Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  Rain poured in sheets. Wind banged a shutter at the closest window. I knocked on the door and called for Francine, but the howling storm drowned out my voice, and the shutter matched the sounds of my pounding fist. My attempts were futile.

  I found a crate in the alley, set it under the window, and stood on top. Now able to reach high enough, I held the banging shutter against the wall, opened the sash, and climbed in.

  Once inside, I looked out. The carpetbag still sat in the alley. Trying to retrieve it now would result in my getting soaked. It wasn’t worth the trouble. I closed the window and sat on the floor. The shutter reprised its pounding, and rain pelted the window pane. Now somewhat wet, I looked around to gain my bearings, aided by an occasional flash of lightning. I sat in the dining room next to the table. The low-hanging cloth blocked my view of the house’s sitting room, which lay beyond the dining room’s doorway.

  Footsteps approached. Flickering candlelight appeared. I peeked around the table’s corner. Francine halted at the doorway, carrying a candelabrum and looking at the window. When the shutter banged once more, she strode toward it.

  Not wanting to startle her or explain my presence, I slid between two chairs and hid under the table, concealed by the cloth, though I peered out from under it.

  She opened the window, reached out into the pouring rain, and pulled the shutter into place, then fastened it to the one on the other side and closed the sash. Now wet, she dripped water to the floor at the base of the window, thereby concealing the puddles I had caused. She let out a sigh and a frustrated murmur, then left the room, though the light remained.

  I slid out a bit and looked around. The candelabrum sat on the table. Francine would probably be back soon to clean up the mess.

  After a few moments, a tapping sound came from the sitting room, barely audible over the storm’s din. I hid myself again and waited. Soon, shoes appeared below an ankle-length skirt, then knees lowered to the floor. Fingers touched the floor here and there as if searching for the extent of the water’s spread. Yet, the candles provided plenty of light to see the boundaries.

  I raised the cloth a few inches. Justice—my sister—mopped the puddles with a towel, her expression determined as she swept the towel throughout the area. Her cane lay on the floor nearby.

  I opened my mouth to whisper, but Francine’s voice interrupted from the doorway. “When you finish, I’ll show you how to arrange the laundry, then you may go to bed.”

  Careful to make no noise, I lowered the cloth and held my breath.

  “Thank you.” Justice felt the floor, now dry. She picked up her cane and walked out, the cane’s taps fading.

  Footsteps approached again. The candlelight flickered and slowly diminished as the sounds retreated. Francine was gone.

  I stayed in place, wanting to make sure everyone had walked well away. Why was she putting Justice to work, a blind girl who had just arrived? Yet, it was Francine’s manner to request effort from those she helped, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

  Mother, you often told me what the good book says—those who will not work should not eat. I agree in principle. But a blind girl? Perhaps Francine planned to use easy tasks as a way to teach Justice the customs and layout of this house, to help her function independently. Since Justice was industrious and would want to work for her keep, they likely agreed upon the arrangement. Maybe Justice even suggested it. Who was I to judge?

  Deep within the house, a clock chimed nine times. In three hours I would meet with Francine. In three hours I would give her the pendant and slide the ring onto her finger. In three hours I would be engaged to marry the woman I had loved from afar for so long.

  Yet, I still had to find the other Justice, the missing ghost who refused to pass into eternity. Searching in stealth was probably the best plan.

  Hoping to dry well enough to walk around the house, I waited until the clock struck eleven. Now that the household had likely retired for the night, I slid out from under the table, shed the coat I had borrowed from Marc, and draped it over a chair seat, out of sight. Since I hadn’t been in the rain for more than a minute, it had dried quite well.

  Again guided by occasional lightning flashes, I crept out of the dining room and into the sitting area. A small table had been set up there, but I was unable to see any details. Walking now from memory, I made my way to the scullery, where I found a small candle and matches. After lighting the candle, I returned to the sitting room.

  A flowery tablecloth covered the small table. At the center, a bottle of wine stood next to a tall candle set in an ornate holder. A crystal goblet sat at each place, both already filled, as if poised for a celebration. Francine was ready for me.

  I felt the ring on my finger. I was ready for her.

  Since I stood at the end of the hall, I had a view of the bedroom entries. Every door was closed, including Marguerite’s former room, where Justice likely slept. Whether or not her door was locked, I couldn’t tell.

  The memory of Marguerite’s bloody corpse raised a new shudder. Could the ghostly Justice be the murderer? No matter what the danger, it was up to me to find her.

  Still holding the small candle, I walked toward my sister’s room. As I passed Francine’s, I stopped. Dim light leaked through the gap under the door, and low whispers emanated from inside.

  I leaned close and listened.

  “Marc, I need you to go.”

  “In this storm? Can’t it wait till morning?”

  “If the fever gets worse, she could be dead by morning. I would go, but I’m in my nightgown.”

  I stiffened. She? Was Francine talking about Justice?

  Marc sighed. “Very well. But since I have to walk, I’ll be gone more than an hour.”

  “I think she’ll be all right for that long.”

  I opened Justice’s door, ducked inside, and pulled it nearly closed, thankful that she had left it unlocked. I peeked through the gap. Carrying a lantern, Marc exited Francine’s room and shut her door with an authoritative click. He then exhaled loudly and turned toward her room. “Please forgive my frustration. I’m tired.”

  The door opened a crack. “I know, Marc,” Francine said. “All is forgiven. I will see you soon.”

  I closed Justice’s door and tiptoed to her bedside. Wearing a plain white nightgown, she lay on her back with her hands folded over her chest, peaceful and quiet. I set a palm on her forehead—warm, but not hot. Maybe her fever was breaking.

  I pulled my hand back and whispered, “Justice?”

  She let out a slight gasp. “Justin, is that you?”

  “Yes. I am here.”

  She felt for my hand and grasped it. “Why did you come?”

  “To check on you. To make sure you’re all right.”

  “I am well. Tired, but well.”

  “Do you have a fever?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  I looked toward the door. Maybe Francine was talking about someone else, a neighbor perhaps. “I thought you felt a little warm.”

  “Well ... I have been ... um ... walking around the house a lot to learn where the rooms are.” She pulled my hand to her cheek. “How are you?”

  “I got a bit wet from the storm, but I’m dry now. Tired. Worried about you. Other than that, I’m fine.” I lifted her hand and tried to rub warmth into her cold skin. “How are you and Francine getting along?”

  A few seconds passed before Justice replied. “I am … adjusting.”

  “Adjusting? What do you mean?”

  “Well … Francine is … I’m not sure how to say it.”

  “Making you do housework?”

  “Not making, Justin. I volunteered. I need to be useful. I was trying to say that Francine is somewhat aloof. I need to adjust to her personality.”

  “Much better than living with Madame Dupont, I assume.”

  She tightened our clasp. “Oh, yes, Justin. Francine would never strike me. I am certain of that.”

  “Good to hea
r.” I patted her hand. “Go back to sleep now.”

  A new flash added to the candlelight, illuminating her tear-filled eyes. “Thank you for coming. Please visit again soon.”

  “I will.” I kissed her forehead and walked to the door. After verifying that no one was in the hall, I exited and closed the door behind me. Again walking on tiptoes, I crept to the small table and sat in the chair farther from the bedrooms. Since the napkin at this place was plain and the other was trimmed with lace, this setting was likely mine.

  I withdrew my pocket watch and read the time—half past eleven. After putting it back, I blew out the candle and sat in silence. Francine was probably changing from her nightgown to something more presentable. Yet why would she have put the nightgown on in the first place since she was planning to meet with me? Perhaps she took a nap so she would be well rested.

  In any case, in mere minutes, Francine would probably come out from her bedroom and unlock the back door in anticipation of my arrival. It would be best for me to retrieve my coat and wait outside in spite of the driving rain.

  When I set my feet to rise from my chair, another lightning flash lit the room. Justice stood motionless at the side of the table, a hand on each goblet.

  I suppressed a gasp and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

  Wearing a black traveling dress and jacket, she struck a match and tried to light the table’s candle, but she missed her aim, and the flame passed by the wick. When she tried and failed again, I grasped her wrist and guided her next effort successfully. The candle’s glow bathed her gaunt face in a yellowish tint. Although she was now the same apparent age as my sister and her eyesight had severely worsened, she had to be my father’s ghostly ward.

  She blew out the match and looked straight at me with glazed-over eyes. “I am here to protect you and your sister.”

  My throat tightened. “From whom?”

  She leaned close and replied in a whispered hiss. “The murderer.”

  The seriousness in her voice further shook me. My voice spiked louder than I intended. “Who is the murderer?”

  “It is your own blindness that prevents you from seeing the obvious.”

  Francine’s bedroom door opened. She appeared in the hallway with a lantern in front. “Hello? Who’s out there?”

  Justice turned and hurried toward the dining room, extending her hands to guide her way.

  I called, “It’s me, Francine. Justin.”

  She walked into the sitting area and lowered a revolver. Now wearing a sky-blue dress trimmed with lace and her mother’s brooch pinned on a lapel, she breathed a sigh of relief. “You frightened me. Marc went out for medicine, and I knew he couldn’t have come home so quickly.”

  “I arrived early. I knocked, but no one answered. The storm was bad, so I came in through a window.”

  “Ah.” She set the gun on the table and looked me over. “Where is the coat you borrowed from Marc?”

  “In the dining room. I laid it over a chair to dry.”

  “Good. I’ll start a fire.”

  When she stepped toward the fireplace, I grasped her arm. “No. Stay. We should talk.”

  Her expression turned curious. “If you wish.” She sat in her chair and set the lantern on the floor. She then propped her elbows on the table with her chin resting in her hands, her smile coy. In the low lighting, her brooch emitted a dim green aura. “What do you want to talk about, Justin Trotter?”

  Jitters ran along my body. Maybe some wine would calm my nerves. “Shall we start with a drink?”

  “Um ... let’s wait. You look like you’re excited to tell me something.”

  I smiled. She was playing the role of the naïve maiden, unaware of what her suitor had in mind. I could play along with a flair. “Mademoiselle,” I said, adding drama to my tone, “I have a gift for you, taken from the jaws of a dragon.”

  I pulled the chain over my head and let the pendant dangle in front of the candle. As the pendant swayed, the diamond reflected the light. Dazzling colors danced across the tablecloth’s flowers like bejeweled bees. “How lovely it would look shimmering against your fair bosom.”

  She fanned her face with a hand and replied with a girlish voice. “Oh, Justin, you’re so romantic.”

  I leaned across the table and slid the chain over her head. When it came to rest around her milky white neck, I set the pendant in front of her chest and drew back. “A beautiful pendant for a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you. You are so kind.” She touched the diamond. “And you solved Grandmother Claire’s final mystery. You truly are a man of many talents.”

  When I reseated myself, I pulled the ring off my finger. “And now ...” My hands shook terribly as I swallowed hard. “I would like to ask you a question.”

  “Justin.” Francine laid a hand over mine. “You’re so nervous. Maybe we should have a drink now.”

  “Yes, I think that would help.”

  She lifted her goblet and whispered, “To our future.”

  I set the ring on the table and lifted my goblet. “Yes, to our future.”

  I took one sip and set the goblet down, while Francine drank the entire contents of hers. She nodded toward my wine. “Is it not to your liking?”

  “It’s excellent. I try to savor a good wine.”

  “Justin, the sooner you relax, the sooner you can ask your question.” She set her hand on mine. “Please. Drink the rest. We have much to talk about.”

  Her touch sent a shiver along my arm. Why the insistence on drinking the wine? It wouldn’t act that quickly to calm my nerves.

  The brooch’s glow brightened and sent a soothing sensation into my mind, as if wooing me to drop my defenses. As I reached for the goblet, Jean’s words broke through. Beware of her arts. I looked at the ring on the table. Francine had declined my invitation to drink earlier, then became insistent when I took the ring off and removed its protective power. Had she poisoned my wine? Was Jean right after all?

  Francine compressed my hand. “Justin? Is something wrong? You’re staring.”

  The dining room shutter banged. I looked that way. Had Justice opened the window? “I’d better see to that.”

  “Don’t worry yourself. It happens during every storm.”

  “I prefer to avoid the distraction.” I slid the ring back on my finger, picked up my goblet, and walked into the dining room, light from the table candle guiding my way. The window was open, and a rainy breeze flowed in. I looked outside. Illuminated by distant lightning, the ghostly Justice, still dressed in black travel clothes, wandered along the alley. Rain and wind assaulted her, whipping her dress and hair as her hands groped for anything that might support her.

  I shouted through the wet breeze slapping my face. “Justice!”

  A man carrying a lantern ran to her and gathered her into his arms. The lantern cast a glow across his face—Inspector Fortier. He looked at me and nodded. She would be cared for.

  “Justin?” Francine called, her voice drawing closer.

  I poured my wine out the window, set the goblet on the dining room table, and turned. She walked in, carrying the candle. “Why did you call for Justice?”

  “I thought I saw her out there.” I secured the shutter and closed the window. “Just my imagination, I suppose.”

  Francine picked up my goblet. As we walked back, she let out a humming laugh. “Perhaps another ghost?”

  “Perhaps.”

  When we seated ourselves, she set my empty goblet next to hers and the candle back in place, then looked at me expectantly. “How are you feeling now? Still nervous?”

  “I’m feeling—”

  A bedroom door opened down the hall. “Justin? Did you call me?” A tapping sound followed—a cane against the floor.

  I whispered, “Justice is coming.”

  “She shouldn’t be here,” Francine said. “I don’t want her ...” She blinked. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What?”

  She raised a hand t
o her throat and rasped, “It’s burning.”

  “Something in the wine?” I touched my own throat. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Justice walked in, her cane in hand. “Justin, you’re still here.”

  “Still here?” Francine rose from her seat and stared at us in turn. Her face flushed deep red, and her voice roughened. “You two conspired against me.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood. “Conspired? What are you talking about?”

  Francine laid a hand on her stomach. A tight grimace twisted her face. “You poisoned me!”

  “Poisoned?”

  When I took a step toward her, she picked up the gun and aimed it at me. “Give me the ring.”

  “Francine, you’re probably suffering from some kind of—”

  “Give me the ring.” She shifted the gun toward Justice. “Now.”

  “Francine, no!” The shutter banged again, making me flinch, but I dared not look that way.

  “Now, Justin,” Francine said, her tone hardening, though her body swayed as if ready to topple.

  Justice trembled. “Justin? What’s happening?”

  “Stay calm.” I grasped the ring around my finger. “I’ll give it to you if you’ll put the gun down.”

  A shot rang out. Blood spattered from Francine’s arm. She dropped her gun and collapsed, motionless.

  Inspector Fortier ran in from the dining room with a smoking gun in hand. He put it away under his coat and knelt at Francine’s side. “I struck her wrist,” he said, dripping rainwater as he lifted her bleeding arm. “It’s not much more than a scratch. Why would she pass out?”

  “She claimed that I poisoned her.” I pulled my sister into my arms and held her close. “Then she threatened Justice.”

  The inspector’s eyes darted from Justice to the dining room and back again. “How did she get inside and change clothes so quickly? I left her in my carriage and ran here.”

  I kept my mouth closed. Explaining would make me look more insane than ever, as would putting the ring on Francine’s finger to try to save her life. Of course, basic decency demanded that I do so without concern for appearances, but the confusion of the moment petrified me. Protecting Justice from harm overwhelmed every other thought.