Let the Ghosts Speak

by Bryan Davis

  I rose and stood at the center of the central floor space, the barreau, as we called it during our era. Based on the president’s dour expression, one that seemed ready to crucify Justin, I expected the worst.

  “Inspector,” the president said, “did you see Justin Trotter enter the Noëls’ house the night Francine Noël was poisoned?”

  I nodded. “I did.”

  “Did he knock on the door? Did she freely invite him in?”

  “Whether or not he knocked, I can’t be certain. I arrived in the rear alley just as he was climbing through the dining room window.”

  Whispers rippled across the audience.

  “Did you think about questioning him at that time?” the president asked.

  “No. It was raining quite heavily, and I assumed he was unable to enter by the door. Since he and Monsieur Marc Noël are close friends, I did not think he was entering with criminal intent.”

  “At approximately what time did he enter?”

  “Nine in the evening.”

  “And Mademoiselle Noël was poisoned shortly after midnight, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Which gave Monsieur Trotter plenty of time to conspire with his sister to poison Mademoiselle Noël.”

  I glanced at Justin’s attorney. He sat in stoic silence, apparently knowing that objecting to these leading questions would be futile. “That would be conjecture,” I said. “I have no idea how long it takes to arrange a conspiracy with a blind girl.”

  “A fair answer.” The president turned to Justin. “Monsieur Trotter, did you poison Francine Noël?”

  Justin squared his shoulders. “I did not.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “In a way, she poisoned herself.”

  Someone in the public gallery laughed, followed by titters from others.

  The president glared at them, which stifled the noise. “How did she poison herself?”

  Justin kept his gaze on the judges. “Francine poisoned the wine in my goblet. Justice switched the goblets while no one was looking.”

  New gasps rose, along with murmurs that continued in spite of the president’s stares. “If no one was looking, Monsieur Trotter, then how do you know this to be the case? Did Justice confess her crime to you?”

  “No. She did not. When I say Justice, I don’t mean my sis—”

  “Come now, Monsieur Trotter, do you expect us to believe that your sister would not confide in you? You shared everything, did you not? After all, you were found in the catacombs with her, together in a naked embrace, even though she was dead.”

  A woman swooned and toppled from her seat. While another woman fanned her, several more cried out. Men and women alike crossed themselves.

  The president allowed the antics to continue. This reaction was probably exactly what he hoped for.

  I looked at the jury. Although shadows veiled their faces, the shaking heads were easy to see. Justin was as good as dead.

  I shouted above the din, “Monsieur President, may I speak?”

  As he turned toward me, a hush settled across the courtroom. “Until it becomes irrelevant ...” He nodded.

  I addressed him directly. “You have done well to point out the inconsistencies in Monsieur Trotter’s testimony. By all measures, his account is unbelievable, as you and I know. You have deemed it necessary to expose the obscene elements of the case in order to force him to confess, or at least demonstrate some semblance of contrition for his crimes. A resolve to maintain an unrepentant posture in the face of such damning evidence would reveal him as a beast deserving death.”

  The president gave me an approving nod, a signal to continue.

  I turned to Justin and summoned all the passion I could muster. “Justin, I implore you, for the sake of your sister, for the sake of Justice, confess that you were the one who poisoned Francine as an act of vengeful passion. Tell these good people that Justice had nothing to do with it, that she died from drowning and that I found her dead in your arms. Then she will be remembered as a victim instead of an incestuous murderer. The trial will end, and no other unseemly details will come to light that could sully an innocent person’s reputation.” I took a breath and set a hand over my heart. “Let Justice be honored. Let that poor blind girl, who at this very moment looks down from heaven with perfect eyes, know that her brother loves her more than life itself, that he has purged the ghosts that have haunted him, that he is ready to face the almighty judge who knows every secret and unlocks every mystery.”

  New murmurs ran across the assembly followed by shushing sounds. Tears flowed down Justin’s cheeks as he looked at the president. “Is it true? If I confess, will the trial end?”

  The three judges leaned close to each other in conference. Whispers in the crowd restarted and grew until they sounded like leaves rustling in the wind. Justin looked across the buzzing gallery until his scan halted near the back wall. There, Marc Noël rose from his seat, slid Joan’s ring off his finger, and extended it toward Justin.

  Justin nodded and turned again toward the judges.

  When the judges finished their conference, the president said, “We have agreed that if you take full responsibility for Francine Noël’s death, we will end the trial and consider every case associated with that series of crimes closed. There will be no need for a jury verdict.”

  Justin inhaled deeply and squared his shoulders once more. “I take full responsibility for Francine Noël’s death, but, if I may, I would like to make a statement before you decide on my punishment.”

  “If it is short and pertinent,” the president said. “I will not tolerate a lengthy rant about your hallucinations.”

  “I will be brief.” Justin cleared his throat and looked out over the crowd. “Justice … true justice … is beloved by each one of you, a sister to those who value charity above all. This is why every magistrate needs her presence. She will whisper into his ear, advising him to balance the scales, to consider mercy as he ponders retribution, to expel thoughts of revenge and judge with blindness toward all but the facts set before him.

  “We all have ghosts haunting us—deaths, broken relationships, lost opportunities—memories that stab deeply, making us want to bury our ghosts forever. Yet, I advise you to resurrect the memories. They all have something to teach us. Mistakes can be corrected. Wrongs can be made right. Fractured friendships can be restored. Unless we let the ghosts speak, unless we bear the pain and listen to their whispers, our tragedies will remain tragedies for all eternity.”

  When Justin paused, the president narrowed his eyes. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes.” Justin folded his hands at his waist. “I am finished.”

  “So be it.” The president raised his voice. “Justin Trotter, as one who values charity, a magistrate who wishes to protect the city from murderous fiends like you, I find you guilty of the murder of Francine Noël. All other charges are dismissed. Barring an appeal, you will be executed by guillotine in one week. May God have mercy on your soul.” He rose from his chair. “The jury is dismissed.”

  As the public area erupted in loud chatter, the judges left the courtroom. Two police officers grasped Justin, one on each side, and escorted him out, and the crowd funneled through the exit door.

  Soon, all was quiet, save for my own heartbeat as I stood alone in the barreau. A firm hand compressed my shoulder. Marc Noël stood next to me, his face gray and grim. “You did the right thing.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not so sure.”

  He patted me on the back. “Come to my house. We’ll have a bottle of wine and talk.”

  “I would like that. Thank you.”

  That evening, Marc and I sat in the same room where Justin had claimed Joan of Arc joined us not long ago. It seemed odd that Justin’s account contained this irregularity—that I was able to see Cameron, Justice, and Jean but not Joan. Perhaps if Justin had a chance to explain, he might say that Joan’s visibility had faded along with her vitality, that losing
her young charge to the flames of damnation had altered her essence, or maybe wearing the ring veiled her post-earthly form. Who could tell what rationalizations a tortured mind might conjure?

  While Marc and I shared an excellent bottle of red wine, I showed him the French version of Justin’s account and pointed out some of the important highlights. Enthralled, he asked to read it all. I let him borrow it, knowing that I had the English version for safekeeping.

  We then talked about the possibility of an appeal. It seemed that Justin had resigned himself to his fate, which meant that he probably forfeited his rights. If so, he would be dead in one week.

  When I returned home, I read Justin’s English account again, studying each phrase, each word. Why? I did not know. Something about the story entranced me, captivated me. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

  I dozed at times, awakened by nightmares of the ghosts in Justin’s tale. Joan of Arc called out from the flames, begging for water. Yet, no water was given to her.

  Michael, a crown of thorns on his head as he stood in a separate fire, shouted for mercy. Yet, no mercy was shown to him.

  In Justin’s mind, his ghosts were innocent victims of persecution. Why would he identify with them? Why would he conjure phantoms of virtue to cover his murderous actions?

  Justice returned to mind, the younger one who played with Jean, then the older one who stumbled blindly through a storm-swept alley.

  I turned to the page where she appeared at Francine’s table and, as Justin claimed, though he did not see it, switched the wine goblets before they drank. Since she was supposedly not immaterial, she could have done so, but why? In Justin’s warped mind, what was her motive? Revenge? If so, for what?

  Also, Cameron Trotter said that his ward was never human. What could he have meant by that? Or, a better question, what did Justin mean? After all, this work of fiction came from his delusions. What symbol did he hope to create by pairing his father and sister in such an odd way?

  In any case, there was only one rational explanation for the Justice I found in the alley—a third sibling. Of course, a second blind sister would be an incredible coincidence, but maybe she was feigning blindness or was blinded by darkness and the storm.

  While searching for evidence about Justin’s family, it didn’t occur to me to look for a third sibling. Perhaps that was a mistake on my part, but it was too late to return to England. My only hope of finding her lay in personally searching for her in Paris.

  I rose from my reading chair and put on my cloak. I had one week—six days, really—to search. Of course, I couldn’t mention my new quest to anyone. Since this girl seemed to age at an impossible rate, the idea seemed like madness. Still, for the sake of my own sanity, I had to try to solve the mystery.

  Thinking that this second sister might visit Justin’s previous haunts, I searched the area around the Noëls’ home each morning, the schoolhouse and catacombs in the afternoon, and Justin’s flat in the evening before returning home for the night. Then, before going to bed, I reread every portion of the tale that included her, hoping to find a sliver of a clue as to her whereabouts.

  The nights grew successively warmer, making the effort easier. The bitter wind that chased Justin into the catacombs had departed, at least for a while.

  Finally, on the night before the execution, I again read the portion about Siobhan being in the cell to help Justin remember the tale. Might the second sister have visited him as well? It would do no harm to find out.

  I drove my carriage toward the prison with Justin’s account in my dossier case. Taking a longer-than-normal route so I could first visit my daughter’s grave, I traveled through the heart of the city and passed the Palais de Justice, a court building under reconstruction at the time. A clock at the northeastern corner displayed a statue of a woman on each side, symbolizing Law, who carried a stone tablet, and Justice, who held a set of scales.

  While in England, I saw a similar statue of Justice, a blindfolded woman. The Paris version had nothing covering her eyes. Since Justin mentioned scales during the trial, could it be that he had also seen both statues? If so, might they be the catalyst for his idea of two sisters named Justice?

  Yet, that couldn’t be true. The two girls were not merely ideas or figments of Justin’s imagination. They were both quite real.

  When I arrived at the jail, because of my office and rank, I was able to enter the prison at the late hour and proceed directly to Justin’s cell. He lay asleep on a straw mattress next to a table and chair, the cell layout exactly as he had described in his account. A single sheet of paper lay on the table, though nothing appeared to be written on it.

  I reached between two bars and picked up the page. I turned it over and found the following written in a hasty script: Justice is coming. I will see her in the morning. All will be well.

  I set the page back in place. What did Justin mean by those words? Had the second sister visited him? Might she come to the execution site in front of the prison and proclaim his innocence? Or was this idea yet another conjured phantom? I didn’t have the heart to awaken him with such bizarre questions.

  My mind swirling with possibilities, I stayed all night at the guards’ quarters and read the tale once more. I dozed at times and again dreamed of ghosts, murders, and blind girls. Perhaps the madness was addling my own brain.

  When dawn neared, I walked out the main gate and stationed myself in front of the guillotine’s platform, a full hour before the scheduled execution time. Already, a few dozen people had lined the area’s perimeter, staking out territory with blankets held down by baskets of food.

  They were here for entertainment, a spectacle, something gory to make them gasp. They cared nothing for justice. It was merely a concept to be applauded, a platitude to be celebrated with words alone. Deeds were another matter.

  Rain began to fall in a downpour, and a new cold wind set in, sending most of the squatters scattering. Apparently their lust for bloodletting wasn’t as strong as their desire to stay warm and dry. The crowd dwindled to no more than five filthy men who had probably spent the night in a nearby alley. They didn’t seem to mind the elements.

  As the dreaded moment neared, a carriage dropped Marc Noël off nearby. With a dossier case tucked under his arm, he walked toward me, his expression melancholy and his hair already wet. “Why here so early, Inspector?”

  “I slept at the prison, not that I got much rest.”

  “I couldn’t sleep at all.”

  “Why not?”

  He extended the case. “I was reading this for the fifth time.”

  “Captivating, isn’t it?” I took the case and set it against my own.

  “Very much so. Haunting, really.”

  “It should be. It’s filled with ghosts.”

  Marc laughed. “As are my dreams.”

  I tapped on the case with a finger. “Do you believe what you read?”

  “Much of it. Not the ghost parts, of course, but I was confused by Justin’s claim that you saw two of the ghosts. Are those claims true?”

  I nodded. “The boy he called Jean and the girl he called Justice. I cannot verify that they were ghosts.”

  “Of course not, but what about your rescuing Justice during the storm and then her appearing at my house?”

  “Trust me. I have pondered that paradox ever since it happened. I have to believe that they were two different girls, that he had a second sister, perhaps.”

  Marc shook his head. “Justin never mentioned another sister.”

  “Then a girl who merely resembled his sister. I saw her at night during a storm. My vision was compromised.”

  “So you might have been mistaken.”

  I nodded. “I hope Justin decides to explain before he dies. He will be given the opportunity to speak some final words.”

  Marc looked at the ground. “I am not looking forward to it.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  He gazed at me with teary eyes. “Justin was
my friend. We were closer than brothers. I need to say good-bye.”

  “In all the time you knew him, did he ever show a tendency toward anger? Violence? Revenge?”

  “No, Inspector. I never saw any hint of darkness in Justin. He was a source of light to me countless times.”

  A thump from the guillotine jerked our attention toward it. The executioner crouched next to the fallen blade, apparently examining it after a test.

  My heart seemed to skip a beat. Justin would be arriving in moments. Unless the second Justice arrived, nothing could save him. Or might there be one more option?

  I glanced at Marc’s hand. He wore no rings. “What did you do with Joan’s ring?”

  “I have it in my pocket, and I intend to place it with our family’s heirlooms along with the pendant. I never want anyone to know the legend about the ring’s protective power, whether true or not.”

  “I suppose if you gave it to Justin now, the truth would be revealed.”

  “Perhaps so, Inspector, but friend or no friend, Justin needs to die. He poisoned my sister. Justice demands that he pay for his crime.”

  Moments later, two officers marched from the prison gate with Justin. His hands and feet bound, he shuffled in small steps. His shirt had been cut away at the collar to expose his neck, another sight that made my heart beat erratically.

  Marc and I walked closer. The executioner stopped us with a raised hand. “You should stay behind the splatter boundary.”

  At the thought of flying blood, my legs trembled. Although I had seen many gruesome murder scenes after the fact, I had never witnessed a live killing.

  I searched the area for anyone who resembled Justice. If she planned to come and declare Justin’s innocence, that she had switched the wine goblets, she had to arrive soon. In my heart, I hoped she would, though I knew it was impossible.

  While the executioner raised the blade, a guard announced the charges against Justin and asked him if he had any last words.

  “I do.” Justin cleared his throat. As rain drenched his body from head to toe, he looked at Marc. “I loved Francine. I didn’t want her to die. I hope someday you will believe me.”