That was disappointing, but not unexpected. “Christian names are fine,” said Milady. “Along with physical descriptions, manner of dress or speaking... anything you can remember, really.”
“A moment, if you please,” Aramis said from across the room. “D’Artagnan, do you have paper and ink? It would probably be easiest to write this down as we go.”
D’Artagnan pushed away from the wall and nodded, crossing to the small desk in the corner and preparing it for writing. Aramis thanked him and sat down, picking up the quill and holding it poised in his hand.
Clémence looked at Milady, who nodded. The girl cleared her throat and began, “Well, to start with there’s the one I call Old Hook Nose. He’s got white hair and a big ugly bald spot on the top of his head, an’ he always smells like mildew and stale bread...”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Clémence stumbled to a halt. “That’s about it, really. Sometimes a new one’ll come in, but those are all the ones I can remember.”
The twins had fallen asleep some time earlier and d’Artagnan had carried them back to their beds. Bebette’s eyes had grown strange and distant once more as her friend recounted all she could recall of the men who’d used her. Aramis looked up from the desk, where he had covered four large sheets of paper with tiny, crabbed writing. Milady pursed her lips. She would have to consult Aramis’ notes to be sure, but nothing had jumped out at her as immediately revealing the identity of any of Clémence’s clients.
“Did that help?” the girl asked, her voice having grown faintly raspy. Constance hurried to get her a cup of warm cider from the kitchen.
“Perhaps,” Milady said. Her eyes flicked to Bebette. “What of your friend? Were there other men who only visited her?”
Clémence shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, a few. Didn’t really pay much attention to ’em, to be honest.”
D’Artagnan was tapping his thumb to his lip thoughtfully. After a moment, he spoke up. “Did they ever give you any tokens? Any little personal gifts or trinkets?”
Milady shot him an impressed look, and he shrugged. “Worth a try, anyway,” he said.
“Sometimes,” Clémence told him slowly. “Madame always took them away when she found ’em, though.”
Milady felt disappointment rise, but then Clémence looked pointedly at Bebette, whose hand immediately darted toward her throat, almost against her will, it seemed.
“You still got that pendant, then, Bebette?” Clémence asked.
Bebette looked frightened and shook her head from side to side, but the wordless denial was negated by the way she clutched at something through the fabric of her chemise, over her heart.
“What is it?” Milady asked, directing the question to Clémence.
“One of Bebette’s men,” the girl said. “He gave her a pendant last week. I told ’er to give it to Madame, but she gets all weird about this bloke. Guess she kept it hidden.”
“What does this particular man look like?” Milady asked, feeling her senses sharpen.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Clémence said. “Like I told you, I didn’t really pay him much mind. He has dark hair, I think. Well-dressed. Kind of young... about like him, maybe?” She gestured toward d’Artagnan.
“May I see the pendant?” Milady asked, keeping a short rein on her desire to leap forward and pull it from the poor girl’s neck. Bebette’s hand gripped the unseen object more tightly, and she huddled deeper in the chair, turning her face away.
Clémence sighed. “Like I said, she goes all strange about him. Let me talk to her alone for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” said Milady, forcing herself to rise on stiff legs and back away. “Make sure she understands that the pendant is hers, and she will get it back when we’re done. You’ve been extremely helpful, Clémence.”
Clémence nodded, and Milady gestured for the others to follow her out of the room. The four adults moved to the kitchen, where d’Artagnan blew out a breath.
“You realize there’s nothing to stop them walking out of the front door and disappearing into the night,” he said.
Milady closed her eyes and rubbed lightly at the bruises on her temple and the back of her head, trying to soothe the ache. “Clémence is smart. I think she knows a good thing when she sees it. And she’s more likely to trust us if we trust her, I think.”
“I concur,” Aramis said, stretching his own neck back and forth, releasing a series of crackling pops.
“Did you note anything useful from what she told us?” Milady asked him.
“Not immediately,” Aramis said, “but, then, my attention was split with the writing of it. It will bear further study.”
“Has the younger girl said anything since you rescued them?” Constance asked.
“Not a word,” Milady told her. “Her expression becomes quite vacant at times. Her protectiveness of the pendant is the most normal reaction I’ve yet seen her give.”
“The people who did that to her should be dragged out in the street and flogged,” Constance flared, her hands clasping into fists.
“I can’t promise that,” Milady said. “However, if we’re successful in identifying any of these men, I will happily throw them to the wolves of public opinion once they’ve served my purpose.”
“Good,” Constance spat.
“And I will see if some men can be spared to close down the brothel,” d’Artagnan said. “Though no doubt there are a dozen others to take its place.”
A timid knock on the doorframe of the kitchen entrance interrupted them. Clémence poked her head in and immediately extended one hand, the pendant dangling from it on a silk ribbon. “Here it is, Ma’am,” she said, addressing Milady. When Milady moved to take it, she briefly clenched her fist, straightening herself to her full—if not very impressive—height. “See that you give it back to her, like you promised. It’s important to her.”
“You have my word,” said Milady, and accepted the little bauble. “It may be a day or two, but she shall have it back.”
Constance moved forward. “Clémence, you and Bebette must be tired. “Allow me to show you to the guest room. I think I have some nightclothes that will fit the two of you...”
The pair headed back toward the parlor to collect Bebette, and Milady crossed quickly to the lamp that was burning on the kitchen table, joined by Aramis and d’Artagnan. Turning the pendant over in the flickering light, she leaned down to examine it through tired, bloodshot eyes.
“Is that a jeweler’s mark, Aramis?” she asked.
“D’Artagnan, your eyes are better than mine,” Aramis deferred.
D’Artagnan took the pendant and examined it minutely. “Yes. It looks like an uppercase F and T combined, above a bell inscribed inside a circle.”
“Françoise Tourniere,” Milady said immediately, feeling a flush of excitement. “I know of him. He has a shop on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, near the Rue de Seine.”
“We will go there first thing tomorrow,” Aramis said, a spark of that same excitement visible on his face. “Have you been to the shop before, I take it? Is he likely to recognize you?”
Milady thought carefully. “I have been there, yes, but not often, and not recently. You will have to take the lead, but if I dye my hair and wear a veil, I will not be recognized. D’Artagnan, I trust that Constance has some dye on hand? And that she will be willing to part with some black, and perhaps a bit of henna?”
“You’ll have to ask her, but I’m sure if she has it, you’re welcome to its use,” he said.
* * *
The following morning, Milady rose fairly early. Lack of sleep made the dull ache in her head worse, but she dressed quickly, arranging a veil over her hair—now dark with auburn highlights—and draping it artfully to obscure her features from casual view. With a final, critical glance into Aramis’ tiny looking glass, she picked up the pendant and let herself out into the main room.
Aramis, of course, had long been up and about, seeing to the ea
rly-morning duties of the priesthood. He was currently fussing with the rip in Olivier’s doublet. Other than that, he was dressed similarly to the previous evening, and appeared nearly ready to go.
“We should have asked Constance to mend that last night,” she said. “I’ll take a stab at it if you like, though my mother always despaired of my sewing skills.”
“No, no,” Aramis said immediately. “I’m perfectly capable of doing it. I’d just forgotten all about it, to be honest. Give me fifteen minutes and we can be on our way.”
Milady nodded and helped herself to fruit and bread while he gathered sewing supplies and set himself near the light of the window. “Clémence said Bebette only received the pendant a week ago,” she said. “If luck is with us, someone in Tourniere’s shop will remember the man who bought it.”
“It’s a fairly unique looking piece,” Aramis said. “That will work in our favor.”
Finished with his darning, the priest bit off the ends of the thread and carefully put the needle away. He lifted the doublet for her approval and she shrugged—it was a perfectly adequate job, easily as neat as she could have managed. Donning the garment, Aramis placed his hat on his head and accepted the pendant from her. The pair of them set off into the cold, foggy morning, eschewing the use of the horses as too much bother, given the relatively short distance they would need to travel.
The chill went some way toward clearing Milady’s head, both of sleepiness and the nagging pain which had plagued her since her injuries. The prospect of significant progress toward their goal was the best tonic, though, and Milady felt sharper and more focused than she had since her dramatic arrival at Aramis’ door, four days previously.
The weak morning sun was just clearing the rooftops when the two of them approached the tiny shop of Françoise Tourniere. As they turned the final corner, Milady tucked her hand in the crook of Aramis’ arm, falling effortlessly into the guise of an upper middle class merchant’s wife—a pretty but useless appendage to be admired briefly, and then ignored.
The bell on the door announced their arrival, drawing a gray-haired man with floppy jowls and large bags under his eyes to the counter—M. Tourniere. Milady released Aramis’ arm and remained in the background as he stepped up to speak with the elderly jeweler.
“Good morning, monsieur,” said Tourniere. “Welcome to my humble establishment. What may I do for you today?”
Aramis smiled and pulled out the pendant. “Good morning, M. Tourniere. I’m afraid my wife and I have unexpectedly come into possession of someone else’s property, and I’m hoping you can tell me who the rightful owner is, so I can return it to him.”
“Hmm,” said Tourniere. “Let me see the piece, please.”
“It has your mark, apparently,” Aramis said, handing the pendant over. “The wife of a friend of mine recognized it and suggested I bring it to you.”
“Yes, yes,” the jeweler said. “That is my mark. Oh! I do, in fact, remember this piece. It was crafted by my apprentice, but I sold it to the Marquis de Lavardin only last week. A gift for his wife, if I recall correctly. How did you come by it, if I may ask?”
“Ah,” said Aramis ruefully, “as it happens, that is quite an unusual and amusing story. Unfortunately, it is not one I have time to relate on this particular morning. I don’t suppose you know where I could find Lord Lavardin, that I might return his property?”
“Yes, of course,” said the jeweler, looking around behind the counter as if flustered. “Just a moment. It should be on the receipt in the ledger book. Let me just...” He pulled out a book, looked at it briefly, and then pulled out another. “Right. Here we are... the Marquis de Lavardin, a week ago last Tuesday. One carved ivory pendant, fifteen crowns, ten sous.”
It was an extravagant amount to spend on a trinket for a prostitute. Obviously the Marquis was a man of means. With luck, he would also be a man with connections.
“He is staying at the Hôtel de Sainte-Beauve with his wife and two sons, as I now recall,” M. Tourniere told them, running his finger over the details of the ledger entry. Aramis and Milady exchanged a brief look. They had been within striking distance of their quarry at the Hôtel the previous evening, and not even known it, walking past the building with the very girl that he had abused, barely a block away from the brothel itself.
“Thank you, monsieur,” Aramis said, returning his attention to Tourniere and reclaiming the pendant. “You’ve been exceptionally helpful.”
The jeweler smiled. “Nonsense, young man. It’s refreshing to see someone go out of his way to do a good turn for a stranger. I’m glad I could be of assistance.”
“Not to worry, M. Tourniere,” Aramis replied with a sunny smile. “We’ll make certain that Lord Lavardin gets what’s his.”
Wasting no time, Aramis swept from the shop, Milady in his wake, the bell tinkling merrily behind them. Outside, they exchanged a slightly wide-eyed look.
“I do so love it when a plan comes together,” Aramis said.
“Perhaps we should delay the celebration until we’ve confirmed that he’s still at the Hôtel... and that he can actually help us get into the salons,” Milady said, unwilling to take anything for granted.
“Still,” Aramis said, “it was an exceptionally neat piece of detective work, and you are to be congratulated on it.”
Milady waved it off. “It’s merely one link in a long chain which may or may not break before we can use it to haul ourselves out of the pit we’re in. Now, shall we go immediately to the Rue Sainte-Beauve and see if we can bring our prey to ground?”
“Actually, we need to stop at d’Artagnan’s place first to pick up a parcel,” Aramis said. “While we’re there, we can check in on the girls.”
Milady reined in her impatience. Rue Férou was not significantly out of their way. They arrived quickly enough and were greeted by Constance, d’Artagnan having left early for the palace.
“Come in,” Constance said, pausing in the entryway to stare at Milady in surprise. “Goodness! I wouldn’t have expected such a startling change in your appearance merely from dyed hair. I’m not sure I’d have recognized you from a distance.”
Milady lifted a hand to her newly auburn hair, coiffed in an unfamiliar style under the veil. “People tend to see whatever they expect to see,” she said. “It’s a useful trick to know about, certainly.”
“I can imagine,” Constance agreed. “Now, though, can I get you any refreshment? The boy arrived a few minutes ago with your parcel, Aramis.”
“No, thank you, we’re fine,” Aramis said, fully aware of Milady’s impatience to continue on. He pulled the pendant from his doublet and handed it to Constance. “Please return this to Bebette with our thanks, though.”
“You were successful, then?” Constance said, looking from one to the other of them with a hopeful expression.
“We were indeed,” Milady said, with some relish. “We will be going to pay a visit to the Marquis de Lavardin at the Hôtel de Sainte-Beauve directly.”
“Good,” Constance said with unexpected feeling, her expression positively predatory. “I’m sorry I can’t be there to see it, but I expect a full recounting at some point in the future. Now, let me get your package, Aramis.”
She hurried off, and returned a moment later with a leather-wrapped bundle. “There you are,” she said, handing it to him. “I’d tell you both to be careful, but I know there’s no point. So, instead, I’ll tell you not to hesitate to ask for help from your friends should you need it. May I have your word on that, at least?”
Aramis smiled, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Our word, Constance,” he said. Lifting the parcel slightly, he added, “Please do make a point of thanking d’Artagnan for me.”
He and Milady took their leave, Milady accepting a brief but heartfelt embrace from the younger woman. They walked down the Rue Férou toward Rue de Vaugirard. Milady eyed the lumpy parcel wrapped with twine.
“So... you’re going to forc
e me to ask, then?” she said eventually. “How tiresome.”
“Patience,” said Aramis, infuriatingly. “I may have held on to my rapier for sentimental reasons, but trust me when I say you wouldn’t want to undertake this venture while relying on the armory of a priest-cum-Latin-teacher. D’Artagnan and Porthos have sent us both some useful little toys, but not the sort that a gentleman and his wife would want to be seen cooing over in the middle of the street.”
“Ah, I see. A useful gift, indeed,” Milady said, understanding dawning. “I’d say, Aramis, you shouldn’t have, but in fact, I’m rather glad you did.”
Since they had to travel down the Rue d’Assas to get to the Hôtel, the two of them ducked into Aramis’ rooms briefly to examine the package’s contents. Milady couldn’t help the faint flush of excitement at seeing the array of small daggers and throwing knives nestled in easily concealable sheaths, but her breath escaped in a pleased gasp upon noticing the two tiny, pearl-handled pistols wrapped in oilskin, with pouches of ammunition and gunpowder alongside.
“First the royal wardrobe, and now the armory,” she observed with a hint of amusement. “I wonder if Her Majesty has the slightest inkling about her closest advisors’ light fingers?”
“If she could be seen to do so, she would thoroughly approve and you know it,” Aramis said. “Now. I’ll leave you for a few minutes to hide these about your person in whatever way you think best, and we’ll go pay a visit to His Lordship.”
Milady frowned. “You should have some of this for yourself,” she said. “Don’t think I failed to notice that you passed over an easy opportunity to run Guillermo through the chest last night in favor of that ridiculous stunt with the oil lamp. That kind of fussiness could get us both killed.”
Aramis looked at her frankly. “I understand that—even eight years on—my friends all consider my dedication to the priesthood to be some sort of amusing interlude in my life. I will, of course, do my utmost to see that you and other innocents are not harmed during our attempts to regain your daughter and free Athos, but please don’t expect that I will be returning seamlessly to my blood-soaked days of soldiering. Because I won’t be.”
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 6
