A/N: Thanks for reading! Here we go with some more plot, more prisoners, and more frightening happenings in the street

Chapter 5: Of Old Haunts

The last time Gavroche had been in the vicinity of La Force prison he had been shimmying up a flue just to carry a rope to a man perched on the wall. 'The old gent only had crumbs for thanks though,' he recalled wryly as he wound his scarf more tightly around his neck. He could still see before him his father's sharp, leering visage; the sight had only inspired surprise in him that night and stilled all familiar greetings. He whistled as he looked around the prison courtyard, which was empty owing to the chill in the weather; only a few inmates looked out from behind shutters or spat at him as they trudged along high walkways. From where he stood he could just catch sight of the precarious passageway and the narrow awning where his father would have been trapped if not for Gavroche's ability to scale a wall, all the while remaining unseen. Now under the broad daylight that narrow pass in the wall seemed nigh impossible to him, even if he got rid of his shirt, his pantaloons, and his shoes.

"Detective Thenardier, the prisoner will see you now," a warden called to him. He gave Gavroche an ingratiating smile as the latter approached. "You might see that we've been making renovations to the facilities, especially the New Building." He gestured to a tall edifice that was starting to turn gray despite a recent coat of whitewash. "We have reinforced the walls with steel, so now we have nothing to fear from escape attempts."

"Maybe someone should invent a wall against mutterings," Gavroche remarked as he followed the warden up a winding wooden staircase that led to a sort of mezzanine that looked out onto the yard. At the far end of this room, away from the window, sat a man with his wrists manacled before him. He was bareheaded and clad in a blue woollen smock and rough trousers. His lean face would have had an intelligent, philosophical mien in another light, but only appeared surly in the dim lamplight.

The prisoner looked up quickly but his surprised expression soon turned querulous. "Only you'd come visiting like this, little Thenardier," he said softly. "What has the Prefecture sent you here for?"

"Just for some questions," Gavroche replied as he stood in front of Brujon. Up close the contrast between this man and the tall prowler in Gavroche's memory only seemed more ludicrous until he saw the menace in Brujon's face. He cracked his knuckles before speaking again. "I'm also here because of your boy, Jean. He almost got picked off."

The older Brujon bolted to his feet. "My Jean? What is he doing in Paris?" He scowled at the rattling of the manacles on his arms. "I asked his mother to bring him away from here, in my last-" He trailed off before shaking his head. "No, I am not telling you."

"You sent a postillon," Gavroche said. "I still remember that trick of course. We have our own version of it out in the air."

Brujon laughed humourlessly. "Hasn't your family done enough? Your father doesn't know the business; all he does is make himself fat in high places. And your sisters!" He rattled the manacles again. "If Eponine had kept her mouth shut, then I wouldn't be in this hole again!"

'She wasn't the only one who sang,' Gavroche thought even as he stood his ground. He could still recall all too well how many a job ended with those who were caught pointing fingers at the others scampering away. "If you sent her a postillon I'm sure she'd be happy to reply," he said with a grin.

Brujon snorted. "Like a lady would. She did it for the little brats, the Magnon boys-or rather your father's boys. The bigger one is a dead ringer for him."

Gavroche fought to keep a straight face at the mention of this old secret now rendered useless by time. "I hope it ends there, for the sake of his mug."

"Still the same cheeky imp," Brujon said bemusedly. "That famous Thenardier tongue, gone fine no doubt from living with such grand folk. I think you could talk old Delessert into giving me something more than this yard to trot in?"

'It's not your place to make promises,' Gavroche reminded himself even as he shrugged. . "I'm only a flea in the Prefect's ear, but I can bite whoever has been picking off people like Mangedentelle, Babet, and the Changer." He saw Brujon pale at the mention of these names, only to shake his head. "Someone else sang, which was why you tried sending the postillon."

"No one sang. There was no need to," Brujon retorted. "You're not the first person to go poking about here, asking me to hand over my old comrades."

The word 'comrades' had Gavroche smiling wistfully, if only for the other contexts he'd once heard it in. "If you have them in hand-my hand, I could get the postillons to them, and ask them to remove," he suggested. "The old arrangement."

"What, you?"

"I don't charge for post."

Brujon chewed on the inside of his cheek. "You're lucky it's me here; Panchaud would knock you flat, and I can imagine what the Magnons would gladly do to your innards," he growled. "The young chief, Montparnasse, is still alive?"

"He's well kept."

Brujon picked at the chain that held his manacles together. "The last person whose postillon came through was Boulatruelle. He has an address at the Barriere de la Villette. Glorieux may still be at the area of the Temple; I do not need to tell you how to get there," he said in a low voice. "Fauntleroy and Barrecrosse are still about; Barrecrosse has friends at the Barrier du Maine."

"What about the others?"

"Do you think I'd be sitting here if I knew?"

Gavroche snorted at this sudden indignant outburst. "Depends what's picked them first. Should I pass on a message to Jean?"

Brujon was quiet for a few long moments. "He should keep his head low-and not send a postillon back here," he said in a gravelly tone. He pressed his manacled hands to his lips and whistled. "That is all you can press out of me, Thenardier."

The detective clucked his tongue, even if he knew that the interview was already over. He nodded to the warden who was watching as four guards walked Brujon out of the room. "What of the other inmates in his gang?" Gavroche asked.

The warden shook his head. "Gueueleumer is in infirmary, Panchaud knows nothing he says. Magnon will always be in solitary."

"Well I'll come around knocking then," Gavroche replied as he donned his hat again and turned to leave. He blinked as he stepped back out into the sunlit street, just in time to hear the distant tolling of the bells at the Church of St. Etienne. "Why it's only three in the afternoon; there is still time for a detour!" he said to himself. He whistled a ditty as he set his feet towards the Rue Saint Louis, where he soon found an omnibus headed for the neighbourhood of the Temple.

The environs of the Temple were a far cry from the shadowy lair that Gavroche had known in his childhood; the various agencies of public works had torn down many of the old meeting places and caches favoured by the unscrupulous. However these developments had failed to abolish the bazaar of second-hand goods, such that the area from the Boulevard du Temple all the way up to the gate of Les Madelonntes was rife with nooks and crannies housing dealers and hawkers of all sorts. Gavroche made sure to button his coat over his insignia before alighting from the omnibus and walking down to the cracked edifice that gave the fauborg its name.

Despite his keeping his head low, some of the vendors only nodded to him, others hurriedly walked past him, while a few watched him warily from stairways and windows. At last a man with a face marred by pockmarks hissed at Gavroche. "I've got pinchers for you, young man." He ambled off a stoop and tugged on Gavroche's arm. "Or do you call them lingres?"

"Are they better than toad-stickers?" Gavroche asked, raising the brim of his hat.

The hawker burst out laughing. "The very best-and fine enough to give the bobbies a run at the very sight of them!"

Suddenly a yell followed the telltale footsteps and blows a of a scuffle came from a nearby house. "Don't let this murderer get away!" an old woman screeched as she grabbed the arm of a bedraggled man who was trying to flee into an alley.

"I told you I didn't do it! Where did you get-" this man roared before six other toughs rushed up, wrestling him away from the old woman's grip and pinning him up against a wall. "Someone help me!"

Gavroche sprinted to this scene and pulled one of the burly men off his victim. "What's the ruckus all about now?"

"What are you, one of the police?" another one of these men sneered as he shoved Gavroche away. "Can't you see this fellow is a murderer?"

Gavroche shoved his way forward once more to get a look at the beleaguered man's face. Despite the bruises and scratches marring this visage he had a good view of terrified grey eyes and a once-broken nose, features that were still somewhat familiar to him. "What are they squawking about now, Glorieux?" he asked.

The battered man started at this old monicker. "Who of you called me that?"

"I did. That name is hard to shake," Gavroche replied. 'A man who's survived La Force too, only to come to this?' he wondered as he surveyed this unfortunate. His dark hair was long and unwashed, his face was haggard and pale, as if sleep had deserted him, and his blouse was torn in some places. Altogether he was the picture of misery, but of the sort brought about by flight as opposed to privations.

Glorieux's eyes widened with recognition. "You're the tapissier's boy!" He clutched at Gavroche's knees. "You know me, don't you? You know I could never kill a man, or lady! You have to get them to believe me or I'll be killed."

"Liar! That lady lying in there!" the old woman on the porch screamed. "She begged and you did for her, you monster!"

Glorieux swore and lunged at her, but he was held fast by the other bystanders. "I'd rather that he had done for me instead, and you know it!"

By this time Gavroche saw another patrolling officer approaching this scene, so he saluted this newcomer before slipping into the darkened house. Almost instantly he caught a whiff of the metallic tang of blood, leading him to a woman lying motionless in a far off corner behind a broken chair. On closer inspection he realized that the dead woman had clasped a bundle to her breast, as if trying to shield it from some blow. Gavroche dropped to his knees to get a better look, only to have his fingers come away stained with red when he shifted the blankets wrapping up the child. "Mamselle Miss and a mome?' he thought with disbelief as he looked at the woman, noting the wide brow, button nose, and long chin that were somewhat evident too in the child's face.

A draft of wind coursed through the room, calling his attention to a wooden staircase a few paces off. Gavroche quietly tiptoed upstairs and found himself in a chamber furnished solely with two mattresses and a chest that doubled as a sort of desk, judging by the papers and wax still scattered on the top. He ventured to this desk and found among the blank leaves a paper covered with a scrawl in English, clearly set out to dry. 'Glorieux could not write,' he told himself as he stashed the note in his waistcoat pocket before heading back outside.

"No one is alive," he told the constable who had collared Glorieux. "We're too late."

Glorieux looked down despondently. "I already knew that. I was getting help, believe me."

"Then you will have it," Gavroche said, meeting this man's gaze. "Somehow-but you have to go with them. You understand?"

"I'm not getting arrested again!" Glorieux howled. "Don't bring me back to La Force!"

'He might be safer there.' Gavroche thought even as he nodded to his fellow constable. "Bring him in. The senior inspectors will question him," he said quickly.

Glorieux's eyes went wide with disbelief. "You-I thought you would help-you brat, you cheat-"

"Keep him quiet, he might wake the neighbourhood," Gavroche added. 'For all I know whoever did this might still be about,' he realized as he led a now weeping Glorieux off to a fiacre. However instead of getting in he merely clapped the apprehending constable on the arm. "I'll be there after another errand. They can have the first course without me," he instructed. Much to his relief the other policeman did not ask any questions but merely ordered the fiacre driver to hurry to the Rue de Pontoise. He waited only a moment before he crossed the street in order to catch an omnibus that would take him back down the Rue du Temple, towards the Hotel de Ville and the Pont d'Arcole. From here he had to walk across the Ile du Palais and cross at the Pont Saint Michel. From here he caught another omnibus that brought him towards the Rue du Four, and eventually the neighbourhood of the Marche Saint Germain.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen by the time he caught sight of the ninth house at the Rue Guisarde. He was fairly certain that by now he could have found his way here even blindfolded, all the way to letting himself past the iron gate. He walked up to the house, banged the heavy knocker twice and then took a deep breath as the door opened a crack. "I'm here for the food," he greeted.

"Too bad, I've raided the cupboards first!" his youngest brother Jacques replied as he pounded Gavroche's hand with his fist. "What's brought you here?"

"I need to speak with Ponine about something," Gavroche replied. He smirked as he looked his sibling over, taking in the sight of sleeves and trouser hems that had obviously just been let out. "What's this, you've grown into a reed?"

"I could see over everything now and you know it!" Jacques retorted as he drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders.

"Yes, and you'll trip over your plodders just yet," Gavroche said, pointing to Jacques' still oversized feet.

Jacques stuck out his tongue. "It only means I have some way to go. Tell him that, Neville," he said, looking now to another boy seated on the stairs, quite failing to hide his grin behind the heavy book on his lap.

Neville clucked his tongue as he rested his elbows on the tome. "Seeing over things doesn't mean knowing how to poke into them properly," he said sagely.

Jacques glared at him. "I don't have to go standing on books to reach things!"

"I know how to make a ladder to fix that problem," Neville retorted.

"Oh is that so?" Eponine chimed in rather crossly from the study, from where she soon emerged carrying her youngest child Etienne. "Now that you three are so tall I don't have to reach that far to pinch you all by your ears!"

Gavroche merely shrugged while Neville and Jacques groaned. "I'm here for the food, Ponine," he greeted. "You feed these momes too much."

"Is that so?" Eponine asked as she continued to bounce a still restless Etienne in her arms. She sighed as the baby whimpered and squirmed further into the crook of her elbow. "There, there, you've just had a long day, Tienne," she crooned.

Gavroche lowered his eyes, unable to look at his sister now that the memory of that dark room at the Temple threatened to swallow his vision. It was just as well that he felt a sharp tug on his coattails. "Hello there Julien," he greeted his oldest nephew.

Julien hugged Gavroche around his legs. "You're home! You eat here?"

Gavroche felt a lump rise in his throat at the mention of the word 'home'. 'Just say it, and of course you can move back here in a heartbeat,' he thought. Yet there was a very important reason aside from convenience that had him stilling this idea on his lips. "I'm only visiting," he said as he crouched to look at the little boy. "I just need to ask your Maman about something."

"You're asking me and not Antoine?" Eponine teased.

"With Laure on his hands all day, he's bound to have enough of questions," Gavroche drawled. "Besides it's something to do with words."

"Oh. I s'pose you should give me a minute though," Eponine replied before rubbing little Etienne's back to soothe him. The youngster let out a burp before snuggling more contentedly against his mother. "That was all you needed, hmm?"

Julien tugged on Eponine's hand. "Maman, I'm hungry."

"I'll get started with dinner soon too-but you may have just one bit of candied peel in the jar if you like," Eponine said. She chuckled as Julien scooted off to the kitchen, followed shortly by Jacques and Neville. "My mother in law sent too much of those. Antoine has been getting rid of them by giving them away to his colleagues."

Gavroche snickered at the mental image of Enjolras trying to palm off candied citrons onto a gruff lawyer. He followed Eponine into the study room and took a seat as she settled Etienne into a large wicker basket cushioned by several quilts. "It's about an English rag I found," he explained as Eponine pulled up her usual chair to her desk.

"You could have sent it to the office at the Rue des Macons or to another translator."

"It's not ordinary business, Ponine."

The young woman cautiously took the letter that Gavroche handed over and spread the missive out onto the tabletop. "It's to someone in Dover, asking for-what is this?" She frowned as she looked up from the letter. "Where did you get it?"

"A house" Gavroche said as he put his hands on his lap.

"What sort of house?" Eponine demanded. She read through more of the missive and as she did so her dark eyes narrowed. "I know this postillon. Mamselle Miss. She's gone, isn't she? She would never have given you this letter otherwise."

"She and her little boy, with Glorieux."

"You don't mean-"

"He didn't kill her," Gavroche finished. "He told me as much and I remember something of him."

"So you're trying to prove him innocent...no, I know you, Gavroche, and it's never as simple as that," Eponine said. She bit her lip as she patted the paper again. "It's a terrible letter, but I s'pose you should know it. Everything all makes sense now-Mangedentelle, Babet, the Changer, Montparnasse and why there was some pinching."

"What do you mean?" Gavroche asked.

"I'll read it out to you straight," Eponine said as she picked up the letter. 'My dear friend, I thank you for replying so quickly in my hour of need. Paris, as lovely as a city as it always been, has now become untenable. Glorieux-I will name him soon enough, I promise-wants nothing more than to spirit me and the boy to safety at the soonest possible time. We will not bring anyone else with us, for it is too dangerous. Nevertheless I am so grieved that I must leave so many friends behind at the mercy of this murderer. What grudge he holds, I am not sure, but I fear he is killing us all for merely existing. The only tie that binds us is that of a past I have long left behind. How it has come to light, I do not know."

"I will arrange that we will be at Calais by the end of the week. Please keep this matter away from your constables; I fear that this assassin has friends in high places and will stop at nothing to extract those who have escaped to your friendly shore."

"Your suffering friend

Victoria Hastings"

Eponine's eyes were serious as she folded up the letter. "Where is Glorieux?"

"In hand, at the Prefecture."

"Keep him there. He might be the only man you have to help you."

Gavroche got to his feet as he pocketed the missive. "You'd better keep your eyes open too, Ponine. He has a long hand."

"And I know my way about," Eponine replied. "You'd better run back to the Prefecture straight away. I'm sure Bahorel, or someone else, will be missing you."