A/N: Title is taken shamelessly from Sherlock Holmes canon. I own neither that nor Les Mis. Thanks given to Sir ACD, Hugo, and dear anon prompter, in that order. Sorry for the slow start.

Originally written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme, MakingHugoSpin, over on LiveJournal.

Of course Javert was on duty when he heard about the Incident—where else should he be but at his desk? In the small, impersonal rooms he kept on the very outskirts of the town? But this is a digression on our part, and the fact remains that our indomitable inspector remained at his desk so late into the night that he was there still when the youngest sergeant in the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer (also, in fact, the youngest sergeant with whom Javert had ever worked), burst into the station at a quarter past three, shaking and white with the terror of one still wet behind the ears.

'M-Monsieur,' the boy stuttered out, voice trembling so badly that he could barely choke out this single word of greeting.

'Yes, Sergeant Favre?' Javert drawled, not bothering to look up from the report he was reviewing from Paris.

'Th-there's been a-an Incident.' Javert could have sworn that he heard the boy say it with a capital letter 'I' and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the youth's dramatics.

'You are a policeman, Sergeant, and the duty of a policeman is to handle "Incidents."' The boy said nothing, and when Javert glanced up, Favre was biting his lip, and turning his hat over and over again in his hands. 'Fine, then. Tell me, what is this Incident you feel ill-equipped to handle?'
'Sir, Monsieur le maire is—well, his body was found,' said young Favre, a violent shudder wracking his body, his knuckles turning white as he clutched his hat, 'and it... well, that is to say, Sir, that it's... he was murdered, it looks like. Found at the docks, he was. His... well, he was beaten very badly—very badly—but... it was him, and he's... even though his face and everything was... someone bashed his face in. And the rest of him.'

'You are certain that the body is that of Mayor Madeleine?' questioned Javert, his gaze intense and his posture erect and unmoving. The young sergeant simply nodded mutely. 'Where have they taken the body?'

'The hospital.'

'Then I shall meet you there in no more than ninety minutes' time,' Javert said, rising from his desk quickly and moving to put on his great coat with the same sure, determined movements as ever he performed any action. Favre looked relieved at his superior's orders, having been given a way to respond, and moved quickly to obey.

Javert, for his part, watched the sergeant go with a cool, almost dismissive gaze. The mayor, that saintly, Herculean figure—as if he could ever have had his brains beaten in on the docks like some common criminal. The idea was absolutely preposterous.

Still, if he made great haste on his way to Monsieur Madeleine's residence, it was only so that he could put any alarm the citizens may have felt quickly to rest.

'It was terrible, M. l'inspecteur, simply terrible. Horribly frightening, of course, which is why I hid rather than confront the intruders—being a woman, you know, I must protect myself. Musn't I, M. l'inspecteur?' The janitress of Madeleine's factory was the typical sort of woman-creature who sought perpetual validation, affection, and admiration from those around her; although not a bad woman, she was not exceptionally kind, and nor was she exceptionally bright. If she had not been both the mayor's only servant and the only witness to the invasion of his home preceding the finding of his (supposed) corpse at the docks, Javert would have rather spent ten days in the slums of Paris chasing the little gamins who plagued the streets than engage in ten minutes' conversation with her.

'Of course you must,' Javert agreed neutrally, causing a slight, nervous smile to erupt from the woman suddenly, and then vanish as his stern countenance remained unchanged. 'Now, how many of these intruders were there?'

'Oh, I couldn't possibly say, Monsieur,' she said, shaking her head. 'As soon as I heard the door break open, I hid inside of the wardrobe. I saw nothing.'

'No? Did you hear anything, then? Their voices, perhaps?'

'Well, no, I did not. You see, I was reciting the Lord's Prayer, Monsieur, under my breath, so they wouldn't hear me, but, well. I could also not hear them,' she admitted. 'But it kept me safe, didn't it? Isn't that what I must do?'

'Of course it is,' Javert said, an almost mindless echo of his previous statement.

'Oh! But I did hear something, though not their voices,' the janitress supplied, and Javert clenched his jaw, trying not to lash out at this dolt of a woman. 'There was a loud bang, as if, perhaps, a gun had gone off. After that, there was nothing—I was so startled by the sound that I couldn't even pray! I heard their footsteps going down the stairs and right back out the door, but nothing else.'

'You say "their,"' said Javert, barely seeing the woman before him as his mind began its careful calculations. 'Are you quite sure that there was more than one person in this house?'

'Well,' she stopped to think, and then nodded. 'Yes, of course. I definitely recall more than one set of feet trampling down the staircase after the shot.'

'But what about going up the stairs?' asked Javert. 'How many were there going up?'

'I couldn't say,' she said. 'As I said, I was praying, and I couldn't hear, Monsieur.'

'I see.' Javert's eyes narrowed, and the woman shrank back from him slightly at the menacing look. 'Was Monsieur Madeleine in his chambers?'

'He was not when I retired, but that is not unusual,' she said. 'Monsieur often retires very late, and rises very early. He is a busy man with many affairs.'

'Indeed he is,' Javert said, and then bowed shortly to the woman, who gave a hurried curtsy in return. 'I assure you that I intend to reach the bottom of this matter. If I could see Monsieur Madeleine's bedchamber, I will then leave you in peace.'

'Of course, Monsieur, of course—I haven't dared go in, not since I peeked and saw that Monsieur Madeleine wasn't in there after the men came,' she said, and conveyed him up the stairs without further delay, sensing that his patience with her had grown short. 'There it is, Monsieur. I'll be downstairs.' He nodded in acknowledgement, and then set about examining the room.

It was not one he had seen before, having never before had occasion to enter the bedchamber of his superior, and so he took his time in his initial examination of the room. It was plain, with the barest of furnishings: a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, a desk and chair, and a crucifix above the bed. Javert snorted reflexively as his eyes rested upon that last item—the man certainly lived and acted like a monk.

Keeping his eyes trained on the walls, Javert examined one, two, three, and then all four of them, finding no bullet holes. He then turned his attentions to the floor, where—ah! There, next to the bed, was a clean hole; encouragingly, or perhaps not, if it was true that the Mayor already lay dead in the local hospital, there was no sign of blood around the hole. A miss, perhaps, or a warning shot.

Javert straightened, frowning. Perhaps... a man, or two men, or more, had entered Monsieur Madeleine's house in the dead of night, armed, and had wrested him from his bed. They could then have fired a warning shot down into the floor, ensuring the mayor's cooperation and silence. But why would they have taken him to the docks? If, of course, they had indeed done so. Javert glanced at his pocketwatch and let out a huff of breath—he had best get to the hospital, if he was to meet Favre on time.

With a heavy, roiling weight in the pit of his stomach, Javert made for the hospital, unable to put a stopper in the feeling of dread and... and... something else that befell him as he pictured the mangled, beaten body of Monsieur Madeleine.

The hospital was not the calm, sanguine place it usually was; the two nuns in charge of the care of the patients were in a corner, praying, and both the local priest and bishop had been summoned. Favre stood awkwardly before one of the beds, where a large figure lay covered fully by a white sheet.

'This is he?' asked Javert tersely, and Favre bobbed his head in an awkward nod. Javert made to pull back the sheet, and one of the Sisters made a small whimpering sound, not unlike an un-mothered pup. The inspector straightened instantly. 'I would ask all but Sergeant Favre to leave the area.' None of the onlookers moved, and Javert turned around to face them. 'Now, if you please.' Faced directly with the ire of the universally-feared inspector, the Bishop ushered the others from the room, speaking to them quietly in soothing, soft tones. Javert waited until they were fully out of sight to pull back the sheet.

Only Javert's experience and naturally unflappable exterior kept him from reacting to the wreckage of a man on the bed—only recognisable to Javert as a man after a long moment of staring at him. The face, as Favre had said, was beaten badly, beyond recognition, and the rest of the body had been beaten with similar ferocity—with a cudgel, most probably. The height and the sheer bulk of the man matched Mayor Madeleine's.

'Did those at the docks see anything, or hear any gunshots?' asked Javert, his voice coming out just as steady as always. He kept his hands clasped behind his back.

'I, ah, don't believe anyone stopped to question them,' Favre admitted. Javert closed his eyes for a long moment and took a deep, steadying breath, reminding himself of the Sergeant's youth and inexperience to avoid lashing out at him.

'We will correct that oversight immediately after leaving here,' Javert answered, and then frowned. He reached out and gingerly but firmly turned the man's head, peering at one particular, bloodied spot. 'Come here, Sergeant.' Favre hesitated, but begrudgingly approached after a moment. 'Here, what do you see?'

'Blood, sir?' said Favre, and then cleared his throat rapidly after a stern look from the inspector. 'A bloody cut?'

'A bloody hole, Favre,' said Javert. 'This man was shot in the head.'

'Shot?' repeated the sergeant dimly.

'Yes, he was shot. Most probably by the same man, or men, who broke into the mayor's house. That, however, is a less pressing mystery to me at this moment than why they would shoot this man.'

'Why?' repeated Favre. 'Ah, because... they wanted to kill him?'

'But why beat someone this badly if you not only possess a gun, but seriously intend to shoot it? If they had intended to save ammunition, then they would not have fired a warning shot in the mayor's residence,' said Javert.

'Maybe that was a misfire?' suggested Favre, and the expression directed at him by Javert was, finally, neither exasperated nor irritated.

'Not an unworthy suggestion, however, in my experience, misfires tend to imbed themselves into the walls or ceiling,' said Javert, 'but this bullet went into the floor, next to the bed, probably to convince M. Madeleine to go with them.'

'So why would they shoot and beat the mayor?'

'Unless this is not the mayor,' said Javert, 'and he was shot, and then beaten to obscure his identity.' Favre was silent, shifting uncomfortably. 'Speak your thoughts, boy.'

'Sir, the clothes are M. Madeleine's, and we found one of his crucifixes in his pocket, and his Bible,' Favre said.

'All could be planted upon a stranger,' parried Javert.

'But M. Madeleine was of an uncommonly large build, sir, and this man...'

'Uncommon, yes, but not unheard of to see in others.' Favre's look was hesitant, confused, and sad all at once, and Javert clenched his jaw. 'We will question those at the dock.' He paused after a moment, looking around him. 'There is one other I would speak to, but I must do it alone. I will see you at the docks in one hour.'

'Yes, sir,' agreed Favre, turning to leave, and then pausing in the doorway, watching Javert replace the sheet. 'Sir?'

'What is it, Favre?'

'Your hands are shaking,' he said, and Javert stared at his own hands, and found that Favre was right. 'Shall I question this witness with you?'

'No,' said Javert after a pregnant pause, clasping his hands once more behind his back. 'I must question her alone, and I shall see you at the docks in one hour.'

'Yes, sir,' said Favre again, and obediently left this time. Javert did not turn to look at the body behind him as he strode down the hallway, giving only a passing thought to the body of their victim—the man who could not be M. Madeleine. He could not afford to be distracted when he had an investigation to conduct.