Dying by the sword (38 page)
Read Dying by the sword Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
“It hadn’t,” Athos said. “I’ve . . . spoken to the duchess. What?” he said defensively towards Aramis. “A musketeer may speak with a duchess, you know?”
“Of course. Of course he may,” Aramis said, appeasing, not sure what had set off a storm of Athos’s always uncertain temper. “And she told you she hadn’t done it?”
“It seems hardly to matter, since you’ve asserted at the time she hadn’t any reason to be angry at you, yet. But, indeed, she said the duel she meant was . . . metaphorical,” Athos said, and had the grace to blush.
For the first time, in this very odd war council, Aramis had to repress a great impulse to chuckle. He could well imagine how Marie Michon’s odd sense of humor had played on Athos’s repressed, not to say prudish mind. The older musketeer fidgeted and looked away from Aramis’s eyes as if he saw something in them that made him uncomfortable. Aramis wished he could have witnessed that encounter. He would have given something. He would have paid money for the chance.
Porthos had been deep in thought. He finally said. “It’s inscrutable, of course, particularly Hermengarde’s behavior.”
“What is inscrutable?” Aramis said, regretting rather having given Porthos the word, which could be very much like giving a young child a loud whistle.
“The whole thing,” Porthos said. “But particularly Hermengarde.” He looked towards Athos. “I believe you’d say that all women are the devil, but I don’t think it was that. I think it was . . .” he sighed. “That she wanted security of a type that Mousqueton couldn’t give.”
“Porthos, what’s inscrutable is what you might be talking about,” Aramis said.
“No, no, that’s quite clear,” Porthos said. “The problem is that I haven’t told you yet of my conversation with Mousqueton.” And he proceeded to do that, as he always told stories, in a spare, straightforward style. At least, every time he tried to interject some odd observation or some strange idea of his own about what might have been happening, Athos would make a gesture as though sending him back on track, and Porthos would go back, and describe exactly what he had said, and what Mousqueton had said.
When he finished, he sat there, biting his lip. “You understand all of it, right? Including why there were swordsmen when Aramis came back into town?”
“I think I do,” Athos said. “However, if you wish to explain . . .”
Porthos nodded. “Hermengarde told Pierre. I’m sure of it. I’m sure that her relationship with him was such, she told him without the slightest idea what he would do with it.”
“But I don’t understand,” Aramis said.
“I do,” Athos said. “The mystery of the ambush can be laid at the feet of Pierre Langelier. You see, he heard from Hermengarde that Madame Bonacieux had taken alarm at the words of the duchess. It was probably told as a jest. You must remember, of all of them, only Hermengarde knew what sort of hold Madame Bonacieux had on D’Artagnan. And if she saw Madame Bonacieux leave in a hurry . . . well, Langelier and Hermengarde too, could figure her misunderstanding and what she’d set out to do. They knew she had probably sent a note summoning D’Artagnan to her, as a means to stop a presumed fight. All he had to do was ambush D’Artagnan in that part of the palace—in the most secluded area he could do it.”
“But why would he want to?” Aramis asked.
“Well, by that time, doubtless, he would have heard of the ghost in his father’s workshop. You have to remember, that though we didn’t deal with him, I’m sure Monsieur Langelier fils was often present while we talked to his father. I’m sure he knew us all by look and by description too, from Hermengarde’s story. He would hear of it and, I think, gather some friends and try his chance at catching us in the palace. Because that was his chance to put an end to our investigations. I’m sure by now there are rumors of how we solve crimes,” Athos said.
“But . . . it would be tight timing, and where would an armorer find seven fighters who could outmatch us on the sword?”
Porthos sighed. “Aramis, surely you remember my saying that armorers are all sword experts. They have to be, in order to make good swords. They have to know what makes a sword work, and be a good sword. They practice as much as we do, and perhaps more. They certainly understand their weapons better.”
“I was wounded by crafters?” D’Artagnan asked, shocked.
“Good crafters,” Porthos said, in the tone of someone who thought this ought to console the young Gascon.
“But why?” Aramis said. He was sure he would think more clearly once his headache was gone, but all he could do for now was to walk step-by-step past each of the hurdles in his way. “Why would Pierre Langelier choose to not let us investigate?”
“Well, your story and Porthos’s too told us that. He was a gambler, and deep in debt. This was never about his rivalry with Mousqueton, and only glancingly was it about Hermengarde’s pregnancy. It was all about his need for money. What Mousqueton said he remembered last, about—you know—the armorer saying he would disinherit his son. I don’t think this conversation was the sort that happened in front of the whole workshop. So, I presume it was just Monsieur Langelier and Mousqueton talking. And because Monsieur Langelier was probably repeating threats he’d made many times in person, he did not stop as his son came into the workshop. That his son was carrying a sword would occasion no shock, either. He probably, I think, hit Mousqueton on the head with the hilt, then ran his father through before he could reach for a sword himself. Possibly, before he felt any real alarm.”
He shook his head. “The thing is, you see, that if he had hit him with a hammer, he might very easily have killed him without meaning to. The hilt of a sword is more controllable.”
“And we should have known it from the beginning, because who else could have told the guards of the Cardinal that the hammer must have fallen on Mousqueton’s head, and been believed. The fact is that anyone else would have prompted the guards to look up, and at least see if there were hammers hanging. But the new owner of the place . . .” Porthos said, opening his huge hands.
“And Hermengarde?” Aramis asked, his headache forgotten in the wave of curiosity. “Why would he kill her?”
“Oh, you told us that yourself. Because he has another girl, whom he also impregnated.”
“But . . . if he impregnated them both, why would he prefer the other? And why kill Hermengarde?”
“First,” Porthos said, counting on his huge fingers, “because Hermengarde was a living danger to him. At any moment, she could have told us of her relationship with him, and then we might have thought that perhaps he was the one attacking us. Second, because the other girl was more sure of carrying a child of his siring. And third, because the other girl brought him money, which made it easier for him to pay off his debts and not sell his business.”
“Admirably put,” Athos said.
“The question remains,” Aramis said, “why would they ambush me when I came back from the country?”
“I would guess they had heard of your prowling about the night before,” Porthos said, “and were waiting for you to return. Only someone who had heard of your being around the workshop, and desirous to prevent your return, would set a watch there—which to some extent exonerates other suspects.”
“So this has nothing to do with a conspiracy against the Cardinal?” Aramis said. “Or the King?”
“No,” Athos said. “I think that was all—”
“I wouldn’t dismiss it so quickly,” Porthos said. “First because the Cardinal honored his side of the pledge and is keeping Mousqueton in some relative comfort at the Bastille. Second because there is some mightily smokey intrigue happening. What, with the duchess writing to the illegitimate brother of the King, and what with milady trying to kill us, and having obtained permission from the Cardinal by promising to do something. I wouldn’t consider this a total impossibility yet, but . . . I would say it has nothing to do with this crime.”
“So you’re saying,” Aramis said, “that while I was being hit on the head and taken for a long, slow ride into the country, it was because Langelier, who was supposed to be the one hit and kidnapped, had gone to kill Hermengarde?”
“I’m afraid so,” Porthos said.
“It’s infamous,” Aramis said. “Does this villain truly look that much like me?”
Porthos narrowed his eyes at Aramis. “Only from the back, or perhaps from a distance. His hair is yellower, and his shoulders are a little broader, and his features are considerably coarser. Besides, though I believe he is a flashy dresser, he is not, in any sense a good dresser, like you are, my dear Aramis. His suits are of cheaper material and cheaper cut.”
Aramis, realizing that Porthos was trying to soothe him, and also very afraid that the word inscrutable would make an appearance, sighed, as his headache returned. “Well, at least we know. Although we could never have a hope of proving it.”
“No,” Porthos said, just as gloomily. “If only we had someone who had seen something and who could say . . .”
“What if we had someone who says he’s seen something?” Athos said, suddenly.
“Someone?” Aramis asked.
“Some lady, an inmate of the palace, who claims they’ve seen the murder of Hermengarde up close,” he said. “And who is willing to confront Langelier and pretend to blackmail him, while we wait right by, and intervene when needed. We’d have to have witnesses, of course . . .”
“Don’t even think on it,” D’Artagnan said. “I mean to make peace with Constance as soon as possible, and I’m sure she’s very brave and she would gladly offer to help, but the truth is, my friends, she is a delicate lady, gently nurtured and—”
“I know a lady who would delight in it,” Athos said. “She lives for danger and madcap defiance of odds.”
“You do?” Aramis asked, looking at him, at the same time that the other two echoed him, and D’Artagnan continued, “You know a lady?”
“Well,” Athos said, and smiled a little, with his old irony. “Certainly that can’t be any stranger than Aramis knowing a man.” And without giving them time to realize he’d made a joke, “The Duchess de Chevreuse would, I’m sure, lend herself to our schemes. If only Aramis asks her nicely. And you see, because she knows Aramis so well, if Pierre Langelier tried to tell her she’d mistaken them one for the other . . .”
“Her denial would carry force,” Aramis said. “By the Mass, Athos, I believe you are right! Get me writing paper,” he said, to the room at large. “And a pen. And ink. I shall send her a note right away.
“Shouldn’t you find out what you are supposed to tell her, first?” Athos asked, his voice vibrating with amusement. “Like . . . where she should meet us, and what we should do?”
“Not at the workshop,” Porthos said. “Too many swords, and those hammers, and perhaps his friends too. We could never guarantee her safety.”
“No,” Athos said. “It must be someplace that he thinks he’s utterly safe.”
“I’ve got it,” Aramis said, and his own shout set his head aching again.
Where His Musketeerness Discusses a Plan; The Advantages of Dealing with a Shifty Character
“SO you didn’t talk to him that night?” Aramis asked. “Yesterday night? After we went back.” He had tracked Marc’s and Jean’s farms—they were brothers-in-law, and their farms adjoined each other—after he’d found the place on the edge of town where they’d dropped off the oxcart. The family there, distant cousins of Marc’s, had been able to direct him.
On horseback, and at his speed, he’d gotten there in an hour instead of ten, and now he stood by the black horse he’d borrowed from Monsieur de Treville’s stables, and discussed the matter of their plan and their need of a place with the two rustics.
“Well, we talked to him, in fact, and he’s supposed to marry Marie. We didn’t tell him that we’d thought we’d put him a box,” Jean said, looking sheepish.
“No, I imagine you didn’t,” Aramis said. And he didn’t imagine that Pierre knew that part either, else he would not have had his friends waiting for Aramis—he would have sent someone to find what he’d learned from his acquaintances in the country. Or to kill him halfway home.
He looked at the two of them, in their smocks and clearly in the middle of their working day. Would they be able to understand him? They hadn’t struck him as stupid. A little . . . different perhaps, but in no way worse than Porthos. Their curious approach to life, in any case, had probably saved his life.
Deciding, suddenly, he poured out the story to them, of how they’d realized it was Pierre’s doing, and of what they proposed to do about it. After he was done, they were silent a long time, and then Jean looked at Marc, “I knew it. Or at least I suspicioned it all along, because, you know what Marie is like. She always falls for bad lots. Remember what she was like with that one-legged peddler.”
Fascinating as the idea was, Aramis did not wish to pursue the case of the one-legged peddler. Instead, he said, seriously, “I know you’ll think that I should, in fact, do my best to find one of his armed friends who would be willing to confess, but . . .”
“Oh, no, your musketeerness,” Marc said. “That would be fatal, because it would tell Pierre you know. It would not at all do. After all, he owes them money. They wouldn’t want him arrested till he can pay.”
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