Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

“Not necessarily,” replied her husband. “It’s always assumed that some of the messages won’t make it through. Davilenko was likely just one of several couriers. I would imagine that copies of the document stolen from Charles, along with duplicates of the coded notes, were dispatched with other carriers. And much as I hate to give the devil his due, Grentham arranged Davilenko’s death to appear a plausible accident, so it would be unlikely to raise suspicion.”

Henning had stopped eating. “I, too, have a question. Do you plan to expose the secret society in Scotland?”

“Rochemont’s cohorts must be rooted out, Baz. As for the other Dragons of St. Andrew, I shall do my best to see that they escape England’s lance.”

The surgeon nodded curtly.

Arianna touched his sleeve. “Your nephew—”

“It’s too late for him. I’m assuming he’s been murdered by Rochemont and his bloody bastards.” Henning fingered his knife. “Though I haven’t the heart to say so to my sister. God knows, we’ll likely never find the body.” The blade drew a tiny bead of blood, more black than crimson in the muted light. “It will add to her pain not to be able to give the lad a decent Christian burial.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

In the shifting shadows, the surgeon’s craggy face looked as bleak as a storm-swept chunk of Highland granite. “So am I, lassie. So am I.” He curled a fist. “Which is why we must crush these men before they harm anyone else.”

Saybrook cleared his throat. “The second message is what will help us do so, Baz. The plan is spelled out here in black and white. We just have to be clever enough to read between the lines.”

“ ‘While the Kings watch the Queens, the Knight to Bishop, Q 4,’ ” recited Arianna. She had already committed the brief message to memory. “ ‘And when the Well runs dry, the Castle will be ours and the Bee will once again rule the board. ’ ”

Henning made a face. “It seems to indicate a chess game of sorts.” He looked at the earl. “Can you make any sense of it?”

The earl stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, watching the thin plumes of cooking smoke snake along the age-dark beams. “Knight to Bishop Q 4 seems the clearest message. In chess, that means the knight knocks the bishop from the board.” His lashes flicked slowly up and down, like the silent swish of a raptor’s wings, and with his forefinger, he started to sketch a pattern of imaginary squares upon the scarred tabletop. “And Q 4 is one of the center squares, so it might be a metaphor for doing the deed in the middle of a gala entertainment.”

“Yes,” agreed Henning. “That seems a reasonable guess.”

“So, a bishop is the target,” said Arianna, feeling a little like a round peg whose contours didn’t quite fit into the hard-edged outline. “That blows all of my theories to flinders. I had assumed from the very start that a politician or a royal was the intended victim.” She broke off a piece of bread, but merely crumbled the crust between her fingers. “I’m more confused that ever. How the devil is religion linked to England’s security?”

“Good question,” muttered Henning. “I haven’t a clue.”

A hiss of steam swirled up from the stove. Arianna took up the kettle and silently fixed a fresh pot of coffee.

“The bishop,” muttered Henning “The bishop. The bishop.”

Saybrook started to refill his cup.

“The bishop.”

“Good God.” A splash of scalding coffee suddenly spilled over Saybrook’s fingers.

Arianna whirled around from the stove.

“Talleyrand,” said her husband. Shaking off the drops, he slapped his palm to the table. “Damnation, how did I not think of it before now. As a young man, Talleyrand was appointed the Bishop of Autun through his family’s influence.” A trickle of dark liquid seeped through the cracks of the oiled wood. “A notorious nonbeliever, he quickly abandoned the Church for politics, but still . . .”

The three of them exchanged wordless looks.

It was Henning who glanced away first. “You think Talleyrand is not the mastermind of all this but the target ?” he asked with some skepticism.

“Yes, actually I do,” answered the earl slowly. “Indeed, when one looks at it from that angle, the pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together.”

“Nay, I dunna see it, laddie,” said Henning stubbornly. “The Prince is perhaps the most crafty, cunning mind in all of Europe. It’s hard to imagine him as a victim.”

“Oh come, as I pointed out earlier, you have studied history, Baz,” countered the earl. “How often have the mighty, however brilliant they be, fallen to an assassin’s blade or bullet? Only God is omniscient—assuming He exists.”

The surgeon scowled but had no retort. Instead he muttered, “Go ahead then—convince me.”

“Very well, let’s start from the beginning,” said Saybrook. “Davilenko had the misfortune to meet Arianna in the bookshop, where his regular exchange of secrets was so rudely interrupted. However, he recognized Arianna at Lord Milford’s shooting party and saw a way to salvage the situation. I suspect that the Grognard was brought in to create a diversion. Whether he killed me or simply wounded me didn’t matter—in the confusion, someone could steal into our quarters and retrieve the hidden codes.”

“And we know that someone did try to enter our rooms,” Arianna pointed out. “The man posing as a servant with the starched cravats.”

“Yes, but you say Grentham’s operatives confirmed that Davilenko hadn’t told his superiors about the book’s loss,” argued Henning. “How did he arrange for the Grognard to take a shot at you? And more to the point, why would he risk shooting at Rochemont?”

Saybrook mulled over the question for a bit. “From my experience, I know that the leader of a clandestine network keeps his identity a secret from his minions. My guess is Davilenko had a way of communicating with the network if he needed assistance, but had no idea that Rochemont was part of the group—”

Henning snorted.

Ignoring the interruption, Saybrook continued, “I’m assuming Davilenko was clever in his own way, so it wouldn’t have been too hard to think of a lie to cover the need to shoot at me.”

“Then why was the Grognard murdered?” demanded the surgeon.

“That’s the one point that puzzles me,” admitted the earl. “But wait a moment before you assume that smug smile.”

Henning thinned his lips.

“Do you deny that Kydd was recruited through the Scottish secret society? Which, by your own admission, was run by Rochemont.”

Henning gave a grudging grunt.

“You’ve also been told by your sources that the funding for these revolutionary groups came from Napoleon.”

“Aye,” admitted the surgeon. “My old friend told me that he had made several secret trips to France for the cause, and had met with the Emperor personally.”

“So we know the link between Rochemont and Napoleon to be fact, not conjecture.” Saybrook leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Which, as Arianna pointed out so sagely last night, raises the key question—what possible reason could Rochemont have for continuing his efforts to undermine England?”

“The Royalists aren’t aware of his betrayal,” suggested Henning. “Now that his former master is out of power, Rochemont offers them a way to foment trouble in Scotland, and as a weak England is always in the best interest of France, the new King agrees to fund it. Voila! ” A snap of his fingers punctuated the exclamation. “The comte keeps his bread buttered on both sides and ends up looking like a hero.”