A/N: I don't own Les Misérables in any of its forms, but I wish I could take out an option on the musical.

Sorry again for the long delay in updating, but I really have had a very full dance card! In May I spent five days in Paris, some of which I spent going around as many locations as I could find that are associated with Les Misérables, including the site of the barricade, the spot where Éponine dies and where Valjean releases Javert, the street down which Javert escapes and the parapet where he leaps to his doom, the house where Marius lodges with Courfeyrac, Javert's station house, and many others, not least the Maison Victor Hugo museum. I was staying in a 17th century house in a street mentioned by Hugo as being part of the barricade complex. I envied myself! On my return I was heavily involved in the Platinum Jubilee celebrations (I am a Pearly Queen), then I was in hospital, where I caught Covid. Also, as you may have seen, I was temporarily diverted by writing a Les Misérables one-shot, "Javert's Wonderful Life", which was inspired by the current London cast (check it out!). And here, at last, is the next chapter of this story.

Many thanks to Katie Duggan's Niece and victorian-opera for your lovely reviews of Chapter 11. Your feedback means so much.

The following morning, Enjolras was up early to dispatch Bahorel's letter via the first mail coach. Leaving Éponine minding the shop, and carefully skirting around her questions as to whether she could accompany Bahorel to the Gorbeau hovel, he headed straight to Laincourt's office to give him a full update on his and the Amis' investigations and their plans to rescue Cosette's maids.

"Well done," Laincourt pronounced when he had finished. "At last we have some theories about that damned second doctor. Pass on my especial thanks to the Inspector for his theory. No need for that to become public just yet. We can keep it up our sleeves and demand that Théodule produces both doctors in court at the same time."

"And what if the Inspector's wrong and they do both appear?"

"We'll get the second doctor produced in court anyway, which will be something given how elusive he is, and we'll get a name for him. And well done for establishing contacts within the house. That could be very valuable. I don't suppose there's any chance that they might let you in to take a look around?" he added wistfully.

"I'm afraid I haven't dared suggest that yet," Enjolras admitted. "They all appear to be afraid of Théodule."

"No wonder, if he's already tossed two of their number onto the street without a reference. When do I meet this young fellow who's going to rescue them and bring the boy back to France?"

"Later today, I hope. I sent him a letter first thing this morning. He lives in Ménilmontant, and I'm sure he'll come into town as soon as he can. In the meantime, is there any way either of us can get into the house to look for evidence?"

Laincourt pulled a face. "Not legally, I'm afraid, unless the householder grants us entry, which we know he won't. Maybe a bit of blackmail will change his mind."

"Blackmail?"

"While you were out yesterday afternoon, I had a word with one of my journalist friends. He's confirmed for me that Théodule has gambling debts, which we already knew, and that at the time he was obliged to resign his commission due to injury, he was on the point of being thrown out of his regiment because he was bringing it into disrepute. Not only because of his gambling, many officers do that, but because he'd been caught stealing from his fellow officers to fund the habit and pay off his debts. He also used a forged bill of exchange, although he swore that he had been given it in good faith to pay a gambling debt. The breaking point came when Théodule was found in possession of a diamond necklace belonging to the wife of a fellow officer. He swore that it, too, had been given to him in payment of a gambling debt. The woman's husband, who is not a gambler, raised hell. Although nobody said so, it was suspected that Théodule might have seduced her and blackmailed her into giving him the necklace by threatening to reveal their affair. While it was given out that his injury was the result of a riding accident, it's believed that it may have resulted from a duel with the husband. Oh, and he did not have an orderly called Mortaine, so goodness knows where the fellow comes from."

"The Baroness thought that Mortaine didn't look much like a soldier. Well, that isn't anything like the sanctimonious reformed character Théodule's been claiming to be lately."

"Just so. And the fact that he was caught using a forged bill raises the possibility that he forged it, and may therefore have forged Doctor Fortier's letters too. Nothing we can prove, at least not yet, but I've sent the letters to a handwriting expert with whom I've worked before, and we'll see what he says about them. In the meantime, at my instruction my journalist friend's going to start putting paragraphs into all the papers with which he has influence. If necessary, we can tell Théodule that we'll call off our newshounds if he calls off his, and gives us access to the house."

"Aren't you afraid that he'll sue you for libel, Monsieur? Or for blackmail?"

"He'd be mad to sue. My journalist is known as a man who won't publish a thing unless it's as solid as the Bastille. Théodule would end up damaging his cause more than ours. And as you know the Baroness better than I, you can spend this morning writing me some good, strong paragraphs about her many virtues and charitable works. We can publish them to counteract the filth being put out by François Hervé and Le P'tit Oiseau."

"Javert's undertaken to find out whether Hervé has a criminal record."

"Good. We could need that. My contact hasn't found any connection between Hervé and Théodule yet, but I'll swear there is one."

"Shouldn't I visit the Baroness with her belongings?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid. I need you here for when your young friend arrives. You can write up the case notes while we wait."

It was a little after midday when Lemarre, the perpetually disapproving clerk, glided into the office.

"Monsieur. There is a very common person outside who claims to have business with Monsieur Enjolras. He goes by the name of Bahorel."

Laincourt looked up from his papers with a smile. "Good. We've been expecting him. Show him in, please."

Lemarre went his way, lamenting the wickedness of the world, and presently Bahorel entered, twisting his cap in his large hands and, truth to tell, looking entirely out of scale in Laincourt's smart office. He appeared nervous, but his face cleared on seeing Enjolras, who rose from his desk and gripped his hand in greeting.

"Bahorel. I'm glad to see you. Thank you for coming. Allow me to present my employer, Monsieur Laincourt, who is the Baroness's legal representative. Monsieur, please meet my good friend, Marc-Antoine Bahorel. He's the best fellow possible."

Laincourt rose from his desk and gravely shook Bahorel's great paw. "I'm honoured to make your acquaintance, Monsieur, especially with such a recommendation from a man whose opinion I value. Please be seated, and we'll explain why we have summoned you. I presume that Enjolras here has not told you?"

"No, Monsieur," Bahorel said respectfully. "His letter only said that there was a development in the Baroness's case which you and he had to discuss with me in person."

"Ah, I see. Well, the first development of which you may be unaware is that the Baroness was arrested at the convent on Monday evening. A gardener there spotted her and informed the police."

Bahorel scowled. "I saw the report in the Moniteur, Monsieur."

"The second," Laincourt continued, "is that Théodule Gillenormand is making allegations, which are being accepted without question by the police inspector in charge of the investigation, that the Baroness has murdered her young son."

"WHAT?" Bahorel was about to explode like a barrel of gunpowder, but at a glance from Enjolras he subsided.

"Now, while we hope that the Baroness's case does not come to trial, sadly it is becoming increasingly likely. At present her position is weakened by the fact that her son is missing and she refuses to say where he is. We appreciate that she is doing this to ensure his safety, but we are deeply concerned that if she were to be condemned for his murder, we must be able to produce him to disprove the charge."

Bahorel was pale. "You think that it could come to that?"

"Unfortunately, it may. Now, Enjolras has intimated to me that the child has been given to your keeping and that you have sent him to a safe address in England, known to none but yourself."

Bahorel's face became guarded. "That's correct, Monsieur."

Enjolras took up the story. "Bahorel, we wouldn't ask you this if things didn't look so bad for Cosette, but if things go as badly as we fear, it could be the difference between life and death for her. If Jean stays in England, and she's condemned and we can't produce him in time, she could go to the guillotine. God grant it won't come to that, but if it does, Jean would be left as an orphaned exile, probably lifelong. If he were to return to France, Théodule would get him. He might not even be safe in England. Now, Monsieur Laincourt has a safe house in France where Jean can be kept under protection, and we would produce him only to save Cosette's life. For Cosette's sake, help us all and send word to Jean's refuge in England to send him back to France, or if he hasn't left France yet, intercept him before he can leave. Her life and his may depend upon it."

There was a tense silence, then Bahorel's face dissolved into a big grin. He was about to speak, but put his finger to his lips, strolled to the door, closed and locked it, stuffed his handkerchief into the keyhole, and returned to his seat, still grinning.

"That isn't a problem, Messieurs," he said very softly. "He's in a monastery out at Champigny."

"Wha - ?" Enjolras felt as though the breath had been knocked from his body. "But you told Javert that he's in England!"

Bahorel winked. "Not a word of a lie. The monastery's front gate is in the Rue d'Angleterre."

"Why, you - "

"The monks run a school. Fleur took Jean there and entered him under the name of one of my innumerable cousins, another Jean. It's a good place and the monks are kind. A friend of ours has a son who's there. A lot of the boys are older than Jean, but there are a number of his age, orphans mostly. He's lost in a crowd. Nobody'll find him there."

Laincourt's grin matched Bahorel's. "I like your humour, Monsieur Bahorel. I believe that there is no need for my safe house after all. But this will remain between the three of us. Enjolras, you can tell your friends that Jean is returning to France, but not his location."

"Agreed, Monsieur," Enjolras said tensely. "Thank you, Bahorel. The Amis have a second request for you while you're in Paris, but that doesn't need Monsieur Laincourt's time. Monsieur, with your agreement I'll take Bahorel home and explain what we're asking of him, and then I'll return."

"By all means," Laincourt said urbanely. "I'll see you later, Enjolras. It's good to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Bahorel."

"What's all this?" Bahorel demanded as soon as they were in the street.

"Later. We don't want to discuss this in public."

Bahorel nodded his understanding and subsided, but was clearly bursting with curiosity until they arrived back at the shop, where they put up a Fermé sign, collected Éponine, and went upstairs, where Enjolras gave Bahorel a terse update on all other events since he had seen them last. Predictably, Bahorel's first offer was to go to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire and punch the living daylights out of Théodule, and the second, to head for the Préfecture and thrash Devolle. Enjolras firmly rejected both and explained the plan to rescue Cosette's maids.

"Of course I will, Chief, and of course Fleur and I will take care of them, and we'll give them jobs. We could do with some more help around the inn over the next few months, now she's expecting again. There's one problem, though. I don't know that area of Paris at all, and I could get lost. If they're in danger, I'll need to get them out and back to your shop as fast as I can in case Théodule or Mortaine is after them. I won't be able to hire a carriage in that part of town."

Éponine gave Enjolras a what-did-I-tell-you? look. "Well, I do have an idea for that."

Enjolras groaned and Bahorel looked hopeful. "What's that?"

"I'll come with you. Disguised as a boy, so that I won't be bothered by affectionate would-be customers. I know the way and can convince the ladies to come with us. They're more likely to trust you if you have a woman with you. You'll be our bodyguard, and you'll get us out without starting any fights. Especially as Javert has warned us that he's patrolling there later and doesn't want to have to arrest you."

Bahorel beamed. "Done."

Enjolras made a small, choking sound.

"What's wrong, Chief?"

"I don't want - "

Éponine gave him a murderous glare. Don't you dare tell him I'm pregnant without my permission.

"Don't want Éponine going into danger," he finished lamely.

"But, Chief, she's more streetwise than the rest of us Amis put together!" Bahorel protested. "She'll get us in and out of there as easy as kissing her hand. And you know I won't start fighting when I have her to look after."

Enjolras looked bleakly at the pair of them, Bahorel earnestly confident and Éponine blatantly triumphant.

She had him over a barrel.

"All right," he said between gritted teeth. "But if anything happens to her, you are a dead man."

-oO0Oo-

Enjolras stumped off back to Laincourt's office, cursing women in general and Éponine in particular, and she left Bahorel to wait a few minutes while she quickly prepared for their expedition. She still had her old brown trousers and overcoat, and of course her famous hat, all of which had been returned to her following her stay in hospital after she was shot at the barricade, and which she had washed clean of blood and kept in case she ever needed to disguise herself again. It was an easy matter to team them with a white blouse and a pair of black shoes which, peeping out from beneath the slightly too long trousers, resembled boots. She stuffed her hair under the hat and presented herself to Bahorel.

"Well, how do I look?"

"Just as you did at the barricade," he said admiringly. "Is that why Enjolras is so edgy about this?"

"Might be," she said guardedly. "Now I'm respectable, I don't think he likes me returning to my old haunts, even though my father and mother are long gone from there. And none of us likes remembering the barricade."

"No," he said fervently. "So, where exactly are we going?"

"The Gorbeau hovel. It's in the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Marcel."

"Which is where?"

"Close to the Barrière d'Italie. It's a long walk, but if we get a carriage we'll be too noticeable."

"Good Lord, that's almost out in the country."

"Yes, the building's very isolated. That's one reason why I'm worried about about those girls. Well, we'd best be off."

"Lead the way, Madame - er, Monsieur. If we're asked any questions, you'd better be my younger brother."

"Agreed."

Even though Éponine, accustomed to long hours walking the streets, set a stiff pace which Bahorel could easily match, it took them over two hours before they were heading down the Rue Mouffetard, past his old student haunts which he eyed wistfully as they walked, going on down past Saint-Médard and the great Manufacture des Gobelins, turning off at the Rue du Banquier and thence to the hulking building looming on the corner of the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Marcel and the Rue de L'Hôpital. The area seemed even more horrible than Éponine had remembered, and even the stalwart Bahorel felt uneasy. Already the short January day was dying, and it was essential that they persuade the maids to leave with them before darkness fell. For the first time, he wondered what they would do if the maids were out, perhaps seeking work. Waiting in this desolate place for them to return would be unthinkable.

Éponine knocked on the door with a firm hand, and after a short wait an old woman answered.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"We're looking for Mademoiselle Marianne Mégant," she said gruffly. "We're her brothers."

The woman opened the door, let them in, and jerked her head towards the corridor. "Room at the end. On the right. Hope you've brought the money for their rent."

"Dear God," Éponine muttered as they walked along the corridor. "The room where we used to live. Where Pa kidnapped Cosette's father. Marius alerted Javert and the police came to the rescue. Marius lived next door." She wiped a tear away.

Motioning to Bahorel to stand back, she tapped at the door. To the great relief of both, they heard movement within, but nobody answered.

She tapped again. "Mesdemoiselles? May I request a few moments' speech with you?"

They heard a muttered consultation within. The door opened a crack, and a frightened female voice asked, "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Am I addressing Mademoiselle Rose Lorme or Mademoiselle Marianne Mégant?"

"W-who wants to know?

"I come from Nicolette."

The door opened wider to reveal a young, pretty face, gaunt with fear, framed by dark hair. Éponine recognised her from Feuilly's drawing of Rose.

"I'm Rose Lorme. What do you want?"

Éponine handed her the letter which Nicolette had given to Enjolras. "This proves that you can trust me. Will you allow me to enter, please?"

A fair-haired girl, whom Éponine identified as Marianne, joined Rose and they read the letter together. Rose muttered, "That's her handwriting." She looked up at Éponine. "Why has she sent you?"

"Please let me in, and I can explain."

The girls exchanged glances and opened the door wide enough to admit Éponine, who slid inside, leaving Bahorel to stand guard in the corridor.

The room was even more awful than she remembered. The only furniture it contained were two pestiferous mattresses, a rickety chair and a table. A couple of bags, plainly containing the girls' scanty personal belongings, stood to one side. Both girls were respectably dressed - Éponine felt overwhelming relief that she had found them before they were driven to prostitution - but their faces were sharp with hunger and terror. A morsel of half-finished fancy work on the table proclaimed their feeble efforts to earn a living in this hideous environment.

"Who are you and why did Nicolette send you?" Rose repeated.

To their astonishment, Éponine removed her cap, and her luxuriant hair tumbled over her shoulders. "Please excuse my disguise, it's safer in this part of town. I should know, I once lived with my family in this very room. My name is Éponine Enjolras. My husband, Léon, and I were two of the Baron Pontmercy's very dearest friends. You won't have heard of us before because we fought with him on the barricade in '32, and after that Léon was proscribed and we had to lie low for a long time until he received a pardon. He is now working as assistant to the Baroness's defence lawyer. He had occasion to speak to Nicolette yesterday and she told him of your plight. I have with me a companion who, like Léon and I, belongs to an association of the Baroness's friends who are working to clear her name. He is waiting outside. May I admit him, please?"

The girls exchanged a startled glance. "The Baroness? How is she?" Marianne asked. "And Monsieur Jean?"

"She has been arrested and lies in the Conciergerie. She is suspected of murdering the Baron and her son, and we dread that she may be charged and face trial," Éponine said gravely. Marianne put her hand to her mouth with a sob. "Jean is in hiding. She needs all the help we can give her, including yours, and we wish to help all those who are dear to her. Which is why my companion and I want to take you away from this awful place. May he come in?"

Again the two girls exchanged glances and Rose nodded. Éponine opened the door.

"Bahorel?"

As he lumbered in, the sheer size of him seemed to dwarf the mean little room, and Marianne took a step backward. Éponine reflected that she had been right to think that the girls would find him intimidating.

"Mesdemoiselles." He removed his cap with a gallant sweep. "Happy to meet you. My name is Marc-Antoine Bahorel, and the late Baron was one of the dearest friends I ever had. He and I fought together in the Revolution of '32. Now I run an inn in Ménilmontant. A very respectable inn, mind, no funny business. My wife's expecting for the third time, and we need some help over the next few months. Someone to mind our children and someone to organise the linen, make beds and keep the rooms clean. The jobs are yours if you want them. Room and board."

The girls looked as though they had been offered a winning lottery ticket. "But why would you do this for us?" Rose asked. "Why should we trust you? And what would you want from us in return?"

"We are doing this because the Baroness is dear to us, and you are dear to her," Éponine said gently. "We hope that you can trust us because Nicolette does. All we ask in return is that you give us any information you have which may help us to clear the Baroness's name and find the Baron's true murderer."

"And we'll pay your rent bill to that harpy at the door," Bahorel added.

The reminders of Marius's murder seemed to decide the girls. One more exchanged glance, and they seized their bags, swept their belongings into them, and grabbed their bonnets and shawls. Satisfied, Éponine stuffed her hair back beneath her hat.

"Let's be off."

She and Bahorel hurried the girls along the corridor between them. At the front door, Bahorel airily informed the old woman, "You'll be wanting new tenants for the end room. What's the outstanding rent?"

"Thirty francs. Quarter's rent in advance. No discount for leaving early."

"Fine." Bahorel slapped the money down on her counter and she grudgingly opened the door.

They hurried along the Rue du Petit-Banquier and the Rue Mouffetard with Bahorel on one side of the girls, his pocket pistol out and ready, and Éponine on the other. Both were constantly on edge in case a murderous figure lurked in the shadows. Éponine, her senses honed by her years on the streets, could not shake off the feeling that someone was behind them.

Following them, or only an innocent passer-by?

She dared not turn around to look. If it was Théodule or Mortaine, or some hireling of theirs, then allowing them to know that they had been spotted could be fatal. Bahorel, lacking her street instincts, could tell that something was troubling her, but had the sense not to ask what it was.

As they passed the Manufacture des Gobelins, a small side door opened and a worker staggered out, obviously half-cut, though whether on drink or on the fumes from the dyes used in the yarns to weave the tapestries it was not possible to tell. Spotting the group, he reeled over to them.

"My, you're pretty, Mademoiselle," he slurred, reaching out to the terrified Marianne. "How much for this evening?"

Bahorel batted his hand away and towered over him. "Paws off. My brother and I have got these two for tonight."

The man cowered before him. "Oh, er, sorry, Monsieur, didn't see you there..."

"You have now," Bahorel informed him. "Clear off."

Éponine held her breath. If the man was feeling belligerent and Bahorel got into a fight, there was no knowing what might happen. But just then another man, evidently a foreman, appeared in the doorway and called out sharply, "Olivier! Back in here, you drunken bastard. Your shift doesn't end for an hour yet."

"Sorry, Monsieur." The man fled inside and the foreman slammed the door.

Marianne was trembling so much that the group had to halt for a moment, during which a neatly dressed woman brushed past them from behind. Éponine sighed with relief at the realisation that this was the person whom she had feared had been tailing them.

Bahorel, looking grim, gave Marianne his arm. "Can you walk now, Mademoiselle?"

Marianne nodded bravely and they moved on.

When they reached the junction with the Rue des Couronnes, Bahorel spotted a carriage, the first they had seen, and instantly hired it. All four fairly collapsed into it, their nerves in shreds, as it moved off. Thinking it over as they drove back to the shop, Éponine judged it unlikely that anyone had been watching or following them. If they had been followed, the incident outside the Gobelins would have been a perfect opportunity to seize the girls or pick them off from a safe distance.

On arrival at the shop, Bahorel paid the driver and headed back to the Rue Saint Honoré to find Enjolras. Éponine took the girls upstairs, urged them to rest and wash while awaiting Enjolras's return, changed back into her usual clothes, and returned downstairs to reopen the shop. She had to hope that she had not missed too many customers during her absence.

-oO0Oo-

Meanwhile, on returning to Laincourt's office, Enjolras found that his master was out and had left a note telling him to spend the afternoon getting the case papers organised and making fair copies of everything that existed only in note form, to ensure that everything was in good order if they had to attend a hearing at short notice. He would have preferred to spend the time visiting Cosette, both to keep her spirits up and to give her the items he had retrieved from her home, but he recognised the need to keep Laincourt well briefed, especially as he himself would not be able to appear in court.

He was working away when Bahorel arrived to tell him of the success of the rescue mission.

"All well, Chief. I left Éponine and those two poor girls at the shop. They've accepted my offer of a home and a job with Fleur and me, but I won't take them until you've had a chance to talk to them."

"And Éponine's all right?" he asked anxiously.

Bahorel looked at him oddly. "Oh, yes, she's fine. I think she enjoyed a few hours of romping around in trousers again. Do you worry too much about her, Chief?"

Enjolras gritted his teeth in frustration. "It's been a long time since she had to be so streetwise. I don't want her to be caught out."

"Of course not, but she's fine. When will you be able to talk to the girls? They both seem fine, apart from being scared, tired and hungry."

"Better not bring them here in case Monsieur Laincourt comes back. He can't meet them in case he needs to call them as witnesses. When I leave here I have to meet Nicolette. I'll be home around eight o'clock, and the Amis meet at nine. Can you stay for the meeting?"

"Glad to. I can take the girls back to the inn by the late coach after the meeting." Bahorel glanced at the paper-strewn desk. "Looks like you have your work cut out. I'll leave you to it. I'll go and bother Feuilly for a few hours, maybe take him out for a drink or a meal. I'll see you at nine, Chief."

-oO0Oo-

Knowing that his patrol would start at midday, Javert made a point of arriving at the Préfecture a full three hours earlier to carry out his research for the Amis. On his way there, he stopped a passing newsboy and bought a copy of the morning's edition of Le P'tit Oiseau. As soon as he took the sheet from the boy, he felt as though his hands were dirty. His intention in buying it was to see whether it might give an address for the printer, but the space at the foot of the back page, where the address would normally appear, was blank. Only then did he turn to the front page, where the headline screamed in his face.

THE MURDERING BARONESS: A SECRET LOVER?

Your Editor has gained intelligence that the motive for the murder of the Baron Pontmercy and his young son may have been a desire on the part of the Baroness to enjoy freedom and fortune without the human shackle of a sickly husband who could not satisfy her...

His stomach lurched into his mouth and flopped back again. A red mist gathered before his eyes until he could barely see. Slowly, deliberately, he folded the paper, slipped it within his inside pocket, and went on his way. For at least a minute, he was walking blind.

At the Préfecture, a check of the records proved that the police had no criminal record on file for the muck-raking editor François Hervé, which, he reflected, was hardly surprising if it were a pen name. The man seemed to have liberty to publish what he wanted, because he could not be found. However, Javert did find a useful file of complaints received regarding libellous statements made in Le P'tit Oiseau, none of which had gone any further because the paper had no editorial address, which made it technically impossible to serve injunctions to prevent publication.

Among the items on the file was a list by some diligent junior Inspector of all the complaints received, in chronological order. The complaints had begun the previous June. Javert recalled Enjolras saying that the paper had only recently commenced publication.

Also on the file were several copies of the paper, with the libellous items marked. Javert scanned the pages, not for the gossip, but to see whether they might yield any clue as to Hervé's identity and location. He needed to find out why this unknown man was so determined to blacken Cosette's name by any means possible, however sordid. Was it just to increase the paper's circulation, or was there some other reason? He recalled Enjolras's description of Théodule's threat that further scandalous details about Cosette would be made public. Would it be through this filthy newspaper, or by some other means? Was Théodule paying Hervé to publish this muck?

Forcing himself to remain calm, Javert read through the news items. They were all related to people in Paris, mostly in the middle or lower echelons of society, who were sufficiently prominent to attract public attention but did not belong to the higher nobility or royalty: Hervé evidently had enough sense not to annoy them. It appeared likely, therefore, that Hervé was located in Paris himself, and moved within, or on the fringes of, minor society circles. So far as Javert could see, none of the items on file which had attracted complaints related to police investigations or court cases which were ongoing at the time of publication. That surely meant that Hervé was sticking his neck out in publishing his allegations about Cosette during the investigation. Was that because he was becoming increasingly confident about evading prosecution, or because he had some other motive for defaming her, such as a handsome payment from Théodule?

Then Javert struck gold. At the foot of the back page of an issue just over two months old, there was a printer's address. 24, Rue Meslay. All the other copies, including the one he had just bought, omitted this important detail, presumably to prevent the tracing of anyone connected with the paper. Perhaps a typesetter new to the company had included this information, which would normally be a standard requirement for any newspaper, and some copies had been circulated for sale before the error had been discovered. Javert could not imagine why the police had not picked it up at the time. Jubilant, he appropriated the paper and copied the address into his notebook. It was possible that the printer had since moved to another address to avoid detection, but even so, it was a start. A check of a register of businesses confirmed that the printers' was one of six owned by a company in the Rue Chantereine.

He checked his pocket watch. Ten o'clock. He was due to go out on patrol in two hours, but what he had just found might be enough for him to persuade his superiors to let him investigate this further. He assembled the relevant papers and approached the office of Monsieur Gabriel Delessert, the Prefect of all Paris. Delessert was Gisquet's successor and had only been in post for four months. He and Javert did not yet know each other well, but Javert knew that the man had an unimpeachable reputation for integrity and honesty. He tapped at the door.

"Who's that?"

"Inspector Javert, Monsieur Le Préfet. Might I request five minutes of your time?"

"Yes, Javert, if you must."

Javert entered and closed the door. "Please pardon the interruption, Monsieur Le Préfet, but I thought I should draw to your attention the fact that I have discovered what appears to be an attempt by the popular press to pervert the course of justice."

"That could be serious. What are the details?"

Javert produced the morning's edition of Le P'tit Oiseau. "This morning, in error a newsboy handed me a copy of this scandal sheet instead of my usual copy of the Moniteur. I noted that its leading article contains allegations relating to the Pontmercy case, which is at present under investigation and no charges have yet been brought." He laid the paper in front of Delessert with an air of distaste. "You will note, Monsieur Le Préfet, that the writer of this article spurns serious reportage of the case in favour of gossip, speculation and slander for which even its writer owns that there is no proof. It appears to me to be a blatant attempt to influence public opinion by pre-judging the conclusions of the police investigation.

"Now, Monsieur Le Préfet, this appeared to me to be sufficiently serious to warrant a few minutes' study of the file devoted to previous complaints made against this scandal sheet. None of them relate to current police investigations, and it therefore appears that this is the first time that the editor has been so daring as to challenge the police. A common theme is that the paper bears no editorial or printer's address, that the editor's given name appears to be a pen-name only, and that it has therefore been impossible to investigate or press charges. However, I have found in the file one copy of the paper which does bear a printer's address, possibly added in error." He laid it on the Prefect's desk, on top of the morning's paper. "I venture to suggest, Monsieur Le Préfet, that the opportunity should be taken to investigate, in the hope of identifying the editor and ensuring that no further police investigations are challenged in this way."

He held his breath while Delessert considered his words in silence. If Delessert considered Hervé's words to be legitimate reportage, then it might be drawn to Devolle's attention, which could make Cosette's position even worse. But if he accepted Javert's representations, it could be a means to spike Hervé's guns once and for all.

"I agree with you, Javert," Delessert said at last. "We can't have anonymous scandal-mongers swaying public opinion like this over police investigations, feeling able to say what they like because they don't have the courage to publish their address. I don't know how things are going with the investigation into the Pontmercy case, but if it comes to court, goodbye to impartiality. The public will have sent the woman to the guillotine before the court even convenes. Let me see, Pontmercy... That's Inspector Devolle's case, isn't it?"

Javert carefully kept his face expressionless. "That is correct, Monsieur le Préfet."

"He'll have his hands full with that, then. Better not have him chasing after elusive editors as well, it'll distract him." Javert managed to bite back a comment that it didn't take much to distract Devolle. "As you've carried out such excellent research, Inspector, this is your case."

Javert dipped his head slightly. "Thank you, Monsieur Le Préfet. I should point out that I have a patrol at midday - "

"Oh, Inspector Paré can take that. You go and find this insolent editor."

Javert stood to attention. "Gladly, Monsieur Le Préfet."

TBC