Chapter Seventeen: Enquête.
It appeared that the musketeers had seen something she hadn't: they led her dutifully to the door of a terraced house that did not look significant to her in any way. It wasn't until they were but a foot from the portal that a mousey blonde woman swept in from the right and admitted them.
As she was conveyed over the threshold she caught half a glimpse of a bright eyed boy staring up at her. His eyes were brimming with excitement and he even dared to cast a smile in her direction, an expression that she could not help but to reciprocate. This was only a momentary gesture, however, since she was promptly swept into the wanting abode and through to the dining area.
The young prospect and the handsome man restrained her arms, but she did not, at first, realise why.
For moments, there was a quietude around them, broken only by the creaking closure of the door, avowals of gratitude and commendation to the woman and the giggling of the boy as he tried, none too successfully, to hide himself behind a sturdy oak beam of the dining and kitchen area doorway.
'Madame Martin, I don't suppose Etienne keeps any shackles, does he?'
Athos' voice, polite as ever, broke the strained silence that had fallen upon the house. The woman whom Athos had just addressed gave a dutiful nod and made a move to leave.
'That won't be necessary.' The captive woman averred calmly, in the mind that these men, whatever they intended to interrogate her about, could possibly be reasoned with. That was, if her previous impressions of the two that she had already met were correct.
To her surprise, it was Porthos who responded, 'If it's all the same to you…I'd rather be safe than sorry.'
The larger musketeer then gave a nod to Madame Martin and the woman resumed her trajectory, disappearing upstairs. There were a few minutes where no one spoke and only the sounds of the woman's search could be heard.
She took these moments to think on the prick of sadness she had felt at these last words. Though, she didn't blame Porthos for his mistrust and hostility, she felt suddenly dismayed at having lost her best ally of the group. True, she had not expected to see him again, but that had not been the only reason for the spark that, for an instant, had stopped her heart when she once again heard his voice. Her eyes found the floorboards in defeat as she concluded, infallibly so, that she had only herself to blame for his enmity towards her.
Madame Martin returned and pressed a clinking tangle of chains into Athos' palms. He gave a grateful nod and with this, the woman left, sweeping the child along with her. She disappeared, once again, upstairs, the boy trailing behind and protesting the prompt removal.
When the woman and boy were gone, Athos held the shackles out to Porthos who, though hesitating for a brief moment, took them up and fastened them around her wrists which were, in turn held out by her two makeshift gaolers. Porthos, all the while avoided her gaze and, in the end, she gave up trying to catch his eye.
There was then the screeching of wood on flagstone as the young prospective soldier of the king's guard manoeuvred a chair into position behind her. The handsome musketeer then gestured that she should sit. She obeyed in good humour, matching the smile he currently employed for her benefit.
Athos eyed the woman knowingly, 'Any weapons we should know about?'
She answered, promptly and amicably, seeing no reason to antagonise; if she was going to turn this situation to her advantage she would have to convince them she wasn't a threat.
'There's a dagger in my right boot.'
'Aramis.'
She felt her brow furrow at this strange instruction from Athos, perplexed suddenly by the meaning (or lack thereof). However, movement in her peripherals saw the removal of the knife by the handsome musketeer and she concluded simply that it must have been his name.
'Anything else?'
'No, that's all.'
She watched as her captors exchanged agreeable glances, but her focus was held solely by the dagger, currently resting in Aramis' palms.
'Quite a beautiful weapon.' He praised, rolling the blade over gloved fingers, admiring the peculiar sheen to the obsidian handle in the dim light of the room.
'Merci.' She offered, brow creasing in concern and reminiscence, 'But please be careful with it; it's very dear to me.'
Aramis gave a reassuring nod and threaded the dagger into his belt, just aside his sword, 'You have my word.'
At this, she offered a silent expression of gratitude and inwardly began to wonder if she would find a new alliance in Aramis. Her thoughts were broken abruptly by Athos and the question she had been dreading.
'Shall we start with your name?'
She dipped her chin, stole a split second to deliberate and answered in as confident a tone as she could muster, 'Elle.'
She fought back the urge to search Porthos' countenance for any sign that he would give her away. He could do so easily by the mention of the engraving on the beam of L'auberge De Renard's loft room. She wasn't sure she could explain away the initials carved into the wood, convincingly enough. Yes, she might say that she had scratched the letters 'L B' when she was too young (or too poor) to spell properly, that she thought her name was simply 'L' since that is what she heard when she was called. But, even she found that explanation weak.
Or, she might say that she never lived there, that she had come across the letters once when she snuck in to hide from the storm, that her leading him there was nought but a ruse, designed to get him out of the way.
Porthos, it seemed, had already adopted the latter approach and stood with lips unmoving and arms folded as he regarded her with suspicion and intrigue.
She was nevertheless grateful that he elected to remain silent.
'Is that all?' Athos pressed.
She found herself unable to refrain from a teasing remark at this, 'For now.'
There was something of a scoffing sound to her left and she twisted just in time to see the younger man give a shrug, 'It's a start, I suppose.'
She turned back, suddenly startled by a question posed in Porthos' deep voice.
'What are you really doing in Paris?' He asked, the enquiry loaded with the memory of the table in the tavern, the explanation she had given over a shared cup of wine.
The same scene flew unbidden to her own mind's eye and she tried to recall what she had said at that moment. She had offered something vague, something that didn't pose too many questions: I'm just tying up a few loose ends.
Annoyance threatened as the scene played on; how could Porthos chide her for her vague answer, when he himself actively avoided answering when she asked the same of him. She had half a mind to remind him, but figured that confrontation was likely to do more harm than good, in this instance.
Instead, she fixed him with confidence, 'I came to visit an old friend.'
'One, Monsieur Gaspard Renaud, perhaps?' Aramis surmised.
'You know him?' she pried, looking up at such an angle it made her neck ache.
Aramis shook his head, a chuckle escaping his lips, 'Not personally, but his servant was most helpful.'
'Especially when your name came up.' Added the prospect.
She felt her expression darken subconsciously, 'Then why ask me?'
'To make sure you're telling the truth.' Porthos confirmed, fixing her with steady eyes, 'But I suppose the real question is, why would you be old friends with a retired member of the Red Guard, in the first place?'
It was not lost on her, the wording of his query, though, the exact motive behind the sequence, she could not fathom. This irked her and she could maintain the demure charade no longer.
'I am friends with many more who could be considered worse company than a retired Red Guard.' The words fell slowly, softly and were accompanied by a shrug. She thought this a fitting enough statement and one that might have temporarily halted the interrogation, had she not forgotten about the beaten and bloodied body that lay by the hearth in the house by the Seine.
'Murderers, perhaps?'
She grimaced, inwardly reprimanding herself for being so foolish.
Athos' supposition had come so suddenly that it had taken her aback, and for moments she could do nothing but think on Purcell's lifeless form, the colour of his swollen face, the angle of his wrist and ankle, the substantial pool of blood turning black as it dried on the worn stone floor.
She set her brow, clenched the fists in her lap and turned narrowed, defiant eyes to the musketeer who had just spoken.
'I did not murder Purcell.'
'But you were running from the Red Guard.' Reminded Aramis.
'I was at the house when they found me there, but I didn't kill him and I had no intention of doing so.'
'What were you doing there, then?' Porthos contributed.
'I went back to get my clothes.' She paused, breaking the silence with the heavy jingle of the shackles as she gestured to her current attire, 'This dress? Not mine, if you hadn't noticed.'
'What happened to your own clothes?' interjected the prospective musketeer, hurriedly averting his gaze from her bust and the ill-fitting bodice as she spun to address him.
She heaved a weighted sigh and held her eyes closed a moment to order her thoughts, feeling it best if she start at the beginning.
'I came to Paris with the storm five days ago. The long boat I was in was wrecked and I was nearly drowned when Purcell pulled me from the river. He brought me to his home, gave me this dress and offered to let me stay the night. When I refused, he attacked me…'
She let her voice trail off, noticed the tell-tale signs of disapprovement etched into the brows of the assembled men. Aramis shifted uncomfortably beside her and Porthos' expression seemed to have softened a little. She rolled her eyes, continued.
'…I was able to overpower him and managed to bind him before he could prove any further threat. After I felt that he was no longer a danger, I took him up on his offer and stayed in his home for a few days. That was, until last night when I returned to find him free at the behest of a friend who had come looking for him. I fled before he could see me, but his friend caught a glimpse as I was running away…when I went back for my clothes, Purcell was already dead. As it turns out, I wasn't the first person to find him. His man had found him first and, upon returning with the Red Guard and seeing me, accused me of the murder.'
She could almost feel the youngest man's brow furrow as he spoke, 'So you didn't murder him? Even though he attacked you?'
'No. You can check with Purcell's man; he was still alive last night…believe me, if I had meant to kill him, he would have met his end the night he dragged me from the Seine. My intention had been to free him when my business in Paris was concluded.'
She began to grow uneasy as she caught doubtful glances cross between the musketeers.
'Also…' she piped up, breaking through the telepathic exchange, '…there's the small matter of the condition of the body.'
She settled smugly in her chair, preening beneath the coaxing, impatient eyes of her captors. After prolonging the torturous suspense for moments more than was entirely necessary, she offered a conclusion that, in her mind at least, was infallible.
'Purcell was savagely beaten to death by more than one person. I am not capable of inflicting such damage.' There was a moment's pause and, in it, she did her best to appear the epitome of femininity. It appeared to be working and the musketeers, along with their young prospect, softened their stances.
'Go and see for yourself...I am not your murderer.' She finished finally.
'Very well.' Athos stated, eventually, watching as the woman before him seemed to relax a little at this affirmation of her innocence. She began to raise her wrists, no doubt expecting an imminent order for her release. When none came, she eyed him suspiciously.
One side of his mouth twitched in amusement, 'Maybe now you would like to tell us about your relationship with Monsieur Renaud?'
The expression on the woman's countenance could be described as nothing but a scowl and venom encircled each syllable when she finally deigned to answer.
'There's nothing to tell,' she seethed, regarding the well-spoken musketeer with murderous narrowed eyes, 'he's a friend. I've known him for years, ever since I was a child.'
'He took you in after the death of your father, correct?' Aramis probed, angling a pitying glance downwards at the woman in shackles, 'You and your mother?'
'How dare you?' She sneered, suddenly, the tone unexpected. Her focus was held by the floor, but the question was directed at each and every man, 'What does the death of my father have to do with anything? Why is the fact that Gaspard took us in when we needed him so surprising to you?'
The musketeers and D'artagnan watched on, bemused and a little frightened at the sudden change in her demeanour. The barrage of questions made all the more poignant by the abject composure the woman was currently affecting.
'Is he not capable of a heartfelt act of charity towards another human being, just because he was once Red Guard?'
Her concentration was broken by a new voice. A shabbily dressed man stood suddenly in the doorway. She regarded him with a mixture of curiousity and contempt.
'No; he is not capable, because he is Gaspard.'
