Recipe for Treason Part 5

7. Spoon the mixture into the prepared pan and bake for about 1 hour, or until just set. The center of the brownie should be set and not at all wobbly.

8. Allow to cool completely in the pan. You can cover the pan tightly with plastic wrap at this point and the brownies will keep for a couple of days. Chill before slicing if you want small, precise squares.

Arianna pushed past a confused Connery to join her husband on the workroom's threshold.

"d.a.m.nation." She let loose her own oath after a quick glance around.

The ma.s.sive pine desk had clearly been ransacked. An inkwell had been knocked to the carpet, leaving a splattering of black blotches over the scattered quills and penknives. The drawers hung open, and the contents had been strewn helter-pelter on the floor.

"Any sign of Girton?" Henning stepped gingerly around the jumbled pile of papers and peered under the worktable, as if expecting to find a corpse hidden in the shadows.

"I'll check the bedchamber," volunteered Arianna.

"No, I'll do it." Saybrook drew his weapon. "You stay here with Baz and see what clues you can find."

"I-I don't understand," stammered Connery. "What-"

A look from Henning speared him to silence.

"The worktable appears to have been swept clear of all implements," observed Arianna as she slowly rounded the desk and ran a hand over the waxed wood. Frowning, she stared up at the ceiling, where a jagged hole, its edges black with soot, marred the whitewashed plaster.

Henning crouched down and thumbed through several of the books that had been pulled from the shelves. "It would seem the intruder came for something specific."

He and Arianna locked eyes for a long moment before she looked away.

"d.a.m.n," she repeated under her breath, stepping to the hearth. A flicker of orange showed that the embers still had a bit of life. She was just about to take up the poker and stir up a flame when a curl of singed leather within the ashes caught her eyes.

Shoving aside the fireguard, she dropped to her knees and fished a small notebook out from the coals.

"What's that?" asked Henning, hurrying to her side.

Arianna swatted out the sparks, wincing as the heat burned her fingers. "I'm not sure yet." A cursory peek beneath the cover revealed pages filled with a scrawled script. "Time enough later to examine it more closely." She rose and carefully tucked it away in her pocket. "Come, let's see what else we can find."

They moved to the storage cabinets. "Why don't you check through these, while I see if I can find a letter case. If there are any suspicious chemicals, I wouldn't recognize them."

"Hand me one of the gla.s.s-globed lamps. An open flame would be too dangerous-"

The clatter of Saybrook's steps on the stairs cut off Henning's reply.

"Half the clothing in the armoire is gone, and a valise seems to be missing from its peg," announced the earl. "It looks as if our professor has made a hasty departure." He turned to Connery. "Does he own any sort of conveyance-a cart, a carriage?"

"I . . . I don't think so."

Saybrook thought for an instant. "The laboratory! Where does he do his experiments at the university?"

"St. Salvatore's College, in the wing closest to b.u.t.ts Wynd."

"Don't just stand there, Connery. Lead the way!" He gave the professor a small shove. "And quickly!"

Shaking off his lingering shock, Henning's friend finally roused himself to action. Boots skittering on the waxed wood, he bolted off down the corridor, the earl right on his heels.

"Hurry," called Saybrook over his shoulder. "There may be a chance we can catch up with Girton."

Giving thanks for her breeches, rather than the cursed enc.u.mbrance of flapping skirts, Arianna raced after them. She heard Henning swear and slam the cabinet doors shut. Then his footsteps were echoing somewhere in the gloom behind her.

She didn't dare look back. The fog-swirled streets were as dark as Hades, and with precious few of the buildings showing even a flicker of light, she knew that falling behind would leave her hopelessly lost. Spurred on by the thought, she quickened her pace, even though the cold air was painfully sharp against her lungs and a st.i.tch was stabbing at her side.

For a brief stretch Henning caught up, but she heard his breath turn wheezy and his steps begin to fade.

The surgeon knew the town, she reminded herself. He could find his own way, if need be.

After what felt like an eternity, Connery cut away from the slick cobblestones and darted through a gap in the buildings, where finally he slowed to a walk as he reached a swath of gra.s.s.

"There," he gasped, pointing to a looming building of square angles, crenellated towers and pointed spires silhouetted against the cloudy night sky. "St. Salvatore's-the laboratories are on the first floor. Girton's is at the very end, and in the back, overlooking the sea."

"Thank you." The earl looked around and spotted Henning limping down from shadows of North Street. "Go home now, Connery."

"What is going on here, Mr. Castellano? Who the devil are you?"

"It's best you don't know," answered the earl grimly.

The surgeon's friend hesitated, but only for an instant. The Scots, reflected Arianna, had a strong streak of pragmatism to go along with their flinty courage and stubborn pride.

With a brusque nod, Connery backed off and disappeared into the mists.

Still breathing hard, Henning hurried to rejoin them.

"Are you all right?" asked Saybrook.

"I'll live," replied his friend curtly. "What's the plan of attack?"

The earl didn't answer right away. He stood, silent and still, observing the building. Though she couldn't see his expression, she sensed the coiled tension of his muscles. If not for the rhythmic wash of the surf, she was sure that the thrum would have been audible.

"I don't like the situation-there are too many unknown variables. But we've no choice." He seemed to make up his mind. "Baz, I need you to wait here, both to watch our backs and to prevent Girton from escaping if he slips through my grasp. Arianna will come with me."

A scudding of moonlight caught Henning's grimace, but he didn't argue.

She, too, remained silent, despite wanting to point out that in a chase, she was more likely to succeed. Intuition told her this was not the moment to question his command.

"You're armed?" added Saybrook.

"Aye, laddie. I haven't forgotten all our training from the Peninsular War."

"Good. I suggest you take cover there . . ." The earl pointed to a thicket of gorse by the edge of the gra.s.s. "Three sharp whistles will be the signal for you to join us inside."

Henning nodded his a.s.sent. "G.o.dspeed."

Saybrook turned to her. "Stay behind me, and do exactly as I tell you." Without waiting for an answer, he started forward.

The porter's entrance to the end tower was unlocked, allowing them access to a set of circular stone stairs. Narrow gla.s.s-paned windows, mimicking ancient archery slits, were the only source of illumination. With the clouds hazing the heavens, the gloom was thick enough to cut with a knife . . .

Arianna touched the top of her boot as she edged along the wall, loosening the slim blade in its sheath.

Saybrook thumbed back the hammer of his weapon to full c.o.c.k, taking care that it made no noise.

She did the same.

"Stay close," he whispered, the heat of his breath against her ear amplified by the cold air. "And stay alert."

"I'm used to facing danger," she reminded him.

"I'm not," he said. His dark eyes seemed to spark for an instant, and then his chill lips brushed hers. Without another word, he started up the first turn, shoulder pressed to the center stones, his steps as light as those of a stalking cat.

At the first landing, he eased forward and darted a look through the half-open door. She waited for his signal to follow him into the corridor. The wall sconces were unlit-a glow of lamplight from the doorway up was the only man-made illumination.

The other rooms lining the way were shut tight, the blackened oak portals and forged iron latches standing silent guard.

Drawing a steadying breath to calm the flutter of unease in her chest, Arianna glanced behind her.

Nothing.

Saybrook paused and c.o.c.ked an ear, straining to hear any sound from Girton's laboratory.

Was it only her imagination, or was that a faint moan?

Double, double toil and trouble . . . The words of Shakespeare's Scottish trio of witches cackled in her head. Macbeth had been a great favorite with her father. Perhaps because the themes of crime and guilt and punishment struck a chord- A touch to her arm jerked her out of her momentary reveries. Stay focused, she chided herself, giving a quick nod to her husband's signal to advance and cover the right side of the doorway.

The sound came again, a little louder.

Saybrook darted into the laboratory and took cover behind a tall storage cabinet.

Pistol raised, Arianna watched for any flicker of movement within the shadows. All was still, save for the slight wavering of the lamp flame within its gla.s.s globe. The light was sitting atop a long, thin worktable set in the center of the large s.p.a.ce. Counters crammed with bottles and scientific instruments lined the side walls, their shadows casting menacing patterns across the stained plaster. Above them were shelves crammed with books and ledgers. The sharp scent of chemicals hung heavy in the air.

Her husband took a small coin from his pocket and rolled it toward the table.

The tiny sound drew no reaction. He waited a moment longer and then moved to a new position by a wrought-iron rack of metal canisters.

The pistol b.u.t.t began to feel a little slippery against her palm, despite the chillness of the room. Her blood was pounding in her ears, setting off a strange, spooky echo. Swallowing hard, she tightened her grip and made a quick check of the corridor behind her.

Sssssssssss. A ghostly sound seemed to flit through the shadows.

Her eyes flew back to the laboratory as a groan-one that sounded distinctly human-rent the air. It seemed to be coming from an alcove at the rear of the room.

"H-h-help me."

Saybrook flicked his pistol, indicating he meant to investigate.

Following his silent orders, Arianna slipped inside and took up a position to cover his advance. A veteran of the guerrilla conflicts in Spain, he needed no reminder from her that it could be a trap. Still, she felt as if her heart had leapt into her throat as he started forward.

No bullet, no blade flashed out of the gloom.

Inch by inch, the earl crept toward the sound. Without thinking, she eased up to a spot by the table, giving her a better angle into the alcove. Within the muddled shades of black, she thought she could make out a solid shape sprawled on the floor beneath a desk.

Saybrook suddenly stood and rushed over the remaining distance. He reached down, and his hand was swallowed by the shadows. "Bring the lamp here," he called after a moment.

Arianna grabbed it and hurried to his side.

In the pale, oily light, the slash of red across the man's throat looked like a spill of claret wine. The garnet-colored liquid was quickly soaking into the white shirt points.

A gurgling rattle indicated that he was still alive.

"Is it Girton?" she asked.

Crouching down, Saybrook leaned close to the man's fluttering lips. "Are you Girton?"

A feeble nod.

"Who did this to you?"

The professor's face spasmed as he tried to speak. "R-r-r . . ."

Was he trying to say Renard? wondered Arianna.

"R-royal . . ." A gasp. "In-inst . . ."

"Inst.i.tution?" finished Saybrook.

Another nod.

"What's there?" prodded the earl.

"D-d-danger." The effort of speech brought a beading of blood to Girton's lips.

"From whom?"

The man's hand twitched against the floor.

"I think he's trying to draw something," said Arianna. She watched his finger trace three short strokes. "It looks like . . . a letter?"

Girton tried again.

"It might have been a 'P,'" said Arianna tersely. "Or a symbol of some sort."

"Girton." Saybrook leaned in closer, his long, windblown hair grazing the man's blood-soaked shirt. "Girton."

The professor lay as still as stone.

Her husband felt for the pulse point at the base of the man's jaw. "d.a.m.n," he muttered, letting his fingers fall away.