by Lynn Messina
To be sure, the quarrel was speculative, but supposition was an entirely different beast from invention. Some event of deep significance had occurred between the chef and his employer to throw the former’s trajectory wildly off course. She firmly believed that when Mr. Réjane woke up yesterday morning he’d had no intention of proposing to Mrs. Wallace, and yet several hours later he ruthlessly abandoned the quails to ask her to accompany him to France. Swiftly and abruptly, he had become unmoored from his position.
Obviously, the only thing that could account for such a rapid change in situation was an intense argument with the man who employed him.
Eliding the truth slightly, Bea advised him to think very carefully before denying it again because she had direct knowledge of the dispute. “Your determination to destroy the apparatus originally identified as the murder weapon already makes you appear less than innocent in the affair. Lying now would only deepen my suspicion.”
A variety of expressions flitted across his face—confusion, doubt, anger, dislike—and Bea watched as he struggled to settle on a strategy for dealing with her accusation. He wanted to hold to his denial, but not knowing the source of her information, he was obliged to tread carefully. If he continued to refute it and she produced unassailable evidence, he would not only be caught in the middle of a lie but also embarrassed in front of Kesgrave.
Both were equally important to him, she thought with her new understanding of his character: He would do everything he could to frustrate her investigation while still trying to endear himself to the duke.
Finally, Mr. Mayhew nodded as if suddenly comprehending a thorny question. “Oh, I see, you are referring to the minor disagreement Monsieur Alphonse and I had yesterday. It was your description that confused me, for it was nothing so momentous as a quarrel, just a difference of opinion—very mundane. But you need not apologize, for I know how you ladies enjoy your dramatic confrontations.”
Bea ignored the slight against her sex and asked about the source of the so-called minor disagreement.
Mr. Mayhew pursed his lips, clearly not delighted with her other female habit of persistence. Determined to make the interview as difficult as possible, he responded succinctly, saying only that it was over an introduction and requiring Bea to press him further. “An introduction to whom?”
Again, he was disinclined to answer helpfully. “A colleague. Nobody you have heard of, your grace, and certainly well beneath your notice.”
Bea tilted her head at what she hoped was an imperious angle and thanked the banker to allow her the courtesy of determining who was beneath her notice. The tips of his ears turned faintly pink as he apologized for trying to spare her tedious details.
Stubbornly, she remained focused on the information she sought. “Monsieur Alphonse requested an introduction to someone of little significance and you refused?”
Mr. Mayhew tittered lightly. “There you go again, your grace, using colorful language to make it all sound so dramatic. I did not refuse, no. The person indicated that now was not a propitious time for the introduction to take place and I chose to abide by that. Naturally, Monsieur Alphonse understood my decision not to impose further and was grateful that I had considered the request. Then we briefly discussed the quality of the quails—excellent, as the meal itself attested—and he returned to the kitchen. All very calm and civil. I cannot imagine why the servants would describe it as a quarrel. I suspect they enjoy drama as much as you.”
Bea sought to put his mind at ease by assuring him none of the servants described the incident as such, but Mr. Mayhew, taking her statement as confirmation that the servants had chattered freely about private matters, only in slightly different terms, was further agitated by this proof of their perfidy. Morose, he stared abstractedly into his empty teacup.
Although her patience was worn thin, Bea allowed him a moment to sulk over the supposed disloyalty of his staff before interrupting his blue study to inquire after the identity of the person.
Sighing, Mr. Mayhew returned the cup to the table and provided a name.
But only a name, which was also unhelpful.
“And where can Mr. Bayne be found?” she asked.
“Fleet Street,” Mayhew replied, “number one.”
The address alone conveyed nothing useful to Bea, who knew the banker’s curt answers were designed to obfuscate, but Kesgrave recognized it. “One Fleet Street is the site of Mayhew and Co.’s offices.”
Startled by his knowledge, Mr. Mayhew grinned broadly and said with a hint of wonder, “Why, yes, it is. Has his grace honored us with a visit? Perhaps you were seeking information about our institution, as Coutts no longer satisfies? Please know, sir, that I am at your disposal for a comprehensive tour of the premises whenever you desire. No time is inconvenient, no time at all.” Then he reminded the duke that he himself attended to business on Sunday as well. “From one to three.”
As Kesgrave had no complaint with his current financial arrangements, he paid the offer scant heed and asked if Mr. Bayne was a clerk at the bank.
Mr. Mayhew, however, considered the query to be an indication of interest and proffered immediate and generous praise of his employee. “Mr. Bayne is indeed a clerk and an exceptional one at that. He is everything that is amiable and reliable, as well as thorough and discreet. It would be my pleasure to introduce you to him—or to any of the other clerks we employ. They are all exceptional, to a man.”
“What if Mr. Bayne does not wish to meet with the Duke of Kesgrave?” Bea asked.
The banker could not conceive the premise of the query and repeated it softly to himself several times as if hearing it in his own voice would somehow make it intelligible. “But he would want to meet with the Duke of Kesgrave!” he exclaimed excitedly before turning to his grace and apologizing for the slight. “I assure you Mr. Bayne bears you nothing but the utmost respect and would gratefully welcome the opportunity to demonstrate that to you personally. You have only to say the word.”
It was a remarkable little speech, fawning on behalf of a subordinate who was denied the option of a dignified response, and Bea marveled at the new and endless depths to which the banker would sink in his pursuit of Kesgrave’s goodwill.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Bayne is wonderfully eager to abase himself before the duke to secure a portion of his deposits,” she said humorously. “That is naturally understood by all. But let’s pretend for a moment that he doesn’t want to meet with Kesgrave. Would you respect his wishes and allow him to decline?”
His eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets as he goggled at her as if she were a veritable ninny. “Respect his wishes? Allow him to decline? My dear duchess, you seem to have mistaken Mayhew and Co. for an assembly at Almack’s. It is not run by an assortment of patronesses all having equal say. I am in charge and keep a firm hand on the tiller. A very firm hand,” he repeated for the duke’s particular benefit.
“Why did you not want Mr. Réjane to meet with a clerk from your bank?” Bea asked. “What was your objection?”
Mr. Mayhew smiled patronizingly and chastised her for her irrepressibly female habit of puffery. “My goodness, you are determined to transform a molehill into an imposing mountain, are you not, your grace. Already I’ve explained that I had no quarrel with the introduction. I made the request and Mr. Bayne decided against it for reasons of his own, although he indicated—again, as I previously said—that the timing was not propitious for him.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Mayhew,” she said thoughtfully, shaking her head in mild disapproval, “allowing clerks to determine which meetings they will agree to attend sounds very much to me like a lax hand on the tiller.”
It was a credit to the banker that he managed to keep a polite smile firmly affixed to his face, for his eyes glowed hotly with anger as he assured Bea that the subtleties of helming a business were too complicated for her to comprehend. Her husband, he rushed to add, understood them precisely, for he was a formidable man, an estimable man, a great ma
n who had managed his estates with wisdom and efficiency.
As Mr. Mayhew rattled off his list of laudatory adjectives, Bea thought he needed to be more careful, for the excessiveness of the catalogue seemed to veer into parody.
Kesgrave, ignoring the litany of praise, explained that Mr. Mayhew had no intention of approving the loan. “But he could not refuse it outright because that would offend the man who prepared the lavish feasts that drew his new clients, so he created a procedural barrier. Or, rather, obstacle, which is a more precise description. Plainly, Réjane asked Mayhew and Co. to extend him a loan, and Mayhew replied that it would be inappropriate for him to approve the request, given the nature of their relationship, and explained that the decision would be up to his clerk Bayne. He then allowed Bayne to deny the applicant access and threw his hands up into the air, claiming he was powerless to intercede.”
As if offering a demonstration, Mr. Mayhew waved his arms before himself in wide, furious arcs and insisted he had been powerless. “It is in the bylaws, you see, in a section outlining how loans may be dispersed to intimates and acquaintances of partners in the firm. It was added by my grandfather who worried that the bonds of affection would influence the partners’ ability to make rational business decisions.”
Urgently, assertively, he launched into an account of the particulars of the clause, but neither Bea nor Kesgrave paid him any attention and slowly he trailed off.
“What objection could he have to lending Mr. Réjane money?” Bea said to the duke, her brows drawn in confusion. “If he intended to establish a new enterprise with the funds, who would deny him the opportunity? His renown was widespread and he had proved himself to royalty. Anything he created would be sure to succeed.”
The duke agreed that Mr. Réjane was a reliable investment but noted that the banker’s primary concern was not the acquisition of wealth.
Deeply offended, Mr. Mayhew cried out in protest, insisting that he assiduously pursued the acquisition of wealth to the exclusion of all other vices.
It was a bold statement but demonstrably wrong, and Bea chided the banker for his display of false modesty, for he had also managed to cultivate an excess of pride and envy.
Once again, Mr. Mayhew maintained a delighted expression on his face despite his true feelings, and Bea admired how well he kept himself in check. It could not be easy.
Aware he had given offense, Kesgrave apologized to the banker for causing him undue agitation. “It was never my intention to imply you are not avaricious. Please know that I am fully cognizant of your greed and find it quite unseemly. Have no worry on that score. I was merely drawing greater attention to your desire for prestige because it explains your unwillingness to even discuss the matter with Mr. Réjane. Had you not interrupted, I would have cited your excessive fawning and attempt to coerce the duchess’s assistance in moving my deposits to your establishment as evidence of your determination to attain a higher quality of client. You would never consent to loan money to a cook, no matter how talented he was or respected, because that is not the quality of client with whom you wish to associate. You are interested only in the nobility and would happily extend credit to a second son with no skills or competencies as long as he had something suitable to offer as collateral. Have I explained your outlook correctly, Mayhew, or would you like to add a few words in support of your fervent devotion to the aristocracy?”
Nothing Mr. Mayhew could have said in his own defense would better illustrate Kesgrave’s point than the way the banker bowed his head and congratulated the duke on his understanding of the situation. Then, his impressive control slipping just a little, he darted a spiteful look at Beatrice, as if to imply that these were precisely the sort of subtleties her inadequate female mind could not grasp.
“How did Mr. Réjane respond when you refused to discuss a loan?” she asked.
“Mr. Bayne refused,” he corrected.
Bea, whose patience had been greatly restored by Kesgrave’s cool display of temper, accepted the amendment with a genial smile. “Thank you, yes, how did Mr. Réjane respond when Mr. Bayne declined to meet with him and you refused to intercede on his behalf?”
“My hands were tied, which he understood,” Mr. Mayhew replied. “He was more upset about the quails. One or two were of questionable quality, and he was very distressed at the thought of serving them to my guests.”
That was a lie, Bea knew, for it directly contradicted his earlier statement regarding the birds, and recalling his apprehension about his servants’ propensity to gossip, she wondered aloud how Parsons would respond when questioned by the duke. “Will he say that Monsieur Alphonse grew heated because the butcher saddled him with a pair of substandard quails or would he relate a fierce argument about your refusal to provide him with a loan? What about Gertrude? Will she confirm that the quails were substandard? And your housekeeper as well? Are you quite sure the staff comprehend the true source of the chef’s displeasure?”
The banker, smiling stiffly, allowed for the possibility that one or two of the servants might have thought they heard Monsieur Alphonse directing his anger at him, not the quails. “I did not want to say this because I have so much respect for the chef, but he did not accept Mr. Bayne’s decision with any sense of equanimity. Indeed, he raged at me quite viciously. To be completely honest with you, I feared for my own safety.”
Patently, that was false, but it was delivered with sufficient distress, and Bea murmured sympathetically. “I am sure it was terrifying. You must have been relieved when he resigned his position on the spot.”
Mr. Mayhew was astonished by the statement.
Oh, yes, he was too taken aback by the information to do anything but stare at her in amazement. But he recalled himself quickly and affected mild disappointment at her credulity in believing the idle talk of servants. “For that is where you heard this canard, is it not, from the servants? They have no understanding of what they overheard. Monsieur Alphonse might have declared in a fit of pique he intended to leave my employ at once—truthfully, I cannot recall all that was said between us—but he was merely venting his spleen. I assure you he was far too satisfied in my employ to seek a position elsewhere. I allowed him every indulgence and paid him handsomely. He would get that nowhere else in London.”
He spoke confidently, assuredly, as if Mr. Réjane provided an esoteric or arcane service that he alone appreciated. It was, Bea thought, a decidedly strange and inaccurate way to think about one of the most gifted chefs in the world.
As if aware of her thoughts, Mr. Mayhew added, “Naturally, he had offers. Indeed, he had them constantly, for he was very well-known and who in London would not love to have a chef who once cooked for Napoleon? But Monsieur Alphonse was quite particular in his tastes and could not be happy in just anyone’s kitchen. James Van der Straeten—he is a banker as well but runs a small branch of his family’s concern in Paris—hired him and Monsieur Alphonse left without putting a single saucepan on the fire because he was appalled by his Rumford stove.”
“Castrol,” said Bea, who had listened in silence as he maligned the Bank of England.
Mr. Mayhew, resenting the interruption, was just confused enough by it to look at her with benign curiosity. “Excuse me, your grace?”
“It was the Castrol stove that he found objectionable, not the Rumford,” Bea explained, recalling the description of Mr. Van der Straeten’s inadequate kitchens from the chef’s memoir. “The Rumford is quite modern and what you yourself have.”
Although much could be excused in a duchess’s behavior, particularly one who had assumed the mantle only the day before, lecturing a man about the various apparatuses in his own home was not among the allowances and Mr. Mayhew growled irritably at her presumption. Nevertheless, he managed to reply in a smooth tone when he said, “While I have never been in my own kitchen long enough to notice what type of stove I have, let alone become familiar with its name, I am confident Mr. Van der Straeten has a Rumford. Monsieur Alphonse used
that term specifically while assuring me of the superiority of all my equipment, and that is why I am certain he had no intention of leaving. He found me to be the ideal employer, for I was not forever at his heels, demanding that he create new, better, more elaborate dishes for my guests. I required him only to make a small variety of delicious and technically difficult meals, which pleased him greatly. I know this because he frequently complimented me on my palate. It was, he said, the most minutely restricted one he had ever met.”
If Bea had any doubt that Mr. Mayhew was making a May game of her, it was banished by this observation, for no one could be so lacking in brain power as to miss the implied insult. No, he was merely pretending to be a lackwit to continue to thwart her in the most audacious way possible. If he was too stupid for consideration, he could neither be a suspect in her investigation nor a threat to it.
“But if Monsieur Alphonse had intended to leave you for a less restricted palate, you would have no objections?” she asked.
Mr. Mayhew waved his hand in a sweeping arch and assured her he would have none at all. “I will not deny that employing the world’s most lauded chef has greatly benefited my business. As his grace kindly noted earlier, I crave both wealth and prestige, and Monsieur Alphonse has helped me attain both. Everyone accepts an invitation to dine at number forty-four, even Prinny”—here, a slight pause to allow for gasps of surprise, which were not forthcoming—“who desired to taste croquembouche made by the hand of its creator,” he said, then turned to look at the duke with rueful humor. “You are my only failure, your grace.”
Kesgrave accepted this communication with a dip of the head and allowed that he had higher standards than the regent.
Mr. Mayhew readily agreed with his assessment and continued, “As valuable as Monsieur Alphonse was to me, I would never begrudge him the opportunity to take another position. I am a man of business, of course, and would try to change his mind through negotiation. But I would never resort to immoderate violence, if that is what you are implying. I am a banker, your grace, and no banker worth his salt would consider decapitation to be a satisfying solution to a problem.”