by Lynn Messina
A moment later, however, her eyes were drawn again to the figure sitting across from her in the drawing room, his arms flickering this way and that as he sought to emphasize his point with elaborate hand gestures. By any account, he looked absurd, not because of the wild gesticulations, although, certainly, it did not help that he appeared to be constantly swatting away a fly or trying to push a rhinoceros into a stall, but because the fashion he wore was too youthful for his fifty-something years. It was as if her uncle Horace had decided to adopt the outlandish extremes of dandyism, for the garish silk waistcoat would not have been out of place in late Earl of Fazeley’s extensive wardrobe. The foppish earl, however, had not needed to use a corset to restrain a bulky paunch as Mr. Mayhew tried to do. His flailing gestures also revealed thick shoulder pads under his lime-and-salmon-striped coat, and his hair was an incongruous brassy color that made it almost indistinguishable from a wig.
She was, Bea discovered, a little embarrassed on his behalf.
Deciding enough was enough, she straightened her shoulders and resolved to interrupt her host. Assuaging his vanity was all well and good, but only hours before a man’s head had been detached from his body and at some point that terrible event had to take precedence. After she had identified the man or woman who had killed Auguste Alphonse Réjane, the greatest chef in Europe, they could adjourn to the drawing room, where Mr. Mayhew could resume glorifying his family name to his heart’s content.
Before Bea could insist on turning the conversation to the more pressing topic, her host finished his tediously long speech with a brisk conclusion: “And that, your grace, is everything you get when you conduct business with the Mayhew family. I felt it was necessary to explain it in details so that you may be pleased with the transaction. I trust you are?”
Having absolutely no idea what her host was talking about, Bea feared that she had in fact become unconscious for some portion of his dissertation.
Misinterpreting the look on her face, he waved his hands with approval and said, “Of course, of course. You are overwhelmed. It is entirely understandable. All this grandeur is new to you, the impressive family lines and the great wealth. You require a moment to gather your thoughts, I understand. But you mustn’t be too modest, your grace, as you also bring something meaningful to the agreement.”
“Mr. Mayhew, I do not know what your footman told you, but I am not here to negotiate a transaction of some sort,” she said plainly. “I am here to investigate the murder of your chef. This story you and the constable settled on regarding Monsieur Alphonse’s cutting apparatus is highly implausible and cannot be allowed to stand. He was decapitated with a cleaver from your own kitchen.”
The banker nodded vigorously, by all indications delighted by her statement. “Yes, yes, precisely, and it is beyond all things wonderful.”
His idiotic response to her disquieting news caused her to wonder if she was talking to a man with a mental deficiency. She had entered the room convinced that he had something to hide, for there was no other explanation for why he would dispose of the supposed murder weapon so quickly and thoroughly, but now she wondered if he was simply too dull-witted to behave logically.
To wit, his observation that Mr. Réjane’s passing was wonderful.
Demonstrating that he was not entirely lost to sense, the banker rushed to clarify his meaning, insisting that the death of the great chef was a deep and abiding tragedy. “He and his stunning creations will be sorely missed by myself and Mrs. Mayhew. Just last night he made potage anglaise de poisson à Lady Payton, which has been described as the most difficult soup in the world, and it was glorious. The expression on Mr. Carmichael’s face as he had his first taste made Monsieur Alphonse worth every shilling he soaked me for. But no, I was referring to your murder investigation, for that is what is wonderful. I have long wished to align myself with a duke.”
Although she had briefly understood her host, for the soup Mr. Réjane had devised in honor of the well-known Irish writer had indeed been hailed as one of most complicated dishes ever assembled, Bea once again found herself bewildered. “A duke?” she echoed.
“How right you are, your grace,” he said with sly appreciation. “I misspoke. The duke.”
And still comprehension eluded her.
He took no note of her confusion and added with relish, “The Duke of Kesgrave, the most elusive peer of the realm. I have tried for years to capture his interest or seek his favor, but he has always brushed me off. I am beneath his notice, which I cannot resent given the disparity in our situations. But that is all in the past because now I have the ideal opportunity to earn his support and finally gain a foothold in the highest echelon of society. And that, your grace, is truly wonderful. But you must not think you are getting the worst end of the staff, for the Mayhews deserve nobody’s scorn, as I have already explained. Our history might not reach back five hundred years, but our past century is impressive and certainly more illustrious than the Hyde-Clares.”
Bea heard the disparagement of her family. Oh, yes, she perceived with perfect clarity the disdain for their mediocrity and inconsequentiality, and she was not immune to its effect, for she already felt deeply discomfited by the social imbalance between her and the duke. But as disturbing as his casual denigration was, it was nothing compared with the way he looked at her now with avarice and greed, a gleaming rapaciousness glinting in his eyes as if her very person had been supplanted by something he could use—a tool, perhaps, like a dibble to firmly plant his ambition or a rope to pull himself up.
Bearing the weight of his avidity, she felt nothing like herself, neither the familiar person she had been yesterday afternoon before her wedding to Kesgrave nor the vague stranger who had shrunk in mortification when the maids addressed her with excruciating deference that morning.
She was wholly unknown.
Mr. Mayhew continued. “Specifically, here is what I expect in exchange for my cooperation, all commencing one week from today and extending over a six-month period: two invitations to dine at Kesgrave House, two outings to the duke’s box at Covent Garden for plays of Mrs. Mayhew’s selection, one dinner at my London house, one weekend stay at Helston Park, one invitation to a house party at the duke’s ancestral estate. And, of course, he will move a portion of his deposits from Coutts to Mayhew and Co. As for the actual percentage of his account, I will leave that to his grace to decide.”
“How very gracious,” she said satirically.
Perceiving a compliment, he dipped his head and fluttered his left hand through the air.
Calmly, as if she did not find him repellent in every way, Bea reviewed the terms of the agreement in order to make sure she understood them correctly. “To be clear, you will allow me to investigate the brutal murder of a member of your own staff if I agree to confer my and the duke’s friendship to increase your status among the beau monde? Is my understanding of the compact accurate?”
“Yes, your grace,” he said, smiling widely. “Entirely correct.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Are the terms of the agreement set or may I negotiate the specifics?”
The glow in his eyes changed, from avarice to anticipation, as he leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, yes, you may indeed. Tell me, your grace, what you have in mind.”
What she actually had in mind was some version of a grand exit, with her unceremoniously dumping the pot of tea on his head, calling him a repugnant mushroom with more hair than wit and marching forcefully out of the room.
’Twould be an utter delight, to see him gasping in indignation as Bohea dripped from his ridiculous whiskers onto his absurd silk-clad thighs, his hands flying haphazardly through the air, as if seeking purchase.
But she was not there to satisfy her temper or give leave to her outrage; she was there to find justice for Auguste Alphonse Réjane.
Firmly and fully, she believed that no man, not even the most intemperate monster, deserved decapitation, to have his head in o
ne spot and his body in another. And yet it still seemed worse that it was this man, this rare genius of sugar, flour and butter, who suffered such a horrific fate.
“I would like to propose a few amendments,” she said with deceptive smoothness. “Some minor alterations, if you will.”
Mr. Mayhew nodded eagerly. “Of course, of course. You wouldn’t be the woman you are if you blithely accepted my offer.”
“We forego your six-point plan for social advancement and instead call the constable to the house so that we may have a fruitful discussion about Monsieur Alphonse’s murder,” she said. “I have already gathered information that will be useful to him in his investigation.”
A broad grin spread across his face as he lauded her strong opening position and launched into a lecture on the uselessness of her discovery of the murder weapon, for the constable already believed the death to be a tragic accident. “And he is not likely to change his mind.”
Bea knew well the incompetence of constables, for the one in the Lake District had been persuaded that Mr. Otley had struck the back of his own head with a candlestick, but she found it inconceivable one would be so apathetic as to hold to the explanation of inadvertent decapitation when convincing evidence of murder was produced.
“I think he will,” she said firmly.
“In 1667, my great-grandfather George Richard Mayhew established himself as a goldsmith,” he said, beginning his litany of familiar achievements all over again. “The business thrived, and in 1673 he was appointed jeweler in ordinary to King William III.”
Exasperated by his buffoonery, she asked testily, “What are you doing?”
“Explaining my importance, as you seem to have forgotten it,” he replied. “I assure you, the constable has not.”
Ah, so that was how he had got the ruling he had desired, by exerting either his money or his influence. She was just as capable of playing that game as well—indeed, she had the advantage.
“In 1381,” she said, “John Matlock helped King Richard quell the Peasants Revolt when he crushed the rebels led by Litster in East Anglia, earning a knighthood.”
Anger flashed in the banker’s eyes as he sat forward in his chair. “I will not be mocked!”
Well, she thought, someone was not quite as secure in his position as he claimed.
“Mock you?” Bea said, twisting her lips sardonically. “I would never mock a man of your high status and inveterate morality. No, my good sir, I am doing the very opposite of mocking you by paying you the respect of abiding by your rules. Are we not trying to cow each other with our impressive lineages? I thought influence and consequence were the currency with which this agreement would be negotiated, and I feel confident mine trumps yours.”
Bea expected him to respond with more anger, for her tone was openly derisive, but he leaned back into his chair, mollified by either her words or her attitude. Lightly, his fingers tapped the arms of the bergère. “You must forgive me, your grace, for forgetting what kind of woman you are. Of course you understand the play. I am merely doing what you yourself did so expertly in pursuit of the duke.”
As he spoke, Bea noted the light in his eyes had changed yet again, this time flashing with respect, and although she told herself it was better to be seen as an equal than an object to be manipulated, she felt only repugnance at his esteem.
It was no achievement to earn his admiration.
Indeed, it was more like a failure.
Abhorrent man, she thought, reminding herself that his repulsiveness did not make him guilty of murder.
No, but it did not exonerate him either.
Of all the people she had interviewed so far, he was the most likely suspect, for he had already revealed himself to be deeply immoral and devious.
Coolly, she said, “As we both know, Mr. Mayhew, my lineage trumps yours, so I see no reason to continue this discussion. Kesgrave will clarify the situation with the constable, and I will consult directly with him on my investigation.”
As it was not an idle threat, she leaned forward to rise to her feet but her movements were forestalled by Mr. Mayhew’s riotous laughter.
“I would hate to have to tell a newly married woman that she doesn’t know her husband, but you do not know your husband, my dear,” he said with indulgent condescension. “It is understandable given the length of your courtship, which was necessarily brief. You had to snap the parson’s mouse trap closed before your quarry could wrangle free. No, please, your grace, do not get all tight in the shoulders as if I am criticizing you. I am not, for I possess a great appreciation for expedience. I do not know how you managed to compromise the duke on the terrace during Lord Larkwell’s ball, but I can only assume you were in league with Taunton. Perhaps you promised to use your settlement to pay his gambling debts?”
He paused here as if in expectation of her confirmation, and Bea, her back indeed rigid, struggled to keep her features neutral as he doled out insult after insult. Save for the introduction of the murderous marquess as her conspirator, he said nothing she had not heard a dozen times before. Her own aunt had expressed a similar understanding of the situation and remained baffled still by Kesgrave’s disinclination to save himself from her clutches.
When she had first discovered that most of society shared this view of her engagement, she’d been deeply mortified and imagined tongues wagging everywhere she went: at the theater, at dinner parties, at routs, balls and musicales. She could almost hear them whispering behind her back about the dowdy spinster who nabbed the ton’s most glittering prize through hideously deceitful means.
Her fears, however, proved unfounded, for everyone stated it plainly to her face: Mrs. Norton, Lord Tavistock, Lord Wem.
Mr. Mayhew, she thought, in amusement.
Realizing that his guest would not honor him with a confession, Mr. Mayhew continued, “Regardless, let me do you the invaluable service of explaining your husband to you. He is sneering, contemptuous, arrogant, imperious, chilly, snide and generally indifferent to the opinions of others. He is interested in only his own comfort and will not bestir himself to satisfy the whim of anyone, let alone the insignificant nobody who ensnared him in a marriage he neither wanted nor sought. Now I understand that you are trying to style yourself as a lady Runner to create something distinctive about yourself, which I agree is necessary as you are extraordinarily unremarkable otherwise, and I am more than happy to assist you in that endeavor by allowing you access to my staff and home. But I have made my terms clear and am unwilling to compromise. Do we have an agreement?”
“You forgot pedantic,” Bea said.
“Excuse me?” he asked jeeringly, clearly peeved by the implication that he had overlooked anything.
“My husband is pedantic,” she explained matter-of-factly. “He is sneering, contemptuous, arrogant, imperious, chilly, snide, generally indifferent to the opinions of others and pedantic. If you are going to comprehensively list his character traits, then you cannot leave off his most enduring one.”
Mr. Mayhew’s color rose sharply as he stared at Beatrice, his fingers dancing across the chair’s arms with increasing speed and vigor.
Determinedly, he tried to make sense of her unanticipated response and decided that his insightful understanding of her husband’s character had unsettled her.
“Oh, yes, I have quite unnerved you,” he said smugly. “By revealing to you the truth about your own husband I have forced you to come to terms to the limitations of your own ingenuity. You thought you were so very clever, and now you realize you’re not shrewd enough to outmaneuver me. You are trying to brazen it out with empty threats so I won’t realize the truth, which is that you have no position from which to negotiate. I am a banker, you see, and understand exactly what you are doing. Next, you will stand up stiffly and announce it is time you returned to Kesgrave House. You will say something to the effect of: My husband will notice I am gone soon and wonder where I am.”
The flush in his cheeks subsided as he grew
increasingly confident in his understanding of the situation. His lips pursed, he rubbed the generous whiskers lining his jaw with his left hand and considered her silently for several moments. “I find I am reluctant to allow that. Having come closer than I ever thought possible to attaining a long-sought goal, I cannot let you to leave without making another attempt to arrive at a satisfying bargain. Although I vowed not to compromise, I will demonstrate how reasonable I am by offering to eliminate the weekend in the country at Helston Park. Furthermore, you do not have to convince the duke to move any portion of his deposits to Mayhew & Co., only the money he settled upon you for your marriage. A husband cannot object if a wife takes an interest in her own investments, can he? You see how fair-minded I am being? Now come, your grace, agree to meet me in the middle, and we may settle this transaction amicably. To be candid, you have no other option than to accede to my requests if you are to have any hope of scrutinizing Monsieur Alphonse’s death. But if you would rather leave than grace us with your presence.…”
He trailed off enticingly, entirely convinced in the strength of his argument and his ability to overcome her resistance.
As amused as she was by the confidence of his pose, Bea could not fathom its source, for it bore no resemblance to reality. Although he had convinced himself he held all the advantages, he in fact held none and continuing to believe he did in the face of contrary evidence indicated a plodding mind incapable of grasping simple facts.
Was he really the head of a successful banking concern?
It seemed inconceivable to her, and even if she were interested in making a bargain with him, she would not agree to deposit any portion of her settlement at Mayhew and Co. because she did not believe it would be secure.
Unlike her host, Bea was aware of the futility of her efforts and decided she had wasted enough time talking to him. The more efficient course was to return to Kesgrave House and ask Jenkins to drive her to the constable’s office. Although she still found it a difficult idea to digest, the truth was she no longer needed to borrow the duke’s consequence, for she possessed her own now and if there was any advantage in being the Duchess of Kesgrave, it was the ability to browbeat public servants.