Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

The moon hung low, a thin crescent of pale light barely visible through the dark turrets and rooftops looming above the narrow alleyway.

Saybrook chafed his gloved palms together and inched a bit closer to the twines of ivy wreathing the recessed gate. “No sign of movement here,” he whispered, peering out toward the empty street. “How about you?”

“Nothing,” replied Henning. He turned up the collar of his dark coat. “You’re sure Lady S can keep Kydd occupied for the evening?”

“She’s promised to ply him with champagne and feminine flatteries,” replied Saybrook as he set to work on the lock.

“The man would have to lack a pulse if he didn’t respond to yer wife,” said the surgeon. “If anyone is capable of squeezing the most intimate secrets from a man—”

“Thank you, but you may dispense with a detailed description of the process,” snapped the earl.

“Jealous, are ye, laddie?”

“No.” Several faint metallic clicks, barely audible above the rustling of the leaves, and the gate sprung open. “Now, stubble the talk and stay close. Kydd’s rooms are on the second floor. The live-in servants are quartered up by the attics, and should all be asleep by this hour, so we ought to be safe enough.”

Slipping through the opening, they followed the narrow cart path around to the coal cellar, where a tradesmen’s entrance was set beneath the eaves. It too yielded to the earl’s picklock, allowing them entrance into the back of the lodging house. He led the way through a narrow passageway, which brought them around to the front entrance. From there they climbed quickly to Kydd’s rooms.

Closing the door behind him, Saybrook eased the bolt home. The quarters were small, as befitted a single man of modest means, and neater than one might expect.

“Empty,” announced Henning after taking a peek into the bedchamber. “By the by, how did you know which set of rooms was his?”

“Grentham provided me with the information.” The flare of the candle’s wick caught the earl’s fleeting smile.

“You and the minister are becoming bosom bows, eh?”

“I don’t expect to be suckling at the tit of friendship anytime soon,” quipped Saybrook. “Let’s just say that for now, we both recognize the benefits of sharing information.”

“Have a care that you don’t swallow a swill of his lies.”

“Never fear.” He lifted the light and surveyed the sitting room. Its furnishing were Spartan—a large desk, pushed to one side of the window casement, a round table and four straight-back chairs, a worn leather armchair facing the hearth, a battered sideboard with one door hanging slightly askew.

The only extravagance was the handsome set of bookshelves, filled with various volumes. Most were the usual student’s assortment of cheap, secondhand editions. But among the tattered spines were several sets of fine leather-bound books.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” murmured Henning, making his own survey. “A neat, modest abode, with nothing to excite any suspicions.”

“Indeed.” Saybrook continued his slow pacing around the perimeter of the room. “Let us start with the desk, though I doubt we’ll find anything incriminating there.”

“Not unless Kydd is a complete fool,” answered Henning. “Put yer candle out before it leaves a telltale drip of wax. I’ll light the lanthorn.” He raised the shutter and ran the beam over the blotter.

They worked their way methodically through the papers, taking care to leave no signs of their snooping. No purloined dispatches, no copied correspondence was in the pile, and the locked drawer yielded only a few small banknotes.

“Mr. Kydd seems to lead an exemplary life,” observed the surgeon, after carefully readjusting the angles of the pens on the blotter.

Saybrook made no answer. He was already circling the table, his gaze intent on the bookshelves.

“See something, laddie?”

No answer.

“Hmmm.” Henning joined him in studying the spines. “The expected assortment of French philosophers . . . political theorists . . . American revolutionaries . . . well, well, well. What have we here.”

He pulled out a slim volume and thumbed to the title page. “ Pride and Prejudice , a novel in three volumes by the author of Sense and Sensibility .” A fleeting grin. “I wouldn’t have expected our friend to have a taste for such vulgar reading.”

“Actually, Arianna thinks it a most engaging book,” murmured the earl. “As do I.”

“I confess, I enjoyed it immensely too.” Henning flipped through the rest of the pages and then slid it back into its place. “What do you suggest? Shall we search through all of them to see if anything is hidden within the leaves or bindings ?”

Saybrook continued to stare thoughtfully at the shelves. “We don’t have time for a thorough examination of them all. We shall have to make an educated guess . . .”

Tap, tap, tap. He ran his fingers along a row of leather-bound spines. Pausing, he took down a book.

“Alasdair MacMhaighstir Alasdair,” read Henning as Saybrook made a search through the pages. “The Clan-ranald Bard is perhaps the most famous of our Gaelic poets.”

Tap, tap, tap. The earl’s next choice was a volume by William Dunbar.

“Auch, I see your logic,” said the surgeon. He plucked a worn edition of Robert Burns poetry from the center of the top shelf. “ Hmmph . Nothing tucked away in here.”

“No, but let us see what we have here.” Reaching into the recess, Saybrook retrieved a small chamois bag that was wedged in behind the Burns book. Untying the drawstring, he carefully emptied the contents into his palm.

A silver badge.

“There are some papers as well,” he said, handing the bag to Henning. “Have a look.”

The surgeon fished out several crudely printed pamphlets. “They are in Gaelic.” He took a moment to read them over. “The usual blather—arise ye Celtic warriors. Now is the time to seize your freedom.” His mouth pinched to a grimace. “Both are signed ‘the Dragons of St. Andrew.’ Which is a secret society much favored by the more radical-thinking university students.”

“Bring the light closer, Baz.” Saybrook ran a fingertip over the silver badge, tracing the carved details. “An odd sort of Celtic cross . . .”

“Look closely,” said the surgeon. “It’s fashioned from a claymore—a traditional Highland sword.” He slashed a finger across his throat. “Which is designed for naught but war and killing.”

“An Italian poniard would be a more appropriate weapon for Kydd, given his current propensity for stabbing his friends in the back.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t see himself as a duplicitous monster, but rather as a noble patriot.” Henning’s scarred knuckles tightened on the lanthorn. “ ‘Ah, freedom is a noble thing!’ ” he read from the radical pamphlet. “ ‘Freedom all solace to man gives’ . . .” Looking up, he sighed. “That John Barbour poem is inscribed on the stone marking where Robert the Bruce’s heart is buried.”

“I fear your countryman is as naive as he is idealistic. Treachery is a dirty business, no matter how poetically it is phrased. But no doubt he would march happily to the gallows, thinking himself a martyr to a glorious cause, rather than a dupe to a clever demagogue.”

Henning shook his head. “Daft bugger, to keep such incriminating stuff in his own rooms.”

Taking a pencil and small notebook from his coat pocket, Saybrook quickly made a detailed sketch of the badge. “Let me refold the pamphlets and put everything back in its place,” he said, after tucking the two other items inside the bag.