A Sinister Establishment

by Lynn Messina

  Bea appreciated how principled he made basic human decency sound, as if bankers should be commended for their unwillingness to remove the heads of members of their staffs.

  Even so, she was not sure she believed he would accept Mr. Réjane’s decision to leave as easily as he claimed. Only a short while ago, Bea had tried to leave his drawing room and he responded by grabbing her arm. There was, to be clear, a significant difference between squeezing someone’s elbow and chopping off his head, but it demonstrated that his first instinct was to respond physically. Mr. Mayhew believed that he was owed things—Bea’s compliance, Mr. Réjane’s loyalty—and he did not respond well when denied them. It was naïve to think he would happily allow the chef to walk out of his home, especially when there was a chance he would walk into Thomas Coutts’s or one of the other bankers who resided in London.

  It would not have happened, of course, for Mr. Réjane had no intention of remaining in England. But Mr. Mayhew did not know that.

  Nobody knew except Mrs. Wallace, Joseph and any other servants at Kesgrave House who happened to be in or near Mrs. Wallace’s office during their conversation.

  Wondering if the victim’s plan to open a patisserie was in some way related to his desire for a loan, Bea asked what Monsieur Alphonse had intended to do with the money.

  The question elicited a world-weary sigh from Mr. Mayhew, who hung his head as if in shame and admitted that it was for the chef’s brother. “His brother! It was an act of imprudence so pronounced I could not speak for a full five minutes. To ask Mayhew & Co. to advance funds to an unknown Frenchman who had not even had the pleasure of boiling water for the great Czar Alexander’s tea. And he wanted to use my funds to open a shop in Paris. How could I be expected to respond to something as appalling as that? It was immoral of Monsieur Alphonse to even make the request, unreservedly and undeniably immoral, for it put me in an impossible position. I could not say yes but nor could I say no. If I was driven to extreme measures, he had nobody to blame but himself.”

  For a moment, fleeting and intense, Bea thought he was confessing to the murder and felt that it had to be some trick, another maneuver to lull them. Quickly enough, however, she realized he was still speaking of business matters. “Extreme measures?”

  Mr. Mayhew was startled by the query. “Excuse me?”

  “You said you were driven to extreme measures,” Bea explained. “What extreme measures?”

  The banker let out a laugh—it was a little self-conscious and somewhat affected—and insisted he had no idea what she was talking about. “Oh, dear, so much information is being shared you are growing confused.”

  Although she was tempted to compliment him on the audacity of the ploy, Bea turned to the duke and asked him to speculate as to what measures Mr. Mayhew might have taken if the procedural obstacle he had erected had proved ineffective.

  “I am certain Mayhew does not wish to make me exert myself in speculation,” Kesgrave said mildly, “and will simply tell us.”

  It was comical, to be sure, the look of indecision that swept across the banker’s face, for his instinct was clearly to submit to the duke and yet some part of him knew he should resist the compulsion. Finally, after several moments of silent and intense struggle, he said, “It is not my fault. I tried to put him off with vague promises to look into the matter, but he refused to accept my answer. I had no choice but to invent a notoriously difficult associate and put him in charge of the request.”

  Whatever extreme measure for which Bea was prepared, it certainly was not this. “You mean Mr. Bayne does not exist?”

  Defiantly, he said, “I had no choice.”

  “And subsection F, clause one?” she asked.

  “The bylaws only go up to E,” he confessed with a hint of shame. “I did not mean to mislead him. I just wanted to avoid discussing the topic for as long as possible because refusing a loan is always so awkward. People get very stiff in the spine about it, as if it were personal and not merely a practical business decision.”

  His defensiveness could, she thought, mean only one thing. “Monsieur Alphonse found out.”

  Exhaling heavily, Mr. Mayhew bowed his head. “Yesterday morning. He paid a call to the bank himself and insisted on meeting Mr. Bayne. That’s when he discovered the truth. He was irate.”

  “Well, naturally,” Bea said.

  The banker grimaced at the rebuke but insisted he had done the only thing he could. “I do not wish to cast aspersions on the dead, but it was really most uncharitable of Monsieur Alphonse to ask me in the first place. He must have known the position he was putting me in and did not care. Now of course I did not chop off his head with a skewer—”

  “Cleaver,” she corrected.

  Yet again, Mr. Mayhew appeared confused. “Excuse me?”

  “You cannot cut off someone’s head with a skewer,” she explained.

  The minor distinction between kitchen utensils was as inconsequential as the differences between stoves, and he scoffed at the expectation that he able to distinguish between an object that cut and an object that impaled.

  “Truly, your grace, your distraction with minor details has made you insensible to the larger repercussions of the event,” he said impatiently. “What you seem incapable of properly comprehending is how disastrous this event is to me personally. If word gets out that the famous chef was murdered in my own home, I will be ruined. Nobody will entrust their money with a man who cannot even provide for his employees’ safety. I understand, your grace, that you find the le peu explanation too implausible to accept and am in full sympathy with your objections. I see now that it might be difficult to insert a human head fully into the apparatus. But perhaps you are amenable to the possibility that an argument got out of hand and when it was over poor Monsieur Alphonse had been most gruesomely sliced apart? In that circumstance his death is still an accident but with a villain to satisfy your requirements.”

  It was an astounding offer, as insulting as it was ridiculous, but Bea knew better than to take offense. Having prospered little with his last approach, he was merely changing tactics again.

  When this new strategy failed to win the approval of his company, he turned his attention to his own suffering, which he believed had been given short shrift. With little doubt, tarnishing Mayhew and Co. was the true motive behind the senselessly violent act. “Someone is attempting to destroy my reputation, and by asking me irrelevant questions, you are allowing it to happen. I beg you, please, turn your attention to who would want to do me harm. That is how you will find the killer.”

  Amused despite herself by his persistence, she affected effusive concern and urged him to compile a list of persons who he believed might want to hurt him. “You shall pursue that aspect of the investigation while Kesgrave and I pursue another.”

  Mr. Mayhew did not like that at all, being relegated to his own subordinate task, but before he could protest, Bea asked if they could speak to his wife while he was composing his list. His countenance lightened even as he professed himself unable to comply with her request, for the poor dear was currently indisposed. “She slept quite horribly last night, and her nerves are monstrously unsettled because of these horrendous events. She is not intrepid like you, your grace. She is a delicate female, prone to spells, and the idea of Monsieur Alphonse’s head being”—he indicated to a nearby spot with his hand—“there and his body being…uh…well, there”—another gesture to an area slightly farther away—“is more than she can bear. I cannot imagine she will be able to leave her dressing room at all today.”

  One did not have to have a proclivity for detection to perceive his objective, and Bea, deciding not to quibble for the sake of her investigation, allowed herself to be maneuvered into greater intimacy with her neighbor by suggesting they meet with her in her dressing room.

  Mr. Mayhew blinked rapidly several times as if taken aback by the proposal and then complimented her grace on the ingenuity of her solution. “Yes, yes, of course, you mus
t meet with her in her dressing room. I am sure she will have just enough vigor to entertain you there. You are so clever to have thought of it.”

  Bea dipped her head in acknowledgment and refrained from seeking out Kesgrave’s gaze, for she knew he could not be pleased with the familiarity.

  The banker, barely able to contain his enthusiasm, summoned Henry and instructed him to deliver the fresh tray to Mrs. Mayhew’s dressing room. Then, bouncing with a sort of suppressed delight, he led them into the hall. As much as he resented her for destroying the comfortable little fiction he had arranged with the constable, he was equally determined to make the most of the situation, and Bea, following him into the corridor, wondered again about the depth of his cool calculation.

  Chapter Ten

  The fact that Mrs. Mayhew’s dressing room could not comfortably accommodate visitors merely underscored the severity of the situation. Only in a circumstance so utterly dire would she consent to allow her husband to lean against the wall for support, as if he were some sort of cleaning implement like a mop or a broom. And for the Duke of Kesgrave to sit on the rickety John Cobb chair—it was a beloved antique, yes, handed down from her mother’s mother, but so unreliable! Only the thought of Monsieur Alphonse’s desecrated corpse could distract her from the sight of the duke wobbling back and forth on its uneven legs like a ship on a roiling sea.

  “I knew it could not have been his chopping device,” Mrs. Mayhew said softly, her tone bearing no sense of satisfaction at having her conclusion affirmed. She was a small woman about a decade and a half younger than her husband, with porcelain skin, pale blue eyes and a languid affect, which she attributed to the shock of that morning’s events. Ordinarily, she was a far more animated hostess. “It is too dainty, I thought, like a miniature version for a dollhouse, and while Monsieur Alphonse was not a large man by any measure, he certainly was not the size of a doll. I thought for certain it had to be something else, but I did not say anything to Mr. Mayhew because I hated to upset him further. He was already so distressed by Monsieur Alphonse’s death, and devoting all his attention to getting rid of the device appeared to settle his nerves, so I did not interfere.”

  Although the rebuke was minor, the banker was not immune to its effects and he straightened his shoulders, pulling them slightly away from the narrow slice of teal blue wall that was available to him. The rest of the perimeter was adorned with either paintings of pheasants and cherubic children or furniture required for the presentation of a well-turned-out female, such as a dressing table with a mirror, a dressing screen in the pastoral mode, and a pair of mahogany cabinets. Like the room itself, the dressing table was heaving with necessities: ribbons, brushes, toilet water, dentifrice, perfume, laudanum, vinegar, face powder, soap, a sponge. Above it hung a handsome rosewood clock with mother-of-pearl inlay.

  Mr. Mayhew, defending his actions, explained stiffly to his wife that he thought he was destroying a deadly apparatus. “I could not stand by and allow other servants to get hurt.”

  At once, Mrs. Mayhew’s expression turned fond. “You are so good and thoughtful, my dear.”

  Her husband demurred and insisted that ensuring no other members of their staff suffered fatal injuries in their kitchen was the very least he could do.

  But Mrs. Mayhew refused to be swayed and chastised him for being unduly humble. Then she said to Bea, “He is always underestimating his own abilities. It comes, I believe, from having four younger brothers who often question his judgment. Each one would like to be head of the London bank rather than overseeing a subsidiary concern in the provinces.”

  As Mr. Mayhew had failed to mention any siblings in his lengthy narration of his family’s illustrious history, Bea had no idea he had any, let alone so many. In his version of events, he was the lone successor of generations of greatness, and she could not decide if it was vanity or arrogance that allowed for the erasure of the rest of his family.

  Now the banker was the one who looked fondly at his spouse as he explained that his wife’s affection for him tended to color her perception of reality. “I assure you my brothers are quite satisfied with my leadership and have no interest in assuming control of the bank. They enjoy life in the country and have no desire to move to the capital. Furthermore, they are grateful not to have to worry about business issues all the time.”

  Mrs. Mayhew shook her head, as if contending with a familiar matter, and announced that she was permitted to deem her husband heroic if it suited her.

  The banker, browbeaten into being admired, said meekly, “Yes, of course, my dear.”

  Although the exchange revealed a good deal about the couple’s relationship, it did nothing to move the investigation forward and Bea prodded the interview back to the original topic by asking Mrs. Mayhew about her dealings with the chef. “Were they cordial?”

  Sighing deeply, with either exhaustion or regret, she replied, “Oh, yes, they were, quite cordial. But I did not have much cause to associate with him. As having a masterful French chef was an extension of the bank, Mr. Mayhew oversaw most aspects of his employment. Naturally, I would step in from time to time—like Thursday, for example, when he was called away on business, I met with Monsieur Alphonse and Mrs. Blewitt, our housekeeper, to finalize the details of the menu for last night’s little gathering. But other than those few occasions, we had little interaction. But he was always so perfectly lovely when we did meet. He had such an unusual temperament for a chef, so composed and amiable. Nothing seemed to ruffle him, not even when a kitchen maid scalded the velouté an hour before the regent arrived. By all accounts, he just shrugged, which was so delightfully Gallic of him, and began to make the sauce again.”

  “I have heard about his calm disposition from several people now,” Bea observed.

  “He was a tranquil soul, our Monsieur Alphonse,” she said warmly. “It was a trifle disconcerting when he first arrived because one expects one’s French chef to be demanding and tyrannical, and it seemed like perhaps he was not quite as excellent as he was reported to be, for surely he should lose his temper sometime. Creation is a force, is it not, your grace?”

  Bea nodded vaguely and said, “And given his tranquil soul, what do you make of his violent argument with Mr. Mayhew yesterday?”

  Her hostess blinked several times, as if not comprehending the query, then turned to her husband and gently upbraided him for provoking the poor chef when his temper was already frayed by dinner preparations. “I know it was only a small party, but your guests were so important,” she said before providing Bea with a list of attendees. It was obvious from her air of expectation that she thought the new duchess would be impressed with her connections, but she managed to hide her disappointment when none of the names sparked recognition. “I suppose even someone as evenly tempered as Monsieur Alphonse could not help but lose his patience every once in a while. I am sure Mr. Mayhew did not mean to goad him, did you, my love?”

  Emphatically, the banker did not! His entire ruse had been devised around the purpose of placating the man indefinitely.

  Learning now of the ploy, his wife chided him for failing to plan for every contingency. “It was inevitable, I think, that he would decide to pay a call on the bank to meet the man who held sway over his future. I do not blame him at all for getting so wretchedly upset, for it was an unkind trick to play on a beloved member of our household. But recriminations must wait,” Mrs. Mayhew said sadly, “for focusing on the mistakes of the past will bring us no closer to discovering who did this unimaginable thing. I trust you will tell me, your grace, how I may be of help. Is there other information I can provide?”

  Although Bea agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs. Mayhew’s opinion of the long-term prospects of her husband’s scheme, she could not overlook the timing of Mr. Réjane’s curiosity. As likely as it was that he would eventually desire to meet the banker who would decide his loan, it was still strange that he decided to make the visit on the morning of an important dinner party. What had made the m
eeting so urgent that it could not wait one more day?

  “How did Monsieur Alphonse seem to you when you met to finalize the menu?” Bea asked, trying to identify the moment when something could have gone awry for the chef.

  Mrs. Mayhew’s brow furrowed in confusion. “The same as always: cheerful, thoughtful, eager to return to the kitchen. For the main course he was making quail à la Saint-Jacques, a delightful dish we have served at least a dozen times before so he was confident in its execution. Is that what you mean? I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  But Bea rather thought she did, for this was exactly the information she sought. As of the time of Mrs. Mayhew’s conference with Mr. Réjane and the housekeeper, the chef had appeared untroubled. Whatever spurred his visit to the bank had not yet occurred.

  “What time was your meeting?” Bea asked.

  Mrs. Mayhew pressed her lips together thoughtfully and said four o’clock. “Or a little after. Maybe a little before? I rarely look at the clock. I am sure Mrs. Blewitt will be able to supply the precise time. Have you spoken to her? If you are going to conduct a thorough investigation, then you must interview all the servants. It is the only way to get a complete picture of the horrible event as it transpired.”

  Bea agreed that an interrogation of the full staff was required and noted the look of delight that flitted across the other woman’s face.

  “You must remain as long as necessary to find the villain,” Mrs. Mayhew said soberly. “The situation is highly unusual, but we do not mind at all. In truth, we are gratified by your interest, are we not, Mr. Mayhew?”

  Her husband concurred, and taking advantage of their willingness to cooperate, Bea asked them both to account for their movements during the night—between one-thirty and five a.m. specifically.