Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  “And,” he continued, “why would anyone threaten a helpless, blind—”

  The front door opened. Marc walked in, soaking wet. “I have the fever medicine,” he said as he closed the door. “A carriage driver gave me a ride home, so it didn’t take long.” He looked at us. When his gaze fell on Francine and the inspector, he rushed to her side. “Francine? What happened?”

  “We have reason to believe that she has been poisoned,” the inspector said. “She also suffered a minor bullet wound to her wrist.”

  Marc lifted Francine and carried her to the sofa. The moment he laid her down, he ran to the door. “I’ll catch the carriage.”

  When the door slammed, I picked up the lantern Francine had brought and guided Justice closer to the sofa. Under the glow, Francine lay on her back, heaving shallow, labored breaths.

  Inspector Fortier lifted Francine’s goblet and sniffed it. “No telltale odor.” He swirled the dram of wine that remained. “I will subject this to a Marsh test.”

  “Marsh test?” I asked.

  “To detect arsenic.”

  “Is she showing symptoms of arsenic poisoning?”

  Francine rolled to her side and vomited on the floor. Red liquid spewed, but whether it was wine or blood, I could not tell. When she finished, she shifted to her back again and moaned.

  “Without a doubt,” the inspector said. “We can hope, however, her vomiting episode expelled much of the poison.”

  Marc banged the door open. Breathless and dripping, he ran to the sofa and lifted Francine again. “I caught the carriage. We’re going to a doctor.”

  “Take her,” the inspector said. “But wait for me. I’ll be there by the time you get her settled in the carriage.”

  Marc hurried out with Francine, leaving the door open.

  The inspector slid the goblet into an inner coat pocket. He looked at me and whispered, “If Francine denounces you, you will have no hope. I have opinions on what really happened here, but I won’t act on them until I have facts. Do what you must to ensure your safety.” He glanced briefly at Justice. “If your sister is here alone when I return, I will take her to my home.” He shut the door with a hard thud.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I pulled Justice close with one hand, the other still holding the lantern. She trembled in my grasp. “Who could have poisoned her?” she asked.

  An image of her namesake came to mind. Could the ghostly Justice have delivered the poison? Yet, she had said that she was there to protect me and my sister, not to kill Francine. Nothing made sense.

  The odor of vomit rose from the floor. I turned with Justice and guided her toward her bedroom. “My dearest, you heard what Francine said. She thinks you and I poisoned her.”

  “I did hear, but it seemed so absurd. We wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “People will believe you wouldn’t hurt anyone, but I’m afraid my reputation is not as pristine.”

  “What are you going to do? Hide again?”

  Her question felt like a slap, though she surely didn’t mean it that way. I had hidden too many times. I felt like a coward. “I’m staying with you until the inspector returns to take you to his house. He is a good man. You’ll be fine there.”

  When we arrived at her room, I led her to the bed. She sat on it and looked up at me with imploring eyes, a habit she gained before she went blind. “What will you do then?”

  I set the lantern on the floor. “I have no place to go. Certainly I can’t stay here.

  “The catacombs again?”

  “Most likely, until I can arrange a new identity. But no matter what happens, I’ll make sure you have a comfortable place to live.”

  “I don’t see how I can be comfortable knowing you’re in that place. I want to be with you. You’re my brother. We should be together.”

  “Even in the catacombs?”

  “Justin, I’m blind. I won’t be able to see how awful it is.”

  “We would have no food, no water. I would have to scavenge at night.”

  “But we could—”

  I set a finger on her lips. “No more arguing. You don’t want me to go to prison, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The only way I can stay free is by being able to move quickly. I might have to run from my pursuers, and you would slow me down.”

  She sighed. “That’s true.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll wait here until the inspector comes. I assume he’ll return by dawn.” I grasped her shoulders. “I love you, Justice. You are a treasure above all treasures.”

  “I love you, too, Justin.”

  When she released my hand, her fingers ran along mine. “What’s this? A ring?”

  I lifted my hand and looked at the ring. “It’s an artifact I found in the catacombs, a ring that was once owned by Joan of Arc. Legends say it protected her from death, and based on what I’ve been through, I think it might be true.”

  “Then you believe in its power.”

  “I do.” I took the ring off and stared at the engraving. Maybe the names were more than a simple reminder of heavenly helpers. Maybe they represented an appeal for protection. I slid it onto her finger. “I want you to have it.”

  She twisted it back and forth. “But if you’re on the run, you’ll need it more than I do.”

  “I can take care of myself. If you wear it, I’ll feel like Joan’s angels are watching over you.”

  She held the ring hand close to her chest. “In that case, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I picked up the lantern. “Change out of your nightgown and pack your things. You’ll want to be ready when the inspector arrives.”

  “I will.” She hugged herself and shivered. “It’s getting cold in here.”

  “It is, indeed. The storm must have brought a surge of cold air.”

  She ran a hand along my sleeve. “No coat?”

  “I borrowed one from Marc. I’ll get it.” I carried the lantern out to the sitting room and set it on the small table, where it would cast light around most of the house, including down the hall toward the bedrooms. I returned to the dining room and picked up the coat. A strong, frigid breeze poured in from the open window, explaining the chill in the house. Outside, the rain had ceased, leaving behind an early taste of winter.

  I secured the shutter, closed the window, and put the coat on before returning to Justice’s room. I waited by the door until she signaled that she had changed clothes.

  When I entered, she was wearing the ragged gray dress she had on when she visited my flat. I touched a loose thread on one of the sleeves. “Justice, have you noticed this seam near your elbow?”

  “Yes, but whenever I sewed for Madame Dupont, she wouldn’t let me use her supplies for my own clothes.”

  “I’m sure Francine has plenty to spare. I’ll get a needle and a spool of thread.” I entered Francine’s bedroom, found her sewing table in the corner, and picked up a needle and a spool of thread that appeared to be gray, though the dim light made the color uncertain.

  When I returned to Justice’s room, I gave her the supplies and helped her pack her clothes and personal items in a travel bag. When we finished, she put her coat on, and we walked together to the sitting room.

  Justice sniffed the air. “I heard Francine vomit. I should clean up the mess.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Justice grasped my arm, her expression hopeful. “Together?”

  I smiled. “Together.”

  Using a basin of water, a cleanser, and scrubbing cloths, we cleaned away the vomit, all the while reminiscing about days gone by. For some reason, concern about Francine melted away. Justice and I had each other. We were content.

  When we finished, we sat on the sofa and waited for someone to return with news. Most likely the inspector would arrive first. He probably recorded Francine’s belief that Justice and I poisoned her, and he would have to report it, but as long as he believed we were innocent, we had nothing to fear, at
least for a while.

  Still, a question gnawed at the back of my mind. If we were innocent, then whom would the inspector blame for the poisoning? No one else could have done it.

  As we waited, we leaned our heads together, talking and laughing at times, dozing at others. Joy filled my heart. I had reunited with my best friend, a jewel of a woman I never should have left behind. I should have had more faith that we could have survived on our own. Her determination would have made the difference.

  The front door opened, shaking us from slumber. A cold wind ushered Francine into the room, her face pale and pain streaked. Her blue, lace-trimmed dress bore wrinkles and vomit stains. When she saw us, she halted and blinked, as if unable to see clearly. “Justin? Justice?”

  “Yes.” I rose from the sofa, pulling Justice to her feet. “Where are Marc and Inspector Fortier?”

  “Outside, preparing the inspector’s carriage for travel.” Her face hardened. “Why are you still here?”

  “Where else would we be?”

  “Murderers usually try to flee from prosecution.”

  “Murderers? We didn’t—”

  “Justin, don’t try to deceive me again.” Clutching her stomach, she hobbled to the table and picked up her revolver.

  I stepped in front of Justice. “Francine, no. Don’t.”

  She aimed the gun at me and called, “Justin, don’t shoot. I’ll do anything you say. Just don’t shoot.”

  “What?” I glanced from Francine to Justice, then back to Francine. She was setting up an alibi for murdering me. I pushed Justice down and leaped toward Francine. She fired the gun. The bullet hit me in the shoulder, knocking me back a step.

  Justice screamed, “Marc? Inspector? Where are you?”

  As I stood in place, pain shredded my thoughts. I couldn’t move. Francine walked closer and cried out, “Justin, you shot yourself. Oh, dear God, you shot yourself. Give me the gun. Don’t shoot yourself again.”

  Now just out of reach, she looked at my hand, perhaps to check for the ring, then aimed the gun at my forehead and whispered, “First you. Then your sister, if she’s not convinced you committed suicide.”

  I lunged, grabbed her wrist, and wrestled her to the floor. As we fought, Francine screamed, “Marc! Help! Justin is trying to kill me!” She wrenched her arm free and pulled the trigger. The gun fired. The bullet sped past my head and nearly hit Justice.

  “Justice!” I shouted. “Get down.” Just as Francine squeezed the trigger again, I turned the barrel toward her. A new blast erupted. Blood splashed from her chest. She stopped struggling and looked at me, bitterness in her eyes as she gurgled through a mouthful of blood. “I will see you in hell.”

  She closed her eyes and stopped breathing.

  Justice, now lying on the floor, called, “Justin? Are you there? What’s happening?”

  “I’m here. I’m all right.” The pendant lay in a pool of blood on Francine’s chest. I took the gun from her hand and struggled to my feet, gasping. “Francine is dead. She tried … to kill me. She said … I shot myself to … hide her actions from you.”

  Justice rose and grasped my arm. “You sound hurt.”

  “I am hurt. She shot me … in the shoulder. I don’t know … how badly I’m wounded.”

  She pushed her shoulder under my arm. “Lean on me.”

  Still holding the gun, I shifted my weight to her. “Thank you.”

  She ran a hand along my back. “You have a hole here, too. The bullet went through.”

  At that moment, Marc walked in. When he saw Francine, he rushed to her, crouched, and checked her heart. “She’s dead.”

  “She tried to—”

  He leaped up and snatched the gun from me. “You killed her!”

  I raised my hands. The pain from the wound stabbed mercilessly and throttled my senses. “Marc. She … I …”

  “Justice,” Marc said, “move out of the way. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  The inspector stormed into the room, his own gun drawn. “Monsieur Noël, put your weapon down.”

  “Not until I avenge my sister’s death.” When he set his finger on the trigger, I pushed Justice away and ran toward the door. Marc fired. A bullet grazed my ear and thumped into the wall. I dashed outside and into darkness.

  As I made my way along the street, the inspector shouted from the house. “Monsieur Trotter. You need medical attention.”

  Indeed, my shirt clung to my chest and back, and blood soaked the front of my shirt. If the bleeding didn’t slow soon, I would die.

  I pressed a hand against the shoulder wound and slowed to a walk. My heart thumped. Every beat echoed in my wound as a painful jab, as if someone were ramming the fire poker into my shoulder. Although the pain sent searing heat though my body, a sense of peace eased the torture. The inspector would be sure to take care of Justice. She would be safe no matter what happened to me.

  As a bitter wind blew from the north, I bundled the coat closer. It seemed that every force of nature pushed me toward the catacombs. What choice did I have? I had to stay out of sight until Marc’s anger subsided. Soon, Justice would explain that I shot Francine in self defense. Then all would be well.

  I followed my usual route to the old schoolhouse, familiar enough that I no longer had to think about which turns to make. Every step ached. Every gust of wind tore at my wound as if reaching into it with icy fingers. But I had to go on.

  Trying to take my mind off the pain, I studied my surroundings. A city clock showed twenty past six, perhaps an hour before dawn. At a coffee house on one street, soft music played while customers chatted and laughed, oblivious to the cares of the world. On the next street, a painted woman called to me from a sheltered doorway and lifted her skirt in a provocative manner. Why would she be out at this early morning hour? Perhaps a slow night for business.

  I turned my head and walked on without replying. The prostitute’s words replayed in my mind, a call to warmth in her embrace. I neither loved nor loathed such women. I pitied them. And their sad state spiked my anxiety.

  Every time I saw a streetwalker or a brothel worker, I wondered if Justice would have to resort to that profession if I were unable to find suitable keep for her. Since she was young, pretty, and vulnerable, the vultures of the trade would swoop down on her, likely not caring that she was blind, or perhaps relishing her handicap, knowing they could take advantage of her. The rodents they called customers would probably look upon her as an interesting novelty.

  The thoughts made me ill. I shook them away and hurried on, still pressing a hand against my wound. Since I had made it this far, maybe I had a chance to survive. All I had to do was stop the bleeding, but could I cauterize and stitch two wounds without help? Surely not the one on my back.

  By the time I arrived at the brook, the setting moon peeked through a break in the clouds. The bridge Joan and I had constructed was still intact, and the brook flowed safely below, though swollen by the storm. Drainage from the hills would probably make it rise even more, which might tear the bridge apart. All the better. I would be more secluded, safe from Marc or whoever might want to find me.

  When I set my feet on the floor of the catacombs, I felt my way to the schoolroom and found my supplies, including the lantern and matches. I blinked at the darkness. This is what my poor sister saw all day, every day—no sun, no moon, no starlight. She never enjoyed smiles, flowers, rolling meadows, or sunrises. Of course she had seen them years ago, which allowed her to view these delights in her mind’s eye, but was it worse to lose the precious gift of sight or never have it at all?

  Of all the human conditions, perhaps blindness was the worst—not only physical blindness, but mental, emotional, and spiritual blindness as well.

  That thought resurrected the ghostly Justice’s words. It is your own blindness that prevents you from seeing the obvious.

  Then Michael’s warning came to mind. You cannot see what everyone else sees. Your blindness will be your downfall.

&nb
sp; Finally, Jean’s sad words returned. I can’t do what Michael asked. I’m sorry.

  Three different ghosts had referred either directly or indirectly to my blindness, though none of them explained. Yet, one truth I did know—sitting in the darkness and wallowing in self pity would never help me see the truth.

  I shed the coat and rummaged through my bag. I found the matches, lit the lantern, and set it on the table. A folded page of parchment lay on the floor along with a pen, as if a writer had left in haste. I picked it up. It was sealed with black wax. On the outside, it read, “To Justin Trotter.”

  I broke the seal and opened it. Written in French with a near-perfect script, the note said:

  Justin,

  I administered Jean’s final test. Since you and he grew close, I thought it only fair to let you know the result.

  The test was simple in design, yet difficult for me to administer and for Jean to endure. I created an image from the past, much like the one you witnessed of the brawlers in the drinking establishment. In this scenario, I was on trial for heresy, and Jean was my interrogator.

  As you have also witnessed, Jean reverted to his former self and became enraged at me, slinging verbal arrows and invectives unfit for any mouth, much less for one as youthful as Jean’s.

  At a pause in his diatribe, I said, “You have written in your own works that no church has the authority to bind the consciences of men and that those who kill heretics are savage butchers. And now you seek to have me killed, a man who has done you no wrong, a man who simply disagrees with your doctrines.” I then looked Jean in the eyes and said, “Are you still blind to your hypocrisy even after all I have taught you? Are you still blind to the innocence of someone you hate, just as your friend Justin is to the guilt of someone he loves?”

  Jean stared at me for an extended time, then he ...

  Justin, I have reconsidered. I will not tell you what happened to Jean, because you must set your mind on your future, not his. It is enough to say that we have both finished our time here, and I was granted an extra hour to write this message.