by Bryan Davis
Monsieur Trotter looked at the pages on the floor. “Even if it is a fantasy, it is the only truth I know. How can I speak otherwise?”
“If you speak this rubbish, they’ll want to cut your head off twice.” Monsieur Noël sighed. “Justin, I have no more to say. Consider my plea. It is true that my mother was a witch of a woman, and my sister was a murderer. Both are dead, and they will face the ultimate judge.” He folded his hands in prayerful entreaty. “Let the dead bury the dead. I paid for your sister’s burial expenses so your family could have peace. Now let my family have ours. Don’t put us through more torment. I have an aunt and three cousins who are in desperate grief. We have suffered enough.”
“I didn’t realize you paid for the costs.” Monsieur Trotter lowered his head. “I will consider your plea.”
“If so ...” Monsieur Noël removed Joan of Arc’s ring from his little finger and displayed it on his palm. “Since I am an heir, Inspector Fortier gave this to me. As you know, it is a symbol of protection, of honor, of valor. If you confess and thereby avoid destroying my family’s name, I will stand at the trial and symbolically extend this toward you, signifying my complete forgiveness and that I will always consider you my friend.”
Still looking down, Monsieur Trotter said, “I understand. Again, I will consider your request.”
Without another word, Monsieur Noël rose and departed.
Monsieur Trotter crouched and began gathering the scattered pages. The guard helped, and I walked in and added my efforts.
Within a minute or two, we finished and set the pile on the table. “It’s a good thing I numbered the pages,” Monsieur Trotter said. He gestured toward the visitor’s chair. “Shall we talk?”
Once we had seated ourselves, his melancholy expression turned to a more frightened aspect, the look of a condemned prisoner. “Do you bring news from London?”
“I do.” I set the portfolio case on the table and folded my hands on it. The last time I saw this man, I wanted to kill him, and he knew it. Now, after learning new information both in London and in Paris, I didn’t know what to think. “In fact, I have a great deal of news.”
“You found my mother?”
“I did. You see—”
“Excellent.” A smile broke his fearful countenance. He slid the stack of paper toward me and spoke with unusual rapidity. “This is my full account. Two copies. One in English for my mother, and one in French for the judge. I trust that you will give them—”
“No. Wait.” I held up a hand. “Monsieur Trotter, let me explain.”
His smile wilted. “What’s wrong? Won’t you take the accounts?”
“Of course. Of course.” I picked up the pages and slid them into my portfolio case. “But as to the wisdom of delivering the French version to the judge—”
“Inspector.” His expression turned serious. “Tell me what you found. Hold nothing back.”
“Very well.” I folded my hands again. “Justin, I spent three weeks—”
“So, I am Justin now? Not Monsieur Trotter?” His brow lifted. “This change portends bad news, I think.”
“Bad news? Yes, but liberating all the same.” At that moment, I decided to refer to him as Justin from that time forward. My role as inspector seemed to transform into that of a counselor. “You see, Justin, I retraced every step of the incidents the night your father was arrested, and I followed the case to its end. Correct me if I am wrong in the retelling.
“You heard a loud noise over your head. To investigate, you ascended the stairs to an attic where you found your father with blood-covered hands. A woman hung by a rope from the ceiling with a noose around her neck. Is that correct?”
Justin nodded. “Yes. I told you that once before.”
“Forgive me. I am making sure all accounts are consistent.”
“I understand. Go on.”
“Frightened to no end, you ran downstairs and into the night, shouting for the police.”
He nodded again. “My mother told me to run for help.”
“Justin …” I leaned closer and looked into his eyes. “She told you no such thing. She was the woman hanging by the rope.”
He shook his head hard. “She was sitting on my bed when we heard the noise. Then we walked together up the stairs. The woman hanging in the attic was not my mother.”
I settled back in my chair. “Let’s say for the moment that your memory is correct. Where, then, did your mother go after she sent you for help?”
“I don’t know. You said you found her. Why are you trying to confuse me?”
“I did find her.” I withdrew a photograph from my case and set it in front of him. “Since seeing is believing, I had this photograph made. It’s your mother’s tombstone.”
As he stared at it, he bit his lower lip. A tear streamed down his cheek to his chin. “When did she die? I can’t read the year.”
“Don’t you understand?” I took the photograph and slid it back into the case. “She died that night. She was the victim of the hangman’s rope.”
He shook his head again, his eyes clenched shut. “That can’t be true. She was with me. I saw her. Heard her. Felt her touch.” After a moment of gentle weeping, he stared at me blankly and quieted.
I took advantage of the silence to continue. “Justin, further investigation led me to learn the following. The police arrested your father for hanging your mother. The investigation and trial were quick, and he was sentenced to be hanged, but the execution was delayed due to an advocate who made several appeals. During this time, you were sent to France, as you know.
“I was able to interview your father’s advocate. He claimed that the judge in the trial had invested in a shoe company, and your father’s business was a competitor. The judge was glad to remove your father from competition and thereby add to his own fortunes. My investigation revealed that the judge’s investment was exactly as the advocate had related, so I dug deeper. The same judge applied the death sentence to two other competitors, though the criminal charges were highly in doubt. This pattern led me to ask for the evidence against your father, but other than the file briefing I already had, everything has been mysteriously lost.
“To make a long story short, your father claimed that your mother committed suicide by hanging herself.” I paused to see how Justin would react, but his blank stare continued. “He tried to cut the rope to free her and in so doing sliced his hands, accounting for the blood. The judge refused to believe his story. He declared your mother to be sane, saying that he knew her personally. She would never commit suicide. In fact, he claimed that wounds in her body proved that your father stabbed her even while she dangled. A mortician testified that this was so, but, unfortunately, since the records of her post-mortem examination are missing, I could not verify or disprove that claim.
“Yet, I do have the testimony of your father’s advocate, who wasn’t at the trial. He was your mother’s doctor and claims she was under care for hallucinations. He prescribed a number of treatments, none of which provided relief. In fact, the problem grew worse. The doctor believes that the hallucinations likely drove her to madness.
“So I dug deeper once again, this time literally. I had your mother’s body exhumed.”
Finally Justin reacted as if jolted by lightning. “You did what?”
“I had your mother’s body exhumed and examined for stab wounds. After fifteen years, of course, her body was badly decomposed, but I was able to satisfy myself that she had not been stabbed. The mortician lied, perhaps paid off, but since he is now dead, I was unable to interview him.”
While Justin sat quietly absorbing this flood of information, I continued. “One fact is obvious. Since I was able to determine the truth years after the fact, a diligent investigation at the time would have exonerated your father. Therefore, a crooked judge is not the only person to blame. England’s entire justice system failed your father. In fact, it is fair to say that the system murdered him.”
“Murdered h
im?” Justin blinked tear-filled eyes. “So my father was a martyr. Persecuted by justice.”
“Well … yes. I suppose you could say that. But now his name will be cleared. He can rest in peace. And it seems appropriate that your mother, even while dead, exonerated him.”
Justin’s face twisted. “Did you see her body with your own eyes?”
I nodded.
“How can you be sure it was her? Her face couldn’t have been recognizable.”
“Her doctor was with me. He noted a bone deformity in her foot he knew about. It was a—”
“A bent big toe,” Justin said.
“Yes. Apparently it caused a slight limp.”
After another quiet pause, Justin whispered, “She was already dead. Her ghost was with me. Sitting on my bed. Walking with me up the stairs. Shouting at me to run for help.”
“Justin, the doctor suggested that hallucinations might run in the family, so is it possible that you—”
“No.” He added another emphatic shake of the head and raised his voice. “I was not hallucinating. I saw her, just as I am seeing you now.”
“But don’t you see that it’s much more likely that you inherited a—”
“Read my account.” He shook a finger at my portfolio case. “It’s all there. I have seen other ghosts. Not only my mother. Without them, I couldn’t have found the ring. I couldn’t have found the pendant. Hallucinations can’t give you information you don’t already know.”
I waved a calming hand. “All right. All right. I’ll read your account.”
“Good.” He took a deep breath and settled himself. “When you finish, let me know what you think.”
“I will.” I withdrew another sheet of paper from my case. “I have more information. This is the report on your sister’s autopsy. The fluid in her lungs was not merely water. If she had drowned and died immediately, the fluid would have been clear, that is, all water. It seems that a small amount of water caused an irritation that led to fluid secretions that built up while she slept. In other words, she drowned in her own fluids. Also, the examination showed that her virginity remained intact. Every part of the report matches your account exactly.”
“Then you believe me.”
I slid that page back to the case. “I believe that portion. Whether or not a jury will look kindly on your close contact with her is another issue.”
“She was freezing. We were both freezing. We had no fire, nowhere to go. It was the only way.”
I waved a hand. “I understand that survival instincts can cause us to make difficult choices, but a jury sitting in a warm room might not sympathize with your shivers, especially while well-heeled women wearing corsets and plumage stare at you in disgust.”
“Granted, but doesn’t the truth of my account in this instance give me more credibility in your eyes?”
“It makes me think you’re not a disgusting pervert, if that’s what you mean. You still poisoned Mademoiselle Noël. No one else could have done it.” I rose, set my hands on the table, and leaned close to him. “I suggest that you take Monsieur Noël’s advice. Confess to the poisoning. Perhaps when the autopsy evidence comes to light, the charges of murdering and raping your sister will be dropped, and your sentence will be lighter. I think that plan is your only hope of escaping the guillotine.” I picked up the portfolio case. “I will see you at your trial.”
I departed and rode a carriage home. After spending time with my wife and daughter until they retired, I stayed up all night reading Justin’s French account. The effort was laborious, but it seemed expedient to review the evidence that he asked me to provide to the judge.
Knowing about his hallucinations, I was able to separate fact from fiction and piece ideas together that made sense. Of course, the witchcraft claim was obvious fiction, perhaps a way for Justin to rationalize his so-called blindness and to cast a final stain on Francine’s character. The fact column held the ring and pendant, both declared authentic and highly valuable by a reputable expert who also verified that both heirlooms legally belonged to Madame Noël’s estate.
The Pierre phantom likely arose from Dr. Cousineau’s final words. Had he tried to accuse Francine, his damaged lips unable to form the proper sound? It seemed strange that two men heard Pierre, but no other explanation made sense.
Still, a pair of items refused to take either the fact or fiction category—the ghosts, Jean and Justice. I saw these two with my own eyes at Madame Noël’s funeral. On a later day, I gathered an older version of Justice into my arms and carried her through a driving rainstorm. Although the written account was beyond belief, the idea that Justice ran back to the Noëls’ faster than I did, changed to a nightgown, and dried her hair before I arrived was every bit as unbelievable, as Justin had claimed. Either the Justice I carried was a ghost, she had an identical sister who was also blind, or she defied all laws of physics. No option made sense.
With such impossibilities in the testimony, what would the judge say when he read it?
I withdrew the English version and looked over the first few pages. As Justin had said, it was identical to the French version save for the addition of personal references to his mother.
Shaking my head, I shoved the pages back into the portfolio case. If I showed either report to the judge, he would be certain of Justin’s guilt, call him an insane murderer who conjured phantoms to take the blame. Who in his right mind would ever think that this account could help his cause?
“Then he’s not in his right mind,” I said out loud. “Unless, of course, it’s all true.”
I laughed. Even entertaining the idea that the account was true proved that I was tired beyond all reason. I had to get some sleep. After the holiday, I would return to the investigation and be ready to testify at the trial on the third of January.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Case Conclusion
When the day arrived, the public jammed the periphery of the courtroom, mostly rich citizens dressed in cold-weather finery, their eyes and ears intent on hearing every tidbit and mouths relishing the chance to embellish the testimony in risqué gossip.
Women dressed in black dominated the public seating area, their attire a sign that they hoped for a death sentence. Ever since the papers began reporting the crimes, the court of public opinion staged their own trials, and the nearly universal pronouncements of “guilty” would surely bleed onto this new stage, the theater we called a courtroom.
You see, readers in the future, during our era in Paris, high-profile trials often became a theater production. Some judges allowed the drama, realizing they could often manipulate the public’s reaction to testimony in a manner that might sway the jury toward a conviction. The display was often uncouth, sometimes unjust, but our citizens delighted in the performance.
In keeping with the stage’s dramatic effect, the jury sat in a shadowed area, veiled from the rest of the room’s occupants, while Justin sat with his appointed counsel facing the jury and the judges’ bench above them.
At the bench, three red-robed magistrates settled in place and loomed over the courtroom like scarlet birds of prey. The prosecutor, a longtime friend of mine, sat in a chair at the end of the bench. He was a brilliant man who would skewer Justin alive if he decided not to confess. I hoped for a better outcome. A prolonged trial would do no one any good.
Justin sat with his head high, though his pose was likely part of his acting role. His counsel had probably told him to look as innocent as possible, to be confident in the outcome. Yet, by this time, the magistrate had already interviewed him privately. Justin now knew that I had turned over the official reports, including the autopsy, but not his own account. If he verbally provided a summary to the judge, including the portions about the ghosts, then he was dead already. Soon we would all know.
I ran through the possibilities in my mind. Although Justin did not kill Jacqueline Noël, a fact that would come to light during the trial, demonstrating that someone else must have murdered the Noë
ls’ housemaid would be more difficult. And proving his innocence in Francine Noël’s death would likely be impossible. Without a miracle, a guilty verdict was certain.
The presiding judge—the president, as we called him—began the trial with the usual admonition to maintain order and decorum. At a trial like this, his warning would be ignored, and he knew it. Bearing a high brow, white mustache, full cheeks, and infectious smile, he often appeared jovial in spite of the gravity of the trials, and he sometimes employed a biting wit, much to the dismay of those at whom he directed his sharp tongue.
I was the first to testify, determined to undermine the wagging tongues by providing no fuel for their fire. I related the facts of the case in an academic fashion. When called upon to elaborate, I refused to speculate about motives, hearsay, or any other tangents the prosecutor raised. Of course, he gave me no reason to reveal Dr. Cousineau’s involvement in Madame Noël’s murder, which prompted me to stay quiet about it and bide my time until the defense attorney’s turn to question me.
Yet, when the defense attorney raised the issue, just as I opened my mouth to speak, the president bellowed, “Dr. Cousineau is not on trial. You will not mention his name again.”
Although the attorney protested with vigor, the president maintained his stance by saying in a mocking fashion, “We will not discuss ghosts in this courtroom, neither those who stay silent in their tombs nor those who rise from the dead and speak to the insane.”
Gasps and murmurs rose from those in the public seats. They had no idea what he meant by that highly unusual statement. Yet, I knew. Justin had surely given his summary to the president. His doom had begun.
The attorney protested once more, but the president waved his hand. “Let’s move on. Bring the accused forward to testify.”
Still holding his head high, Justin stepped up to the dock and faced the judges’ bench. The president then pointed at me. “Inspector Fortier, stand in the barreau. I want to question both of you at the same time.”