Best Savoured Cold

La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid. ~French proverb

Athos jerked his head to the side, searching the uneasy crowd for... what, exactly? He grimaced, irritated with himself, and returned his attention to the grisly display in the square before him.

"Problem?" Aramis asked quietly, scanning the same area where Athos had been staring.

"No," Athos replied. "Over the past several days, I've felt the sensation of being watched, but-" He shook his head once with a small, quick movement as if to dislodge an annoying insect. "- it's nothing. Besides, I think we've quite enough in front of us to be getting on with, don't you?"

Aramis raised his eyebrows and huffed out a breath. "That's putting it mildly."

The earthly remains- if they could even properly be called that anymore- of the unfortunate Vicomte d'Orsay were hung artfully over and around the wrought iron fence edging one corner of the public plaza. The corpse's eyeless sockets stared blankly at the fountain in the centre of the square. His shattered wrists and ankles were bound with his own intestines, which looped and draped around the iron rails and finials before terminating in a gaping abdominal wound. The man's sexual organs were stuffed into his mouth, a feat made easier, one assumed, by the grotesquely broken jaw.

"This is the third one this month," Aramis said. "If it keeps up, there's going to be unrestrained panic in the streets."

"How's d'Artagnan?" Athos asked.

"Green," Aramis replied succinctly. "And I can't say I blame him."

The youngest member of their group had made a hasty retreat into an alley upon first seeing the atrocity they'd been called to investigate. The sounds of retching that immediately followed made it obvious why.

Porthos chose that moment to return to the scene with a wagon carrying sheets and poles for a makeshift stretcher. Athos helped him tie the wood into a rough frame and wrap one of the lengths of fabric around it. Porthos straightened and looked to Aramis.

"Well?" said the big man with what Athos judged to be unwarranted hopefulness. "Go on then. Get him down."

"You get him down," Aramis said, screwing up his face in disgust.

Athos sighed, and began- rather gingerly- to unwind the lengths of gut from the railings, disturbing the swarms of flies and wincing a bit whenever he had to pry intestines away from the sun-warmed metal, where the flesh was starting to dry and glue itself in place. As he expected, the others joined him a few moments later, Porthos supporting the weight of the corpse while Aramis cut away the cords holding it in position against the fence.

By the time they had finished, d'Artagnan had regained enough control over his gorge to rejoin them, helping them contain the mess on the stretcher and cover it with more sheets so it could be loaded on the cart.

"This is insane," d'Artagnan said once the wagon had departed with its sad, broken cargo; flies buzzing in mad frustration around the linen sheets. "Who would even conceive of doing something like this?"

"The victim's always a member of the nobility," Porthos mused, "and always displayed in a public place. Even in the dead of night, the chances of getting caught while setting up the body..."

"Just so," Athos agreed. "For whatever reason, this display of the body is apparently important enough to the murderer for him to disregard a significant risk of discovery."

"Don't forget the calling cards left behind wherever the victims were taken," Aramis added. "This madman seems almost desperate for people to know exactly what he's doing."

"With luck, that will make him easier to catch," Athos said. "And since that is what we have been tasked with, gentlemen, I suggest we remove ourselves to the morgue and see what, if anything, can be learned from our latest victim."

"Oh good," said d'Artagnan, still looking unnaturally pale. "I was really hoping you'd say that."

The hapless vicomte was in roughly the same condition as the previous two victims had been, as it turned out. In addition to the desecration- performed post mortem, the coroner assured them- there was evidence of torture spanning several days.

Burns and shallow cuts formed swirling patterns across the back, chest, arms, legs... even the palms of the hands and soles of the feet. All of the finger and toenails had been torn out. Bruises and whip marks accented the deranged artwork painted in the medium of a man's suffering.

The unmistakable marks of manacles could be seen clearly on the wrists and ankles of the victim. A gaping slash across the throat suggested the killing stroke.

"So, he abducts them from the street in a familiar location and leaves a tarot card at the scene for the victim's family or friends to find, takes them somewhere private enough that no one stumbles across them for days, binds them with manacles, tortures them, and finally kills them before desecrating the body and leaving it in a public place for the authorities," Aramis said.

"That about sums it up," Porthos agreed. "Though it doesn't get us any closer to finding the crazy bugger."

"We should try coming at it from a different angle," d'Artagnan suggested. "Perhaps the tarot cards can tell us something about the way the killer thinks?"

Athos nodded his approval, pleased with d'Artagnan's initiative given his obvious- and understandable- discomfort with the case.

"How about we go to the Swan to hash it over," Porthos suggested. "I dunno about the rest of you, but I'm famished."

"A reasonable plan," Athos agreed. "Darkness will be falling soon. We won't learn anything useful on the streets until tomorrow."

"Sounds good to me," Aramis said.

"Yes, of course it does. After all, we've just spent two hours in close examination of a desecrated corpse. How about dinner?" D'Artagnan studied the three of them with a quirked eyebrow, and shook his head ruefully. "You know, no offence, but I seriously wonder about you three sometimes."

Seated at their usual table in the familiar tavern, Athos poured himself a third cup of wine, considering.

"The killer always leaves a trump card where the victim was taken; never a court or a pip card," he observed.

Porthos pushed his empty bowl of stew away and sat back.

"It could be nothing," he began, "but in the Court of Miracles, tarot decks are used for divination as well as for card games. It's rubbish, of course, but the idea is that the cards describe attributes or situations that might arise, like recklessness, or being trapped in an untenable situation, or having to make a difficult choice."

"Is that interpretation widely known outside of the Court?" Aramis asked.

"Nah, I don't think so," Porthos said. "Most people just use 'em to play card games."

"Perhaps our killer is more literal-minded," Athos said. "What were the cards found so far?"

"The Fool was left where the Duc de Nemours was taken," d'Artagnan said. "Temperance was left for the Comtesse de Choiseul, and The Devil for the Vicomte d'Orsay."

"Well, the Vicomte was known for having a terrible temper with his staff, according to court gossip," Aramis said. "And the Comtesse had been known to drink to excess in social situations."

"An' how exactly would you know about that kind of court gossip?" Porthos asked.

"A gentleman never tells," Aramis replied airily, ignoring the flat stare Athos sent his way.

"Hmph," Porthos grunted. "Good thing there aren't any gentlemen at the table, then, innit?"

"Whatever the source," Athos cut in, bringing them back to the matter at hand, "if this is true, it suggests that the killer is making statements about the private lives and personalities of his victims. In which case, the question becomes, how does he know about these attributes? Is he personally acquainted with them? Does he stalk them beforehand?"

Athos paused as the all-too-familiar, uncomfortable prickle of being watched raised the small hairs on the nape of his neck; whipping his head around to search the well known interior of the alehouse for anything out of place.

"Athos, what is it?" d'Artagnan asked, studying him with worried eyes.

Seeing- as ever- nothing out of the ordinary, Athos forced himself to relax back into his seat, and poured more wine with a hand that was, hopefully, not trembling enough to be noticeable to the others in the dim light of the tavern's dirty lamps.

"Nothing; it's nothing. Merely the slow unravelling of the final threads of my sanity," he muttered, trying to make a joke of it.

"Bull," Porthos said. "You've been on edge for days. Spill it, or we'll pester you until you really do go mad."

Aramis quirked a smile at him. "Come on, Athos. You know Porthos; he's like a dog worrying at a bone once he gets hold of something like this. You might as well save yourself the aggravation."

Athos closed his eyes and threw back the wine, relishing the feeling as it finally began to dull the edges of his mind.

"As I said, it's nothing," he said firmly. "For the past few days, I've had the feeling of being watched. When I look, though, there's no one there. Merely a fancy of the mind, I assure you."

Aramis snorted. "I don't believe that for a minute. If you think someone's watching you, then someone is watching you."

"You have far more faith in my mental acuity than I, in that case."

"Believe me, I'm well aware of that," Aramis replied in a tone Athos was unable to decipher. On his other side, Porthos huffed a breath of laughter, and Athos sent a glare his way to little effect.

"Do you still feel it?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos stilled for a moment, and shook his head. "No, it's gone. All three of you place too much emphasis on a trifle. Go home; get some sleep. We'll reconvene at the garrison an hour after dawn, and pursue the idea that the killer may have had previous contact with his victims."

Aramis nodded and retrieved his hat, taking his leave of them with a sketched bow, and ushering d'Artagnan out as well when it looked like the younger man would protest. Porthos lingered, resting a hand on Athos' shoulder from behind.

"Sure you wouldn't like me to stick around... keep you company?"

Athos shook his head, tamping down on the flood of warmth at the unspoken offer, make sure you get home safe. He canted his head up enough to make eye contact, offering the big man a small half-smile.

"Not necessary, old friend. I'll head home soon myself. Early start tomorrow; get some rest. I'll be fine."

The hand on his shoulder squeezed firmly before disappearing, and Athos watched Porthos head out the door and into the evening chill. He sat back, pouring the last of the wine and finishing it slowly, letting the facts of the case swirl through his mind in hopes of making a new connection, but to no avail.

Settling his hat low over his eyes, he threw a few coins on the table and rose, only slightly unsteady, ready to return to his rooms and take his own advice. The air outside was damp and heavy, and the shadows deep as he started down the familiar side road, still enmeshed in thought.

As he passed an alleyway, one of the shadows behind him detached itself, and a heavy blow landed at the juncture of neck and shoulder before he was even aware of the threat. Blackness swallowed him, and he knew no more.

tbc