Chapter Text
Athos drove slowly into the village, glancing at the chocolate-box cottages he was passing with little recognition. He’d been here before to look over the house, but it had been in a medicated haze and his recollections were blurry.
To the right was a little country church, and movement caught his eye as a group of people spilled out of the door. His first thought was a winter wedding, but then it registered that everyone was in black. A funeral then.
He shuddered. Thoughts of death were exactly what he didn’t need right now, and it somehow felt like a bad omen.
Athos put his foot down, causing an elderly man walking a Jack Russell to step hastily back into the verge and glare at him as he passed. Athos barely noticed, intent only on getting away from the morbid scene behind him.
He found the cottage with little trouble, recognising it more from the estate agent’s particulars than his own brief visit a couple of months previously. He’d left it up to his assistant to furnish, his own interest in it beginning and ending with the fact it represented an escape from the city. Sanctuary, in the peace of the countryside. He hoped.
Getting out of the car, Athos noticed for the first time that there was a light on inside and his heart sank. He didn’t want to face anyone right now, didn’t want to make small talk with nosy villagers. He knew it couldn't be Constance in there, had spoken to her briefly before leaving that morning and knew she was still in London.
He let himself in and stood cautiously in the hallway, listening. The house felt empty, but there was light bleeding out from at least two doorways.
“Hello?” Athos called out, but there was no reply and he relaxed a little. Pushing open the nearest door he found it opened onto a cosy sitting room. It had been furnished in the style of an old fashioned gentleman’s club, all leather armchairs and polished wood and bookshelves. It was a world away from the modern décor of Athos’ apartment in the city, but it suited the house and he conceded his own furniture would have looked out of place here.
Constance had worked hard to make it feel homely for him, and he felt a pang of guilt. She was a trained para-legal, but due to circumstances he'd had no cases for her to work on recently. Temporarily at a loose end, she’d been eager enough to take on a project like this, and had promised him repeatedly that she didn’t mind.
He looked out of the front window. Immaculate houses all down the road, each in their own secluded plot behind carefully maintained hedges and fences. Glimpses of expensive cars in driveways. His own Mercedes fit in perfectly. This was commuter country, within easy reach of the City if you left at an appropriately painful time of the morning.
Outside a big black car slid noiselessly past, followed by a stream of others and Athos realised it must be the funeral party returning from the graveside. He pulled the curtain across sharply to block out the view, wincing at the protesting screech of metal rings on the pole.
Wandering back into the hall Athos headed towards the back of the house. The second door opened onto the kitchen-diner, and there was a savoury smell filling the room that was almost enough to make him feel hungry for once.
Athos picked up a note left on the counter and opened the envelope.
Have arranged for Mrs Evans from the village to come in and make sure the place is warmed and aired, and to leave you some supper. She’s happy to come in and clean for you three times a week if you want her to, but I asked her to leave it a couple of days before calling. Told her to put the key back through the letterbox when she was done, so you don’t have to worry about anyone walking in on you. Hope everything’s okay, let me know if you need anything. Constance.
Athos walked back to the front door and after a moment located the key lying beside the doormat. There was a wooden bowl on a sideboard and he dropped it in, feeling an irrational spike of irritation. He appreciated all the effort Constance had gone to, but it made him feel like he was being managed. Looked after. Like he was ill.
He was ill. Athos looked at his reflection in the hall mirror and sighed. He didn’t look it, other than the shadows under his eyes. You’d hardly know.
Athos went back to the kitchen and found another note beside the stove, this one written in a rounder, heavier hand.
Chicken casserole keeping warm in the oven, bread in the bread bin, milk and butter in the fridge. Village shop is open every day (mornings only on Sundays) or just let me know if I can bring you any shopping. Patricia Evans. It ended with a local phone number, and he sighed.
Everyone was being very thoughtful. It was the sort of thing one said at a funeral, wasn’t it? You’ve all been very kind. His thoughts slipped unwillingly back to the burial he’d passed, and wondered who’d died. It had been a large gathering. Someone well liked? Or just important?
It didn’t take him long to explore the rest of the house. Upstairs were two small bedrooms, a double and a single, and a bathroom. There was a second lavatory crammed in under the stairs on the ground floor, and a small utility room bolted on at the back, and that was it. In terms of overall floorspace it was probably bigger than the flat he’d come from, but the dark beams and leaded windows made it feel smaller. Athos decided on balance that he liked it. It felt like a protective shell that he could safely hide in from the rest of the world.
Coming back down the stairs, Athos paused for a second as he caught the unmistakeable smell of woodsmoke. Curious, he went a couple of steps back up, sniffing, but the scent had already evaporated. There was no open hearth in the cottage any more, he knew that, some previous owner having had a gas fire put in decades ago. Strange that a smell should linger so long, but maybe hundreds of years of log fires had permeated the fabric of the place. Although if that was the case, surely he should be able to still smell it?
Realising the way he was still sniffing the air around him made him look faintly ridiculous, Athos shrugged and went down the rest of the stairs at a trot, only to draw up sharply as he caught sight of a figure standing in the doorway to the sitting room.
“Who’s there?” Alarmed at finding he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought, Athos froze, one hand gripping the newel post so hard his knuckles turned white. His throat closed up in panic, and he had to fight to calm himself, taking slow breaths.
There’d been no response to his stammered demand, and he stared at the doorway in confused apprehension. What had he seen? A shadow, moving into the room, that was all. Could he have been mistaken?
One unwilling step at a time, Athos forced himself to walk into the room and he wasn’t sure if it was a relief or not to find it empty.
“Trick of the light,” he muttered to himself. “That’s all.” Must have just been light reflecting from a car windscreen or something. He retreated to the kitchen, closed the door firmly behind him and put the radio on to break the suddenly oppressive silence.
He was halfway through a plateful of the casserole when he remembered he’d closed the curtains in the front room, and it couldn’t have been a reflection from anything.
--
The next morning Athos slept late, feeling gluey and numb when he finally struggled awake. Uneasy in a strange bedroom, he’d needed a double dose of sleeping pills before he could finally pass out, and this morning he was paying the price for it.
Stumbling into the bathroom he realised he could smell woodsmoke again, and frowned. Pacing back and forth he occasionally caught another whiff, but never in quite the same place and eventually he gave up and went to stand blankly under the shower. What did it matter if the old place reeked a bit? It wasn’t an unpleasant smell. He just didn’t like things that came and went like that. There’d been a period when he couldn’t trust his own senses, and it was important to him now to know he was right in his own mind.
It occurred to him he could ask Constance to drive down and ask her if she could smell it too, except even putting the question to her would probably be enough to make her think he should still be seeing a psychiatrist. Maybe he should.
Athos physically shook his head, shaking off the thought and finally making himself get out of the shower that was by now running cold. He was fine. He’d been signed off. I’m sane, he thought to himself. And I’ve got the piece of paper to prove it. He even managed to raise a smile at that, and as he towelled off and got dressed he found a spark of determination that this was going to be a fresh start, a new day.
Downstairs he made himself a mug of tea and opened the kitchen window, breathing in the fresh air with pleasure. There was a narrow garden at the back of the house that ran up to the edge of what the estate agent’s particulars had optimistically called a wood, but was in fact a forestry plantation. Rows of dark pines stretched back in military formation, but this morning the sun was shining down through the branches and even the distant cawing of unseen crows seemed more cheerful than sinister.
Feeling a little more refreshed, Athos carried his tea into the front room only to almost drop it when he thought there was someone standing in the window. A second glance told him no, it was just a trick of the light, sunbeams falling through the leaded panes combined with the way the curtain was pushed back.
Athos set down his mug, shaking tea off his knuckles and rubbing his hand where the hot liquid had splashed him. He lowered himself into a chair, heart hammering and feeling weak at the knees. Had he actually come in here and opened the curtains when he’d first come downstairs? He thought so, but suddenly he couldn’t remember it clearly enough to be sure.
He put his head in his hands, concentrating on just breathing until he felt stronger. The tea revived him a little more, and Athos finally relaxed enough to settle back in the chair and survey the room. There was nothing threatening about it, no shadowy presences, no lingering feeling of dread – at least no more than usual.
“No such thing as ghosts,” Athos said out loud, just to make sure any ghosts in the vicinity knew his position on the matter. He wasn’t entirely sure the alternative was any better, but if he was hallucinating he was going to put it down to tiredness rather than anything more insidious. Moving house was stressful, right? Even if your assistant had done it all for you.
He’d been embarrassed to discover that Constance had actually unpacked and put away all his clothes; he hadn’t meant her to go that far but apparently hadn’t been in a fit state to issue sufficiently specific instructions. At least that was a further incentive to pull himself together he thought with a grim smile. See what happens when you let things slide? Other people start organising your pants drawer.
--
Sleep still came reluctantly, and then only with chemical encouragement. For the first few days Athos didn’t leave the house at all, other than to venture briefly into the back garden. He was glad to find there were high-ish walls to either side which meant it wasn’t overlooked by his neighbours, and he made vague plans to buy a garden table and chairs. Not that he could think of anyone who might sit out here with him, but he assumed it was the sort of thing that came in a set.
Athos gradually settled into the house, becoming more accustomed to its sounds and shadows, and figuring out where Constance had put everything. In most cases he immediately put it somewhere else – not that any of it had been badly organised, but it made him feel more in control of things.
What finally drove him outside was the advent of his new cleaner. The chime of the doorbell made him freeze in sudden panic until he remembered she was due, and he consequently opened the door with only mild trepidation.
Athos had formed a certain mental picture of Mrs Patricia Evans as being a rounded, rosy-cheeked old matron with a tendency to gossip and a liking for floral prints. It therefore came as something of a surprise to discover that she was in fact a five foot Bangladeshi woman in jeans. She was, to be fair, sporting a floral tabard, albeit accessorised with the kind of utility belt that would put a steeplejack to shame.
To his relief she showed little interest in prying into his circumstances, merely establishing briskly what he wanted her to do and informing him what the going rate was. Athos asked her to come in once a week, paid her for two months in advance, and thankfully made his escape.
It was ridiculous, he thought to himself as he wandered aimlessly down the road. Not so long ago he’d been used to presenting high-profile criminal cases in front of a packed courtroom, but now he was finding even the simplest interactions were giving him hot and cold flushes. Objectively, he knew increased anxiety could be a side effect of the pills he was taking, but not taking them meant not sleeping, and not sleeping – well that had been a contributing factor to his little spell under supervision, hadn’t it.
He made a slow loop through the heart of the village, sussing out the shop and avoiding the group of local inhabitants clustered outside it, conscious of their stares. He moved back uphill and found himself skirting the churchyard wall.
Athos studied the board by the gate. Various dog-eared notices, one for a monthly interfaith group held in the village hall. Gold lettering that looked relatively fresh across the top of the board picked out Priest in Charge, Rev. Aramis d’Herblay. Athos wondered how many parishes the poor sod had to cover. A village this size, mostly made up of incomers wasn’t likely to field a huge congregation, although this pulled his thoughts irresistibly back to the funeral he’d witnessed. That had been a pretty big crowd. He was betting the majority had never set foot in the church before that day though. Just the way things were these days.
Athos found he’d wandered up the path towards the church itself. He wasn’t sure if it was a desire for sanctuary, curiosity or simply because he had nothing else to do, but he tried the handle and finding the door open, stepped into the cool interior.
The church seemed empty and he wandered slowly down the nave, footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He tried not to think about the fact that he was walking over the ranks of the dead, then hesitated mid-step. Maybe coming in here had been a mistake. Was he imagining the faint whispering in the background?
“Can I help you?”
Athos jumped, turning sharply in alarm. To his relief he found himself confronting a flesh-and-blood man in a dog collar, who looked just as startled by his reaction.
“I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.”
Athos took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you coming. I thought I was alone in here.”
“I was in the vestry.” He gave Athos an apologetic smile. “I wouldn’t normally accost a visitor but you seemed a little lost, I thought you might have been looking for me?”
Somewhere in the distance a door slammed and Athos flinched, still on edge. The vicar just tutted.
“I really need to get that latch seen to. So – sorry, did you want me, or - ?”
“No, I was just looking,” Athos explained.
“For God?”
Athos made a face, then realised that might not have been terribly polite. To his relief, the vicar just laughed.
“Ah. Not God, then. Although you never know, He might be looking for you.”
“Hasn’t done me much good so far,” Athos muttered.
Easy laughter turned to a look of solemn concern. “I’m sorry, you’ve clearly come here in search of solitude and I’m interfering. I’ll leave you in peace.”
“No – no, it’s fine. I don’t know why I came in really. Just curious I suppose.”
“Curiosity is always a good start.” He held out his hand and Athos shook it. “Aramis d’Herblay, at your service.”
“My name’s Athos. I’ve just moved in to Moonstone Cottage.”
“Oh yes? That’s just down the hill isn’t it? Pretty little place.”
“Actually Reverend, you might be able to help me with something.”
“Oh, please, call me Aramis. I prefer not to stand on ceremony here. The church should be part of the community, not standing apart from it. What did you want to know?”
“Is there any – history, to the cottage, do you know?” Athos asked carefully. “It doesn’t have, say, a particular reputation?”
“What sort of reputation?” Aramis asked, looking surprised.
Athos sighed inwardly. “For being haunted, maybe?”
“Haunted? Good grief. I can’t say I’ve heard anything along those lines, but then I’ve not actually been in the parish that long, I only took over here at the beginning of the year.” He hesitated. “You’re – having problems?”
“I keep thinking I catch sight of someone,” Athos admitted. “And there’s this odd smell of woodsmoke, that seems to come and go. Not much, I know, but it’s persistent.”
“Have you considered seeing anyone?”
“What, like an exorcist?” Athos smiled.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a doctor,” Aramis replied carefully, and Athos’ face fell.
“Excuse me?”
“Well – ghosts – they’re not real you know,” Aramis said kindly, as if speaking to a small child. Athos bristled.
“You’re a vicar! You believe there’s an invisible man sitting in the sky judging everybody,” he exclaimed. “Aren’t ghosts supposed to be part of your remit?”
“This isn’t the seventeenth century you know,” Aramis said with dignity. “I believe God takes care of all souls, regardless of circumstance. I think you’ll find alleged hauntings are almost always down to some kind of – psychological factor.”
“So you’re saying I’m seeing things?” Athos had meant to sound cross, accusatory, but it came out as a whisper. He’d needed the house to be haunted. He’d wanted it to be local knowledge, common knowledge. Anything other than – this.
“Are you alright?”
Athos had gone distinctly pale, and was hanging on to the end of a pew for support.
“I’ve – not been well,” he confessed. “I’m fine, though. Really. And I’m not imagining things.”
“Mmmn.” Aramis looked unconvinced. “Look, why don’t you sit for a while? It can help, I find. Just being in here. Whatever answers you’re looking for, whether you believe in God or not. You can still find peace of mind, if you’re open to it.”
Athos nodded vaguely, sinking down onto the bench. “Maybe you’re right.
Aramis studied him for a second, then took pity. “Look – I’ll be frank, I don’t believe in ghosts. But I’ll concede that there are people who do. Maybe you should speak to someone who’s lived here longer than I have. They might know more about the history of your place.”
Athos gave him a shrewd look. “You obviously think I’m imagining it – so why the advice?”
Aramis leaned against the pew in front and took a second to answer. “Sometimes you need to prove something to yourself before you can finally accept it. Even if what you’re proving is that you were wrong.”
“And if it turns out I’m right?”
“Then you’ll make a fortune, as the first man to prove their existence.”
The mockery was gentle, and Athos found himself smiling despite himself. “Tell you what, you prove to me the existence of God and I might even come to a service.”
“Other way round,” Aramis laughed. “Come along, and open yourself to the possibility.”
“Perhaps.” The sound of the door opening at the far end made them both look up. A man came in, caught sight of them and strode purposefully down the nave. Dressed head to foot in faded black, Athos noted there was an oddly old-fashioned cut to his clothes and wondered who he was.
“Ah, Reverend, glad I caught you.”
Athos was fairly sure he caught an expression of faint distaste pass across Aramis’ face, but it had been swiftly replaced by a bland smile by the time the man reached them.
“What can I do for you, Mr Grimaud?”
“His Lordship sends me with both his apologies and a donation. The Marquis regrets that he will not be able to attend your carol service next week, he is taking a trip to warmer climes for the rest of the winter, his bones, you know.”
“That’s a shame. But of course, I understand.”
“With his compliments.” Grimaud withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it across. Aramis glanced down at the figure on the cheque and his eyebrows went up.
“This is most generous. Please give him my sincere thanks.”
“I will.” Grimaud glanced down at Athos for the first time, then gave a stiff little half-bow to Aramis. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Who was that?” Athos asked once the door was safely closed again behind him. “He was dressed like something out of the last century. Or the one before that, actually.”
“Lucien Grimaud. Works for the Marquis d’Feron, our local bigwig. Sort of combined butler, manservant and go-fer, as far as I can tell. Feron’s very – traditional, in some ways. Less so in others.”
“You don’t like him. Grimaud, I mean.” It wasn’t a question, and Aramis looked startled, then embarrassed.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I may not be entirely comfortable in my own head right now, but I don’t miss much when it comes to others.”
Aramis sighed. “There’s just something about him I don’t particularly trust. Nothing I can put my finger on. It’s awkward, really. You feel you should try and see the best in everyone.”
“I find seeing the worst in everyone saves time,” Athos said, getting up from the pew. “Sometimes you’re pleasantly surprised. Mostly you’re not, but at least then you’re not feeling let down.”
“I don’t think you’d make a very good vicar.” Aramis shook his head regretfully, then grinned. “Possibly a decent bishop though.”
--
The days passed, mostly indistinguishable from each other. Each time Mrs Evans showed up Athos felt somehow taken by surprise to discover that another week had gone by. By now he knew her as Trixie and no longer felt the need to flee the house while she was working, which was just as well as the weather had taken a turn for the worse, cold rain lashing endlessly against the windows.
Christmas came and went, for the most part unremarked and uncelebrated. Constance had offered to come down but Athos forestalled her, taking a train up to London instead to buy her lunch a few days before.
It wasn’t that he felt he had to pretend he was in a better place than he was, but Athos knew she’d insist on trying to decorate his house in a well-meaning effort to make it more cheerful, and he simply didn’t have the mental energy to spare.
January brought freezing fog, and for a while the view of the outside world presented an uncomfortably bleak echo of Athos’ inner one. It felt as if the world beyond the windows had ceased to exist, and Athos was utterly alone on earth.
Alone as far as human companionship went, anyway. Having come to the end of a whole week without experiencing any untoward sounds or scents, Athos found himself spending an uncomfortable evening constantly jumping at shadows, convinced someone was following him silently from room to room while never actually managing to catch a glimpse of anyone.
He eventually escaped early to bed, closing the door firmly behind him and taking three sleeping pills to ensure he wouldn’t be disturbed by anything that might go bump in the night, up to and including an aircraft crash landing in his attic.
--
Despite sleeping late into the next morning, Athos woke feeling unrefreshed and disgusted with himself. He was supposed to be trying to wean himself off the damn things, not using them as a way to combat childish night terrors.
He stumbled downstairs still in his pyjamas, hoping that hot tea might revive him and knowing from experience it probably wouldn’t.
Athos pulled back the kitchen curtain and looked out on a world still blurry with fog. Tendrils of it twisted between the dark wet pines at the end of the garden and he blinked away the lingering sedative haze, trying to distinguish between what was real and what was him. As he did so, something he’d been vaguely aware of on the edge of the wood finally came into focus and he froze.
A dark shape was hanging from one of the trees, a hooded corpse dangling on the end of a rope.
Athos looked sharply away, his strangled intake of breath just managing not to become a scream. His fingers dug into the wood of the counter top as he concentrated on his breathing.
"It's not real," he told himself, over and over. "It's not real."
When he felt marginally stronger, he forced himself to look up again, expecting to see nothing but the trees.
The body was still there.
Athos stared. The initial feeling of cold, paralysing terror slowly dissipated as he finally took in the fact that he wasn’t seeing things, and that something was actually out there.
He unlocked the back door with shaking hands and stumbled down the path and across the lawn in bare feet, heedless of the wet grass soaking his pyjama legs. The fence at the end was low and he climbed over it without difficulty, stopping only to unhook a dead bramble from his dressing gown.
Up close the swinging figure seemed even more ominous, the branch or perhaps the rope creaking quietly. Somewhere in the fog a crow cawed, and Athos shuddered.
He stepped closer, biting his lip. His instinct had been to see if he could help, but there was no struggling, no sign of life. Still – he had to be sure. He reached out, fingers curling back on themselves in reluctance then forcing himself to touch, to take hold of the nearest dangling wrist, to feel for a pulse.
Athos had held out a vain hope it would prove to be a dummy, some kind of hideous prank, but there was no mistaking the fact this was cold flesh under his fingers. There was no pulse that he could find, and looking up at the knot high above in the pine tree Athos conceded there was no way he was getting the body down without help.
He turned, shivering violently now from more than the cold, and climbed back into the garden.
--
Just over half an hour later the doorbell went and Athos jumped, frowning irritably at the state of his own nerves.
"Mr la Fère?" enquired the larger of the two men on the doorstep, looking him over with a dispassionate sort of curiosity.
"Yes, that's right."
"I'm Detective Inspector Porthos Du Vallon, this is Detective Sergeant d'Artagnan," he said, flashing his ID and looking slightly taken aback when Athos actually reached out to examine it.
"Thank you for coming," Athos said, handing it back with a nod. "You've been very quick."
"We were in the neighbourhood," the inspector explained. "Also, when someone says they've found a body we tend not to hang around."
"Right. Yes. Um - this way. I'm afraid you'll have to climb over the fence, but it's rather a long walk round otherwise." Athos lead the way down the hall and into the kitchen, opening the door and stepping back to let them through, relieved they were here to take over.
"Sorry, where are we going?" Porthos asked, and Athos looked up, confused.
"It’s there, at the edge of the wood. Hanging from one of the - " Athos broke off, staring down the garden. The fog had burned off and the day was bright, the trees bathed in sunlight. There was no body.
"It - it was right there," Athos stuttered.
Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a look. "Was?" Porthos prompted, allowing an edge of scepticism to creep into his tone. It looked like this was going to be a timewaster after all, which was annoying but on the plus side meant less paperwork than your actual corpse.
"I'm telling you, it was there!" Athos hurried down the path and scrambled over the fence. Porthos rolled his eyes and followed him with a sigh.
"It was here," Athos insisted, locating what he was certain was the right tree and gesticulating helplessly. "Right here."
"It was quite foggy this morning, right?" Porthos hazarded. Athos gave him a look.
"I didn't imagine it, if that's what you think." Athos rubbed his face and took a shuddering breath, looking around in bewilderment as if he might spot the elusive body hanging from a different tree after all.
Porthos studied him for a moment, judged that Athos' obvious distress and confusion was genuine, and modulated his tone accordingly.
"Why don't we go back inside, and you can tell us exactly what happened?" he suggested gently.
Athos nodded defeatedly and lead the way back indoors. Making them all tea, he couldn't help repeatedly staring out of the kitchen window as if the body might suddenly reappear. It was dawning on him that as he'd slept, someone had been dying at the foot of his garden and it was not a comfortable thought.
He explained, as calmly as he could, his discovery of the body, not missing the fact that both the policemen sat up a little when he reiterated the fact he'd actually touched it, not simply seen it from the window.
"And it was definitely a man?" Porthos prompted. "You said you couldn't see his face?"
"There was a bag over his head - a sack," Athos said. "But yes, I would say it was a man's build, and a man's hand and wrist. Older rather than younger, I'd have said."
"And having established he was dead, what then?"
"I knew I couldn't get him down. I came inside and phoned your lot."
"Immediately?"
Athos hesitated. "It took me a while to gather myself. A few minutes. Then I phoned."
Porthos looked enquiringly at d'Artagnan, who nodded. "We got re-routed about fifteen minutes after it was logged, and got here twenty minutes after that."
"So less than an hour between you reporting it and us getting here," Porthos mused. "And in that time he apparently went walkies. Where were you during that time? You didn't notice anything, hear anything?"
Athos looked sheepish. "I couldn't bear looking at it," he admitted. "I got dressed, and waited for you in the front room."
"You got dressed?" d'Artagnan echoed, having a brief startling mental image of Athos discovering a corpse in the nude.
"I was in my pyjamas. I'd just got up. I'd - taken a couple of sleeping pills, I slept late. I came down, pulled the curtains, and - there he was." Athos looked from Porthos to d'Artagnan and back again, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling that they were humouring him. "You do believe me?"
"Thing is - suicides don't tend to wander off again afterwards," Porthos said.
"Then that rather suggests it wasn't a suicide, doesn't it?" Athos snapped, then looked up as something occurred to him. "In fact, it couldn't have been. I knew there was something bothering me. I looked around for a way to get him down and couldn't - he was too far away from the fence and the lowest branches were too high - no way he could have got up there on his own without something to stand on."
"You seem to have it all worked out," d'Artagnan said, and Porthos hastily jumped in before Athos could retort.
"We'll check up on anyone having been reported missing in the area," he promised, getting to his feet and reaching for his coat.
"Is that it?" Athos asked incredulously, and Porthos sighed.
"We'll have another look round. May we - ?" he gestured to the back garden and Athos nodded, watching in silence as the two men climbed back over the fence and poked around at the edge of the wood.
"Well it's a bit trampled, but that could have been him," d'Artagnan muttered. "Is he still watching us?"
Porthos glanced back at the house and quickly away again. "Yeah, from the kitchen window."
"You think he's delusional?"
"I think he believes what he's saying," Porthos said carefully. "Run a background check on him when we get back, can you? Doesn't hurt to know what we're dealing with." He put his hands on his hips and looked up. "Was it this one?"
"Yeah, think so."
"Get up there and have a look, would you?"
D'Artagnan looked indignant. "I am not going up a tree!"
"The alternative's lifting me up there," Porthos pointed out with a grin, and d'Artagnan groaned.
"Oh alright. Come here then." He put his foot into Porthos' linked fingers and scrabbled his way up the trunk until he could haul himself up to the level of the first branch.
"Anything?"
D'Artagnan grunted non-committally and swung down again. "The bark looks like it's been rubbed away at one point, but that doesn't prove anything. Could have been a child's swing or something."
"Hmmn." Porthos glanced surreptitiously back at the house, where he could make out the shape of Athos still watching at the window. "It does support what he says though."
"If he's not setting the whole thing up for attention."
"You didn't like him much, did you?"
D'Artagnan shrugged. "You see his car out front?" he muttered resentfully. "You know how much this modest little cottage will have set him back in a place like this?"
"I know neither of us could afford to live here," Porthos agreed cheerfully, without resentment. "Come on. We'll take the long way round and see if we trip over any corpses on the way."
They made their way out of the wood and round to the village without incident, where they encountered the vicar pinning a notice about service times to the noticeboard by the church gate.
"Good morning," Porthos called, digging out his warrant card. "Inspector Du Vallon, CID. I wonder if you can help us with a bit of background information on one of your parishioners, Reverend...?"
"D'Herblay. Aramis d'Herblay. I can certainly try," he smiled, looking curiously at them. "I should warn you though, there's a lot of people that don't attend church here, at least not this one. It's mostly the older people and the families that have been here for generations who come. Who were you interested in?"
"Athos de la Fère?"
Aramis shook his head slowly. "The name’s familiar, but..?"
"Moonstone Cottage?"
"Oh, him! Yes, I know who you mean now. He's not lived here long. Not a churchgoer, but he did come in a while ago to have a look round."
"You actually spoke to him?" Porthos clarified.
"Oh yes. He wanted to know if I could tell him anything about the history of his cottage. He was rather afraid it was haunted." Aramis smiled, inviting them to laugh, but Porthos and d'Artagnan just looked at each other meaningfully.
"Did I miss something?" Aramis asked, but Porthos shook his head.
"No, thank you, you've been very helpful. Oh, there is one more thing you might be able to help with, do you know if anyone in the village has gone missing lately, or not been seen for a few days perhaps?"
Aramis shook his head. "No, not that I can think of."
"Alright. Thanks again."
"If whoever it was only died this morning they might not have been missed yet," d'Artagnan pointed out in a low voice as they walked back to the car.
"I thought you reckoned he'd made it all up?" Porthos jibed.
"Benefit of the doubt. But yeah, look, the guy admitted he’d taken sleeping pills, that's got to make you a bit fuzzy, right? And like you said, it was foggy first thing. Maybe he just thought he saw something."
"And touched it?"
"Probably dreamt the whole thing," said d'Artagnan darkly. "I mean, where's the body? You can't have a murder without a body, right?"
"You're probably right," Porthos conceded, as they got back in the car. "Let's check up though, eh?"
--
Initial enquiries regarding missing persons turned up nothing recent or local, and Porthos was just weighing up whether to arrange for a team to comb the vicinity or not when across the room d'Artagnan hung up the phone and came over.
"You look depressingly smug," Porthos noted. "Go on then, what have you got?"
"Background on our friend la Fère," d'Artagnan told him, pulling a chair over. "He was a lawyer, an expensive one, which explains the pricey motor and house. Criminal defence mostly, one of the top city firms, very in demand."
"You said was?"
D'Artagnan nodded. "Word is he had some kind of breakdown. Ended up doing his nut in the courtroom, screaming at a witness for the prosecution, escorted out by some burly paramedics. Vanished into a private clinic for a good while, came out two months ago."
Porthos sighed. He felt vaguely let down, which was a depressingly common occurrence in this job. "So he probably is delusional."
"Looks like it. Sorry."
Porthos nodded ruefully. "Oh well. Better that than a murderer on the loose I guess."
--