Death in Gascony

by Sarah D'almeida

  Oh, old people and spinsters and children frightened by their nurses would believe the countryside a vast trap populated by homicidal maniacs. But Athos was neither aged and infirm, nor a spinster lady, nor a child. No. These deaths must be all related.

  To start with Monsieur de Comminges, it would seem that the Cardinal had disposed of him—or perhaps ordered D’Artagnan père to dispose of him. The matter of the safe-conduct found in D’Artagnan’s father’s trunk came to mind and Athos frowned. That he knew, the man hadn’t killed anyone. Not even in duel, much less by those means that would make it harder to escape punishment.

  He frowned, and his temples throbbed, at the thought that there might be yet more deaths they had not discovered.

  But he wouldn’t allow himself to think on that. It seemed to be so much foolishness as speculating on what constituted virtue or sainthood, much the type of silliness that Aramis would engage in, and not at all a profitable exercise for the mind.

  Instead, Athos went back to the beginning. Supposing that the first death that mattered had been that of Monsieur de Comminges, who would benefit from it?

  The Cardinal, he supposed. He frowned at this, as it was quite possible the Cardinal had decided to rid himself of Monsieur D’Artagnan, an agent who had fulfilled his duty and who might have, at any rate, grown if not a conscience then greed. Hard to believe the whole matter of the horses hadn’t been a bit of freelancing on Monsieur D’Artagnan’s part.

  But this brought on, then, that the Cardinal must have attempted to kill D’Artagnan. Athos couldn’t quite conjure a motive for that. Oh, the Cardinal hated them all, Aramis perhaps a little more than the rest, but all of them with admirable inclusiveness. Still…

  If the Cardinal had attempted to kill D’Artagnan—and at least the first set of bandits had carried one of those damned safe-conducts from his eminence—it must profit him some. This, Athos could imagine, would tie in with the inheritance of D’Artagnan’s domain. Perhaps his eminence had decided that nothing would make the young de Bigorre give up on his engagement but the provision of another domain for his taking. Such a plot was ruthless enough for the Cardinal to undertake.

  However…try as he might, Athos could not think of a reason for the Cardinal to order Father Urtou murdered. The priest was just a provincial priest, and, had the Cardinal wished him silenced, there were other means to accomplish this, including perhaps calling him to Paris and instigating in him a taste for honors and recognition.

  So for now, and until he could discover a motive for the Cardinal to want the priest killed, he would consider Richelieu—if not innocent, because he clearly was deeply involved in the matter—at least not exactly involved in directing the deaths.

  And then he came to the next suspect—the young de Bigorre. While it was true that Edmond was present at the duel and therefore couldn’t, at the same time, be attacking Monsieur D’Artagnan by stealth, yet it was possible the wounding had taken place earlier than the peasant woman remembered. Perhaps D’Artagnan’s father had lost consciousness a while and seemed dead, before reviving, with disturbed mind. If he had bled on the plowed field it would be quite invisible.

  Edmond might very well have killed Monsieur D’Artagnan and attempted to kill young D’Artagnan, but here the mind beggared. How would he contrive to pay for mercenaries to kill Henri D’Artagnan? Surely a man who had ruined himself with unwise gambling would be in no position for so expensive an enterprise. And beyond that, why kill the priest? If the priest had seen something or known something, he would surely have talked about it.

  Athos frowned at the darkness intercut by moonlight. No. Oh, it was possible that Edmond de Bigorre had contrived it. He certainly stood to gain by the death of both men who might have a claim to the title of D’Artagnan. As a second son of the de Bigorre house, if no other heir obtained from this line, the title would naturally devolve to him.

  And while Athos was quite sure the young man would rapidly expend all his patrimony in gambling and soon be as penniless as he was now, he would also be sure that Edmond Bigorre did not think so. Gamblers never did.

  Therefore, it must be someone else. Who else—always barring agents of the Cardinal—could have profited by the deaths of de Comminges, Monsieur D’Artagnan, the priest and young Henri D’Artagnan himself?

  De Comminges’s son, a creature that Athos did not find particularly pleasing, might very well have profited from the death of his father, who seemed to be of Monsieur D’Artagnan’s generation and therefore sullied with all the splatter of the wars of religion.

  Monsieur de Comminges the younger might even have profited from the death of Monsieur D’Artagnan. Unless Athos misread the situation with the horses—as he very much doubted he did—then Monsieur D’Artagnan had used blackmail to obtain horses from de Comminges, who was involved in treason.

  So, getting rid of Monsieur D’Artagnan made perfect sense. But what use could it possibly be to get rid of young D’Artagnan, or the priest, yet?

  Athos thought of the wedding record for the older de Comminges. Something about the wedding with Marie R. being a fake one. And then there was that gown that Aramis had found in the trunk, and the challenge to a duel, stained, presumably with de Comminges’s blood.

  What kind of events could have taken place at that time that would cast their shadow upon the present, like a tree that once cut down will return from the roots to occupy the space it occupied before? Something to do with Madame D’Artagnan. That much was sure.

  There was much about Madame D’Artagnan that Athos could not like, and some of it, probably, had to do with the present situation. He just couldn’t imagine what. He also couldn’t imagine what attached her to de Bilh. Something was there, but he could not believe it was the infidelity that Bayard was so ready to impute upon her.

  For one, from what D’Artagnan had said of how de Bilh referred to his mother, then certainly Monsieur D’Artagnan would know about it too. Any relationship, Monsieur D’Artagnan would have known about. And yet the one thing none of them had found evidence of was any true animosity between the two men. On the contrary. Despite the fact that de Bilh had killed D’Artagnan, even the witnesses to the death ascribed it to accident.

  To imagine that de Bilh had faked friendship for D’Artagnan for so long only to kill him was something out of a crazed novel or Roman myth, something that even Athos’s wild imagination, plaguing him with chimeras and monsters, would not countenance.

  So, what could have happened those many years ago, before D’Artagnan’s birth, that could have caused the younger de Comminges to want to exterminate the family, root and branch?

  Athos thought of the note in the registry again. And he remembered, cloudily, from the days D’Artagnan had spent recovering at the last inn, the boy saying something about the ruffians wishing to kill him so papers wouldn’t come out.

  Papers. Marriage record. Suppose the note on the de Comminges marriage record had referred to Marie D’Artagnan. Suppose it had been wrong. Suppose…

  Athos felt his hair stand on end at the back of his neck, but he forced himself to go on, ruthlessly. Suppose that in fact Marie D’Artagnan as she called herself had been truly married to de Comminges, who had, somehow, through some contrivance, and with who knew what intent, decided to repudiate her and remarry. And on remarrying, he had convinced Marie the marriage had been false.

  Then that would make the de Comminges heir illegitimate—which gave him double the reason to kill D’Artagnan, and perhaps to kill the priest. At least if he believed the priest had the papers. That too would explain the ransacking of the sacristy, as no other of the ideas would have.

  Athos sat up straighter. The only thing that remained and made no sense whatsoever was both the Cardinal and the younger de Comminges attempting against D’Artagnan’s life.

  If this scenario were true, then, perforce, D’Artagnan was himself a bastard. Whether he inherited the D’Artagnan domain or not in that case was much of a question, but
not one that he could imagine would excite de Comminges’ interest, though it might interest the Cardinal.

  He thought of this drama he’d dreamed up, lost in the time before D’Artagnan’s birth, and frowned. None of it made sense nonetheless. Perhaps he’d simply sat around dreaming of improbable tragedies well befitting a Greek playwright for no reason at all.

  In his mind, Marie D’Artagnan’s pale blue eyes looked out at him in wounded outrage. She’d trusted him. She’d begged him—as the oldest and most responsible of them all—to keep her son safe. And Athos, instead, had sat here thinking up calumnies about her.

  He thought of the portrait of Monsieur D’Artagnan, downstairs, in the great salon, with its bluff appearance, and despite its blond hair, looking like nothing so much as like Porthos.

  And then the monstrous idea he’d been keeping submerged in his thoughts for so long emerged. Like a beast, long forgotten, it rose from the depths of his consciousness.

  He thought of the portrait again, and he was not sure of anything anymore. He’d looked at it, but not with the intent of deciding what had happened so long ago.

  He must see it again.

  Rising swiftly, he lit his candle wick upon the banked fireplace. With it in hand, dressed only in his shirt which, not being tucked into his breeches, covered him to the top of his thighs, he started out of the room and down the stairs.

  He turned along shadowed corridors, forever afraid something or someone would jump out of the shadows, and all the while telling himself he was a fool.

  The great salon was deserted, tables and chairs carefully arranged, probably by Marguerite. And the portrait on the wall was undisturbed and seemed to smile at him, by the twitching light of the candle, an ironical, mocking smile. Its dark blue eyes seemed to flicker and dance by the moonlight, just like D’Artagnan’s dark brown ones did when he was most amused.

  Athos felt his jaw drop open and disciplined it to close. No. This was not the time to stand around gaping and wondering what to do. He didn’t know if there was anything he could do, but he had a feeling…

  The murderer had, after all, killed three times, and had attempted over and over to kill again. He’d been responsible for at least two attempts on D’Artagnan’s life, Athos would wager. And now, he knew they were questioning people. They’d alarmed him enough to have a close look at them himself. And since then, there had been Porthos questioning people about the horses, and there had been the scene with Edmond de Bigorre yesterday. If Edmond had not reported, Athos would have been much surprised.

  The question was, when would the murderer ready himself to attack next? And whom? And would he do it himself, or send someone to do it?

  Without warning, a picture formed in Athos’s mind. D’Artagnan had proved hard enough to kill—and D’Artagnan was no threat, anyway. Having talked to the boy, doubtless the villain understood the boy had come to Gascony with no other aim than to settle down and administer the D’Artagnan lands. No threat in that.

  But there was still one person who was a threat, one person who might, on purpose or by design speak of the events eighteen years ago. Athos could not imagine the murderer taking much more time than tomorrow to do it.

  Tomorrow everyone would be at the priest’s funeral in the morning, including the house’s faithful servants. All but Marie D’Artagnan. And doubtless, in a place as small as this, everyone knew that someone hated funerals and didn’t attend them. There had been reason enough recently to remember it.

  So…The picture formed in Athos’s mind. The deserted house and the murderer coming and executing his victim in bed. He was sure the murderer would come personally. After the failures with D’Artagnan, not to mention the fact that Monsieur D’Artagnan had got up from a supposedly fatal wound and fought again, the creature would be feeling insecure enough he’d want to be sure of things.

  There was only one thing that Athos could do. And he would pray that if he was right the creature would indeed make an attempt.

  Because, otherwise, he would have no proof at all.

  Invading Bedrooms Again;

  A Son’s Duty;

  Dogs and Angels

  “INTO my mother’s room?” D’Artagnan asked, rubbing his eyes. “Why? What could it possibly serve? And…” He looked around, wild-eyed, sure that his friends had gone insane. “It is not proper.”

  Athos, a fully dressed, grave-looking Athos, shrugged imperiously. D’Artagnan had never thought of a shrug as a commanding gesture before, but Athos somehow managed to make it so—like a general, before battle, shrugging away all unnecessary impediments to his mission. “Never mind the propriety of it,” he said. “It might be her life we’re saving. And yours. We pretended to go out to the funeral Mass with all of the servants. In a big group, so I doubt they could tell you weren’t among us. Once away, we doubled back one by one and secreted into the house. Hopefully no one saw us.”

  Behind Athos, Porthos and Aramis—also fully dressed and armed—nodded their resolution and agreement.

  D’Artagnan was sure he was dreaming. He must be dreaming. Things like this didn’t happen in real life. One’s friends might come into one’s bedroom and wake one—in fact, D’Artagnan was willing to admit this had happened before. But they didn’t, then, lay forth a plan for invading one’s mother’s bedroom.

  “Here,” Athos said, and as he spoke, gathered D’Artagnan’s clothes and threw them on the bed, beside him. “Dress yourself. We have not a minute to lose. Though it’s still dark, it’s already morning, and the bell has chimed for the priest’s funeral. We can’t be too late.”

  “To the funeral?” D’Artagnan asked, sleepily putting on the venetians that Aramis had persuaded him to buy in Paris, but which had got him some very odd looks here, in the provinces.

  “Not the funeral,” Aramis said, in a tone of great exasperation. “D’Artagnan, you’re not attending, and you must. We must go to your mother’s room. Athos has made it all perfectly clear.”

  “He has?” D’Artagnan asked.

  Sleepily he put on his clothes, and strapped on his sword, when commanded. Sleepily he stumbled out of his room and down the long, still dark corridor to his mother’s room.

  The wind carried the sound of the chapel’s bell ringing death, and D’Artagnan felt a shiver. What could Athos possibly mean with all this? Why wasn’t anyone explaining things to him? And why did they want him along if they weren’t willing to explain things?

  Well, possibly because breaking into his mother’s room without him would be quite a different plan from breaking into his mother’s room with him. But in that case, why weren’t they explaining to him the necessity of breaking into it at all?

  Athos tried the door and whispered, “As I feared.” Then made a gesture.

  From the darker shadows of the hallway, the figure of Mousqueton detached. The man got his bits of metal from his sleeve, and did something. The door clicked open, and he nodded.

  “Will you be needing my help inside?” he asked Athos.

  “I would think not,” Athos said. “I expect that the four of us should be more than equal to the task. But do you and your fellows stay alert, should the murderer try to escape.”

  Mousqueton nodded and melted back into the shadows, which D’Artagnan could now see contained, in addition to his quite respectable bulk, the slim figure of Planchet, the silent Grimaud, and the rotund and clerical Bazin—the latter recognizable because he was crossing himself as he stood there.

  D’Artagnan cleared his throat. “Athos—” he whispered.

  But Athos only put his finger on his lips commanding silence as, with the other hand, he slowly, slowly slid the bedroom door open.

  To be greeted with a low canine growl.

  “Angel,” D’Artagnan whispered. The shape of the little dog darted towards him in the darkness, growling as he came, only to thump his tail upon catching scent of D’Artagnan.

  D’Artagnan petted him absently, then followed Athos’s stern gestures, to
melt into the darker parts of the room, the corners where light would not reach, even were the blind open. Not until the sun was quite a bit brighter than it was now.

  His mind was a whirlwind that would not stop. Why would his friends not tell him what the necessity was of going into his mother’s room? Even as hurried and incomplete as their warnings normally were, they were more complete than this. There must be some very powerful reason not to have explained everything to him.

  Unfortunately, D’Artagnan could only imagine one. And that one made his hair stand on end and sent a cold chill up his spine, as though a frigid finger were running the length of it.

  Had his mother killed all these people, and commanded his death too? Did they expect her to rise from her bed and…

  His mind beggared for thought. And what? Find him in his bed and kill him? What could they think? Surely if she wanted to murder him, she could have used poison? They’d all been at her mercy every day they’d eaten there.

  “Athos,” he started again, in a whisper.

  Athos shook his head and again took his finger to his lips, and this time pointed towards the window.

  At first D’Artagnan wasn’t sure what the pointing towards the window meant. And then he could hear the scuffing of shoes against the stones of the wall. Someone was climbing the wall. Not a hard feat, since the D’Artagnan house was stone construction and quite old enough to have irregularities and fissures. But that D’Artagnan knew no one had ever climbed the wall. Why was someone doing it now?

  Slowly, slowly, the blind creaked open, inward. Fully open, it revealed a man perched on the windowsill. That it was a man there could be no doubt. That he was about some no good pursuit no doubt also.