The Cocoa Conspiracy (11 page)

“Or
she
,” remarked Arianna.

Saybrook smiled. “Point taken. I suspect you would be frighteningly good at this.”

“Algorithms,” she mused. “I can see where mathematical concepts come into play.”

“Indeed. Mathematicians make excellent cryptographers. Oddly enough, so do poets. Chaucer was quite a good one. It has to do with imagination—which you also possess in spades.” He smiled. “But as I was saying, the code maker can use other elements to protect his text. He—or she—can insert a code word, known only to the sender and receiver of the message, which is inserted as a ‘blind’ so to speak, in order to throw the frequency off. In cryptography, we call it a key.”

Arianna made a face. “It sounds hopelessly complicated.”

“Complicated, yes. The permutations of a complex cipher defy the human brain. However, keep in mind that a code maker can’t get too clever or complicated. The receiver must also know the system being used.”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” she murmured. “And yet, what you were working on seems awfully complex.”

“I thought it safe to assume that our enemy would be too clever to use a simple text cipher, so I’m trying out a few other schemes.” He shuffled back to his original page. “A Vigenère Square seemed a good choice.”

“What, precisely, is that?”

“A grid invented in the sixteenth century by Blaise de Vigenère, a French diplomat posted to Rome. It’s a method for encrypting that offers a mind-twisting array of possibility.”

He finished lettering in the alphabet both vertically and horizontally, forming two sides of a square. “You have twenty-six letters across, and twenty-six letters down, both of which begin with ‘a.’ ”

She nodded.

“Then you begin the next row with ‘b,’ and then ‘c,’ and continue on like that until you have filled out the square. Now, you have twenty-six possible cipher alphabets. You can encrypt using two or twenty-two. Oftentimes, a code word is used to tell the receiver what rows to use. For example, say ‘pen’ is the code word. The receiver uses the row that begins with ‘p’ to decode the first letter of his secret message. For the second letter, he would use the row beginning with ‘e,’ and so forth.”

Arianna blinked. “Ingenious.”

“There are, of course, a multitude of other systems. Breaking a code requires intuition, patience, time—and most of all, luck.” He made a wry face. “The odds of stumbling upon a solution for this cipher tonight are stacked against me. However, I am familiar with the way the French cryptographers think, and if our enemy is really a man named Renard, then perhaps I shall get lucky. In any case, it is worth a try.”

“I should like to learn more about this,” she mused. “I can see where mathematics would be a helpful skill. Probability and patterns—it’s very much like gambling.”

“An apt analogy,” he commented. “As it happens, I brought along a book on the subject that was recently published by a don at Oxford. It is on my dressing table.”

Arianna went into his room, returning with not only the book but also two glasses of brandy.

“What are you going to tell Charles about this?” she asked, watching his face from over the rim of her drink. Firelight swirled within the amber liquid, the play of molten sparks dancing along the ridge of his cheekbones.

His eyes remained shadowed. “I haven’t yet decided.” He looked tired. Pensive. “But come morning, I will have to make up my mind.”

She fingered the wads of discarded paper, wishing that she could help. “Is there nothing I can do?”

Saybrook shook his head. “Not at the moment. I just want to test a few more ideas . . .”

The scratch of his pencil took up where his voice left off.

Patterns and probabilities, intertwining with deceptions and betrayals.
The brandy burned a slow, sinuous trail down her throat. She had lived most of her life within the murky netherworld of secrets and lies. Which perhaps explained why the prospect of matching wits with a dangerous traitor was more tantalizing than terrifying.

Taking another mouthful of the spirits, Arianna savored the heat of it against her tongue as she cracked open the book and began to read.

“Your pardon, milord.” Saybrook’s valet discreetly cleared his throat as he poked his head into the dawn-dappled sitting room. “But Mr. Henning has arrived. Shall I show him up?”

“God yes, before he wakes the house with his bellows.” The earl yawned and stretched out his long legs. “He tends to be in an ill humor when he is hungry.”

“Ouch.” Arianna winced as she sat up. Her muscles were stiff and knotted with cold. “I shall likely have a bruise on my shin, though it probably serves me right for being such a nodcock as to fall sleep on the floor.”

“You had better order up a big breakfast too, Hobbs,” added the earl. “Eggs, gammon, kippers, along with plenty of rolls and jam. Henning isn’t the only one who turns snappish when his bread box is empty.”

“Wretch,” muttered Arianna, tossing the sofa pillow at his head. “Please bring pots of coffee and chocolate as well, Hobbs.”

“Yes, milady.” The valet disappeared.

“I had better go and make myself presentable,” she said, rising and retying the sash of her wrapper.

“An excellent suggestion,” said her husband drily, waggling a brow. “You did summon Henning to make an inspection of naked flesh. However, I’d prefer it wasn’t yours.”

“As would I, seeing as most of the bodies he ogles are dead.”

She returned—fully dressed—to find their friend Basil Henning warming his hands by the rekindled fire. His frayed clothing was rumpled and the expression on his angular face looked equally out of sorts—but that was nothing unusual. Henning always looked grumpy.

As if on cue, he gestured at the steaming silver pot set on the side table. “Auch, Sandro, ye roust me from a nice warm bed and drag my carcass halfway to Hades, only to greet me with naught but a puling cup of coffee?” The outspoken Scotsman had been a surgeon in the earl’s army regiment, and the two men had formed a fast friendship during the long, brutal Peninsular campaign, despite the difference of wealth and birth. “Ye gods, man,” he groused.

“It’s me you should be raking over the coals, Mr. Henning.” Arianna hurried over to brush a kiss to his leathery cheek. “Thank you for coming. We’ve ordered up plenty of hot food as well—eggs, gammon and your favorite kippers in cream sauce.”

“Bless you, lassie,” he said, patting his bony midriff. “A man cannot survive on Highland malt alone.”

“The marquess has an excellent malt from Dornach in his cellars,” said Saybrook. “I took the liberty of having a bottle sent up along with the coffee.”

“Pour me a wee tipple,” said the surgeon. “Then let us go see this body of yours.”

“It is
not
Sandro’s body,” said Arianna.

“A mere figure of speech, Lady S.”

“A cold corpse laid out on a slab seems awfully real to me,” she countered. “I say we ought to have some sustenance before we begin the task.”

“That might not be such a wise idea, considering what we’re about to do,” drawled Henning.

“I’ve a strong stomach,” she replied. “And I think better when it is full.”

“A frightening thought, considering how much you consume,” quipped Saybrook.

“Yes, yes, I know I have an unladylike appetite—along with a number of other shocking habits.”

“Heh, heh, heh,”
chuckled Henning. “Are we about to have one of yer verbal fencing matches? It’s always entertaining when you two cross tongues.”

“Sandro has already lost enough blood without suffering any cuts from me,” said Arianna. “In all seriousness, we ought not waste our breath on jests. Over breakfast, we have much to tell you.”

1. Grease and flour a 10-cup-capacity Bundt pan (or two 8–or 9-inch loaf pans). Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In microwave oven or double boiler over simmering water, melt chocolate. Let cool.

2. Put espresso and cocoa powders in a 2-cup (or larger) glass measuring cup. Add enough boiling water to come up to the 1 cup measuring line. Mix until powders dissolve. Add whisky and salt; let cool.

3. Using an electric mixer, beat 1 cup butter until fluffy. Add sugar and beat until well combined. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, beating well between each addition. Beat in the vanilla extract, baking soda and melted chocolate, scraping down sides of bowl with a rubber spatula.

4. On low speed, beat in a third of the whisky mixture. When liquid is absorbed, beat in 1 cup flour. Repeat additions, ending with whisky mixture. Scrape batter into prepared pan and smooth top. Bake until a cake tester inserted into center of cake comes out clean, about 1 hour 10 minutes for Bundt pan (loaf pans will take less time; start checking them after 55 minutes).

5. Transfer cake to a rack. Unmold after 15 minutes and sprinkle warm cake with more whisky. Let cool before serving, garnished with confectioners’ sugar if you like.

Yield: 10 to 12 servings.

“B
loody hell, that’s quite a lot to digest,” muttered Henning as he pushed away his empty plate. “Theft, treason, murder.” Shaking his head, Henning refilled his glass with whisky. “And here I thought ye were savoring the idea of a quiet, peaceful autumn.”

“I seem to stir up trouble in His Lordship’s life,” observed Arianna.

“A toast to Trouble,” said the surgeon, raising his drink in salute. “Ye have to admit, it keeps things interesting.”

“If we have finished philosophizing, perhaps we could go have a look at my erstwhile assailant.” Saybrook scraped back his chair. “The body is being kept down near the kitchens—in the game room, aptly enough, though the chef is apparently not happy about it sharing the space with his dead birds and skinned rabbits.”

“Why?” quipped the surgeon. “The room’s sole purpose is to hang carcasses until the flesh is ripe enough to peel off the bone.”

“Thank you for the graphic explanation, Baz,” said Saybrook, leading the way into the servant stairwell.

“No point in mincing words, laddie.”

Arianna winced at the word “mince.”

As they descended in the gloom, Henning checked that the small chamois bag of surgical instruments was well hidden in his coat pocket. “We’ll just have a little poke around before the formal inquest begins.”

“Nothing overt,” cautioned Saybrook, as he peeked out from the landing to check that the corridor was clear. “I’ve enough to worry about without being accused of tampering with the evidence.”

“Don’t worry, laddie. I’m very good at what I do.”

Moving quietly, the three of them slipped past the pantries and entered a dark, stone-floored chamber, taking care to close the heavy oaken door behind them.

“Light the lanthorn,” whispered Henning.

Flint scraped against steel and a curl of smoke rose through the shadows. Arianna shivered as her husband shuffled forward and shone the beam on the dead man’s face. Though bronzed by the sun, the skin had turned yellowish-white. A dull sheen made it look as if the death-softened features were carved out of candle wax.

“Big fellow, eh?” grunted the surgeon. The man laid out on the slab of granite was over six feet tall. “Bring the light closer.” The surgeon leaned in and plucked up the corpse’s eyelid.