Thank you to all who are taking the time to follow this story and leave comments; it is so encouraging. (Right now, I should be doing so many other things ... ) Apologies for any typos that might creep through the proof reading as I hurry to upload this chapter. Not sure when the next one might arrive though.
Aramis and Porthos head to the Chatelet to interview Bircann's prison guard.
29 DAYS EARLIER
ARAMIS
"I hate this place," I mutter, as we arrive at the entrance to the Chatelet.
"You're not supposed to like it," Porthos mumbles as he pounds on one of the huge doors with a clenched fist. I think he's venting his anger at how things have gone – or not – in the past seven days. We are no closer to finding Athos now than we were that first day. A man cannot disappear without any trace; he just can't.
We hear a bolt slide back and the key turn the lock of the smaller wicket gate before it is opened by the gate keeper. It allows quicker and easier access than opening the vast double doors. One glance at our pauldrons and he stands to one side for us to enter through the narrow doorway.
"How can I help the King's Musketeers?" the man asks. Porthos scowls. Or is that just the one expression he wears these days? I shoot him a warning look to stay calm and focused for I detect no implied sarcasm in the man's question.
"Our Captain has sent us to speak with the chief gaoler on duty for the Cardinal's prisoner," I explain.
The man shrugs. "There's more than one so who do you mean? When were you last here?"
Porthos and I look at each other, both of us trying to work out how long it has been since we accompanied the Captain to see Bircann now it seems that all the days roll into each other and become one.
"Six days," Porthos arrives at the answer first. "It was six days." He cannot mask the pain in his voice as he realises just how much time has elapsed since our last visit. It is a surprise to me too.
The man shrugs again, the gesture fast becoming irksome. "I don't know who was there yesterday, let alone last week."
Porthos takes a deep breath as he exerts monumental self-control. I imagine him on the verge of shaking the gatekeeper almost senseless as he tries to extract the relevant information. There are already several dented pewter plates and cups back at the garrison where they have flown across a room as the frustration threatens to get the better of him.
"You can't mistake 'im," he offers helpfully. "Looks in his late fifties but could be older … or younger," he adds. Being in the Chatelet is not kind to either guard or prisoner. "Long, straggly 'air; bad eyesight, dirty clothes and stinks of sweat an' the prison."
I mouth a silent 'oh' in case the gate keeper takes offence at the description but he chuckles instead.
"That could apply to almost anyone in 'ere but I think you're meanin' Odart Gondy. He's been in charge of the 'special' visitor. You know, the one none of us is supposed to know about but we all do. We saw 'im brought in by your lot. Full of airs an' graces, he 'is, an' makin' demands. Word is he'd better make the most of it on account of losin' 'is head before too long."
"Word travels fast," Porthos comments, rolling his eyes.
"Can you take us to this Gondy, please?" I ask as nicely as possible and adopt some sort of smile. I don't want to appear over friendly.
"No."
"I'm sorry?" I ask, stunned by his abrupt refusal.
"'E's not 'ere today. Come to think of it, I've not seen 'im for a couple of days now an' that's unusual. But I tell you what I'll do. I'll take you to speak to Ferel; he's in that part of the prison today," and he walked off, obviously expecting us to follow him.
As he leads us, he talks non-stop, telling us what he's heard about the 'special' prisoner and there is no mistaking that he refers to Bircann.
"Where did you hear all this?" I ask casually, thinking that I probably know the answer.
The man chuckles. "Give Gondy a drink an' he'd talk the Devil to death, if he weren't already not of this world of course," and he laughs out loud at his own comment before he stops suddenly and rounds on us. "Is he dead? The devil I mean?"
Porthos indicates me to answer; he always does when something is related to spiritual matters.
"I would not say he has ever been alive in the way that you or I would understand it. Not in a human sense," I offer and am relieved that he does not appear to want to launch into an extended theological debate. He merely gives yet another shrug and resumes walking. His penchant for shrugging, I decide, must be the visual extension of his limited vocabulary; different meanings implied by the same gesture. The latest must be a form of 'whatever you say.'
I am not really listening as he drones on, but I am pleased to discover that Porthos is paying attention.
"Say that again," he insists.
That damned shrug once more! This one must mean that he does not know the significance of what has just come out of his mouth, whatever it was, and I wish that I had not filtered out his inane waffle. It was clearly not as inane as I thought but my mind wanders so easily these days as I think of what might be happening to our brother.
"Oh, just that this 'guest' must be mighty popular with all his visitors," the gatekeeper continues.
"An' what visitors might they be?" Porthos is trying to sound less like the inquisitor and more like someone whose interest has just been vaguely piqued.
"Well, there's you lot for a start. Then there's the Cardinal's men who've come to ask their questions an' then the Cardinal 'imself in the past few days."
Porthos and I exchange glances and try not to get our hopes up too soon.
"How many of the Cardinal's men and when?" I press.
He slows and is frowning as he deliberates. "Two or three of 'em together in the past few days, once they started askin' their questions." He laughs aloud. "'An we all know how they're askin' their questions."
We've crossed a courtyard to another part of the Chatelet and he holds open a door for us. "'An then there was the other gentleman who came on his own."
I stop abruptly in the open doorway and Porthos cannons into me.
"What other man?"
He looks uncertainly from one to the other of us, no doubt wondering if he has said something wrong.
"What other man?" Porthos repeats my words as he looms over the gate keeper who is caught between the pair of us.
"The one who came shortly after the prisoner arrived. Twice he came," the man's voice falters.
"You saw him? When did he come? Did he give you a name? What did he look like?" I fire the questions at him.
Porthos rests a big hand on the gate keeper's shoulder and pats it comfortingly whilst he graces me with a look of reproach.
"Aramis, slow down. Give this hard-working man of Paris time to think. You sound like you're interrogatin' him. He's not the guilty one here an' 'e doesn't deserve it, not when he's bein' so 'elpful to us an' all."
He beams down at the shorter man who initially cowered in his shadow, but now straightens his back and grins up at him, as though he has made a new, life-long friend.
I cover my heart with a hand and incline my head in humility. "My apologies, my good man. I don't know what possessed me."
"Accepted," the gate keeper replies and rushes on, eager to please us. "'E never gave a name. Just claimed 'e was here on the Cardinal's business an' demanded to talk to the gaoler responsible for the new prisoner."
I am a little confused. "He didn't ask to see the prisoner?"
"No, just his gaoler. Gondy decides if 'e gets any further. Depends on the orders 'e's been given an' it's not my business anyway. My job's just to open an' close the gate. I don't decide who gets to see which prisoner. I asked 'im for a name so's I could announce 'im to Gondy, but 'e refused and said 'e could announce 'imself."
"What did he look like?" Porthos repeats my question.
The man has the audacity to shrug again and I want to scream at him.
"I don't know, do I?"
I take a deep shuddering breath, suppress the desire to hit the man and am simultaneously amazed that Porthos is managing to maintain his control.
"How do you not know?" I speak slowly, as if addressing an idiot. Perhaps I am, I think unkindly.
"He was wearin' a long, dark cloak that covered 'im up completely an' the hood was up."
"That's good," Porthos praises him. I notice he still holds the man by the shoulder and he squeezes it. The gesture is meant to be encouraging, but the man winces and I cannot decide whether Porthos is doing it without realising the strength he is using or if it is deliberately reminding the gate keeper not to mess with us. "Now try to think of anything else that might help us. How tall was he? What did 'e sound like?"
The gate keeper concentrates. "Not as tall as you," he answers, looking Porthos up and down. He turns his head and scrutinises me in the same way. "An' I don't think he was quite as tall as you either. Not much shorter, mind. 'E was very well spoken. Not like you an' me."
He grins at Porthos as if sharing some brotherly bonding, but the smile fades as my friend scowls down at him.
"He sounded more like the nobles but we don't get the likes of them comin' 'here that often an' certainly not to talk to the likes of me so it made him stand out," the man goes on hurriedly.
"You saw nothing of his face? Was he big in build?" I hope to jog his memory a little further. The little he has given us so far is not going to assist us much.
"I told you, he 'ad the hood pulled up an' it shielded the upper part of 'is face. When he wrapped the cloak tighter round 'imself, I could tell 'e had no fat on 'im an' held imself well. Like you boys do." If he is seeking to restore the atmosphere between us by offering compliments, he is wasting his time.
Porthos releases his hold. "You said the hood covered the upper part of his face. What about the lower part? Was 'e bearded or clean shaven?"
"Neat beard, cut close like yours. It looked dark, no grey."
"Any visible jewellery? A ring perhaps?" I am struggling to think of any more prompts.
"None that I could see, an 'e wore gloves."
"Anything remarkable about them? His footwear?" I try, but he just shakes his head and starts to walk again.
"Gondy's your best man. You'll 'ave to speak to Gondy."
"But you say he's not 'ere," Porthos calls after him.
"That's right, but Ferel may be able to tell you more. I'll introduce you to Philippes Ferel." He is disappearing ahead of us in the gloom of the corridor.
Porthos and I lock eyes and, to my horror, he shrugs. The gesture is contagious!
"I suppose we'd better meet this Philippes Ferel then," and he starts down the corridor after the gate keeper.