Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

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 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened, more for greasing pan

2 cups all-purpose flour, more for dusting pan

5 ounces unsweetened chocolate

¼ cup instant espresso powder

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

1 cup boiling water

1 cup bourbon, rye or other whisky, more for sprinkling

½ teaspoon kosher salt

2 cups granulated sugar

3 large eggs

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon baking soda

Confectioners’ sugar, for garnish (optional)

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.

“Bloody 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.

“Hmmph.” Next he drew back the dead man’s lips and examined his teeth. Seemingly satisfied, he brushed his fingers on the front of his coat. “Lady S, would ye take charge of the lanthorn while Sandro gives me a hand in looking at the wound.”

Swallowing hard, she watched as he and Saybrook gingerly peeled back the cloth hiding the slashed throat. Perhaps breakfast hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

“Hmmph.” After poking and prodding at the ghastly wound, the surgeon’s only remark was a curt grunt.

Setting aside his scalpel, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Help me remove his upper garments, laddie, and let us see what else we can learn about him.”

Arianna closed her eyes for a moment, finding the soft whisper of cloth against the lifeless flesh faintly obscene.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Henning sounded a little surprised.

Her lids flew open.

“A tattoo,” confirmed Saybrook. Like Henning, he was peering intently at the dead man’s bicep. “A rather distinctive one. An eagle and a crown . . .”

“It’s the mark of Les Grognards —the Grumblers,” announced the surgeon after a closer inspection.