Despite her earlier resolve, Beverly couldn't keep herself from asking a question. “Couldn't it just have been something he ate?"
"It was everything he ate for the last ten years,” the doctor replied. “But you're asking if it was something he had that last night. We did a standard screening for toxins. ‘Course, that wouldn't have caught anything too exotic. Did he have any roots or herbs unknown to science that night?"
"I don't know,” Beverly said.
"'Course not,” said the doctor as he patted her arm. “We'll never know. There's always more questions than answers in this life. It's probably better that way. Better for the spirit."
* * * *
One answer did come to Beverly, a solution to the mystery of her husband's sudden fascination with ghosts. It came in the form of a young woman in a too bright sundress and too much eye makeup who broke down at Philip's viewing. She was the other woman, Beverly realized while consoling her in the family lounge. The girl's earrings were silver pentagrams, and from her necklace hung an Egyptian cat with glittering green eyes. Gently, Beverly asked her if she was interested in the supernatural.
The girl got herself in hand immediately and asked a question of her own. “Do you think the carriage house ghost killed Philip?"
Beverly thought of all the odd twists the week had taken, all the unlikely connections that could be traced back to a pair of earplugs, and answered, “I do."
* * * *
The second time Beverly returned to the island, it was to buy the used-book store in the village. Under her management, the store continued to sell tickets for the ghost walk, though Beverly herself would never agree to take part. But she often went on early morning kayak tours, eventually rising to Hodge Parish's second in command.
Some months later, after she'd been forced to give up kayaking by her advanced pregnancy, she was standing in the open doorway of the store, watching the foot traffic and enjoying a cool breeze. She noticed a small figure with a shopping bag standing on the opposite side of the street. Mama Beacon. The old woman smiled and nodded to her.
Beverly had avoided Mama Beacon's house in Harmony like a guilty co-conspirator. Now she felt an urge to rush across the street and demand an explanation for everything that had happened. She was stopped by the memory of something she'd been told by a kindly doctor. It was better to have more questions than answers in this life. Better for the spirit. She settled for simply nodding back.
Copyright (c) 2007 Terence Faherty
* * * *
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OF WAX AND WATERMARKS by R.T. LAWTON
I say it all began when Jules, our self-proclaimed king of the Parisian underworld, woke up late one morning with a bad disposition from too many wine cups and decided he should have a crown made out of pure gold to put upon his scheming head. For being such a baseborn criminal, Jules thought of himself as our royalty, and considered himself to be much the same as Louis XIV, our Sun King, who currently sat upon the throne of France.
But of course, the Chevalier, Remy, tells this same story differently, as if he knew what really happened. Seems he takes great pleasure in pointing his right index finger directly at my young Norman nose and claiming the entire situation is my fault.
I can only shrug my shoulders.
"Your fingers are too clumsy,” he growls. “Too bad you learned nothing in Mother Margaux's school for orphans. Keep this up and you won't survive into manhood."
And in the end, yes, for my part, I have to admit that Lemat, one of King Jules's hard-faced enforcers, had caught me with my hand in the side pocket of his ragged woolen coat. If only Lemat hadn't turned suddenly to eye a passing trollop, I'd have had his coin purse and he none the wiser. As it was, Lemat quickly realized what was going on and clamped his iron fist around my wrist. When he yanked my hand out of his pocket, wonder of wonders, his coin purse was clutched in my fingers. And yes, I do agree, it didn't look good on my part.
"Thief,” cried Lemat in a booming voice. “Pickpocket,” he shouted in an even louder tone. And the crowd came running.
Of course, our people residing here in these old Roman ruins on the Buttes-Chaumont overlooking the ancient refuse dump on the outskirts of Paris had nothing better to do that day than to come watch my humiliation. Beggars, trollops, thieves, and escaped prisoners—all my so-called friends—dropped whatever they were doing and hurried toward Lemat. They came in droves to see what entertainment was to be offered, especially since one of their own had been caught stealing from a fellow criminal. Although, considering the high taxes King Jules levies on our light-fingered trade, and with the heavy hands his enforcers lay upon us when we are reluctant to pay, I don't really consider him or any of his cutthroats to be one of us.
Naturally, the cries of excitement from such a melee soon reached the ears of King Jules. He must have been lying abed someplace close to have pushed his way through the gathering so quickly.
"Silence,” he screamed.
It was as if a knife had suddenly slashed everyone's vocal cords. No one spoke, not even in whispers. A few gawkers standing nearest to the center of the commotion stepped back and made room for our tyrant king.
From where I dangled in Lemat's grip, my toes barely touching the ground, I myself hesitated to even breathe.
King Jules closed his eyes and rubbed both temples with his greasy fingertips.
"My head pounds like an ironmonger's hammer.” He spoke in a low voice, and I'm sure even those at the rear of the crowd strained forward to hear every word, lest it somehow affect them personally. Then he glared at Lemat. “What have you here?"
Lemat lowered me to the ground and twisted my hand around to show Jules the stolen coin purse.
"This little wretch tried to pick my pocket."
"Ah,” replied Jules, “then we must enforce the rules.” He raised his voice to the crowd. “Stealing from one of my men is the same as stealing from me, and no one steals from me. Kill him."
Fresh air flooded my lungs as my breath came in short gasps, each one of which might be my last. I had never realized before how precious the simple act of breathing could be.
Lemat drew a dagger from the sheath at his waist.
I caught a dull flash of sunlight reflected from the gray, pitted finish along the blade's length.
King Jules took two steps away from us, paused in mid step, then whirled around.
"Wait,” he commanded.
Lemat kept one sharp edge of the dagger against my throat.
Jules stepped closer and peered into my face. “You're the young pickpocket that lives with Josette and the Chevalier, Remy, aren't you?"
It wasn't easy for me to speak with that razor's edge held against my tender skin, but I managed a meek, “Yes, sire."
"Of course,” said Jules. Then he strode back and forth in front of us for several minutes with his hands clasped behind his back. I wondered what schemes were running through his wine-fogged brain.
The sharpness of a thin slicing near my Adam's apple soon distracted me. A wetness seemed to be trickling down beneath the front of my collar. If only my blood vessels weren't so enlarged by the pounding of my heart, I might yet hope to survive the blade. Surely that dribble of moisture was merely sweat.
Jules stopped his pacing and massaged his forehead.
"Give me the boy,” he said to Lemat, “and summon the Chevalier to my court immediately."
Lemat removed the sharp edge from my neck, then slowly turned my head so I could watch him lick the pink-stained blade. I wanted to faint, but his iron grip on my wrist kept me standing. He sheathed the dagger, then wrenching his coin purse from my hand he stomped off as if having been deprived of his one great pleasure in life.
I collapsed to the ground and gingerly touched my throat with two fingertips. In wonderment, I held these same two fingers in front of my face to see a light redness th
inly smeared across the tips. The fiend had actually cut me.
My mind quickly turned to the question of where I could find some brass to press against my wound before it was too late. For months, all of Paris had been abuzz about the curing powers of brass. Even old Mother Margaux claimed that a piece of the metal around her neck helped ease her chilblains. And Cesar Herbaux, the alchemist at the university, declared rubbing brass on his sore shoulder took the pain away. He also claimed the metal had other powers, which he would only discuss in private consultation for a few coins. I had to get a piece of this curing metal before my wound was the death of me.
"Get up, boy. It's only a scratch."
Jules yanked me to my feet and dragged me off to his end of the ruined villa. Here, he kept his court and ruled most of the thieves of Paris. His throne, nothing more than a high-backed, old-fashioned chair with torn brocade cushions, had stuffing leaking out of rents in the upholstery. No doubt it too had once been stolen from some rich merchant's house and later rendered up as tribute to King Jules.
He thrust me to the ground at his feet, then assumed a regal bearing on his throne. I couldn't help but feel the vise of his left hand curled around the back of my neck as we waited for the Chevalier.
Twice I tried to speak, explain how it was naught but a misunderstanding between Lemat and me, a mere joke on my part, but each time the pressure increased on the back of my neck and I knew to be silent. The sun had moved two hands’ breadth higher in the sky and Jules's posture had begun to slump on his throne before the Chevalier made his appearance. My first emotion on seeing him stride across the courtyard was one of joy and relief. He would get me out of this. Then, a second feeling, one of outrage, quickly followed. Why had Remy taken so long in coming? Did I mean so little to him and Josette? Sure, he and I were rivals for Josette's favors, but that was no reason to leave me swinging in the wind.
Remy doffed his hat and made an exaggerated bow.
"Your majesty desires my presence?"
Jules sat up straighter on his throne.
"Your young friend here was caught picking the pocket of one of my lieutenants. Under such conditions, stealing from me and mine is punishable by death, un roi, une loi—one king, one law—but I thought that maybe you, with your considerable talents, might have some other possibilities we could discuss. Perhaps some small act or token of faith to change my mind and which could help me demonstrate the mercy of my law."
"What do you want?"
"Ah, and here I had always believed you nobility to be more subtle in your speech. Perhaps your recent fall from grace and resulting loss of lands has made you more blunt these days. But then of course you live like one of us now, rather than in that fine house which was once your father's."
Remy tried to control his emotions, but I noticed a slight hardening to his face.
"And?"
Jules's voice softened.
"And I had a dream last night in which I wore a golden crown with many sparkling jewels."
"You have the gold to make such a crown?"
Jules grinned like a lean and hungry predator.
"That I do. Tithes from my many subjects over the years have provided me with enough rings and bracelets to be melted down into two equal bars of gold. Just one of these bars will be sufficient to make my crown."
"I know nothing about fashioning precious metals into objects."
Jules waved the back of his free hand.
"I have a Bohemian, a man much experienced in the working of gold. He claims the knowledge that is needed."
Ah, I thought I saw where this was heading, even if Remy didn't.
The Chevalier kept his face impassive. “In which case you need..."
"Several large jewels to choose from,” finished the king, “red rubies, green emeralds, and sparkling diamonds to set in the crown."
"And you want me to steal them."
"I do."
"In return for?"
"The life of your young friend here."
The Chevalier rubbed his chin as if in deep thought.
I couldn't believe it; my friend was actually debating whether or not to save my life. I silently vowed that if Remy left me with this maniac, I would never speak to him again. Not one word.
The Chevalier dropped his hand to his side, stared at the king for a moment, then turned on his heel.
"Remy!” I started to blurt out, but the “R” had scarce passed my lips before Jules's hard grasp choked off my ability to speak.
"You leave the boy to his death?” inquired the king.
Remy turned back to face us and glanced in my direction as if just now seeing me for the first time.
"Oh, the orphan,” he replied. “That's a small matter between us. However, I do have at least two problems with your request."
Jules relaxed his grip slightly on my neck.
"What is life without problems? Speak your mind."
The Chevalier held up his left index finger.
"First of all, I know of no one person who has as many jewels as what you are obviously considering for your crown."
The king laughed. “I am acquainted with a particular gentleman, a very well-fed man, who has a nice collection of fair-sized gems down there in the city. By keeping one foot in both worlds, this Monsieur Rousseau is one of those men who occasionally purchases some of our better goods and grows fat on the profits from his sales."
"You mean stolen jewelry, silver platters, smuggled cargoes, those sorts of goods."
"Exactly. And I know for a fact he has what I desire right there on his premises. All you need do is fashion one of your false keys, enter his house on some dark night, and relieve him of the burden of his wealth."
Remy raised a second finger.
"Now we come to the second problem, the sharing of this sudden wealth. Since I take all the risk, I'll also take the lion's share."
Jules relaxed his grip even further. I could tell he felt in his element now. The two of them began to haggle like old fishwives over the last loaf of bread. The king insisting that I be part of the share going to the Chevalier, while Remy countered that I had little worth to him. Except that my life hung in the balance, they talked about me as if I wasn't even there, sitting in the dirt at Jules's feet.
At last they made their deal.
Then Remy held up another finger.
"Third, I need the boy for this work."
Jules hesitated, then flung me forward.
"Take him for now. I can always find him later if necessary."
We had but gone three steps when the king's voice floated over our shoulders.
"You have five days, Chevalier. My Bohemian tinker will have the crown fashioned by then and will be ready for the jewels."
"Done,” said Remy without turning his head. Then he dragged me off to that portion of the ruined Roman villa that he, Josette, and I shared as shelter.
Our domicile was nothing more than three stone walls and a crumbling doorway without a door. Long poles covered with thatch made for a roof over our heads to keep out most of the snow and spring rains. A fire pit dug in the center provided heat for cooking and warmth on cold nights. Remy and Josette slept on one side of the fire; I on the other side. We were a family of sorts, though if I had the choice, I would have shuffled the arrangements.
A few years back, Josette had brought me in from the dirty cobblestones of a back alley along the Seine where she'd found me sleeping in a pile of trash. She fed me, gave me warmer clothing, and finally enlisted me in Mother Margaux's school for young pickpockets. At least now I had a trade to bring food to the table we shared. And even though she was a few years older than me, I followed her around like a young pup getting his ears scratched. She was mine. And then Remy, the Chevalier, came and everything changed. Not overnight, mind you, but enough for me to see that her attentions were gradually being directed elsewhere.
And now, as if the humiliation I'd just suffered at the hands of the king wasn't demeaning enough, Remy fo
und great satisfaction in telling Josette about my latest escapade and the deal he'd had to strike with Jules to get me off the hook. The reproach in Josette's eyes became more than I could bear. If that was the way they wanted to be, then I wouldn't even ask for one small piece of brass to cure my neck wound. I would just die, and perhaps they would speak well of me afterward. While they discussed the best way to go about this new thieving business, I stared at the floor until Remy clutched my shoulder.
"Do you know where Paquay, the old lockpick, lives?"
I nodded. I knew of him and had a fair idea where to look.
"Take me to him."
We immediately left the buttes, descended along the trail, and skirted the garbage dump in the ancient stone quarries. I was too despondent to hold my nose against the foul odors as I usually did whenever passing this way. But by the time we got to the meadow, the air had grown sweeter, the day warmer. My spirits began to lift of their own accord. Colorful birds took flight, while others sang happily in the trees. I couldn't help myself and soon whistled back at them.
After a couple hours of walking, we entered the gates of Paris where the watch put heavy chains across the street at night for curfew. We needed to conduct our business and be gone by nightfall, else risk being set upon by the bailiffs of the law.
I soon located the ironmonger's shop. Here, in a back corner, Paquay was known to keep a sturdy workbench where he often fashioned the tools of his lockpick trade from discarded scraps of metal. With luck, he'd be there today. I peered through the white smoke drifting from the ironmonger's forge. A diminutive old man sat hunched over a table in the far corner. With a small hammer in hand, he seemed to be bending metal slivers of various sizes into twisting shapes. He'd hold the twisted slivers up in the light for a better view, grunt, place them back on his miniature anvil, and then bang on them with the hammer again. Without ever once looking away from his work, he somehow must've noticed my presence.
AHMM, November 2007 Page 3
