The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,82

to have altogether a too active interest in this case. And if he wanted a door opened, somehow, wouldn’t the Cardinal be able to have it open? But he can’t be the killer. Surely you see that, D’Artagnan. As with the body of the murdered woman we found before, if he wanted the Duchess de Dreux killed or taken out of the way, he could have paid any of a thousand minions to do it. He wouldn’t need . . .”

D’Artagnan took a deep breath. “No,” he said. “And you are right. He would have no need of it. But think, Athos. You are not thinking. Beyond the death of the Duchess, what else happened?”

Athos stared at D’Artagnan. “Raoul is free, but I really can’t believe—”

“No, Athos, no. Please. Think of the other person most affected by the news.”

“Aramis.”

“Exactly. And if he wanted Aramis killed, taken out of the way, how easy was that?”

Athos shook his head. A smile crossed his lips despite himself. “He would need to go through us. He would need to go through Monsieur de Treville. He might have had to set himself against the King himself, if Monsieur de Treville got to him first. His only other hope was to kill Aramis in an arranged duel, in a dark alley, by an assassin with a dagger.”

“And it’s not as if he’s not tried that, dozens of times already,” D’Artagnan said. “Only, it’s never worked.”

“While by making it seem as if Aramis was guilty of murder, he managed to get Aramis out of Paris easily enough,” Athos said.

“Not only that,” D’Artagnan said. “But you see . . . by having it look as if he’d killed his lover, he had Aramis leave Paris in disgrace. That means, as you saw by our interview with Monsieur de Treville, that even Monsieur de Treville, who would normally defend our friend, now thinks that our friend is guilty.”

“But why would he want to get rid of Aramis?” Athos asked.

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I’m sure there is a reason,” D’Artagnan said. “If only we look for it.”

Athos nodded. They walked for a while in silence.

“But if it is his eminence,” Athos said, at last. “If he’s guilty, how do we prove it? For we must prove it, else we’re but the small wave breaking against the shore.”

D’Artagnan nodded, frowning. “That dagger. The dagger Aramis handed you . . . I presume the dagger that killed the Duchess. Do you still have it, Athos?”

Athos nodded. “Yes,” he said, and could not believe he had forgotten it so long. He had put it in his sheath, alongside his sword and then, afraid to leave it in his lodgings, he’d transferred it to its own sheath, one he often added to his sword belt, to carry a dagger.

“Is there anything unusual about it?”

Athos shrugged. He’d taken the dagger from Aramis in the dark of night, and then later he’d transferred it to the sheath without thinking anything but that it belonged to Aramis and was Aramis’s business. And then, all these days, he’d removed his belt at night and put it back on in the morning, without giving the dagger in its sheath any thought. “I assumed it was Aramis’s. Though I didn’t know it, unless it was his I could not imagine why he’d brought it with him,” he said, but as he spoke, he drew the weapon from his belt. He had a dim memory that the first glimpse of it had startled him, that it didn’t look like something that Aramis had ever owned.

Now he lifted it into the light of the moon. And D’Artagnan whistled softly.

“Seems like someone took a lot of trouble over that handle.”

Athos focused on the handle, and blushed. He’d never remembered to clean it, so there was still blood in the crevices, highlighting the carving on the pale ivory. And the carving was . . . A couple, entwined in lovemaking. Man and woman were amazingly detailed and well done for such small figures. Her breasts were visible, and the tiny, pointed nipples. At least the right nipple, the other one being hid by his back. And his buttocks and waist, and each individual leg. Even their faces, united in a kiss were visible, and Athos would swear he could almost recognize them.

He turned the object in his hand.

“Does it belong to Aramis?” D’Artagnan asked.

“I don’t know. I mean . . . I couldn’t swear to it, but I would doubt it.” Athos frowned down at the