by Lynn Messina
Kindly, Bea said to the housekeeper, “I do not doubt that there was much you admired about Monsieur Alphonse. He seems to have been well liked among the servants. That said, you were seen threatening him with a shovel at one in the morning, which is after the time you claimed to have retired to bed. I trust you perceive why I doubt your statement.”
A trapped look entered the housekeeper’s eye as she realized she would not be able to brazen out the interview with an audacious lie. Abruptly, she glanced at Kesgrave, then swiftly returned her attention to Bea, and in the brief moment, in that fleeting gaze, the new duchess felt an entire tragedy play out: act one, act two, act three.
Bea wanted to say something to ease Mrs. Blewitt’s terror, to assure her that she had nothing to worry about, that she was just gathering information. But knowing nothing of the shape of the crime, Bea could draw no conclusions about the housekeeper’s culpability. Any reassurances she offered would be empty.
Breathing heavily, as if struggling for control, Mrs. Blewitt said that she did perceive the problem and apologized for trying to misdirect her grace. “We did have our usual quarrel about the roses—truly, I swear. I noticed that he was standing on one of the branches and I kindly asked him to please tread carefully, for he was always trampling them. He insisted he was not standing on the bush, just next to it, but I have eyes. I know what I saw. We argued heatedly because he refused to acknowledge that he had done anything wrong. I could tell he was determined to be unreasonable about it so I left in a lather and went to the pantry to assess our supply needs. But before going to bed, I visited the kitchen to make sure everything was in order and I saw him out in the garden smoking a cheroot with two dozen uprooted rosebushes around him. He had dug them up with the shovel,” she said, her fury at the vandalism still strong. “He’d rooted them all out and then he said to me with a smirk, ‘Now I’ve trampled them.’ It’s true, I was angry. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my whole life so, yes, I raised the shovel over my head and said I would show him trampled.” Her eyes were dark brown spots against her white face. “But that’s all I did. As soon as I realized how heated I had got, I was horrified by my lack of control. I dropped the shovel, ran out of the garden and into my room, shut the door and sat at my table for several minutes while I struggled to calm down. Then I got ready for bed, prayed for the patience to deal with Monsieur Alphonse’s mercurial nature and went to sleep.”
Thoughtfully, Bea nodded and asked the woman if she knew Monsieur Alphonse had resigned his position.
Mrs. Blewitt, her hands shaking slightly, said she had heard talk of it today but had no idea of his plans when they had their confrontation the night before. “Do you think that is why he was so cruel? Because he knew he was leaving?”
Obviously, Bea could not ascribe any motive to the dead man, but she thought it was more likely his ordinarily mellow temper had been frayed by the events of a long and disappointing day. Not only did he discover that his employer planned to deceive him indefinitely in order to avoid granting his loan request, he also learned that the woman he loved did not return his regard with enough ardor to justify moving away from her mother. It was little wonder he had released his anger and frustration on the poor rosebushes and Mr. Mayhew’s silk waistcoat.
Bea posited that perhaps he was tired, and Mrs. Blewitt nodded sadly.
As deeply ashamed as she was by her unrestrained response, the housekeeper felt it paled in comparison to the kitchen maid’s inability to control herself. “I behaved immoderately once, but Gertrude regularly threatened Monsieur Alphonse with whatever she had at hand: a bellows, knife, a spatula, a trivet, a cleaver. She was never particular about the item, only about finally giving that Frenchie his comeuppance. And if you had seen the way she’d swung the ladle yesterday, the slash it made in the air as it went back and forth…the crack it would have made if it had smashed into someone’s skull, you would have some concerns.”
Bea allowed her the flourish and conceded silently that she would have considered a vengeful ladle to be a matter of grave concern if the victim had been battered to death by the kitchen utensil.
Nevertheless, the housekeeper’s list of convenient weapons included a cleaver, which Bea could not ignore and she asked the other woman to describe the incident.
Here, Mrs. Blewitt’s confidence faltered, for she did not know which incident to relate. “Horrifyingly, there are too many to count. The most recent one was about a month ago, when Monsieur Alphonse decided to take a stroll around the square while he was preparing espagnole to go with the lamb. He told Gertrude to simmer the roux but didn’t say for how long and of course it burned because she was also chopping carrots and onions for the soup. It caused an awful mess, even smoked up the kitchen, and she made her usual route around the room, muttering angrily and swinging the cleaver. We all know to give her a wide berth when she is in a mood, which is easy enough because she’s a little scary when she gets her dander up. I have overlooked it in the past because she is reliable and efficient. Her anger, while intense, is always fleeting, but this time I fear she was unable to let go of her resentment,” she said fiercely before tempering her statement with the caveat that she could be wrong. “Truly, I hope I am.”
But Bea rather thought she did not, for if someone was going to hang for the chef’s murder, it might as well be the irascible kitchen maid with a habit of threatening his life.
Although Bea had no more questions, Kesgrave leaned forward and asked where the shovel was now. “I did not see it in the courtyard.”
Startled, the housekeeper explained that it had been put away. “I do not know by whom.”
The duke nodded and asked her to bring the implement to the room so that he could examine it. Mrs. Blewitt blanched visibly at the request but immediately complied.
Once she had left the room, Bea asked, “You think the killer bashed him over the head with the shovel to render him insensible?”
“I am not quite sure what I think,” he confessed. “But I cannot conceive of any man losing his head without making a sustained effort to retain it. None of our suspects have injuries that indicate a violent struggle.”
Bea, acknowledging it was a reasonable supposition, added that they had little reason to believe the constable ran his fingers along the contour of the skull to look for a bruise or a bump. “I am sure he was too squeamish to even contemplate the idea.”
The housekeeper returned a minute later, her breath slightly shallow as she handed the shovel to the duke. Unremarkable in every way, it had a long handle roughened from use and a broad flat blade about a quarter inch thick. Applied to the back of a man’s head, it would certainly knock him out—if the assailant was able to raise it high enough in the air to put sufficient heft into the swing.
Mrs. Blewitt, by her own account, possessed the strength to wield it effectively.
Had she?
Esther, the scullery maid who had pointed them toward the housekeeper, certainly thought so.
Or, rather, she claimed to think it in order to support her own agenda.
Smothering a sigh, Bea thanked the housekeeper for her time and requested she send in Gertrude next.
At once Mrs. Blewitt’s expression lightened, and she left the room in much better spirits than she’d entered it.
Kesgrave handed the shovel to Bea to inspect. “It’s heavy but manageable. Stebbings would claim he could not lift it an inch off the ground.”
Bea smiled faintly at the cynical assessment of the valet’s performance as she clutched the implement in both hands. Examining the blade, she noted that there did not appear to be any blood on it. “But it is difficult to say because it is so dirty.”
“It would not have been necessary to break skin to render Réjane unconscious,” Kesgrave said. “All the attacker needed to gain the advantage was to stun him momentarily.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Bea leaned the shovel against the wall while bidding the servant to enter. Gertrude V
ickers, her arms laden with a tea tray, crossed the threshold and placed the salver on the table. Then she stood awkwardly by the table, an apprehensive expression on her face as she examined the hem of her apron. Clearly, she had heard enough accounts of what went on during these private interviews to worry about her associates’ depictions of her.
Seeking to ease some of her discomfort, Bea smiled warmly and asked her to be seated.
The kitchen maid started with surprise and might have argued if she had not the sense to reconsider bickering with a duchess. Gingerly, she lowered herself onto a chair.
Timidity from the woman who had scrupulously scrubbed away all traces of Mr. Réjane’s blood from the kitchen floor was unexpected, and Bea wondered if it was the product of a guilty conscience or the natural response to being considered for a murder by an exalted peeress of the realm.
Her discomfort was so acute, she protested her innocence before either Bea or the duke could say a word, her voice trembling with fear and passion as she exclaimed, “I would never, never, never harm Monsieur Alphonse. You must believe me. I never wished him ill. Never!”
Although her tone was forceful, the speech had the paradoxical effect of making her seem frail, a significant accomplishment given the sturdiness of her frame. Everything about her was thick—neck, forearms, even her fingers—and yet Bea worried she might shatter in the next moment.
Clasping the edge of the table with her fingers, she acknowledged that she had her issues with Monsieur Alphonse. “I admit it, I did. It would be stupid to deny it. But I defy anyone to work with him and not lose their temper once in a while. He was impossible, wandering away all the time without telling me he was going out, leaving me to figure it out. Figure it out! His recipes are all so complicated, his techniques so intricate, I never knew what to do. Leave the broth to boil? Take it off the fire? Add more carrots? Remove the onion? He would disappear for an hour or two and leave me in such a state. And yesterday, with the quails. Oh, the quails! They were so dry. I was sure that was the end of the road for me, that Mr. Mayhew would send me away. He was furious about the quails. Monsieur Alphonse’s reputation as the finest chef in all of London is vital to his business, and last night he had important clients, whom he was determined to impress, to dine.”
As overwhelmed as she already was by information, Bea leaned forward at this tidbit, for it was the first time the banker’s presence belowstairs had been mentioned.
And an angry outburst—that was interesting.
“Was it usual for Mr. Mayhew to visit the kitchens during a dinner party to express his displeasure?” Bea asked.
The kitchen maid shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, no. He had never done it before, which shows how very livid he was about the quails. I feared he might overexert his heart.”
As she was not the owner of a large financial concern, Bea could not say how destructive the event was to Mr. Mayhew’s business prospects. She did, however, know enough about the requirements of civility to realize absenting oneself from company to chastise the servants was not an acceptable way for a host to behave.
She felt confident the banker knew it too, and yet his anger had so consumed him, he had put aside the demands of etiquette to satisfy his temper. Like the victim, his ability to regulate his behavior had been worn thin by the anxieties of the day. Could it have been made so threadbare that he chopped off the head of his intractable French chef?
Possibly, yes.
It was difficult to rule anything out when one was in a lather.
At the same time, the woman before her had shown herself to be an overt threat.
“And you were the target of his anger, not Monsieur Alphonse?” Bea asked.
Gertrude tightened her grip on the table as she admitted there was no point in getting cross with the victim because he rarely reacted with anything but a dismissive shrug. “You could yell so loudly the glass in the windows would shake, and he would just lift his shoulders carelessly and carry on with his task. It was how he responded to everything, both criticism and praise. He knew he was the best chef in all of London and could leave at any moment and land firmly on his feet. It was why he was always wandering off. His position in this household was secure and there was nothing anyone could say to Mr. Mayhew that would change that.”
“Whereas your position is tenuous,” Bea observed.
The kitchen maid did not deny it. “But it has been more secure, I think, since Monsieur Alphonse arrived because he is such an excellent chef. Mr. Mayhew’s satisfaction with his work extended to me as well. He had no cause to upset the apple cart. The opposite is true as well, though, and last night he was very angry about the quails.”
Trying to get a better sense of the state of Mr. Mayhew’s emotions, she asked the kitchen maid if she thought the problem was truly the quails.
Gertrude tilted her head to the side as she pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I understand the question, your grace.”
“You said that Mr. Mayhew had never visited the kitchens before to complain about the meal, so I was wondering if perhaps he was upset about something else and was only focusing on the dry quails,” she explained.
Perceiving now the distinction, Gertrude refused to speculate as to the cause of Mr. Mayhew’s actions. “With all due respect, it is not my place.”
Ah, yes, Bea thought peevishly, the circumspection of servants. They were always eager to gossip about their employer except when directly called upon to.
Very well.
“Let us return, then, to your relationship with Monsieur Alphonse, which has been described as volatile,” Bea said.
Gertrude flinched at the description but quietly acknowledged its accuracy. Then, as if realizing it was better to admit to her faults herself rather than allow the gossip of her fellow servants to undermine her standing, she admitted to losing her temper quite frequently. “When I am flustered or don’t know how to do something, I respond angrily. Like yesterday, when he left me with the quails. I had no idea he was gone because he did not see fit to tell me and I had no idea how long they had been on the fire, so I became cross and threatened to assault him with the ladle. But I would never actually do it. I threatened all the time to clunk him over the head with ladles and roasting pans and, yes, with a cleaver a few times.”
Her face grew paler the longer she spoke until it was almost entirely out of color by the time she mentioned the murder weapon. Heartfully, she continued, trying to impress on Bea how much she liked Monsieur Alphonse. “He had such a carefree way about him he was impossible not to like. He was so generous with his cooking, always experimenting with new dishes and sharing the results with us. Before he came, I had to cook all the meals for the staff on top of my other responsibilities, but Monsieur Alphonse wanted to prepare them. There was nothing he enjoyed more than creating recipes and trying new combinations of ingredients. He made some wonderful dishes such as turbot à la hollandaise and salmon à la régence. It took him more than a half dozen tries to get the flavor of his potage aux champignon just right, and each time he used Château d’Yquem wine, adjusting its measure a little bit at a time. I am sure Mr. Mayhew would have a fit if ever found out how much money was being spent on the servants’ meals. He did not approve of Monsieur Alphonse creating new dishes. He considered the original assortment to be quite adequate to his needs. Now that Monsieur is gone I will be required to do the cooking again, and I am sure my colleagues will not be delighted with my meat pies, as they had an aversion to them before he arrived.”
It was a cogent argument, enlightened self-interest, and Bea found it persuasive. If his presence in the house did in fact lighten her load, then chopping off his head would only increase it. Few kitchen maids were inclined to do that, especially at the risk of going to the gallows. Furthermore, she had been dealing with Mr. Réjane’s impetuosity for more than two years, and the fact that she was frequently seen swinging one kitchen implement or another threateningly only lessened the likeliness of her guilt, for
it begged the question: Why kill him now?
But the query was disingenuous because the answer was obvious: She had been taken to task by her employer for Mr. Réjane’s failing. Although it had been his sudden disappearance that had caused the quails to overcook, Gertrude had suffered the humiliating consequences. Irate at the unfairness, she could have lashed out at the person she held responsible.
While Bea considered the merits of her theory, Kesgrave said, “Château d’Yquem is an expensive wine from the Sauternes region. How did Réjane gain access to Mr. Mayhew’s cellar without his permission or knowledge?”
As logical as the question was, especially from a gentleman who possessed a very fine cellar as the Duke of Kesgrave most certainly did, the kitchen maid was surprised by it and sat up sharply in her chair. Visibly uncomfortable, she looked down at her fingers grasping the table and said softly, “He stole the key from Parsons.”
Beatrice, who had struggled from the beginning of her investigation to find a convincing motive among the petty squabbles over cheroots and roses, thought she had finally stumbled across something that made sense. Preserving the sanctity of the wine cellar was the butler’s single most important responsibility. He was the only member of the household staff who was allowed to enter the room, and he controlled every aspect of the wine: He tracked the stock, kept records of purchases and condition, ensured a varied and balanced assortment of vintages, chose wine to pair with each course. His authority was so complete, he even poured the wine during meals.
The rule was inviolate: No one but the butler touched the wine.
To discover that Auguste Alphonse Réjane had not only dared to invade the sacred space but to rummage through it as though it were his own private pantry was shocking.
And yet, Bea thought, not shocking at all, for how could he perfect a mushroom soup that required Château d’Yquem without Château d’Yquem? Naturally, he would have considered it just another ingredient like butter or chicken broth.