The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,26
I, myself, suspected it, until I realized that if he had truly killed her, he would be putting us in danger by asking us to help him. And that, I don’t believe Aramis would do. He would only put us in danger if he thought it needed to vindicate his innocence. If he knew himself to be innocent.”
It was the longest speech he made in a long time, and it rendered both of his friends speechless. Porthos still looked upset at the implication that Aramis might be less than honest, but he had stopped his protests.
“But how could someone else have killed her if the room was locked and Aramis was there all the time, except when he went to . . . uh . . . relieve himself?” Porthos asked.
Secret Passages and Palace Maids; A Count’s Connections and a Gascon’s Loyalty
THAT was the question that D’Artagnan could never answer. Only Porthos would put it so clearly, because—in the month that D’Artagnan had known Porthos he’d come to know this—Porthos’s mind was clear and direct and untroubled like a straight road.
He sighed, as he looked at his friend. “I don’t know Porthos, and I don’t understand it. But when Aramis took me to the palace with him, when we were investigating the death of . . . Of the lady we thought to be the Queen,” D’Artagnan said. He didn’t dare look towards Athos whose heart had gotten broken perhaps forever during that investigation. 1 “I found that the palace is honeycombed with tunnels and passages. Is it possible that there is a passage into the lady’s room?”
Athos shook his head. “Didn’t Aramis say that there wasn’t? That there was furniture against every wall?”
“Yes,” D’Artagnan said. “But Aramis was scarcely thinking clearly then. And besides, I know from seeing it, some of the doors to these passages have furniture built onto them. Surely Aramis knows that too, since he was the one who showed me these passages. But he was not himself...”
“Are you saying that there could be a passage into the lady’s room that Aramis didn’t know about?” Athos asked.
D’Artagnan nodded. “I am saying that is the only way I can think of for someone to gain access to her apartments.”
“How are we to gain access to the palace, though?” Athos said.
“I don’t know. Surely you have some people you know within?” He wasn’t so slow that he hadn’t long ago realized that his friend, in his unassuming musketeer’s uniform, with his small rented lodgings and one servant whom he had trained to obey signals and gestures, was really someone else—some Lord brought up in luxury and honor.
Athos shook his head. “Not . . . in my present station. Oh, they would know me, but not in my musketeer’s uniform. I avoid the palace except for when I’m on guard or when Monsieur de Treville escorts us there.”
“But surely the secrecy . . .” D’Artagnan started, meaning to ask if the secrecy was needed or if it could serve a purpose larger than clearing Aramis’s name. But he looked up at Athos’s face and saw Athos’s glance close as firmly as if doors had shut upon the dark blue eyes.
“Well, then, it leaves us with no means of investigating the secret passageways of the palace and no way to verify if there are any into that room,” D’Artagnan said.
“It would be difficult, at any rate,” Athos said. “From what I understand, in the palace, as in all old noble houses, sometimes even those who live there aren’t sure where the passages are or if they exist.”
“Is there . . . any other way we can start to investigate . . . ?”
“What about the maids?” Porthos asked.
D’Artagnan turned to look at Porthos. The big man was often cryptic, sometimes inscrutable, but his opinion could never be discounted as being of no importance. And yet, D’Artagnan could not have the slightest idea what he meant.
“The maids?” he asked, staring.
“The palace has maids,” Porthos said, waving his hand as if this explained everything. And, as the other two stared at him in utter confusion, he sighed heavily. “Maids are easy to approach.” He blushed slightly. “I find it easy to talk to maids and working women.”
“Of course,” Athos said. “You do have that gift, Porthos.”
“And if anyone knows of secret passages,” D’Artagnan said. “Maids would. They clean and maintain and . . .”
“Keep secrets from their masters,” Athos said, his eyes shining with the ironical light they sometimes acquired.