RETRIBUTION
This story is set in Season 2 between episodes 5 and 6.Whilst no time period was clearly determined in the BBC programmes, I have created my own time-line in that six weeks elapsed from when Treville lost his captaincy at the end of episode 4 until Athos' disappearance in episode 5. This story then opens a further four weeks on from when Athos rescinded his right to his estate and title following the 'Battle of Pinon'.
CHAPTER 1
Paris, late summer 1631
The alleyway between the two buildings was narrow and dark, little light filtering down from above to impact upon the deep shadows. Flanked by a tavern on one side and a butcher's shop on the other, detritus from both trades was flung remorselessly into the passageway that offered a short cut between two parallel Paris roads.
Amongst the rubbish, a man sat on the hard-packed ground, his back against the tavern side-wall, legs outstretched before him and hands resting lightly in his lap. Although an odd choice of place for his repose, the casual observer might be forgiven for assuming that he was a drunk who had spilled out of the tavern late the previous evening and, unable to find either his way home or a steadiness of legs to take him there, had opted to sleep off the effects of the alcohol in the first convenient spot.
Indeed, there were several observers now who, far from being casual as they gathered at the nearest end of the alleyway, were strangely quiet as they perused the unfolding events.
The alarm had been raised by the butcher's apprentice who had been tasked with disposing of a bucket filled with bloody water in the alleyway. At first, he had not taken any notice of the man, fixated as he was upon his duty and so familiar was the sight of an inebriated figure in the cold light of day.
However, the boy, with an edge of delighted malice, had not been silent in his job and when his clattering and loud, tuneless singing had failed to initiate any response, he had decided to investigate further.
He had never seen a dead man before but he did know the fleur de lis insignia engraved in the leather pauldron adorning the man's right shoulder. The manner and violence of the man's death was such that the bravado of youth was abandoned as the apprentice ran yelling back into the butcher's shop, his wide eyes and garbled message alerting his master and a number of bemused customers.
They had consequently all traipsed round to the alleyway to gawp at the felled musketeer of the King's regiment; some were shocked by the scene whilst others shook their head, worried at what might have been unleashed in the attack on one of the King's own soldiers. Another couple, less forgiving, agreed that it was probably the unfortunate but no-less deserved aftermath of a drunken brawl. It was more than likely to be the result of a slight altercation between the musketeers and Rochefort's Red Guard, given the history of animosity and the infamous rivalry between the two regiments.
The same boy was then hurriedly despatched to the garrison to impart the news and several men had been swift to follow him back to the scene of the crime. The small crowd watched avidly as one man crouched beside the corpse whilst another stood over him, eyes ever alert on both ends of the alleyway and suspicious of the spectators.
"The cause of death comes as no surprise," Aramis grimly announced, crossing himself in a brief, spiritual recognition of the departed soul and pushing up to stand beside his comrade. Together, they looked down on the dead soldier in a fleeting but respectful silence.
Martin Moreau, seasoned veteran of many a campaign, was known to both of them; it was impossible for a musketeer not to know those with whom he served, even if they were more acquaintances than actual friends. That this one should meet his end in a side alley in such a manner was unthinkable.
The expression on his face was one of mild surprise, mouth slightly open as if he were about to register an objection. The new, second mouth drawn in a cruel line across his neck and emphasised by the congealing dark blood was a mockery of the man's genial nature.
"There are no defensive marks on his hands or arms," Aramis continued.
"And his weapons have gone," Athos intoned flatly, his eyes surveying the ground for any evidence. What might have been there had been obliterated by the many feet of the curious. "He either never stood a chance or he knew his attacker."
Raised voices at the end of the alleyway drew the attention of the two musketeers, frowns at the disturbance quickly giving way to looks of recognition as their two brothers, Porthos and d'Artagnan, eased their way through the throng to rejoin them.
"The innkeeper says Martin wasn't in there last night," d'Artagnan announced , his eyes flitting to the corpse on the ground.
"But I reckon he's lying," Porthos insisted. "He was uneasy and clearly didn't want to answer any of our questions."
"Perhaps the situation calls for applying a little pressure?" Aramis questioned, glancing towards Athos as if seeking confirmation.
"Later," the older musketeer agreed as he dropped to crouch beside the victim, something having caught his eye.
"What is it?" Aramis' brow furrowed in consternation at the prospect of having missed a vital clue.
"Not sure," Athos answered quietly, pulling a relatively clean handkerchief from a pocket and wiping at a patch of blood that had dried on the dead man's chest. Some came away in flakes to reveal scratches on the skin but it was not easy to discern a pattern. Whatever it was had no business being there. "We need to get him back to the garrison and clean him up; there's something there but the light here is not good enough."
"You think it was done by his killer?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Or killers – yes."
"Third one in eight days," Porthos muttered darkly. "Don't seem like a coincidence anymore."
"I agree. I think we need to go back to the beginning and re-examine everything again. I am beginning to suspect that our first dead musketeer, Albert, was no suicide after all." Athos pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and turned to face the mass of people at the end of the alleyway, nonchalantly scrutinising the faces as he slowly and deliberately pulled on his leather gauntlets. The person responsible was probably long gone but there was always the possibility that the prospect of the hue and cry following the discovery of the body was enough to entice those responsible to remain and view proceedings. There was, however, no untoward behaviour save the voyeurism of the curious and no-one sought to steal away unobserved.
"Just made to look like one," Porthos asserted to which Athos merely nodded.
A disturbance separated the onlookers and heralded the arrival of a cart brought from the garrison to remove the body. Shrouded in a blanket to preserve his dignity from prying eyes, Martin Moreau was carefully carried to the cart to begin his final journey back to the home of the musketeers.
As the sorry procession made its way through the archway and into the yard, it was clear that word had spread and all the men within the confines of the garrison had gathered, as was their custom, with hats clutched to chests and heads bowed in a mark of solemn respect.
Treville, formerly the Captain of the regiment until upsetting the King once too often, waited for them at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the room that had been his office and remained his sleeping quarters. His face grim, he watched Athos break away from the arriving group and approach him.
"Who?" he demanded.
"Martin Moreau," Athos explained.
Treville sighed loudly and wiped a hand tiredly over his face. Since his fall from grace, there had been no designated successor and he found himself in the awkward position of having the men still looking to him for direction and leadership whilst the King wanted nothing to do with him. Louis, perceiving that the repeated shortcomings of his own regiment and its erstwhile Captain were a personal slight, tolerated their presence at court for the usual palace duty but preferred, very publicly, to bestow favouritism on Rochefort and the Red Guard. Once, the demise of three musketeers in suspicious circumstances would have been news that Treville imparted to his sovereign without delay and daily updates on the situation would have been demanded but not now. Even if Louis had been prepared to listen, he would have found some way to imply that it was a self-induced misfortune, that the musketeers must have been responsible in some way.
He and Athos waited whilst Moreau was transferred into the ground floor room that was usually used for the injured and ailing and had gained the spurious name of the infirmary as a consequence. They then followed the group inside to where Aramis was ready to begin the bleak task of washing and examining the body more closely.
They stood deferentially to one side as Aramis, assisted by Porthos, stripped the corpse and then sponged down the torso with tepid water before leaning in to investigate the marks that had attracted Athos' attention back in the alley.
"You might want to come and look at this," he invited.
Athos and Treville approached the table and looked down to where Aramis indicated the scratches in the skin on Moreau's chest. They formed a cross where the vertical line bisected a horizontal one of similar length; each of the four points was then capped by a smaller line.
"It looks familiar," Athos frowned, searching his memory in an attempt to make the connection with where he had seen such a design before.
"I agree," said Treville, "but I'm not remembering from where."
"There was nothing like it on the bodies of Sebastien or Benin. I saw them and I am sure I would have remembered something as obvious as this," Aramis declared. He was referring to the two other musketeers whose untimely deaths had added to unnerve the regiment. Paul Sebastien had been discovered beneath a bridge on the north bank of the Seine, a musket ball lodged in his forehead whilst Henri Benin, the first to die, had been found hanging from a tree in the grounds beyond the palace, supposedly by his own hand.
Athos straightened up from where he had been bending over his former colleague. "Perhaps it did not have to be on the bodies. Sebastien had a torn piece of paper in his hand. Do you have it still?" This last question he directed towards Treville.
"Yes, it's upstairs in the office," Treville said and turned towards the door, the other three close on his heels.
They waited whilst he retrieved a scrap of paper from a drawer and smoothed it out as he lay it down on the desk top. As the four leaned in to view it more closely, it was evident that the incomplete ink image resembled parts of the symbol they had seen carved into Moreau's torso. There was no question; these two deaths were linked at the very least.