Despite my misgivings for Porthos' part in ridiculing my looks, I could not help but soften myself towards him when news was brought to me that he had been arrested the morning after his birthday. At first I was not alarmed, thinking that perhaps after I had lost track of him he had gotten himself entwined in a brawl. I expected he would be reprimanded, forced to pay a fine and would simply walk away. No, of course it was not so simple. As the rumours spread further, it came to my attention that Porthos had been imprisoned for murder.
Athos and the others swiftly made their way to the Chatelet and I was not far behind them. That damp, dismal place…I had hoped never to have reason to step inside it again, yet here I was. I had stopped only to bring some comforts and necessities for Porthos, thinking that perhaps he might be injured or at the very least, suffering for his excessive consumption the night before. I went alone, wearing a cloak and hood to draw little attention to myself before entering the prison. Once inside, a gaoler directed me to where I could find the imprisoned musketeer, and it was not long before I found them.
They were speaking quietly, but sound had a way of travelling in this place, ricocheting off the bare stone walls. "You must remember something," I heard d'Artagnan insisting, so I presumed that they must be trying to uncover the truth of what happened.
"The dead man, do you know who he was? Where you…met him?" At this I froze for a moment, because by Aramis's enquiry, it confirmed that someone truly was dead and therefore, Porthos was suspected of committing one of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Murder. I shook my head, dispelling such thoughts. Porthos would never do such a thing, drunk or otherwise. It had to be a severe misunderstanding.
"You didn't kill him," thankfully, my brother shared my sentiment.
"Of course he did not," I announced myself flatly, approaching the four men who all turned to recognise me as I pulled back the hood of my cloak and shifted the basket upon my arm to present it to Porthos. "Honestly, you men really must stop giving me reason to come to this awful place," at this I sent a pointed look at Athos, whose mouth twitched slightly into a smirk. "Porthos, are you alright?" Turning my attention upon the one who needed it most, I gently sidled myself closer to the iron bars. He did not look like himself. At the very least, he managed a smile.
"Better now that you're here. Brightens up this place a bit," putting my hand through the bars I held his hand for a moment, hoping I might comfort him.
"We'll have you out of here soon enough, there has to be a mistake." Feeling my brother's hand come to rest at the back of my neck, he too agreed with me.
"There's been a misunderstanding. We'll clear it up." Although it was not entirely evident in his tone, I could tell that Athos was deeply disturbed by the situation at hand. He was ill at ease, and judging by the manner in which he was anchoring a protective hand upon me, he was on edge and concerned for what might happen next.
"And you never know," Aramis tried to offer some further encouragement, thinking of how bolster Porthos's spirits. "We might get lucky with the judge." Of that I could not be certain. For Porthos, it was already a dire situation and he seemed to be fully aware of the precarious nature of this fiasco. Men like him were often disregarded and degraded because of their origin, their low rank, because of their skin. My own began to crawl in disgust, grimacing to myself before I forced the expression away. I did not want to give Porthos cause to worry.
"We will be there," I promised him, still gripping his hand through the bars as his own squeezed back, using all the strength he dared. "We are all here for you, Porthos. I am sure we can explain what happened." I paused. "What did happen?" It was recounted to me then how Porthos had been found lying in the street by the Cardinal's Red Guards, next to the body of a dead man who had been shot to death. Apparently, the pistol was discovered beside Porthos. "I see…Porthos, show me both your hands." At my request, Porthos raised his hands and held his palms upwards, allowing me to reach inside and feel his fingers with my own.
Rubbing at his skin, I scrutinised them closely, turning them over and lifting them to view them at every angle, even inspecting the cuffs of his sleeves and jacket before drawing him closer so that I could then inspect his nails with intense focus. D'Artagnan leaned towards me and whispered. "What are you looking for?"
"Gunpowder residue," I felt rather than saw the surprise and realisation behind me from the men. "You are all most likely past noticing it by now, but I have scrubbed enough sleeves to know who had spent their time at target practice that day." Pulling one hand towards my face, Porthos allowed me to sniff at his fingers. Perhaps a strange experience for him, but he made no complaint and obeyed me even at the slightest pull. "Your hands are clean, but there is some staining on your sleeves. This can be explained by your antics earlier that night, and the staining is smudged meaning it is old," I explained, drawing the others in closer to look as I showed them. "Where you found wearing gloves, do you know?"
"Here," retrieving them from his belt, Porthos promptly handed them over. I gave them the same due care and attention as I had his hands. When I smoothed my fingertips over their surface then rubbed them together, I could feel the fine powder and my fingertips were smudged with a dark residue. Around me, I sensed their disappointment. I, however, promptly placed my fingers on my tongue and tasted the powder.
"Madeleine!" Athos quickly caught my wrist to pull my hand away in his alarm, but I waved him off.
"It is only residue, I will not explode if I stand too close to a candle," dismissing his concern, I distinguished the taste of the gunpowder before using a handkerchief to discreetly spit it out of my mouth. "It is different from the stores of gunpowder at the barracks. I believe there is a heavier concentration of charcoal compared to ours." It was a minute detail, but once again my long exposure to the armoury and its stores meant that I had become accustomed to such details. Surge had taught me.
"Is it enough to prove his innocence?" Aramis questioned earnestly, so I glanced in his direction. Our gazes met for a brief moment, and then I felt nauseous and had to look away.
"No, a judge would not take my word over a small taste of gunpowder. Unless we can retrieve the weapon found at the scene, we cannot determine if it belongs to Porthos. Perhaps I would be able to make a comparative test between the gunpowder at the barracks and the one we might find in the gun."
"Madeleine, you are brilliant," praised by d'Artagnan, I allowed myself to glow with pride a little. "What else can we do?"
"Captain Treville will speak on your behalf," I assured Porthos, confident that Treville would not allow him to waste away in the Chatelet. "He is a respected man and your reputation thus far is unimpeachable, I expect with Treville vouching for you, the judge would allow you to walk free. There are a number of ways we can explain your presence beside a murdered man," at this point, all four men were looking intently upon me and lingering upon my every word.
"Like what?" Porthos prompted, wanting to hear for himself what I thought.
"The simplest explanation, and the one I believe to be most likely, is that you were attempting to defend this man." He blinked at me. "Perhaps you saw this man being accosted or threatened and attempted to save him. Whomever is responsible for his demise would have no qualms allowing an innocent man to take the blame. I suspect you tried to interfere but were overcome, you were utterly blathered after all, and the true culprit left you unconscious with the weapon and the body beside you to be discovered by guards. Do you know if the man's purse was stolen?"
"No, they didn't tell me anything."
"Then I shall ask. If no belongings were found on the body, then it would be safe to assume that the man was robbed. Men have killed for far less than simple coin," the cool and sensible logic seemed to encourage Porthos, who exhaled deeply and nodded his head. This time, his smile was a little more genuine, softer as he reached through the bars and ruffled my hair.
"You're a little genius, darlin'. What would I do without you?"
"Starve?" With that, I drew back the cover of the basket to reveal freshly baked bread, hard cheese, grapes and a piping hot pork pie. I laughed as I saw Porthos practically salivating with wide eyes at the veritable feast before him. Usually it was not permitted to bring food or items to prisoners in the Chatelet, but no gaoler was about to argue with me. Especially with three armed and very protective men guarding me as Porthos hungrily filled his stomach before quenching his thirst with the diluted wine. We could not stay much longer, but it was a comfort to at least see Porthos in better spirits as we left.
"Well done," Athos whispered to me, hand still resting at my back which did not leave until we were out of that place. "They will trial him today. There is no time to investigate anything."
"They want this dealt with quickly, where is the justice in that?" Hissing in irritation, d'Artagnan kicked at the ground as we lingered a moment together. I worried for Porthos. Just who would judge him? I could not imagine it would be a merciful soul, a judge did not become a judge to release criminals back into the folds of civilised company. In my limited knowledge, they were vain and self-righteous men who cared little for the woes of the commonfolk.
"What can we do? We do not know who captured Porthos or where they have taken the body, we cannot begin our investigation before we even know who it is we must speak with." My voice constricted in fearfulness so Athos hushed me tenderly, taking my face in his hands to kiss the top of my head.
"It is as you said, Madeleine. Treville will speak for Porthos."
"And if that is not enough?" None wanted to answer this worry, but we all knew the answer. If Treville's word was not enough, then Porthos would hang.