Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  “Inspector, will I be allowed to write my explanation of everything that happened?”

  “Not only will you be allowed, your explanation will be demanded.” He gave the reins a snap, making the horse accelerate. “Not that anyone will believe you.”

  When we drew near the city center’s police headquarters, a small throng of people had gathered close to the entrance. A few carried writing implements of one kind or another. One man turned and pointed at us. “It’s Inspector Fortier. He has the murderer in custody.”

  The crowd streamed from the building and surrounded us, forcing the inspector to halt the carriage.

  The inspector snorted. “The circus has begun.”

  “Is he Justin Trotter?” a young man wearing a beret asked as he pointed a pen at me.

  “He is.” The inspector stepped to the ground amidst a rise in murmurs and pushed men and women back as if they were annoying dogs. When he drew his gun, the murmurs erupted into shouts.

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “How many has he killed?”

  “I heard about a blind sister. Where is she?”

  “Quiet.” The inspector unlocked the cuff around the metal bar, attached it to my free wrist, and used the chain to pull me out of the carriage. Like oil rushing from water, the reporters backed away, making a path to the police building.

  As he led me between the two groups, the chain in one hand and the gun in the other, I risked a question. “Why here instead of straight to the prison?”

  “The public knows about four murders,” he said stiffly. “We calm their fears by showing them the culprit in chains.”

  When he opened the door, he allowed one reporter to enter. Inside, the prefect of police posed for a photo with me, which proved to be a tedious process. A balding man with a mustache that spread into his sideburns, the prefect made a grandiose statement about capturing a notorious villain, an Englishman who thought he could come to this fair nation and conduct a murderous rampage against its citizens, all in an effort to purloin a diamond pendant and a historic artifact.

  While the prefect droned on, the inspector whispered, “Give me the ring.”

  I looked at my hand. The ring was on my finger once again, and I hadn’t noticed. I took the ring off and handed it to the inspector. “I gave it to Justice, but she must have slipped it on me before she died.”

  “She died?” the reporter asked, leaning close. “Isn’t Justice your sister?”

  I nodded. “Was my sister.”

  When the prefect finished, the reporter wrote a few notes before looking at the inspector. “Will the bodies be put on display in the morgue’s vitrine?”

  The inspector sneered. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “My readers would, yes.”

  “The city’s vultures will be disappointed this time.” The inspector waved a hand. “No more questions. After we finish our work here, we will take him to La Grande Roquette where he will await trial for murder.”

  An officer escorted the reporter outside where the throng collapsed on him, apparently pecking at him with questions.

  For the next several minutes, the inspector sat at a desk and wrote on a number of sheets of paper. Then he stood and gave one to the prefect, who waited nearby.

  “A sixth murder,” the prefect said as he read the page. “And he violated his own sister.”

  The inspector nodded. “While she was dead. Or so it seems. We should have a physician examine her.”

  The prefect stared at me, his cheeks turning red. “Perhaps we should release this information to the other prisoners.”

  “If I may, sir, I recommend solitary confinement.”

  The prefect lifted his brow. “Why?”

  “He was born in England. It’s not a good time for an Englishman to die in our prison without a trial.”

  The prefect returned the page to the inspector. “You’re right. See to it.”

  “Also, we will need a team of men and women to recover Justice. The women will go with one man into the catacombs to secure the body while those on the surface pull her up.”

  “I will make the arrangements.” The prefect shot another glare at me. “I want every scrap of information about this scoundrel. We will have both the French and English public begging for his head to be put on display.”

  “I received a dossier about his father from Scotland Yard, but the information was scant. I suspect there is much more to be learned about him.”

  “What was his father’s crime?” the prefect asked.

  “Murder.”

  “Excellent. Go to London. Learn what you can. A demon seed planted in England will incite the public enough to scream for a death sentence. Even the most lenient judge will have to listen. We’ll make sure the trial is delayed until you return.”

  “A thorough investigation might take a few weeks.”

  The prefect glanced up for a moment before looking again at the inspector. “We’ll request January, then. As long as the murderer is locked up, waiting until after Noël to bring justice to the Noëls should be agreeable to all.”

  “You should use that statement with the reporters. And emphasize justice.”

  “Ah, yes, the sister. I hadn’t intended that one. It will look quite good in a quote.” The prefect shook the inspector’s hand. “Excellent work. Send me a telegram from London to let me know your progress. By the time we’re finished, Queen Victoria won’t make a peep about it, especially if we take a photo of the deceased sister in the state you found her and send it to her.”

  The inspector clenched his jaw. “I prefer that we not do that, sir.”

  “That was a joke, Inspector. A bad one. I apologize for my crassness.”

  “You have no need to worry. The fault is mine. My anger is getting the best of me.” The inspector called for two other officers, and the trio escorted me back to the carriage. One drove while I sat on the back bench between the other and the inspector. The reporters and other onlookers swarmed to a line of carriages and followed.

  All three officers stayed quiet, allowing me time to again consider the past few hours. I was a ruined man, already tried and convicted. Only the formalities remained. Also, my only friend in the world was dead, and she and I were being blamed for killing the woman who was the ultimate cause of six deaths, including her own.

  Somehow I had to make this right. Whether or not I could clear my name wasn’t important, but I needed to tell the world what really happened for the sake of Justice. The poor girl had been stricken blind by smallpox. It would be a tragedy if her good name suffered at the hands of false witnesses. She deserved better. Much better. Maybe someone would believe the truth.

  I whispered to the inspector, “I would like to begin my testimony immediately, if I may. I will need paper and pen.”

  He kept his stare straight ahead. “How much paper?”

  “As much as you can spare. I have a lot to write. I expect that it will take the entire time you are gone to England.”

  He bit his lip as if forbidding the release of a harsh word. After several seconds, he nodded. “I will get what you need.”

  “What about Justice’s burial? Will someone arrange a funeral?”

  “A magistrate will see to that, but you should put it out of your mind. You won’t be able to attend.”

  “Then may I ask a favor? Is it possible to have her body returned to England and buried next to my father?”

  The inspector stayed quiet for nearly a minute before answering. “I am willing to take her with me to England, but the arrangements would be quite expensive. Who would pay for it?”

  “Do you think Marc might?”

  The inspector laughed under his breath. “I think not.” After another pause, he breathed a sigh. “Perhaps someone can be persuaded. Leave it to me.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  When we arrived at the prison, we rolled past the guillotine, elevated on a platform. The top loomed well over our heads. Th
ere, if events went as the police hoped, a blade would fall and sever my head from my body.

  In a way, I hoped for it as well—a quick end to my misery. All that I ever loved was gone, my father, Francine, and now, even my sister.

  And you, Mother, wherever you are. I fear that I shall not see you on this side of heaven.

  The prison officials thrust me into a tiny cell, a cube perhaps six feet in all dimensions. The inspector saw to it that I was supplied with a small table, a rickety chair, and a short stack of paper. The jailer promised to try to find pen and ink, but he wasn’t sure how long it would take.

  Then they locked the door and left me alone.

  And I had never been so alone. Solitary confinement, the inspector had called it. The thought crushed my soul. Trapped in bitter loneliness, why should I want to live even another day?

  Then the answer came, whispered in Justice’s own voice. Vindicate me, Justin. I am innocent.

  Joan’s voice rode the air. You must write what you have seen and heard. Only you can provide the antidote to hate and injustice.

  Michael added, Your suffering has delivered a gift. Do not forfeit this opportunity to share with the world the truth about freedom of thought and conscience.

  I closed my eyes and called out, “Joan, Michael, Justice, I will try, but how can I remember all the details?”

  “I will help you.” The voice came from directly in front of me.

  I opened my eyes. Siobhan stood on the other side of the table, hand in hand with young Jacqueline. Wearing a pretty green dress with a white sash, the bright-eyed girl smiled and said to Siobhan, “Who is this man? I’ve seen him before.”

  “Justin Trotter.” Siobhan set a pen and inkwell on the table. “You will learn all about him as we help him tell his story.”

  “How can you help?” I asked. “You don’t know what happened.”

  “No, but I can communicate with Joan, Michael, and Justice. And Jacqueline will begin remembering parts of it when the time comes. It will be good for her training to listen to your tale of love and sacrifice.”

  I let out a sigh. “You mean a tale of failure.”

  Siobhan caressed my cheek. “I heard about your tragedies. Perhaps writing about them will provide hope for a better future.”

  Her touch felt cold but comforting. “How can reliving tragedies give me hope?”

  “Not hope for you so much. Hope for others.” She drew her hand back. “Your own hope awaits after you finish.”

  “If you say so.” I sat in the chair, filled the pen, and poised it over the paper. “Do you have a suggestion about where I should start?”

  “Start by resting, Justin. Sleep. You have witnessed murder and injustice time and again, and the events will likely haunt your dreams. Insanity will knock at your door. Don’t let it enter. Each morning when you awaken, purge the haunting images and test yourself to see if your mind is clear. If you can think of Francine without hatred, without vengeance, then you will know that you are sane and are ready to begin writing. Only when love conquers all bitterness and all dread will you be able to let the ghosts speak.”

  “Will you come every day to help?”

  Siobhan nodded. “Every day until you finish. Then I will see if Jacqueline is ready for her test.”

  I took her advice and slept on the thin straw mat the prison provided. Nightmares assaulted me for three nights, and each morning I awoke with the ghouls still swirling—thoughts of Francine’s smile as she beckoned me to drink poisoned wine, Justice’s fall into the brook, her pale cheeks moments after she breathed her last, and the inspector’s accusing eyes as he drew his fist back to strike me.

  As Siobhan predicted, the phantoms of the night shook my spirit. It seemed that sanity fled my grasp, no matter how hard I tried to grip its slippery hands. Each morning I battled the thoughts with such grief and moaning that other prisoners called for me to calm down, even offering heartfelt prayers, though a few hurled curses.

  Then, on the fourth morning, I forsook all bitterness and gave up any thought of revenge. Francine was in God’s hands. With that I could be content. And this newfound peace brought blessed sanity back into my embrace.

  When Siobhan arrived with Jacqueline, I began writing, and you know the rest. It is all here in this manuscript.

  Now, dear Mother, I have spent more than a month writing this account, and doing so has helped me greatly. Putting the tale on paper has fully restored my sanity. Not only that, I believe that the account will result in my deliverance from death. You see, as I wrote, I translated each day’s work into French for the judge to read, though I left out the personal notes to you. Perhaps now I will have a sympathetic ear in court. The presiding judge will surely see that my account is the only way these events could have taken place. Nothing else makes sense.

  Also, I learned from a prison guard that Inspector Fortier did, indeed, accompany Justice’s body to England. I don’t know who the benefactor was, but I am grateful for his generosity.

  I am also happy to report that Jacqueline has progressed quite well. She asked for my forgiveness regarding her behavior toward me at the masquerade party, which I granted without reservation. Siobhan believes her young charge is ready for her final test. I am confident her end will be better than Pierre’s. Yet, to this day I have no idea what became of Jean. Siobhan is also unaware of his fate, which is probably for the best. Who am I to inquire of the heavens the eternal state of another man?

  I am now writing on my last available page. No matter. I have nothing more to tell you at this time. Inspector Fortier is supposed to return from England today, so my trial will soon be upon us. Yet, I no longer care whether or not I am found guilty. If I live to see many more days, I can begin a new search for you. If I die at the guillotine, I will go to be with Justice and Father.

  Mother, I long to see Justice. She was the one light remaining in my life. She trusted me without question and always wanted to be at my side. How I wish I could fulfill that desire now and be with her for eternity.

  One more item—a priest has visited me on occasion, a friendly young man, nothing like Francine’s hate-filled bishop. Between the priest’s words of faith and memories of my martyred friends, I have reason to believe again, and my new faith has given me assurance that death will bring me into Justice’s embrace.

  She is alive in heaven, as is Father. We all have hope of a reunion.

  Here ends my tale. Mother, I hope to see you soon.

  Affectionately yours,

  Justin

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Addendum to the Case Record –

  Inspector Paul Fortier

  As the lead inspector, I would be remiss if I omitted crucial information that I discovered after I closed the case and submitted it to the judge for examination. Yet, this new information is fraught with great uncertainty and doubt, to say the least, thereby making it unbelievable to any who might read the record. Therefore, when I complete this addendum, I will hide it from contemporary eyes and store it for future viewing. Perhaps those who read it in a later century will do so from a more enlightened perspective. God as my witness, my own era would never understand what I have seen and heard.

  I have chosen to employ a style similar to Monsieur Justin Trotter’s, that is, from my direct point of view as events unfolded. This way, putting the two accounts together will appear more consistent than otherwise. I will also add annotations from time to time so readers in the future can understand our era’s ways, though I can only guess whether or not these will be needed.

  I returned from London on a cold December afternoon. I had vowed to come home in time for a joyeux Noël with my family, and I achieved my goal with three days to spare.

  Upon my arrival by rail, light rain pelted the city as I walked to La Grande Roquette prison to visit Monsieur Trotter, the case’s portfolio tucked under my arm. When I asked for him to be brought to the visitation room, I was informed that he was already there with another guest
.

  Anxious to learn who that guest might be, I hurried to the room and peeked past the guard. Monsieur Trotter sat at a table across from Monsieur Marc Noël, his one-time friend. A lantern cast a flickering glow across a stack of papers on the table as well as the two men’s faces. Both wore morose expressions, though Marc’s seemed angry while Justin’s was more melancholy, perhaps influenced by wrist irons that dangled to the floor where they attached to leg irons.

  “I will be at the trial,” Monsieur Noël said in a restrained tone, “but don’t expect me to say anything in your defense. I know Francine did some terrible things, but there is no defense for what you did to her. Murder is never justified.”

  “I shot her in self-defense, Marc. She shot me first.”

  “Because you poisoned her.” Monsieur Noël’s voice sharpened. “Don’t take me for a fool, Justin. I am an actor, too. I know your tricks, and you are finally unmasked.” He set his hands at the sides of his head. “I can’t believe I’m discussing this with the man who poisoned my sister, a man who raped his own dead sister. This is madness.”

  “Then why did you come? Why did you call for me?”

  Monsieur Noël took a deep breath and calmed himself. “To appeal to you, Justin. Confess your guilt. Francine is dead. She has paid for her crimes. There is no need to drag her name through the mire in what will surely be a spectacle of a trial if you maintain your innocence.”

  “Then I would face the guillotine.”

  “You will face it either way. No jury will acquit a man caught naked in the catacombs with his dead, equally naked sister. If you think otherwise, you are deluded, the victim of your own playacting.”

  “I am not deluded.” Monsieur Trotter touched the stack of papers. “I have written the entire account here. The judge and jury will be persuaded that this is the only possible way everything could have happened.”

  “The ghost of Joan of Arc?” Monsieur Noël swiped at the stack, sending the pages flying. “No one will believe this excrement. It is a fantasy, your delusion. Even if someone witnessed every word as it played out, he would never utter a syllable of it in public. He would soon be in an asylum.”