Camden, London, 6th March, 8pm
Constance served casseroled lamb shank for dinner and frowned at the rather unpolished table manners of her new lodger. D'Artagnan was slouched in his chair, flicking through his (new) phone, in his faded T shirt and unnecessarily tight indigo jeans. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and as she studied him, he scratched his inner thigh and then went back to dabbing at his phone.
Classic single male, in other words. She was amazed he knew what a dining table was. Every meal would be eaten standing at the kitchen counter or out of takeaway boxes balanced on his chest as he slumped on the sofa. He looked like a man who was well versed in how to remove outer packaging and pierce film lid.
He had showered on arriving home though. That was good. His room was the so-called fourth bedroom in the attic, which had its own ensuite. It also had a view of last year's buddleia clinging to the railway embankment and the trampolines and bikes in the back of other, more blessed households. Constance was blessed mainly with enough space to put up three D'Artagnans, not that it would be allowed. In the kitchen rubbing harissa into a shank, she had heard the clank of the pipes and then the rattle as hot water drained away. So D'Artagnan might be a slob, but he was a clean slob. Fresh smelling around the house, that was important.
The Musketeers in general kept pretty well scrubbed. Maybe it was a soldier thing. Athos had that spicy aftershave, though presumably he just dabbed it under his ears or something, since shaving was a hobby he'd given up when he joined. Porthos favoured a down to earth twenty second blast of Lynx. And Aramis, well.
Aramis always smelled wonderful. She had no idea how he did it. A different scent every time she noticed. She could swear she'd caught a whiff of Chanel Number Five one time. -Maybe he moonlighted on the perfume counter at Harrods.
She grinned, imagining him wafting fragrance at the ladies who lunch, plus the ladies who wished they could lunch, not to mention the ladies married to middle eastern princes.
Blimey. Now she thought of it Aramis would make a fortune in commission.
"What?" asked D'Artagnan, and Constance rearranged her features.
"Nothing. Eat your tea."
He studied her. "You're doing your utmost to play the stern landlady, but it isn't working."
His brown eyes, on her. She busied herself with knife and fork. The lamb was meltingly perfect.
"You're not strict at all," he said wonderingly. "You're totally soft. But you won't let them see that." He was smiling at her, eyes twinkling, head tilted. He must know it was his good side.
"Them?" She knew who, but had to say something. The look he gave her! It was not like an Aramis look, full of certainty in his own charms, or Porthos' sneaky admiration, or even Athos, poor thing, pretending he was lifeless from the neck down but unable to avoid looking when she wore a halter neck top to work. (Well, it was hot in her office. And frankly it was nice to know she hadn't become a wizened husk.) "Them who?"
That nickname. Silly. But it did have a certain resonance. "The musketeers," said D'Artagnan, conscious that he was now one of them. Sort of.
"And why would I care what they think? Or any of you? Boys with toys." Attack is the best defence.
"I don't know." D'Artagnan pointed at her with his fork. "But you do care. And I'll work it out, you know I will. What do you do at LOUIS, anyway?"
"She works in the library. Who are you?"
D'Artagnan turned.
A man with the shaven head of the self-proclaimed hard man stood in the doorway. The keys to a Mitsubishi Evo dangled from his meaty fingers. His neck was strewn with faux military dog tags, and a word beginning Const- inked its way down into his v-necked tight T shirt.
"Kev!" Constance got to her feet. "This is D'Artagnan . He's from work. New. Nowhere to live yet. I said he could stay here for a couple of days. A few days."
She was gabbling, her cheeks flushed, her hands twisting together and apart. D'Artagnan looked from her flushed face to Kev's scowl.
"Maybe a week. Or two," said Constance as Kev continued to stare at her, his jaw set, ignoring D'Artagnan.
A week? There had been no mention of more than tonight when Treville ordered D'Artagnan to stay.
D'Artagnan stood up too, and held out his hand. "D'Artagnan," he said. "Nice to meet you."
Kev grunted at him. He jerked his head at Constance, and walked through to the living room without a word.
What a dickhead. Well, D'Artagnan had only agreed to one night. He was, he realised, committed to helping the Musketeers find Trace's attackers and solve the mystery of the PiP messages. But he didn't have to do it where he wasn't welcome.
He heard the rumble of Kev's voice, and then Constance's, in a furious whisper. Then silence. And then a squeak.
Just a squeak. Tiny and brief, like the involuntary whimper of an animal which has been kicked to stop it barking. But D'Artagnan's nostrils flared.
Maybe he could stay for a week.
Later, in bed under the sloping attic ceiling, D'Artagnan thought: But Constance doesn't work in the library.
The trains clattered past, bursting from their tunnel into the night air, or burying themselves in the mouth of the world under London where it is permanently night. D'Artagnan could not distinguish the direction of the trains and imagined the sounds as a single locomotive, travelling crazily both to and from freedom, stretching and contracting like a spring, tense and release, tense and release over and over until it finally gave way.
The trains smothered any noise from downstairs and D'Artagnan lay awake, and listened, and wondered.
Carlton Place, London, 6th March, 8pm
"Music," declared Aramis. "Loud music, and beautiful women."
"And booze," said Porthos.
They stood on the steps of their elegant headquarters, allowing the foot traffic to flow past on the pavement below, bracing themselves against the March wind and the brisk pace of the evening commute. Work accoutrements had been consigned to their lockers and an attempt at casualwear had been made. This principally involved swapping shirts for T shirts, except in Aramis' case, for whom dressing down involved a crisp white shirt, glossy shoes and a sharp tailored jacket he certainly could not afford on a musketeer wage.
Aramis turned his collar up against the chill. Porthos glanced at this and smirked. Aramis merely narrowed his eyes, secure in the conviction of his superior style.
Athos put his hands in his jacket pockets. "You may leave me out of the carousing," he said. "I am in the mood for quiet."
"Not going to happen," said Aramis. "You're coming with us. I know a place, or rather, someone I know knows a place -"
"-Someone you know. It's always someone you know," said Porthos, reflexively scanning the street. The new recruit had been sent off under the tender care of Constance, and Treville's analysts were larking about with the high tech stuff. It was time to chill.
"-It's supposed to be very good," said Aramis, with an injured air.
"Still, I will leave you to your fun," said Athos.
Aramis sighed.
"You do talk rubbish," said Porthos, and he and Aramis grasped Athos' arms and marched him down the steps to the street. Aramis used his free hand to hail a black cab.
"For the sake of my delicate knuckles and your dignity," said Athos, "I will go with you. But only if there's decent wine."
"After the first few we won't care," said Porthos, and a cab rattled up to the kerb.
The place, recommended by Aramis' someone, was in Hoxton, an area which had been edgy ten years previously and was now merely on a popularity plateau, finding favour with office workers and the ironic nostalgic crowd, rather than the hipsters and arty types which had made the area's name. There was a first floor bar, a wistfully empty performance space, and, occupying the ground floor and basement, a club. The music emanating from there was as loud as Aramis could have hoped, and the women, in as much as they wore short skirt suits and high heels and carried the air of lawyers and brokers ready to let down their expensively-styled hair, were as beautiful as the LED mood lighting could make them.
Aramis claimed a space by an arched first floor window, at a chest-high table surrounded by teetering bar stools, which the men ignored. Porthos acquired a carafe of the house red, and Athos poured.
They clinked glasses in a wordless toast. Athos winced at the wine, but swallowed it down anyway.
"Not bad," said Aramis, eyes roving around the room. "Not bad at all."
"You speak, of course, of the architecture," said Athos, staring into his glass.
"Oh yeah," said Porthos, as two girls in pinstripe minidresses and patent heels tottered past. "Classic London style."
"Early modern build," said Aramis, his eyes following Porthos'. "With strong suggestions of a twenty first century attitude."
"Just go," said Athos. He lifted his head and gave them his wry smile. "If I can't get a proper drink at least let me have a peaceful one."
"Suit yourself." Aramis downed his wine, and glided towards the women. Porthos spread his hands helplessly at Athos, then followed.
Left alone, Athos finished the wine, and gestured to the barman to bring the list. He indicated his choice with one finger on the name of the vintage, and passed a folded note into the hand of the barman as the bottle arrived.
He sipped his drink and contemplated the bar, and the day.
D'Artagnan. A young fool. Plucky, certainly, and highly persuasive. But he had no hard proof of his suspicions, and had actually allowed himself to be seduced out of the main evidence by a woman. All that remained were a few scraps of a larger communication, one word of which was coincidentally connected to today's mission.
Yes: coincidence. It had to be. Except that Athos was suspicious of coincidence.
Still, D'Artagnan had sought, and found, LOUIS, the Musketeers, and Athos himself. That was impressive. And then, armed only with bar brawl skills and an unshakable sense of his own righteousness, he had jumped into a vengeance fistfight with three strangers, and not immediately smiled at the bottle. There might well be a career for D'Artagnan at LOUIS, one day. With a decent mentor, a man like young D'Artagnan might go far.
A man like D'Artagnan .
Athos drank deeply, forgetting to savour the vintage. That was what troubled him. It was not D'Artagnan's outrageous claims, his idiotic challenge to Athos, or his pigheaded refusal to let the thing go. It was his resemblance, his striking resemblance in person and attitude, to another boy Athos had known.
Dark hair, bright dark eyes, boundless energy with little to direct it until LOUIS - yes, Athos had known someone just like that.
And now that boy was dead.
And it must not happen again to the next misguided youth looking for adventure and glory.
Athos tipped up the bottle and found he was at its end already. Good. There was a chance he would sleep tonight.
He looked for Aramis among the crowd and saw him, posed artlessly against a green-painted iron pillar, his eyes devouring the pretty girl he was listening to. He gave every impression that what she was saying had transformed his life.
Porthos was leaning on the bar, elbow to elbow with a couple of other blokes, engaged in earnest conversation about something which was about to involve a wager. Even as Athos watched, Porthos flinched as if insulted, took out his wallet and a pack of cards and slapped both down on the bar.
Ah, Porthos. He would be going home with double the money tonight.
Athos drank.
Aramis appeared and draped his arm around Athos' shoulders. "We're leaving."
"All right."
Athos had admitted a level of defeat and was slumped on the tall bar stool, supported by the wall. His jacket chafed on the rough brick. His boots still showed orange dust from the events at the reservoir. His hair hung over his eyes and the set of his mouth showed Aramis that tonight was for determined drinking, drinking with the aim of becoming stupefied.
Athos did this regularly. Basically Athos did not drink except to get drunk. It was a miracle he had ant brain cells left and had never been robbed as he staggered home. If he carried on like this -
Aramis drew a breath. Drunk or sober, Athos could take care of himself. His liver was his business. He could retaliate if attacked, and sarcasm dealt with nearly everything else. Athos was, basically, immune to people.
And whatever the reason for tonight's winefest, Aramis could not help.
He peered at Athos. Athos kept his head down and shrugged. "See you tomorrow," said Aramis. He gripped Athos' shoulder for a moment, then released him, gave Porthos the nod and they swaggered away.
