Afternoon, all. It has been a difficult one with problems with the laptop, rebooting, systems check and changing various passwords! Stressful! So apologies if any errors have crept through.

But here we are with a continuation of the rooftop chase. Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting.

CHAPTER 68

ARAMIS

I run as fast as I dare out on the hazardous cobbles, not looking where I am going as my eyes are fixed upon the roof line and the figure who is making a desperate bid to escape. Behind him and slowly gaining ground is Delacroix, recognisable now by his size and ungainly movements; there is nothing elegant about the man. Then comes Porthos, eager to catch up whilst two more Musketeers have joined him up there and are bringing up the rear. The others have spilled out into the street after me.

In the houses, casements in the three-storey buildings are opened tentatively and heads appear. The occasional candle is lit.

"Who's there? What is happening?" nervous voices call and one brave soul opens a front door.

"King's Musketeers," I shout back. "About the King's business. There are men on the roof. Stay inside and you will be safe."

There is a solitary shriek of alarm but then the windows – and the front door – are slammed shut and I curse myself for making a stupid comment when I had meant reassurance. Of course there are men on the roof; their thundering footsteps would have been enough to waken the dead, let alone law-abiding citizens of Paris!

What happens next is crazy, unexpected and happens so fast, although it is seared into my mind in an incongruous slow motion.

Delacroix is shouting at the man in front of him to stop but is totally ignored, as one would expect. With an uncharacteristic burst of speed, he is within arm's reach of his prey and grabs at the man's cloak, jerking him to an abrupt halt.

Unfortunately, the messenger loses his footing on the rain-slicked, narrow, flat edge of the roof and without even a cry, pitches over the side, dragging Delacroix after him.

The pair hang suspended. Delacroix has a desperate hold on the raised stone edge with his left hand, whilst the right still clutches the cloak of the messenger who swings to and fro beneath it. Even from where I am standing, I can hear the wool of the garment beginning to tear at the weight of the dangling man. Porthos reaches them and drops first to his knees and then to his front, lying along the ridge to spread his own weight as he tries to get a strong purchase on Delacroix who in turn bellows instructions to the messenger who is acutely aware that the cloak is tearing and is urgently attempting to pull himself up along the part that is in the Musketeer's grasp.

I am halfway across the road when the material gives up and the quiet street is witness to the terrified scream of the messenger as he plummets to the ground, landing with a sickening thud and lying still. I drop beside him, but he has landed badly, sightless eyes wide open, neck broken and right leg at an unnatural angle as the blood begins to pool beneath his head, its intense colour immediately diluted by the relentless rain.

Someone runs up beside me and, glancing sideways at the boots, I see that it is the Captain.

"Damn it," he mutters, which I think is remarkably restrained given the circumstances. With the messenger dead, our one link to his master and the traitor on the King's council dies with him.

There are more shouts from above me and I stand, head upturned and swiping angrily at the rain that attempts to blind me and making it difficult to see the ongoing, alarming scene.

Porthos has shifted position to enable the two Musketeers to crouch either side of him as they join forces to rescue Delacroix who, in the aftermath of the messenger's death, is beginning to panic.

"Let it go!" I hear Porthos shout, and I wonder what he means, until I realise that Delacroix still has the remains of the torn cloak in a death-like grip in his right hand. He does not appear to hear at first and all three men on the roof edge yell orders to him. Something cuts through his fear as the material suddenly drops and slaps wetly on the ground inches from the man who had so lately worn it.

"I'm slipping!" Delacroix screeches as four more willing hands scramble to get a better hold of him as well as the grip Porthos has on his wrist and forearm.

No doubt the rain has made his leathers wet, not helped by the oils used to keep them supple and I offer up a speedy prayer that they are not too slick to hold. I don't like the man – never have and never will – but he does not deserve to suffer the same fate as the messenger, and I do not realise that I am holding my breath until they have successfully hauled Delacroix to the relative safety of the roof.

While the four of them make a tentative return along the roof edge to the staircase and a more reliable descent, the Captain and I turn our attention to the body, going through pockets to see if we can find anything that might help us in associating him to the traitor or at least identifying the corpse.

But he was good at his job and there is absolutely nothing on him, save for the message that Ferel gave him which Tréville screws up in disgust and stows away in one of his own pockets.

"Have you seen him before?" he asks me in vain hope.

I shake my head, sorry to disappoint him. "Never, neither at the palace nor on the street."

"Then we are at a dead end," he says and looks down at the body before adding wryly, "quite literally!"

"So that is what happened," Captain Tréville finishes, sitting back in his chair and sipping at the brandy he has brought down to the infirmary after we all eventually arrived back at the garrison.

It's now almost midnight and we had fully expected Athos to be asleep but, instead, he is wide awake and looking more than a little pleased with himself. When Serge told us the good news of what he had achieved during the afternoon, we were elated, and it served to remove a little of the sting of our failed mission.

"Now you'd best tell him what you've all been up to. He's been worryin' himself an' nothin' I could say would convince 'im otherwise," Serge had ordered as he left the infirmary to provide a late supper for us and the rest of the men who had accompanied us. The messenger's body had been removed to the city's mortuary where we gave instructions to be notified the moment anyone came to see or claim the corpse. That gave us a few days at least to try to find out who he was in life, after which he would be buried in an unmarked, pauper's grave which did not sit well with us, for his clothes spoke of a better existence.

So we told Athos what had happened, or rather the Captain did; we decided to leave it to him with us just filling in the gaps of the story that particularly related to us. I did let Porthos describe what had happened with Delacroix on the roof and as he spoke, it was clear that the rescue had not been straightforward.

"'E didn't trust me," Porthos explained, apparently more than a little hurt by the realisation. "With the way 'e's treated you over the years, he thought I'd get revenge for you an' just let 'im go."

"He said that?" I asked incredulously.

"Not those exact words," Porthos admitted, "but the sense was the same."

"And what did you say to that?" Tréville asked with interest, only too aware of the tension between the men.

"Once I'd sworn at 'im and told 'im not to be such an idiot, I said it would be nice if 'e could 'elp me a little, by which time Laval and Roche had arrived, so we hauled 'im up between us. Which was just as well, as my arms were getting' tired an' my hands were slippin' on his wet leathers an' I would've let 'im go. It would've been an accident, but I reckon I'd have had a hard time convincing his friends of that."

I'm still thinking about the rooftop incident when I notice that Athos is staring fixedly at the cup I am holding and I chuckle softly.

"I can read you like a book, brother. One sip. That's all you're getting and that'll be enough." I lean forward and put the cup to his lips. Obediently and perhaps a little reluctantly, he takes the sip and relaxes back against his pillows, eyes closed in contentment, and I can tell that he is running the brandy around the inside of his mouth, savouring the taste before he swallows it. Only then does he open one eye and appraise me.

"No more tonight," I say forcefully. "Perhaps tomorrow. That's enough progress for you in one day." I may be mean but deep inside I want to cheer wildly as my brother continues to take tentative steps towards his recovery.

When Serge had brought us food, he also provided another bowl of the milk and chicken so that Athos might demonstrate what he could do and eat with us, thus feeling more a part of the group as we regaled him with the evening's events.

His movements were awkward with the spoon though and some fell onto the cloth spread across him, but Serge assured us that his attempts were even better than earlier. Others would mark it as such a small thing, but to us it was a milestone, a turning point- call it what you will – and we praised him noisily on his achievement. His pleasure at our words was even more profound when the faintest blush of embarrassment brought colour to cheeks that had been wan for far too long.

And now he has had some brandy. Not a lot, but that sip represents another step towards normality, and I wonder what we can look forward to next.

"I wonder at Delacroix being so swift in heading for the roof after the messenger," I comment. My cup is now empty and so the Captain offers me the brandy bottle to pour more.

As I ponder events, it occurs to me that Delacroix was up there on the roof before any of his colleagues and he has never struck me as being the one to exert himself unnecessarily or to push himself forward in potentially dangerous situations.

The Captain clears his throat awkwardly. "I am prepared to shoulder some of the responsibility for that."

Porthos and I regard him with puzzlement so that he is obliged to explain.

"In the weeks since Athos first went missing, I have had occasion to summon Delacroix to my office several times for reprimands over a variety of misdemeanours and I hoped that by pointing out the consequences he might expect if he persisted in behaving as he was doing, that he might end his ways. I can only hope that he was trying to rectify things and impress me. Based on what you saw from the ground, Aramis, the messenger's death was an unfortunate accident?"

I sigh deeply. "As much as it goes against the grain to have to admit it for I would never have thought it likely that I'd be coming to Delacroix' defence, but it was a straightforward accident exacerbated by the rain. Delacroix had caught him, and he lost his footing on the wet roof; it was as simple as that. Fortunately, Porthos, Laval and Roche were close at hand to stop him from plunging to his death too."

"It's just a shame that he was our only link to the council member," Tréville adds quietly and a silence descends as we contemplate what we can possibly do next to solve the problem that hasn't already been done before.

There's a gentle tap on my arm. Athos. When he has my attention he mimes a sheet of paper and using a pen.

"You want to write something?" I ask by way of clarification, and he nods enthusiastically.

The Captain crosses to the table which still has writing materials on it from the long periods when one or other of us has been occupying ourselves whilst Athos slept. Tréville passes him a book to lean upon with a clean sheet of paper lying on it and the quill pen, although he retains a hold of the bottle of ink.

The task is slow and arduous as Athos, brow furrowed in deep concentration, dips the pen in the ink and begins to write what he wants to say. With his tenuous grip upon the pen and a surfeit of black ink blotches upon the page, gone is the neat precision of his usual hand and, in its place, is a few scrawled letters of differing heights and angles, as if Athos is naught but a small child copying words for the first time. He perseveres despite the effort clearly tiring him and, at length, he lays the pen down on the paper and pushes the result in my direction.

It's another remarkable achievement and should ease out communication if Athos can write what he wants to say.

The message is short but to the point, its meaning heartfelt, and although the words are untidy, they are still legible. Unable to speak, I pass it to the others so that they might read it also.

'Sorry. Trying hard to remember."

From his chair beside the bed, Tréville leans forward and lays a hand lightly on Athos' covered leg.

"It will come, lad. Other things are coming back to you and you are achieving different things all the time. Look how much progress you have made in this one day alone. Do not worry trying to force your memory to return; you will only upset yourself. It will happen just as with your speaking, and we will wait."

He means to reassure but I can see that Athos is agitated and frustrated in equal measure. As for me, I want nothing more than to believe the Captain and I sincerely hope that he is correct.

But how long do we wait for Athos' memory and voice to return?

And what happens when they don't?