin without further delay.” He cleared his throat and started a Latin recitation.

  I looked at Marc and Francine. Although he stared straight at the bishop, she glanced around as if searching for someone. Then she trained her gaze on me. Since I couldn’t avert my eyes without creating more suspicion, I gave her a genial smile.

  For a moment, she studied me. Then, after nodding in a knowing fashion, she returned her attention to the bishop. She recognized me. Perhaps now I would learn whether or not she was really an ally. Since the bishop wanted my head on a platter, she could easily expose me.

  After a few more moments of Latin monologue, the bishop began giving bread to a line of mourners. Not being Catholic, I stayed away as did Cameron, but for some reason, Justice stood at the line’s tail end.

  When everyone had partaken, the bishop drank from a goblet, put away the implements, and began speaking again, though his speech became slurred. His face reddened, and his eyes bulged. Then he clutched his throat and collapsed.

  Bedlam ensued. A mob of people, including the inspector, rushed toward the bishop. Others called for a doctor. Reporters barked questions and furiously wrote notes.

  When a doctor pushed through, he examined the bishop, then spoke to the inspector. Whispers of “Dead” and “Poisoned” filtered from the knot of people and spread throughout the crowd. Fear spread like a wild contagion. How many others would be affected by the tainted elements?

  Francine pushed her way through the frenzy and sidled up to me. “You’d better leave. Quietly. You’re a stranger here and therefore a likely suspect.”

  “How could I be a suspect? I didn’t go anywhere near the cup.”

  “You have a good point.” Francine’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the crowd. “No one else is showing symptoms. Maybe only the wine was poisoned.”

  “True. I suppose anyone in line could have put something in the goblet.”

  “That’s not likely. Those in line after the culprit would have noticed.” Francine looked at me. “Who was last in line? Did you notice?”

  I searched for Justice, but she was nowhere in sight. “A young girl, but I don’t see her now.”

  “No, it has to be someone else. A young person wouldn’t poison someone.” Francine gripped my arm. “Oh, Justin, this is so frightening. Who would murder the bishop?”

  “I suppose since he wants me beheaded that makes me the most likely suspect once again, but I assure you that I didn’t—”

  “Of course you didn’t, but you should leave. Now.”

  “Surely someone will notice my departure.”

  “Does it matter? No one else knows Justin Trotter is here. Now is your only chance. Go while everyone is distracted.”

  I grasped Jean’s hand and backed away. As Francine guessed, no one paid any attention to me—that is, no one except Justice, now visible in the crowd. Still holding Cameron’s hand, she stared straight at us, unblinking.

  I pivoted and walked away with Jean, not too fast, not too slow. I still felt Justice’s stare as if needles pricked my back, and I expected someone to shout after me at any moment. But no shout ever came.

  When we reached a point well out of sight of the funeral crowd, I accelerated to a brisk march. “Do you have any idea who poisoned the bishop?” I asked Jean.

  “I have a guess.”

  “Justice? She was at the end of the line.”

  “I saw her there, but she didn’t do it.”

  When we reached the cemetery’s gate, I looked back once more. Again, no one followed. We exited and continued at a brisk pace toward the schoolhouse. “How do you know?”

  “Francine was in front of her. I think she did it.”

  “Francine? Why would she poison the goblet?”

  Jean shrugged. “It’s just a guess. I didn’t see her do it. But I did see that the bishop didn’t give Justice any bread.”

  “Oh? That’s interesting.” The idea that Cameron and Justice might both be ghosts came to mind, which could mean that the bishop never saw her. Her invisibility would have made it easier for her to slip poison into the wine. “Back to Francine. You believe her to be a witch. Are you sure you carry no prejudice against her?”

  “Maybe. But you seem to think she can do no wrong.”

  Now out of sight of the funeral goers, I halted and looked at him. “Of course she can do wrong. Everyone has that potential. I simply don’t think she can murder someone.”

  His expression darkened. “You don’t know witches like I do. A witch can murder and make you think she’s an angel. Beware of her arts.”

  I suppressed a laugh. “Jean, Francine is no witch. She gives her time and energy to a number of charities. She is well-known throughout Paris as a friend of the poor.”

  “As I was in Geneva.” Jean’s voice deepened. “And you know what I did.” He glared at me with flaming eyes, raising a shudder.

  Although I didn’t understand the Geneva reference, I knew he had participated in Michael’s death. And now he seemed to be reverting to his adult mind. Was he about to have an episode of rage? I had to calm him down.

  “All right. I’ll watch for evidence that Francine is guilty of murder.”

  He half closed an eye. “Will you?”

  I stared at him. I had made my statement rashly, without regard for whether or not I really meant it. Now that Jean was challenging its veracity, I couldn’t help but hesitate.

  He whispered, “I have to go back to Michael.”

  “Why so soon?”

  “I can’t do what Michael asked. I’m sorry.” He ran ahead and shrank in the distance.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After looking back again and finding no one in sight, I followed Jean at a jog. When I arrived at the school’s remains, I opened the trapdoor and, guessing that I might need the rope for my next journey, untied it from the door’s handle and carried it with me as I descended once again into the catacombs. I found my lantern in the schoolroom and lit it. With the exception of my bag of supplies, the chamber was empty—no sign of Michael or Jean, though new drips of black wax had accumulated in a spot near a corner. Based on the size of the candle when I last saw it, they didn’t have much time left.

  I looked at the ring on my little finger. It was time to search for the pendant, but could I trace my way through the maze without Joan’s help? If so, I also had to make sure I could find my way back.

  After cutting as much rope as I thought I could carry, I gathered it into a coil and hoisted it over my shoulder. I then slid the knife behind my waistband, held the lantern in front, and walked across the littered bones, stopping every few steps to set one of the longer bones on top so that it aligned with my path.

  The process slowed my pace, but I was in no hurry. I had plenty of fuel in the lamp, and no one in the land of the living wanted to see me, except those who hoped to see my head in a basket or a treasure in my hand.

  Mother, during this tedious expedition, a million thoughts fought for attention. You came to mind at nearly every turn, most likely because I once again fumbled through a dark corridor. For the first time in years, some of your long-forgotten words returned to memory. As we ascended the stairs on that nightmarish climb to the attic, you whispered, “Be brave, my son. You will not always have me with you when you travel through dark passages. Courage is strengthened when you learn to walk alone.”

  You were a prophetess. I have walked without you through many dark passages, and venturing alone in a hall of death proved that my courage had indeed strengthened. Thank you, Mother, for preparing me for this journey.

  After nearly half an hour, I found the room with the collapsed ceiling and lifted the lantern high. As I pivoted in place, the light shifted, illuminating a higher ceiling and the walls around what used to be an upper chamber, once hidden from view and
now exposed by the collapse.

  A large metal hook protruded from the ceiling about twenty feet above my head. Perhaps the upper chamber held the key to finding the pendant, but the walls were sheer, impossible to climb. The only way to ascend was to attach the rope to the hook and pull myself up there.

  I fashioned a loop at the end of the rope and cast it several times before catching it on the hook. After testing the rope to ensure the hook could support my weight, I used the knife to cut a piece of rope and tied the lantern and knife to my waist in spite of the potential danger.

  I set my feet against a wall and, pulling hand over hand, climbed toward the top. Since I had no practice with an effort like this, the going was slow and painful, but I managed to ascend to a point about a yard below the ceiling. There I rested, one hand clutching a knot in the rope and the other holding the lantern as I shone its light around.

  The glow passed across a dark, rectangular hole in the opposite wall, perhaps a doorway at my level. If I had chosen to climb against that wall, I might already be there. Now I had to choose between descending and climbing again or swinging across, another feat I had never tried before. Yet, since my hands and legs ached, I probably couldn’t climb again without a long rest.

  After securing the lantern once more and taking a deep breath, I pushed off the wall and swung toward the doorway. As I drew close, the lantern shifted. The flame burned my thigh. With a yelp, I batted at the lantern and lost my grip. I flew the rest of the way and plunged into the opening, then crashed onto a solid floor and rolled until my momentum eased. Although my shoulder throbbed, no bones seemed to be broken, and I was safely inside a new corridor.

  I climbed to my feet, detached the lantern—its glass shield cracked from the tumble—and shone the light at the doorway. My end of the rope had fallen back to the floor where I had started, impossible to reach. Returning would require a precipitous descent, or a miracle, though it already seemed a miracle that I survived the climb, the lantern’s flame, and the perilous flight across the void. Perhaps Joan’s ring had protected me at every turn. Yet, its power couldn’t provide me with a rope. I would have to face that obstacle after exploring this new chamber.

  The thought raised a new puzzle in my mind. How could Claire have created this elaborate series of obstacles? Did she have help? If so, who was her helper, and what became of him or her? The helper would have known about this hiding place. As paranoid as Claire was, why would she share her secret with someone else?

  After taking a short rest, I ventured into the new passage, again carrying the lantern. The ceiling stayed about a foot above my head as the passage curved to the left until the doorway behind me angled out of sight.

  When the path straightened, a new glimmer appeared in the center of my field of vision, as if hovering in midair. I walked toward it, always glancing from side to side to look for more obstacles. Yet, none appeared.

  When I drew within several steps of the glimmer, I halted. At eye level, a diamond pendant dangled from a gold chain. The chain looped around another hook embedded in the ceiling.

  All I had to do was walk to the pendant and release it from the hook. The task was easy, frighteningly easy. Yet, maybe since I had already come through a series of obstacles, there were none remaining.

  I shook my head. No. The dangling prize was designed to tantalize, to lure, to cause a man to forget caution and rush forward. Something had to be amiss.

  Taking slow, careful steps, I tested my weight on the floor with each small advance. It felt sturdy and gave no sign of impending collapse, but I still couldn’t trust it.

  I lowered myself to my hands and knees to distribute my weight and continued at a crawl, pushing the lantern as I progressed. When I reached a point directly under the pendant, I looked at the chain where it looped over the hook. I couldn’t reach it from my all-fours position, though the task would be easy if I were to stand.

  Using the lantern’s light, I studied the floor. Every inch appeared to be solid, not a crack or crevice in sight.

  What should my next step be? I couldn’t wait here for eternity or retreat without the prize.

  I looked at the ring. Even if Claire had set a final trap, the ring would protect me. It had already proven its power.

  Moving slowly, I rose to a standing position, lifted the chain from the hook, and draped it over my neck. Nothing happened. All was well.

  I blew a relieved sigh. Now to find my way back. The moment I picked up the lantern, the floor collapsed. I threw my arms out and grabbed the edge of the expanding hole. The lantern tumbled to the bottom and lay on its side, revealing sharp stakes below. More dirt crumbled beneath my fingers, and I plunged toward the protruding spears.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I crashed, the wooden stakes snapped, though one pierced my shirt and jabbed a rib. I sat up, pulled the stake from my side, and tossed it away. Unhindered by the shallow stab, I righted the lantern and looked around. This new chamber was no more than a box, perhaps ten feet in every dimension.

  Above, the floor of the corridor was out of reach, and again the walls were sheer—stone without protrusions that could support hand or foot. I couldn’t climb out. The ring had indeed protected me once more, but, as before, it couldn’t provide a rope.

  I sat and thought about every possible use of the stakes, the lantern, and the pendant, but no device could possibly get me to the top. I was stuck, maybe forever. Claire’s scheme had worked, though without the fatal consequence she had envisioned.

  Still, unless I could conceive of a way to escape, I would eventually succumb to dehydration, an alternative cause of death that Claire might have had in mind. During these dark moments, her malice seemed to permeate my dismal prison, threatening my sanity to the point that I cried for help, knowing that my voice reached only earless skulls in the vast maze of bones.

  A moment after my third shout echoed back to me, the end of a rope fell into my lap, and a voice from above followed. “You seem to be in quite a predicament.”

  I looked up. Inspector Fortier stood at the edge of the collapsed floor, the rope in hand. “I am, Inspector. Thank you.” I retied the lantern, and, with the inspector’s help, climbed into the upper passage. Once I stood securely, I dusted off my clothes. “Did you follow my trail of bones?”

  “And your voice. Following the bones was easy, though the climb to this level was far more challenging, and since I had to cut away a section of the rope to rescue you, returning might be difficult.” He picked up his own lantern. “Shall we go? We’ll talk on the way back.”

  The remaining rope proved to be long enough, making our drop to the lower chamber relatively easy, as was retracing our steps toward the school chamber.

  “Do you intend to arrest me?” I asked.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “The bishop’s murder. I guessed that I would be a suspect.”

  “No, Monsieur Trotter. I watched you at the funeral from the moment you arrived. Among other reasons for coming here, I wanted to ask what you saw.”

  “I don’t think you would believe me.”

  “Give me a chance.”

  While I explained my most recent journey, stopping at times to locate the proper bone and make the correct turn, the inspector listened intently, offering only a question or comment to clarify. I omitted the ring’s protective power, leaving him to assume that the sharp stakes had broken due to age, and flying through the upper opening without injury was the result of luck.

  I then provided my account of the funeral, though I bypassed the truths that he certainly wouldn’t believe, such as seeing a man who appeared to be the ghost of my father as well as my being accompanied by a formerly dead persecutor.

  When I mentioned Justice, the conversation took an intriguing turn.

  “How interesting that her name matches your sister’s,” he said, now walking abreast of me in a wider corridor. “It is not a common name.”

  “That crossed my mind as well
, which leads me to a request.”

  “Name it. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Could you check on my sister for me? I haven’t seen her since all of this began.”

  He glanced down for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not to answer. When he looked again at me, he set a hand on my elbow. “I saw her after the funeral.”

  I halted. “You did? Where? Why?”

  “Because of the bishop’s murder, I had to hurry to my office to make a report. She was there waiting for me. She had expected you to come to her residence. When you failed to arrive, she went to your flat and couldn’t find you there. The commissaire suggested that she might learn your whereabouts from me, and he led her to my office.”

  “Was she well?”

  “Well enough. Worried, as you might expect. I did notice a welt on her cheek. I assumed she bumped into something, so I didn’t ask about it. Why embarrass a blind girl?”

  I fumed inside. The welt likely came from Madame Dupont’s hand. “Where is she now?”

  “Come, and I’ll tell you more.” He marched ahead.

  I strode quickly to match his fast pace. When we arrived at the schoolroom and set our lanterns down, the inspector looked me over. “You appear to be exhausted. Your ordeal and stress have taken their toll.”

  “Yes, yes, but it’s nothing. Tell me about Justice.”

  “She’s here.” The inspector pointed upward. “Waiting at the surface on the other side of the brook.”

  “What? You left her there alone?”

  “Of course not. My wife is with her. I couldn’t travel with Justice without another woman along.”

  “I have to see her.”

  When I took a step toward the ladder, the inspector grabbed my arm. “What do you plan to do with her?”

  “Do with her? What do you mean?”

  “Along the way she talked about how you and she were going to find a place to stay together. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that you’re in hiding. She doesn’t even know you’re in the catacombs. I told her to wait patiently while I looked for you. She is quite a trusting soul.”