The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,25

Porthos said, as always cutting to the heart of the argument.

“I did,” Athos said. “Before I became a musketeer.” Porthos nodded. “And you don’t think he could be a murderer?”

Athos pulled down his sleeve. D’Artagnan had turned his back and was rummaging in a trunk by the window where he kept his glasses and his wine. He came back with them and poured wine for both his friends, while Athos put his doublet back on and laced it tight. The doublet gave him a feel of protection, of covering up his thoughts as well as his body. It was part of his musketeer’s uniform, a penitent’s clothing he had assumed as eagerly as other men assumed sackcloth and ashes.

“I’m not saying he couldn’t murder,” he said. “You must know, Porthos, for I’ve said it before and you’ve told me I was speaking nonsense, that I believe every man can be a murderer, given enough temptation and enough provocation. But Porthos, I don’t believe he is a murderer in this case. Not the murderer of his wife. If he loved her . . . Then I could believe he would turn on her.” He took a sip of his wine, which tasted sour and acid. He really must send some wine to D’Artagnan to keep for these occasions. Monsieur Des Essarts barely paid enough to his guards to keep them from begging on the streets. No wonder all the boy could afford for wine was barrel dregs.

“You believe if he loved her he would have killed her?” Porthos said. “That makes no sense at all, Athos. By that reasoning the most logical suspect would be—” Porthos stopped, as if his own horror had stayed his tongue.

“Aramis,” D’Artagnan said what Porthos could not say. He sat next to Porthos, facing Athos. The seat beside Athos, normally Aramis’s, was left vacant. “You suspect Aramis, do you not, Athos?”

“I don’t know. Do I suspect him of the crime?” Athos lifted his glass of red wine to the light and looked through it. “Perhaps. I can’t say I didn’t think of it and you must admit it is the most logical solution. Aramis was alone with her, behind a closed door. Who else could have killed her?”

“But,” D’Artagnan said in the tone of one who prompts.

“I cannot believe you are saying this,” Porthos said, still looking shocked. “I cannot believe you’d think that of a friend.”

“What makes you sure that there is a but?” Athos asked D’Artagnan, ignoring Porthos’s outrage.

“There has to be a but, otherwise you’d have demanded of Aramis why he had killed her. And you wouldn’t have told him to leave town till we could clear his name. You’d have told him to leave town and pledge himself to some remote monastery, some out of the way retreat, where he could disappear forever.”

Athos nodded. “There is indeed a but, and that is that I can’t believe Aramis would lie to us. And there you have it, Porthos, I do not think that of my friend.”

“Your reasoning seems flawed. Aramis lies all the time,” D’Artagnan said, looking puzzled. “He’s a courtier. He lies as he breathes.”

“D’Artagnan. I cannot believe that both of you would so revile—” Loyal Porthos said.

“Peace, Porthos,” D’Artagnan said. “I am not reviling anyone. But surely you know that Aramis lies to us all the time. He makes up stories to explain his presence where he shouldn’t be. He talks of the duchess of this and what she said to the marquess of that, and all the time I’m sure he’s just spreading rumors or passing them on, which is a lie after all. He lies to be diverting, he lies to protect others and he lies to hide the true cause of his actions. I’ve known this about him since we first met, notwithstanding which I consider him a true friend and one of the best men I’ve ever known.” He looked across at Athos, a keen, examining look. “But his being the best of men, I still fail to understand why Athos thinks he wouldn’t lie to us.”

Athos smiled. “Oh, he’ll lie to us well enough.” He lifted his hand to still the protest he saw forming in Porthos’s features. “He’ll lie to us about where he ate dinner and where he slept, who gave him an embroidered handkerchief, and by what means he enters the palace late at night, but I submit to you that this he would not lie about. I’ve thought about it myself, because