Sarah D'Almeida - Dying by the Sword

Instead, D’Artagnan shook his head. “I’ll explain later,” he said. “For now, tell me what you have been doing? How came you to raise that racket in the armorer’s?”

Porthos gave him a sheepish look and shook his head in turn. “You see,” he said, and opened his big hands, as though to illustrate his helplessness, “I found that I couldn’t drop hammers on my head.”

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows and gave his friend a level, attentive look. “You had for a moment considered that this might be a good plan?”

Porthos sighed. “Not a plan,” he said. “Not a plan as such. It’s more…” He bit his lower lip as though in deep consideration. “You see, I thought it was odd that if a hammer had fallen on Mousqueton’s head it should not have dashed his brains out altogether.”

“If it were a glancing blow…” D’Artagnan said.

Porthos looked at him, with that air of mute misery he displayed when he was trying to think of words. Porthos could think of everything at all, but words caught on his tongue and refused to flow out as did the words of normal men. He hissed in frustration, and D’Artagnan waited for the words, looking at Porthos, betraying no impatience.

“You see…” Porthos said, and again he opened his hands, to show his lack of weapons, or perhaps his utter helplessness before the alien foe that was language. “I have been at Langelier’s before, and I had an idea, though I confess I’d never looked very closely, that the ceiling beams were too high. They could not be reached with a hand.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “You mean, you could not extend your hand and reach the beam? But surely, Porthos, one cannot reach most ceiling beams with one’s hand.”

“Of course,” Porthos agreed, amiably, but his tongue came out to touch his lips, and he made a grimace like a man in pain. “But I mean that you can’t touch whatever you hang on the rack that you hang from the beams.”

“Thereby making it impossible for anyone to retrieve a hammer easily,” D’Artagnan said. “And making it so that no artificer in his right mind would hang a hammer from such a rack.”

“Yes,” Porthos said with audible relief. “You understand.”

“Yes, I believe I do. And so you slipped away to go to the armorer’s and verify the height of the ceiling beams without telling us what your intentions were.”

“Did I not?” Porthos said, looking guilty. “I thought I had. Only I was thinking very hard on it, and it didn’t seem to bear the trouble of explaining.” He looked down at his feet. “I hope I value Aramis as I must, his being one of my best friends, and the noblest man in the whole world, excepting only Athos and… and perhaps yourself, D’Artagnan.”

“No, don’t strain your courtesy,” D’Artagnan said, fighting hard not to laugh. “It is not fair to include me in the same class as Athos or even Aramis. Let’s establish our two friends are the noblest men who ever drew breath and go from there.”

“Well, yes. And I know Aramis is my friend, and a kind friend too. But he asks questions, and he would want to know what I was going to do, and why, and he would… push me half to death, before I could explain what I was about to do. And by that time I might very well be confused on the why and the when.”

D’Artagnan nodded. He’d seen the process many times. “And Athos would try to convince you it was too dangerous.”

“You understand,” Porthos said.

“Oh yes, I understand, for you see, he tried to convince me it was too dangerous for us to go out at all, by ourselves, for however long it took to solve this murder. And then he tried to convince me that he could come with me and pass as a plebeian in this neighborhood.”

Porthos looked at him in shocked horror. “Good men,” he said. “They are. And noble, and Athos is so learned. But sometimes I wonder…”

“Where he gets his ideas,” D’Artagnan said. “Yes, so do I.” He spoke entirely without irony. Oh, D’Artagnan was cunning enough, and he understood the complex words that frustrated Porthos’s tongue and ear. But he also understood how Porthos’s mind worked better than he understood Athos’s or Aramis’s minds. Perhaps because he and Porthos, though noble born enough, had not after all, been raised as high nobility. It was a different country, almost, the level of pride and honor at which Athos had been brought up.

Porthos gave D’Artagnan the smallest of smiles, as though gratified to be making common cause with the Gascon, then shrugged. “At any rate, when I got there, I lit my candle, and I realized that there were indeed no hammers hanging from the upper racks. Nor should there be, since they could not be easily reached. You needed this hook thing I called the shepherds crook, just to remove the swords from their hooks.”

“So it was unlikely that Mousqueton could grab a sword quickly without anyone stopping him, and, therefore, it is unlikely he was stealing it.”

Porthos looked pained. “I have learned,” he said, primly, “that it is never a good idea to say it is unlikely for Mousqueton to steal anything at all, D’Artagnan. When I first met him, he managed to steal my monogrammed handkerchief from my sleeve, without my ever feeling him touch me. And I know at least one case where he stole two pigeons in a cage from a shop where they were the only livestock.” He shook his head. “Not that I intend to speak of these cases to anyone.”

“Please, do not,” D’Artagnan said. “No one needs to know who doesn’t already.”

Porthos touched the side of his nose in a conspiratorial way. “This I know,” he said. “But you see, I thought it was still possible that someone who didn’t know Mousqueton-particularly someone who didn’t know Mousqueton or myself-would say that he had asked Monsieur Langelier for the sword, and then run him through suddenly when he least expected it.”

“They wouldn’t say that if they knew Mousqueton or yourself?”

“No, because anyone who knew Mousqueton would know that he would never run a man through like that, in cold blood. And anyone who knew me…” He shrugged. “Anyone who knew me would know that I have no money for an expensive sword. And, what’s more, would know Monsieur Langelier knew it also.”

D’Artagnan nodded. Having walked all the while they spoke, they were now well away from the neighborhood of the armorer’s and at the point where they must choose whether to turn in the direction of Porthos’s lodgings or D’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan motioned towards the alley which would lead them to the Rue des Fossoyers, where he lived. “Come with me,” he said. “I must change out of this suit.”

“Of course,” Porthos said, good-naturedly, and followed him. “So I thought perhaps they had hammers up there. Not… Not that I could see them there, and I don’t think anyone would have their work hammers so far up they would need a tool to retrieve them, but then… perhaps they’d made a hammer or two, to see how they would sell, you know… and hung them up there.”

“Unlikely,” D’Artagnan said.

“Very, but I was thinking, you see, of what people would say.”

“Of course,” D’Artagnan said. “And so…”

“I put a hammer up there, hung it with a bit of leather. And then I swung the rack, to see if it would fall.”

“And did it?” D’Artagnan asked.

Porthos shook his head. “Never did. And, you know, I could not allow it to fall on my head, but I’m sure we can get some large melons or something of that nature. I would wager you, if I can make it fall, coming from as far up as it would be coming, even a glancing blow would be enough to crush a melon. Or a human head.”

Frowning, D’Artagnan nodded. “You may be right,” he said.