The Vesper Bell Of Notre Dame
Lorient Montaner
'With our tongues we fall into idle words, into vain conversations, into laughter, into mockeries and malicious acts, into detraction of brothers and sisters whom we are unworthy to judge, nor are we worthy to condemn their offences. Among Christians, we are sinners.'—from the sacred texts of the Cathars.
A thousand tales have been told of the persistent legends surrounding the myth of the ancient cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. Dauntless centuries have long borne witness to the eerie occurrences and manifold episodes of historical events and mysteries. Constant are the whispers of ghosts and phantasms that roam freely through the cathedral's hallowed halls at midnight, whilst the towering gargoyles fix their beady, unwavering eyes in a commanding stare from high above the steep towers.
Each night, the whims of the city breathe anew, as the faithful keepers of the cathedral heighten their vigilant watch over the Parisian streets below. The solemn tones of the great organ echo in harmony, whilst the vesper bells of Notre Dame peal with rousing fervour. The drifting clouds of the sky take on a dusky gloom that envelopes the cathedral in a shroud of dread secrecy—a secrecy both conceived and concealed within the deeply embedded dogma of religious fervour, which has haunted mankind since the precarious inception of faith.
The date was the 23rd of October, 1889, when I arrived at the Gare du Nord train station in Paris, at the behest of Monsieur Hugo Bonheur, the esteemed prefect of the Metropolitan Prefecture. He would become my faithful companion in what would prove to be an unforgettable case.
I had been informed in his correspondence that I was cordially invited to the Exposition Universelle, the grand world fair, as a distinguished guest. I had recently concluded a significant case in Vienna, Austria, but little did I know that my sojourn in Paris would entangle me in a deadly string of murders—murders that would stain the ancient cathedral of Notre Dame in blood and grip the city in terror for a week.
Perhaps my name is unfamiliar to you. I am Jack Cauvain, a punctilious and introspective Chief Inspector from London, known for resolving the most intricate cases across Europe—cases involving secret societies, clandestine cults, and madmen consumed by mania. Throughout the 19th century, I found myself drawn into some of the continent’s most elusive and supererogatory mysteries.
Upon my arrival, I was accommodated at the Grand Hôtel Terminus, recently inaugurated that May in one of the prestigious arrondissements of Paris. I had barely spent a single night there when, the next morning, I received an unexpected visit from Monsieur Bonheur. He informed me of a most unusual murder that had taken place within the cathedral walls.
He stood outside my hotel room door, dressed in his distinctive French coat—more like a cape in appearance—and sporting his signature short, stylish moustache. His familiar felted kepi hat bore a neutral shimmer trim and a bronze-coloured band, adorned with brass studs and delicate shimmer threads, distinct from my plain black English bowler.
Startled by the news, I followed him at once to the cathedral as he recounted the strange and unsettling details along the way. Upon reaching Notre Dame, I found myself captivated—despite the grim circumstances—by the cathedral’s asymmetrical Gothic grandeur that loomed over the Île de la Cité and the Seine.
The southern façade, as seen from across the river, was a marvel of natural sculptures and stained glass, possessing an ethereal charm. The western façade, with its majestic north rose window, the towering Rayonnant transepts, stout columns, and menacing gargoyles—spouting rainwater and flanked by eerie chimeras—presented an awe-inspiring vision of medieval reverence and mystery.
Once inside, we were received by a Father Dupont, who had been waiting for us before the velvet riddel. He explained that one of the cathedral’s confessors, while attending to a parishioner in the confessional, had fallen victim to a most brutal murder. The killing had taken place precisely within the confines of the confessional, and the victim’s throat had been cut—leaving a deep, ghastly gash visible across the neck.
The murdered priest had earlier collected the prayer books and straightened the hassocks, before retiring to the confessional. He had also perfumed the church entrance with incense from the thurible—a lingering scent I had noticed distinctly as we entered by the trumeau.
The scene was both ghastly and disquieting. Scant evidence had been left behind; the killer’s actions spoke of deliberate and meticulous planning. It was evident that the murder had been executed with ruthless immediacy and a precision that suggested not madness, but a calculated cruelty.
‘Bon Dieu, Father, what an atrocious death to bear in person. Never have I encountered a case of such barbaric and violent nature in the city of Paris. It is wholly unprecedented and unfathomable’, confessed Bonheur to the priest.
‘Indeed, a deplorable act’, I interjected. ‘Regrettably, I have seen such things before, on more than one occasion, during my numerous cases in England. Murderers often astound me with both their baseness and their ingenuity'.
‘Our priests offer spiritual counselling, or the sacrament of pardon, as a gesture of Christ’s mercy. Through the priest and this sacred rite, we are taught to seek forgiveness and entrust our hearts to Him—bringing us into direct communion with our Saviour. That is our divine solace in the end. We have never had a murder so vile, nor so sacrilegious, within these hallowed walls, Inspector Cauvain. It is wholly unseemly’, replied Father Dupont, making the sign of the cross.
‘I understand the premise of your belief, and it is both noble and sincere, Father. But one must accept that murderers do not adhere to the rationality or virtues we exhibit in civil society. Their covert minds are revealed only when it serves the aims of their grotesque objectives'.
‘That is so eloquently put. And whatever assistance I may offer you in this investigation, I shall gladly give without hesitation,’ the priest assured'.
‘Good. Now we must proceed with a thorough investigation. There is much to do, for the killer has thus far held the advantage—and we, regrettably, the disadvantage'.
‘I believe you are correct, Inspector. The murderer has in my opinion, already succeeded in establishing a possible pattern for these crimes’, said Bonheur.
‘But not for the investigation, Bonheur—for that remains to be determined. Let us not forget that the most vital element in solving any case is time itself’, I told him.
‘Time, Inspector. That is true. Unfortunately, the time allotted to us to solve these murders depends upon our ability to be more clever than the criminal mind'.
‘And that is where we must apply our reasoning with conscientious precision, Bonheur. It will not be an easy task, but I am confident that we shall prevail in solving this case'.
The evidence recovered at the scene was sparse and frustratingly inconclusive. Though the priest’s throat had been slashed with gruesome force—a mark of a madman, perhaps—the savagery and immediacy of the act suggested a perpetrator not merely deranged but disturbingly purposeful. And yet, there was little to indicate the identity or even the origin of this duplicitous killer.
The nature of the wound suggested the use of a poniard—or perhaps another trenchant object—though nothing definitive could yet be asserted. The sole piece of apparent and troubling evidence was a symbol crudely drawn on the confessional wall: a stark, sable cross that at first glance I had mistaken for a distorted fleur-de-lis.
The image of the black cross was considerable in size and unmistakably deliberate—an ominous emblem meant to evoke fear and convey a sinister message. It was as if the killer intended not merely to murder, but to leave behind a vestige of terror and warning.
Whether this crime was born of vengeance, wrath, or the machinations of a clandestine agenda—political or otherwise—was still too early to determine. Such notions remained conjecture, yet could not be summarily dismissed.
What would be his next move? I began to ponder this question with increasing diligence, knowing that the answer could lead us either to justice—or to the next unfortunate victim.
Was this but a solitary murder—or the harbinger of a far more dreadful series of atrocities yet to come? Both Bonheur and I had agreed that these fragments of evidence were insufficient to establish the murderer’s pattern or purpose. This method of prudent noesis, to observe without presumption and to infer without haste, I had long since committed to memory during my rigorous training at the academy.
Before departing, we scoured the remainder of the cathedral—its ancient tower, the secluded vestry, and all the recesses between. But as we exited the sacred structure, a chilling moment seized me. The heavy tintinnabulation of Notre Dame’s great bells resounded above us, their solemn metallic cadence reverberating from the belfry into the marrow of my bones. Was it an apparent sign?
There was an eerie cadence to their toll—one that imbued the air with suspicion and doubt, a spectral echo of something yet unseen.
Even though the bells had arrested my attention for but a fleeting moment, I dismissed the sound as a mere coincidental occurrence—an echo of fate perhaps, though no omen I dared yet admit. We returned thereafter to the prefecture, where Bonheur officially requested my assistance in the investigation. His pensive expression betrayed more than professional concern; it reflected the anxious weight of a man who sensed the stirrings of chaos in the calm façade of his city. The looming spectre of a deranged murderer haunting the sanctuaries of Paris was a notion that would soon inflame the press and unsettle even the most sceptical Parisians.
In his office, we deliberated at length over the heinous murder of the priest, and the unsettling possibility that this act might be the first of several—an insidious series that could rouse the city into unrest and fear. Indeed, my faculties as a detective, and my insatiable thirst for truth amidst shadows, were once again called to meet a challenge that reeked of cunning and malevolence. This murderer, I felt certain, was no ordinary man of impulse, but one whose actions were deliberate, his aim veiled behind a façade of madness, and whose dark motives served only the void of his own futile cause.
'If I may make a recommendation, Bonheur', I said, thoughtfully,' perhaps it would be prudent to withhold any imposition of a curfew for the time being—at least until we can resolve whether this is an isolated incident. We must gather sufficient and incontrovertible evidence before sowing fear amongst the citizens'.
His response was measured and agreeable. 'I am in unanimity with your suggestion, inspector. I shall instruct the gendarmes to keep vigilant watch over the cathedral and its vicinity. For now, we must observe—and wait'.
'Yes! We must wait. But I assure you, this case shall demand more than ordinary attention. It shall require a supererogatory effort from us both. Let us be ready, Bonheur—to confront this elusive foe with the utmost caution and judgment. For though he lurks in shadow, he cannot remain hidden forever. My instincts speak with a voice I trust—he will strike again'.
'Paris is a vast city, and he can hide from us, like the gargoyles of the night'.
'There is an obvious difference; he is not a nocturnal gargoyle, and I hope, for the sake of the Parisians, I am correct in my predictable illation that we shall discover the truth behind the murder', I rejoined.
'Paris is full of many riddles and conundrums that remain unsolved', Bonheur had uttered.
'That is true, but it does not imply that we cannot resolve this case'.
'I still have my doubts, inspector'.
'Doubts. I suggest that you remember that even the criminal who commits crimes is susceptible to being discovered and ultimately apprehended'.
'Nothing would satisfy me more than the reward of resolving this case'.
'Then let us be more practical in our approach, Bonheur'.
That night, I slept in my chamber, knowing that the possibility of another murder at the cathedral was opportune and the expectation for that was impending. I could not dissuade my ruminative thoughts from the possibility of collusion behind the cause of the murder. What had persisted in my brain was the only appurtenant manifestation of evidence uncovered at the crime scene: the arcane black cross drawn by the killer.
This was the only modicum of basal evidence discovered theretofore. How was I to project a clear description of the murderer, based solely on the limited proof gathered? Without a doubt, this was to be a very onerous or exigent case to resolve, requiring the utmost diligence. When I awoke in the morning after a restless sleep, I arrived at the prefecture by cabriolet and immediately spoke to Bonheur concerning the murder at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame last night.
We began a colloquy that had commenced with the church bells and concluded with the prospective suspect and his motive. I had shared my musings and methodical contemplation with him, and we began to scrutinise the essential constituents of the case au courant. The precondition to solving the mystery was to ascertain the signification of the black cross drawn on one of the walls of the confessional.
We had deduced from our intuition that it was an intimation of the implication demonstrated in the case. If we could determine the origin and significance of the cross, then we might detect the intention of the killer. This information was both indispensable and paramount.
Therefore, I instructed Bonheur to investigate the provenance of the cross. Once that was deduced, it would enable us to establish a firm supposition or delineation of the suspect. Until that was accomplished, we would have to tarry in our suspense.
That night, the observant vigilance of the Gothic cathedral and the nearby parvis was requisite and secure—or at least we believed it to be. At around midnight, the undaunted murderer struck anew, and this time the timely murder was committed in one of the towers, with the killer’s modus operandi altered. It was what we had feared: a duplication of the previous murder, except for the method by which the crime was perpetrated.
Once more, the victim was a priest, though the nature of the murder differed. The priest had been horrifically hanged; the ghastly image of his listless torso swaying side to side, with a rope around his neck, was both daunting and vivid. When we arrived at the cathedral, Father Dupont was awaiting us, horrified by the murder of yet another of his priests. It was becoming increasingly evident that the versatile killer was stalking and killing the priests of Notre-Dame.
It was also evident that the murders had been committed for a seemingly hidden cause, though the identity of the indomitable culprit remained elusive and unmasked. The unusual pattern of the evidence found was the same as before. Once again, the depiction of the black cross was manifest upon a wall of the tower. Furthermore, this was the sign that the villain had a calculated purpose—one he was willing to execute. Was he prepared to die for this purpose? I pondered his insouciance.
Bonheur revealed to me that Father Dupont had mentioned the bell-ringer had seen a strange man dressed in the religious habiliments of a priest. At first, the witness claimed he wore only a chasuble. Then he changed his mind, asserting that it was a cassock. The cassock of the unidentified man was nothing extraordinary, yet it was telling. This was, perchance, the vital piece we had needed to unveil the killer’s identity—and I was determined not to undermine the case.
Bonheur spoke to the lone witness, a young man named Frédéric Bélibaste, of short and stocky stature, wearing glassy reading spectacles. Unfortunately for the case, his description of the individual was extremely vague and incomplete. All he had descried was, as I had mentioned, the man’s attire.
Certainly, it was not sufficient to form an accurate portrayal of our assailant, yet it marked a slight melioration in the case. It was urgent and imperative that we respond swiftly to this ominous situation, before he succeeded in his unbridled task of murder. Despite our strict vigilance, the villain was vulpine and calculating. As we departed the cathedral, the loud tolling of the metallic bells was heard.
We had returned to the prefecture, fully aware that the murders were now multiple. It was vital that the murderer’s identity be uncovered. In order truly to achieve that, it was incumbent upon us to unravel the meaning of the cross. The case had presented such intricate speculations and limited details that it demanded prompt and precise improvisation.
We visited the mortuaries—the transient abodes where bodies were consigned before being laid to rest in their graves. There, we searched for any pertinent information regarding the possibility of other corpses that might relate to the case, or suggest a discernible pattern in the killer’s methods. We laboured arduously from one mortuary to the next, conversing with the undertakers, yet no significant discovery was unearthed—nothing that could be deemed of crucial importance.
There was not a single corpse that could be associated with the killer, as most of the victims were criminals, children, prostitutes, and noblemen—not priests or clergymen. It had, of course, been a scrupulous effort on our part to ascertain the extent and periphery of the murders. The demonstrative argument that there was no hidden cause behind them had been voided of any justification.
‘It is evident that we are going in circles searching for proof, Bonheur, and the murders continue in a consequential manner. Therefore, we must be prudent not to underestimate the extent of his ingannation and his knowledge of the milieu', I said.
‘Are you implying that there is more to this murderer’s pattern of thought, Inspector?’ Bonheur asked.
‘I am beginning to suspect so!’
‘Let us hope that our wit is sharper than his!’
‘If not, then I shall toast to the impression of his brilliance', I professed.
‘That would be an event I would not wish to miss. However, it still amazes me that the pattern of the murders continues to elude our keen comprehension'.
'In due time, Bonheur. We shall eventually unravel the plot and the reason for these heinous murders'.
‘I do not know what I would do without your assistance, inspector'.
‘I would reciprocate that gesture by saying that it is an honour to work this case with you.’
‘I wish that one day we might solve more of these murder cases together.’
‘That would be a favourable boon for the both of us', I said.
There had been two murders and yet no true lead in solving the mystery of the killer. We had, it seemed, concentrated relentlessly on deciphering the denotation of the cross, and had enquired at the cathedral regarding the names of all priests and registered parishioners known, as well as the daily hours of mass and confession. Whether the murderer was a local Parisian or a foreigner, it was necessary for the investigation to proceed further. Thus, we deemed it prudent and apposite to arrange a conversation with Father Dupont at the prefecture, so that this crucial meeting could remain clandestine and free from distraction.
Once there, we asked him for the list we had requested. He brought the compiled document and handed it to us without any real hesitance or objection. Father Dupont’s list consisted mostly of French denizens, both parishioners and clergymen.
Therefore, we were left to conclude that the origin of the villain was either French or a foreigner who had once visited the cathedral. A swift introspection was promptly warranted and germane, yet we remained ever cognisant of the ensuing peril we were confronting. This restless anxiety to apprehend the murderer had begun to consume my perceptive sentience. Just when I believed the mystery might remain unsolved, a sudden and unforeseen change to the case transpired.
Father Dupont made a startling—indeed, fascinating—confession. After I had enquired whether any disturbed priests had been present, or had once served at the cathedral, he revealed that there had been a certain priest who, perhaps, was suspicious enough to fit the profile of the assassin. According to the information divulged, the man in question was a former priest by the name of Jacques Chevalier, who had been expelled from the clergy. When asked the specific reason for his sudden excommunication, Father Dupont informed us that it was confidential.
‘It is always a shame that the secrets of priests must be sequestered due to the ecclesiastical vows they have taken with an oath', Bonheur remarked.
‘The dogma and principles of the Church do not interest me much, Bonheur. What compels me more is the intrigue sparked by this man—Jacques Chevalier', I replied.
‘You seem lost in thought, inspector. What exactly are you pondering?’
‘If you must know, I am musing on what might have caused this former priest to be cast out so abruptly'.
‘Perhaps he was banished for heresy—or prevarication', Bonheur suggested.
'What you are alluding to is very practical. Until we speak to him, we shall be left only to hypothesise, mired in unfounded speculation'.
‘I am merely stating a possibility we must take into serious consideration. We are dealing with murders steeped in mystery and secrecy'.
‘The only mystery that must be unravelled is the revelation of the truth'.
‘Wise words indeed'.
‘I hope, for the sake of the people of Paris, this case can be resolved, inspector'.
Before leaving the church, I noticed the lavender drapery of the confessional was drawn open. My curiosity, ever alert, impelled me to investigate. As I reached the latticed opening of the confessional, I sat down—and at once, I heard the sound of heavy breathing behind the curtain. The presence of an inconnu startled me. Who was it, concealed behind the screen?
Then, I heard a peculiar voice—one that bore the solemn cadence of a priest. He queried whether I had come to make an unfeigned confession. It was, after all, the natural inclination of the rite—to cleanse the soul of its iniquitous misdeeds.
Not being a practitioner of the Catholic faith, I found myself uncertain of how to respond. It was an inhibitive and unfamiliar position in which I had placed myself. Yet, my instinct urged me to continue, and so I did. I began to confess several of my ambivalent thoughts—musings not wholly my own by persuasion or inclination—particularly those that had arisen in the course of my investigations.
Then I sensed he was not an ordinary priest accustomed to hearing confessions. He began warning me that my unhealthy tendencies would lead to my destruction—and to madness. What chilled me most was what happened next: he ended his words by uttering my name—Inspector Cauvain.
I quickly drew open the drapery, but he was gone. I stood at once and stepped outside the confessional, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Bonheur, who had been conversing with Father Dupont near the chancel about further details of the case, noticed the troubled expression upon my face.
I explained to him that I had likely just encountered the murderer. When I asked Father Dupont who had been scheduled to be in the confessional at that hour, he replied, 'No one'. That detail I found deeply curious—but for the moment, the matter of the excommunicated priest took precedence over any conjecture about the incident.
'What do you think of the excommunicated priest, inspector? If you ask me, he most likely knows who the murderer is', Bonheur said confidently.
'It seems elementary, Bonheur', I replied. 'But in cases like these, the obvious answer is rarely the right one'.
'What do you mean? Perhaps I’m mistaken in my assumption, but his direct ties to the church suggest a degree of involvement'.
'I must differ with that notion. You see, whilst it appears the excommunicated priest fits the profile of a vengeful man, that alone does not determine his guilt. That’s what we must remain ever mindful of in our investigation'.
‘Is it not clear that we have a suspect with a plausible motive for these heinous crimes?’
‘There is still much we do not know about the priest’s role. For now, I shall concern myself more with the facts of his whereabouts than merely his character'.
‘Begging your pardon, inspector, but is it not his character that must be questioned?’
‘Indeed. However, until we establish a timeline of his movements, we can only speculate about his disposition'.
‘Where do we begin, then?’
‘By speaking with the priest'.
We could not impose upon Father Dupont, nor compel him to disclose more than he was willing to offer. Nevertheless, it was a sine qua non that we at least obtained the name and address of the asylum where the man was interned. It appeared to be a promising lead in solving the mystery, yet we dared not rush headlong without careful thought. The possibilities were twofold: either he was the killer, or he knew who the killer was—or might be. At this stage, it remained mere speculation on our part.
Upon our arrival at the asylum, we were granted permission to speak with Chevalier. We were escorted down a narrow corridor, to a room at its far end. Once inside, we encountered a pallid, subdued man whose countenance revealed the marks of a disturbed soul—worn, haggard, and broken. He had seemingly remained in that dreadful, lifeless state ever since his excommunication.
I wondered to myself whether the conversation would be a confrontation or a more reasoned, amenable exchange.
At least, this was my instinctive presupposition, but we would soon uncover the truth behind his isolated confinement and unhinged state of mind. I decided it would be better for Bonheur to speak with him—Frenchman to Frenchman. Perhaps Chevalier would be less forthcoming or sincere with me, given my English background. However, he refused to speak with Bonheur, and I was not inclined to press the matter.
I instructed Bonheur to step aside and allowed me to take the lead in conversing with him. Naturally, we spoke in French. Since he was no longer an ordained or practising priest, I addressed him as Monsieur Chevalier. Bonheur's frustration was palpable, and I understood it completely, but I could not let that influence my determined approach. I spoke to Bonheur, explaining my reasoning in a clear attempt to elucidate my judicious strategy, and sought to ease his irritation. I was fully aware of the importance of his dedicated contribution to the developing case, and I shared his deep conviction in upholding the law.
I reassured Bonheur that I would have the answers we needed after speaking with Chevalier, emphasising that our priority was solving the mystery swiftly. Bonheur agreed and stepped outside, remaining in the corridor until further notice.
At first, Chevalier was completely demure and reluctant to engage with me. However, upon hearing mention of the deliberate murders in the cathedral and their vicious nature, his attention sharpened, and he seemed to forget his earlier reluctance. I gathered that he was aware of the murders, for he often stared into my eyes with a keen and observant gaze. The pressing question was, to what extent was he knowledgeable about the recent events? That remained the unsolvable piece of this uncomfortable ordeal I was navigating with him at the time.
His madness manifested at unpredictable intervals, as I was told and would later witness firsthand. He was truly a selcouth and inscrutable individual, difficult to describe or categorise, and his erratic behaviour and responses towards both me and Bonheur only served to demonstrate this. I addressed him, noting his blatant indifference.
‘Monsieur Chevalier, I am Chief Inspector Jack Cauvain from London. If you understand me, I need to know the real reason for your excommunication. What happened to cause you to turn against the church? You see, I am currently investigating a series of murders in Paris, all linked to the cathedral of Notre-Dame’.
‘Jack Cauvain. You are from London, monsieur?’
‘Yes!’
‘You speak of murders in the cathedral, inspector. Since when?’ Chevalier asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.
‘A few days ago. What do you know?’ I asked, seeking clarification.
I showed him a drawing of the black cross that the killer had left at the crime scene. His reaction was swift, his anxiety piqued as he studied the drawing intently.
‘What is it, Monsieur Chevalier? What do you know of this symbolic cross?’
He answered slowly, almost as though he had been waiting for the question. ‘It is the holy cross of the Cathars!’
‘What about the Cathars, Monsieur Chevalier? What more can you tell me?’ I pressed, eager for further insight to develop.
‘The Massacre at Béziers in 1209... Guillaume Bélibaste was the last Cathar, Inspector!’ Chevalier declared emphatically.
‘What else can you divulge to me that might assist in the case?’
His pupils were dilated, filled with an uncontrollable discomfort and fear. He began to speak in disjointed fragments, shaking violently as he muttered Roman Catholic prayers in Latin. He was no longer coherent or stable enough to continue answering my questions. We had no choice but to summon the attendants to restrain him.
Before we left him, he uttered a daunting warning, 'The hour is near, and we shall have our just vengeance'.
Though his responses were brief, they were valuable. I was not certain whether or not to heed his chilling last words. We now knew that the relentless murderer was connected to the religious sect of Catharism. The statement he made presented a genuine lead in the case, and I allowed his erratic behaviour to guide me in extracting further information.
We left the asylum and returned to the prefecture, reflecting on the peculiar connection between the Cathar cross and the murders. We left a guard in place to watch over Chevalier, as we pondered the significance of his declaration. I felt certain that he was our strongest lead in solving this complex case.
It was imperative that we thoroughly researched everything known about the extinct religion of the Cathars, their beliefs, and their history. Moreover, it was of utmost urgency that we investigated the massacre at Béziers in 1209 and sought to uncover who Guillaume Bélibaste had been.
How were these elements connected to the clandestine murders at Notre-Dame? I instructed Bonheur to conduct a detailed search of the registry at Father Dupont’s church to determine if any foreigners had recently visited the cathedral. It was a painstaking and exhaustive task, but we had no other choice. The killer appeared to be meticulous in planning the murders, yet brutal in the wrath he displayed.
Thence, we made our way to the local library in Paris to study the documents on the Cathars. There was a deep and troubling animosity towards the cryptocracy of the Catholic Church, one that had long predated these unfolding events. The following pertinent information was extracted from the documents we examined.
The Vision of Isaiah was an apocalyptic visionary work of great antiquity and unquestioned authenticity, likely dating to before the second century. It had manifested early Gnostic Christian influences. The Vision of Isaiah had been possessed by the Bogomils in the twelfth century and had reached the Languedoc in a Latin translation by the early thirteenth century. The Cathars’ possession and use of the Vision of Isaiah was attested, revealing their access to early Christian writings from the East and their identification with traditions of Christianity that had preserved and honoured these texts.
The Cathars valued this text not only because it seemingly supported their theology, but because it bore also witness to a primary, Gnostic visionary experience. The central aim of Cathar eschatology was liberation from the apathy of the realm of limitation and corruption, which they identified with the extraneous material world.
The Consolamentum, the unique sacrament of the Cathars, formed the basis of their theology. It was founded on the belief that the physical world, including the flesh, was irredeemably evil, having originated from the concept of the demiurge. The Gnostics, Cathars, and Beguines were considered heretics in the era of medieval Christianity.
The next question then was, how could this remarkable admission be unequivocally linked to the Cathars in the end? It was clear, from the historical documents, that the Cathar sect had been an oppressed faction of Christianity. But what would compel a man, who was supposedly a religious person, to commit such violent acts of depravity? I realised that it was futile to equivocate further—the killer was driven by insurmountable vengeance.
‘It is remarkable how one can be so passionately blinded by religion that we could ascribe a reverent nature to a cause or plight, Bonheur', I declared.
‘You must not forget that the criminal is as callous as a butcher in an abattoir', Bonheur replied.
‘Of course! I have never forgotten that crucial detail. I was merely pointing out the unambiguous foundation and the connection to this Cathar belief, which surpasses the simplistic nature of comprehension'.
‘I must admit, I am not familiar with the Cathar faith, and since I am not truly a religious man, I cannot offer any religious interpretation', Bonheur confessed.
‘Nor am I. You’ve eloquently expounded on the conclusive thought I hadn’t quite finished earlier. I shall take into consideration the profound significance of religion in relation to man’s delusional aspirations for feckless grandeur'.
‘That is the type of rational thinking I admire about you, inspector'.
‘Heed my words when I say that his downfall will be brought about by his irresistible wrath'.
‘I often wonder why wrath is the one thing that leads a criminal not only to commit murder but to make that one mistake which results in their capture or self-destruction'.
'That is an excellent question to pose to Bonheur, but if we only knew the incontrovertible answer, we would have already solved this case'.
‘At least, we’re heading in the right direction, I hope, inspector'.
‘Only time will tell. However, I am confident that the clues we’ve amassed will ultimately expose the murderer’s plot to its finality'.
When we left the library, I informed Bonheur that I intended to return to the last mortuary we had visited, to explore a lingering doubt that had troubled me ever since we left that place. I couldn’t fully explain it, but I assured him that he would understand once we were there. We took a cabriolet to remain discreet. What was particularly striking about the murderer was his astute manner in employing his empirical sense with boldness.
Upon arriving at the mortuary, I asked the undertaker if I could see any of the deceased bodies I had not yet examined. He told me I was fortunate to have returned just in time, as there were bodies by the charnel house being prepared for cremation—corpses that would not be buried or claimed by any family members.
The mortuary proved challenging, as we entered the chamber and scrutinised the rotting corpses. The foul stench of death repelled both of us. Bonheur, clearly anxious, asked what it was I was searching for. I had neither time to explain my thoughts nor the clarity to fully articulate them at that moment. I reassured him that I would explain later.
As I examined the bodies with a keen eye, I noticed that several of the corpses bore the same distinct marks of gashes inflicted on the victims at Notre Dame. Who were these poor souls? We were told they were priests from other parishes in Paris who had gone missing.
This was indeed a perturbing revelation, unveiling a mens rea. We were now dealing with multiple murders across other churches in the city. The killer was remarkably ambidextrous in his actions and displayed no ambivalence towards the church.
We were baffled by the plausibility of the killer’s vengeful motives in his pervicaciousness, and I could only attempt to fathom, in supposition, the true components that revolved around the murders. I was sanguine that we would soon catch the culprit, but Bonheur was not.
He was unsettled by the disquisition and blague of the Parisian newspapers, and the great effect they had on the public as well. If there was one thing I could accredit to Bonheur, it was his savoir-faire and diligence. Despite the potential commotion that could have been stirred by the murders, he always appeared stoic when confronted with adversity.
On certain occasions, he did reflect a circumspect mien. I, on the other hand, was more contemplative in nature, and au fait with the criminal mind. I did not overtly consider myself to be a devout man of faith, but I respected each man’s predilection for spiritual devotion.
I had undertaken the task of connecting the Cathars to the murders, and through heightened rumination, I began linking the information provided by Chevalier to the time of the murders and the criminal’s pattern of thought. It was extremely crucial that the culprit be captured forthwith, as the case had received notable publicity and criticism. His mention of the hour is near had occupied my pensive thoughts.
All this unwanted attention only distracted the progression of the case and was an absolute encumbrance. I was able to keep Bonheur’s mind on the case, rather than on the draffish newspapers of banality. He became focused and committed once more to apprehending the villain. His keen perception and impassioned intuition were both admirable and effective.
Nightfall arrived, and our concern shifted to preventing another murder at the cathedral. Along the way, my inquisitive mind was immersed once again in the coincidental nexus between the current killings and the vanished religion of the Cathars. I thought of the date of that massacre, but before I could extend my postulate, another untimely murder would occur that very night.
This time, the murder did not transpire at the cathedral, but instead at the asylum where Chevalier had been committed. It was a coup de foudre when we were notified of his death. It was too late—he was stone dead. His neck was broken completely, and his head found in a horrid convolution.
'Good God, Bonheur, it appears the killer is one step ahead of us and is studiously observing our movements and actions', I communicated.
'Oui, inspector, but the question I am uncertain of is whether someone is assisting him in this calculated endeavour?' He asked.
'Indeed, and there is a practical perspective we must apply at all times when dealing with such delicate criminal minds'.
'What do you mean?'
'Logic, my friend! We are aware of the killer’s inclination to execute his cause, and Chevalier was the logical step to entertain us. He—the dauntless and attentive killer—wants us to believe he is an absolute madman, incapable of being more intelligent and eximious than us in intellect. He is not a nescient fool'.
'If that is true, then he has planned his next step to involve us?'
'That is precisely what I am thinking of at this moment!'
'Then time is of the essence. We cannot afford to waste any more', I declared.
‘Patience is a virtue that few men bear', Bonheur replied.
‘What does patience have to do with the killer?’
‘Perhaps nothing, or perhaps everything'.
It was clear that the cruel murderer no longer desired Chevalier alive. There was little evidence to be retrieved from him, except a cutting torn from a newspaper detailing the visit of the archbishop to Paris the following day. At once, I saw the connection: the archbishop's visit to Paris seemed to present a plausible link to the murders. We were informed by one of the gendarmes that he had seen a mysterious man being escorted into the cathedral from the back entrance.
It soon became evident that we were unaware the archbishop had already arrived in Paris. What was even more surprising was the fact that he was staying within the cathedral’s chambers, despite the chaotic string of homicides and the heavy presence of gendarmes. Perhaps the church’s thinking was to keep the archbishop secured in a place where the police would be most concentrated—especially given the murder of the former clergyman, Chevalier, at the asylum, as I had postulated.
I, a man of logic, rationalised the situation with profound concentration. I could no longer afford to be confused. It had become clear to me: the target of that night was the archbishop himself. The ultimate goal of the Notre Dame killer was now apparent. This was a reasonable inference to make, given that the murderer had previously circumvented our efforts.
Was the killer daring enough to execute his plan with such vengeance, despite the constant vigilance that had multiplied as the situation grew increasingly volatile? Would he strike again that night? The one constant, in this case, was the killer's boundless impulse to kill, no matter the cost, driven by some twisted cause.
We hurried to the cathedral, determined to thwart the killer and speak with Father Dupont immediately. As I read over the list of priests, one name stood out—a name that piqued my interest: Frédéric Bélibaste. Suddenly, everything became clear. This man bore the same surname as Bélibaste, and it was now evident to me that he was the prime suspect.
The vesper bells of the cathedral tolled loudly, reverberating through the stone walls with such force that I couldn’t see the figure above ringing them. We entered the cathedral to find Father Dupont, who sat in his office, a breviary in his hands.
'Father Dupont, where is the archbishop? We know he's in Paris. Where is he?' Bonheur asked urgently.
'He is in his chamber, inspector? How did you know? This was done in privacy—only a few of us knew he was here, through an encyclical', Father Dupont replied, his confusion apparent.
'We don't have time for bureaucratic details', I snapped, my impatience rising. 'Take us to his chamber immediately! His life is in danger, Father Dupont!'
As the words left my mouth, I noticed a photograph in Father Dupont's hand. It depicted the priests of the cathedral before an altar draped with a parament. Amongst them was a man who, to my shock, resembled the witness’s vague description of the killer.
'Who is this man?' I asked, my voice tight with suspicion.
'He is the one who rings the vesper bells of Notre Dame, Frédéric Bélibaste', Father Dupont answered, his voice calm, yet oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
We had rushed to the chamber of the archbishop with clamour, as I knew this madman was the actual assassin, and we were searching with purpose. When we reached his chamber, the archbishop was not inside. We heard unusual footfalls nearby, followed by a very loud clatter. It was the impetuous murderer, dragging the archbishop up the narrow climb of the innumerable steps at the top of the spiral stairway of the great hall beneath the towers. We ran in pursuit until we finally reached the top. There, we saw the killer, who wore a bauta mask over his face, with a sharp knife pointed at the archbishop's neck.
'Give up, Bélibaste! We know who you are. You cannot escape from this place now. You are completely surrounded, Bélibaste. Look around, there is no escape for you', I told him.
He spoke incoherent gibberish, hesitated, and quickly I was compelled to shoot him. As he lunged forward, I shot him again. The knife fell to the ground as Bonheur grabbed the archbishop and took him to safety. Afterwards, he looked at us with wild passion and screamed,
'Our cause, Inspector Cauvain, shall live on forever—the Cathars are reborn!'
He fell over the tower and on to the sharp horns of the vigilant gargoyles below. He was dead, and the mystery of the murders during the vesper bells of Notre Dame was solved. It was determined that Frederic Bélibaste was indeed a direct descendant of the once Guillaume Bélibaste, the last Cathar recorded in the annals of Catharism.
Normalcy was restored to the city, and I remained in Paris to see the remainder of the exposition and the wonderful placards of French on the buildings lining the Parisian streets. Before I departed the city, I returned to the cathedral and marvelled inside at the Gothic vault and the pipework in the pedals that powered the organ, while the clangorous bells in the south tower rang anew, this time announcing the mass.
The treasury that contained reliquaries and housed important relics of Catholicism, including the purported Crown of Thorns, a fragment of the True Cross, and one of the Holy Nails of the cross of Jesus, was also the objective of the murderer, but these had not been purloined. The Cathars, members of a heretical medieval Christian sect which professed a form of Manichaean dualism, sought to achieve great spiritual purity and macarism. Bélibaste upbraided the Catholic Church for what had happened to the sect.
He had an incontinent espousal of pathomania and was selected as a devoted member of the extinct order of the parfaits—the 'perfect ones'—those who had committed themselves to the celibate rigours of the Cathar faith and its supernal message.
Calm had seemingly returned to Paris, I felt it was but a veil—thin and easily torn. The night before I left for London, Bonheur and I found ourselves pacing the crooked lanes of the Latin Quarter again, the scent of wet stone rising from the pavements beneath our feet. The air was thick with memory and suspicion.
‘The more I dwell on it, Bonheur,’ I said, my voice low as I kept my eyes scanning the shuttered windows above, ‘the more I feel something's amiss. Bélibaste’s death was too sudden. I believe there is something more to his death'.
Bonheur, whose silence often spoke volumes, gave a brief grunt of agreement.
‘He’s dead,’ he muttered, ‘but his motives have not been buried with him. What was he truly after? The relics? Vengeance? Or something far more dangerous?’
‘That is precisely the question,’ I replied. ‘He did not strike me as a madman without purpose. There was a method in his delusions, and purpose behind his violence. I believe we’ve only uncovered a fragment of the whole'.
We turned down a quieter alley, where the streetlamps flickered weakly above. Ahead of us stood a forgotten church—Saint-Martin-des-Champs—aban doned, crumbling, and steeped in centuries of silence. I had read once that the Cathars, before their tragic end, had used it as a clandestine place of worship. If Bélibaste had roots in that heretical sect, this could be the next thread in the tapestry.
‘I’ve heard whispers', Bonheur said as we pushed open the iron gate. ‘Old wine merchants speak of "keepers of light”. Nonsense, perhaps. But then again, what murder is not born in madness masked as belief?’
I said nothing, but I knew he was right. Inside the church, dust coated the pews and every crevice of the marble altar. The light that filtered through the shattered rose window painted strange shapes upon the floor. We stepped cautiously inside.
On the far wall, half hidden behind vines and neglect, I found a mural. Ancient and weather-worn, it depicted cloaked figures in a circle, fire at their feet, their eyes lifted to a symbol above—a sun split in two. My heart beat faster.
‘Look here,’ I said, beckoning Bonheur. ‘These markings—they’re not ecclesiastical. They resemble Cathar sigils. The Eye of the Aeon… and there—the Flame of Severance. These aren’t merely symbols; they’re creeds. This place wasn’t just sacred to them. It was sacred in purpose'.
Bonheur crossed his arms and peered closer. ‘So Bélibaste was no lone fanatic. He was part of something older… something that never truly died. He was a Cathar'.
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t trying to kill a man. He was trying to resurrect an idea that was once alive'.
I stepped back from the mural, my thoughts racing. ‘The relics in Notre-Dame—he didn’t seek to steal them. He wanted to desecrate them. To make a statement. And perhaps, to complete a rite long buried in forgotten books'.
‘And if there are others like him?’ Bonheur asked, his voice hushed.
I looked to the fractured rose window, the fading light bleeding red across the stone floor. ‘Then we are not finished. Not yet. This was never just a murder case. It was a warning'.
We stood in silence, the old church whispering secrets neither of us yet understood. But I knew, in my bones, that Bélibaste’s fall from the tower was only the beginning. Somewhere in Paris, someone else would soon take up his mantle.
And I would be waiting.
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