Chapter Twenty-Three: Indice.
Athos had been roused from sleep an hour or so before dawn by a frantic peasant lad with a message from Porthos.
As soon as he had sent word to the coroner and secured a detail of three fellow musketeers to accompany him - without Aramis and D'artagnan among them - Athos had set off on foot for the house belonging to the late Gaspard Renaud.
Although the door had been left open, he found the foyer empty of anyone he might speak to. He instructed his followers to sweep the upstairs rooms and, once they were dutifully ascending the staircase, eyelids still heavy with sleep, he sought out the lounge.
It was there that he found Porthos, crouching by the chaise and holding a cloth to the head of a woman Athos did not know. He deduced she was Gaspard's servant and fought back a grimace as he neared to look upon her.
She stared upwards with glassy eyes, which she blinked groggily with the effort of staying awake at Porthos' instruction. The skin around her eyes was swollen, but still permitted the movement of her lids. There was a split in her top lip and this dripped blood onto her teeth giving the already pale and withered woman a grotesque quality to her façade.
She was startled at Athos' approach and gave a feeble moan, shifting awkwardly away from him, her stiff muscles resisting painfully.
Porthos comforted her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder and removing the cloth at her brow, momentarily. This revealed a yawning and bloody laceration above her left eye. Athos found himself suddenly surprised that the woman was still alive at all.
'Porthos?' he ventured, waiting for his friend and colleague to turn to him.
'I was too late.' Came the reply, an edge of self-efficacy and frustration in Porthos' voice. The larger musketeer gave fleeting nod over his right shoulder towards the fireplace.
Athos followed his instruction and found a body by the bookcase. He fixed his gaze upon the unmoving man, only half aware of Porthos moving to stand at his shoulder. The pair approached it in silent synchrony, careful to avoid the area of rug now stained crimson.
'Single shot wound to the back.' Porthos began, nodding to the flintlock on the floor, 'Shot with his own weapon, by the look of it.'
Athos nodded in agreement, studying the weapon from his current vantage point. He then knelt, placed a hand on Gaspard's nearest shoulder and pushed away. A dull clink furrowed the musketeers' brows as something heavy and metal fell to the carpet beneath the body. Without instruction, Porthos stooped, reached out and plucked it from the floor. Athos returned the corpse to its original position and for moments, the pair stared transfixed at the object.
In Porthos' hand dangled a necklace, an intricate black and white enamel pendant mounted in old gold and strung with a black leather cord. The pendant itself now sported a red smear, but Porthos was quick to wipe this away with his thumb. The dwindling firelight in the hearth leant an amber sheen to the pendant's polished façade which, though intricately detailed, was smooth to the touch. Upon the oval stone, and yet at the same time within it, was an image etched in a pure bone white; a half-empty hourglass enwrapped by a serpent whose scales fell away about half way down its body, turning its tail to bone.
For moments the musketeers merely gazed at the strange piece of jewellery, trying to fathom the meaning behind the emblem. Porthos held the piece closer to the hearth so as to better study it, but as he did so the old woman on the chaise stirred and spoke.
'For her…' she rasped, drawing the attention of both musketeers.
'Who?' he queried, though something heavy in his gut had already answered this question. He was abruptly reminded of the scarf Louisa had taken from Purcell's body, the stark and carefully placed warning from Perrault. The necklace in his grasp was another clue, another threat from the same man and intended for the same woman. He was sure of it.
'Elle…little Elle…' With this, she reached out shakily for the stone as if it were but an arm's length from her, '…he said…it…was for her…that she'd know…what…it meant…'
'Who said this?' Athos asked suddenly, astonished when it was Porthos who answered in place of the wounded woman.
'Perrault.'
The former Comte met his comrade's gaze knowingly, recognising the name from Porthos' account of his Chatelet conversation with Louisa. He then watched as the larger musketeer pocketed the necklace and strode for the door.
'Where are you going?'
'To Le Chatelet. I have to warn her.'
'Porthos, wait.'
There was a slightly chiding tone behind such a simple instruction and this halted the musketeer in question, his shoulders sinking as he turned.
'You're exhausted. Go back to the Garrison. Get some sleep.'
'But what abou-'
'She's not going anywhere; she'll still be there when you wake.'
Porthos gave a comprehending nod, Athos' reasoning sound and slowly sinking in. He could feel the fatigue of which the former Comte spoke; it was there in the itching of his eyes and the hum of the headache behind them.
And so, he obeyed Athos' instruction, spared one last look at the body that was evidence of his broken promise and left the house. He walked with a heavy mind, wondering how Louisa was going to react at the news of Gaspard's death, whether they would ever know the location of the plans now that they had failed to protect the Red Guard. A sour thought then crossed his mind; what would happen to the woman if she failed to give them the information they needed. Would Treville go to the King? Would an execution be ordered? A preventative effort to keep Paris safe? After all, if she was the only one who knew the location of the plans, doing away with her would ensure the safety of France. True, this would leave the King with no new toys to play with, no new weapons to wave gloatingly in front of his enemies, but France would be safe and that would be a good enough conclusion. Who would bat an eyelid at the collateral damage of just one woman?
Porthos was stirred from his thoughts at a sudden impact on his shoulder. He lifted his eyes and disdainfully offered a groan at the sight of Levesque. He did not know whether the collision had been purpose wrought or an accident, but either way the hidden musketeer opened his mouth and gave a nod in the direction of the house behind Porthos.
'What happened?' he asked, looking beyond the larger musketeer at the bustle and commotion surrounding Gaspard's house.
At first, Porthos was loathe to answer and he made a move to pass the smaller man, but the question was nevertheless answered subconsciously. He thought on the body and the old woman, the souvenir and its intended recipient, the man before him and the woman he had struck. Porthos almost smiled as a particularly venomous thought crossed his mind.
'You've been replaced…' He began, savouring Levesque's miscomprehension, 'by the coroner and the gravedigger.'
With this, Porthos pushed past Etienne, ignored the hand on his shoulder that was a final attempt to halt him and made his way through the massing throng of excited street inhabitants. They had, no doubt, been roused by the gun shot that killed Renaud and – now that there was an authoritative presence ensuring their safety – had come to stare in morbid curiosity, to glimpse the death and the gore that often came with the thunder of the pistol.
