by Lynn Messina
Thoughtfully, she contemplated him in the candlelight, whose golden glow somehow made his handsome features angelic. “You are scared of them.”
He blinked in surprise at the accusation. “Terrified. Have I not been candid about that from the very beginning? It is the servants’ house; I merely live in it.”
“And this is the strength and confidence you wish me to emulate?” she asked with amusement.
“There is no confidence abroad without comfort at home,” he said earnestly, as if quoting scripture.
“Humbug,” she dismissed.
And yet Kesgrave remained resolutely ensconced on the other side of the bed, his back against the pillows, his angel face alight with humor.
“Very well,” she muttered, pulling the cord, “but when James or Joseph or whoever appears at the door, I am saying that it is you who desires a snack. Knowing your cowardice, they will easily believe you fobbed off an unpleasant task to your new wife. They probably think it’s the only reason you married someone as brash and assertive as I. No doubt they regard me with great pity in the servants’ quarters.”
The duke nodded approvingly. “You see, there are ways of establishing yourself with the staff other than identifying the murderer in the house next door.”
Bea expected him then to ask the natural corollary—how was identifying the murderer in the house next door establishing herself with the staff—but to her relief he showed no such curiosity. No matter how joyful he made her, she was never going to relay the tale of hiding behind the door in the butler’s bedroom.
It was indeed Joseph who answered the summons and after a lavish description of her husband’s inopportune hunger and desire for ham and Wiltshire, she assured him she had made progress in her investigation of Monsieur Alphonse’s death.
“Parsons has admitted that he said it was an accident to drive attention away from himself, so you were right to be suspicious,” she said, then added that the duke would also enjoy a little more of the foie gras. “With a loaf of bread to go with it as well.”
When she closed the door and returned to the bed, Kesgrave said, “It appears I am craving a midnight feast.”
“You have had an active evening,” she informed him, settling herself against the headboard with the ledger pressed against her raised knees. “Now let us make a list of our suspects. Ordinarily, I would begin by noting everyone’s movements in order to exclude those people who could not have been in the room to commit the crime. However, the circumstance makes that impossible, as everyone professes to being in the same place: tucked up warmly in their beds. Likewise, in the usual course of my investigation, I would identify who among the assailants nurtured a particular enmity toward the victim. Here, too, we are in a quandary, for it appears everyone had a quarrel with him. Nevertheless, we must start somewhere so I suggest at the beginning.”
“Parsons,” he said, easily following her line of thought.
“Parsons,” she agreed. “As he himself pointed out, there is plenty of evidence against him. But that is why I don’t think he is guilty. From the moment he discovered the dead body, he has done everything wrong. I think if he were actually guilty, he would have made more of an effort to appear innocent.”
Kesgrave allowed that her reasoning was sound, but it failed to account for the massive unpredictable factor that had upended the butler’s well-conceived scheme. “At no point in the planning of his murder could he have imagined the Duchess of Kesgrave knocking on the door demanding the right to investigate. If you remove that from the equation, he in fact did do everything right. He knew his employer would not want to deal with the wretched inconvenience of having a chef whose head was chopped off. That is why he decapitated him—because he knew the more gruesome the deed, the more eagerly his employer would accept any explanation that made the slightest modicum of sense.”
Bea conceded it was a valid point. “He did say everything had worked out nicely until I showed up.”
“And he had the strongest motive,” he added. “As soon as Mayhew finds out about the pilfered wine, he will be sacked. And I am confident that is only a matter of time.”
“It is a strong motive, to be sure,” she said thoughtfully. “But he did not point a finger at anyone else. I cannot say that is significant, but he is the only servant we interviewed who did not blame someone else. Stebbings blamed Henry, Henry blamed Laurent, Laurent blamed Esther, Esther blamed Mrs. Blewitt, Mrs. Blewitt blamed Gertrude, Gertrude blamed Parsons. Even Annette, who isn’t a suspect, blamed Stebbings. I feel like that should weigh in his favor.”
“But only one person among the litany may be guilty,” Kesgrave said. “The rest are innocent, which means that innocent people point fingers just as often as the guilty. Or, perhaps in this case, more than.”
“All right,” Bea said with a sigh as she added Parsons to the sheet of paper. Not at the very top to leave room for other contenders but certainly close to it. As she wrote the butler’s name, a sense of familiarity overtook her and she remembered suddenly sitting beside the duke near the fire in her bedchamber at Lakeview Hall composing a list of suspects.
Effortlessly, she recalled the mischief on his face as he explained to her that the list they were composing was merely figurative. “The names,” he had said, “aren’t actually being compiled on a sheet of paper somewhere.”
It had been near midnight on that occasion too, and she’d worn a white night rail markedly similar to the one she’d adorned to confer with Joseph. The sense of congeniality was also the same, that ambience of amiable camaraderie among colleagues but now with a knee-weakening dash of intimacy.
In the Lake District, every rule of etiquette and social decorum required that she, a spinster with no beauty or prospects, maintain an air of disinterest in the Duke of Kesgrave, and she had behaved with propriety. Never once had she allowed herself to look upon him with anything other than collegial regard.
Struck by the yawning gap between the two situations, she altered her position, shifting a quarter rotation and crossing her legs so that she could admire the fine line of his profile openly.
“It is my turn to identify a suspect,” she said thoughtfully. “The kitchen maid, obviously. Her quarrel with Monsieur Alphonse is longstanding, she was taken strongly to task for letting the quails dry out even though it was not her fault, and she frequently threatened him with bodily harm. Did I leave anything out?”
“Only that she is adept at chopping up large joints of meat with cleavers and isn’t squeamish,” he said.
Although Bea was not either, she flinched at this description. “I am putting her above Parsons because she pointed her finger at him. Now you may pick someone.”
“Mrs. Blewitt,” he said just as a knock sounded at the door. Although Bea shifted to answer it, he was halfway across the room by the time she had put down the ledger and uncrossed her legs. Easily, he accepted the tray from Joseph and placed it gently in the center of the large bed.
Bea’s stomach rumbled again in anticipation, but she waited patiently as the duke spread foie gras on a slice of bread for her.
“Ah, yes,” she said with an approving nod. “Driven to murder by the desecration of her beloved rosebushes. I am not a gardener, but I can easily imagine responding with violence if someone treated my books with the same violence. I believe that is the only factor aligned against her or am I forgetting something?”
“The case for her is rather slim,” he admitted, “although the roses are more convincing than the silk weave with the cerulean stripes.”
“So you do not think the valet murdered him for a puff of his cheroot?” she said taking a bite. Goodness gracious, it was delicious. Midnight snacks at 19 Portman Square had always been thin on the ground and what little there was had never tasted this wonderful.
“Highly unlikely,” he said. “I do not necessarily believe he lacks the physical strength to chop off a head, for removing dirt and stains from buckskin requires a fair amount of muscle. B
ut strength of resolve is another matter. I think if he did summon the mettle to strike the first blow, he would recoil in horror and run away.”
Bea added Stebbings’s name about a quarter of the way from the bottom of the sheet. “We also have Edward Laurent, the groom. He argued with the victim over his taking a horse from the stable without permission. The footman insisted it was a heated argument, but other witnesses said it was a minor tussle. I do not think a minor tussle is sufficient cause for decapitation, so I am putting him beneath the valet. I’m also not convinced that the footman was driven to a murderous rage by lack of sleep. Who does that leave among the servants?”
“The scullery maid,” he said.
“Yes, of course, the case of the pernicious pickles,” Bea said, recalling the groom’s insistence that Esther acted in revenge for the wretched illness she had suffered after eating one of the chef’s improperly preserved cucumbers. “I think we can both agree that unintentional food poisoning neither counts as a murder attempt nor requires retribution.”
Kesgrave cocked his head to the side. “We can, yes. But you are not allowing for the possibility that the pernicious pickles were Réjane’s attempt at eliminating the one person who knows his terrible, dark secret.”
Delighted with the duke’s sudden gothic turn, Bea murmured bravo before assuring him that terrible, dark secrets were never far from her mind. “Although her motive might be questionable, she had the same opportunity as everyone else, so she must be kept in the mix. Bearing in mind we cannot account for the exigencies of a Mrs. Radcliffe plot or the fact that the suspect under consideration appears unable to contemplate blood without fainting, where would you like me to place her,” she asked, holding up her sheet of paper, “for the list we are composing this time is literal.”
He cut off a slice of Wiltshire and handed it to her. “Below the footman.”
“Very good,” she said as she made quick work of the cheese. “As that takes care of the servants, now let us turn our attention to Mr. Mayhew. I will admit that at first, I thought he was a clownish nodcock, but now I see the value to his approach. He only pretends to be a clownish nodcock in order to get away with singular acts of impertinence such as trying to trade social status for access to his staff. I was supposed to find his offer outrageous and refuse it out of hand. He never wanted me to accept it. The question is why, and that, your grace, I will admit I do not know. Either he was hoping to avoid the scandal of a decapitated chef, which Parsons’s opinion substantiates, or was trying to thwart my investigation so I cannot uncover his guilt.”
Kesgrave smiled and assured her she was giving the matter too much thought. “He is a grasping mushroom—no more, no less.”
“That is what he wants you to think,” Bea said, selecting a slice of ham and taking a bite.
Amused, he agreed it was possible, for the description did in fact apply to his destruction of le peu guillotine. “Disposing of it was smart, but only someone remarkably stupid could get away with doing it. But what is his motive?”
“Greed,” she said.
He rolled his eyes at the simple blatancy of the answer. “Well, yes.”
“No, but think about it. Having Auguste Alphonse Réjane in his kitchen was lucrative for him as it advanced his objectives both socially and financially. You heard him—even Prinny has been to dine. He was an irresistible lure, and despite what Mr. Mayhew says, I do not believe he would simply permit him to walk out of his house and into the house of a competitor,” she said, examining the tray pensively. Foie gras or more ham? “It is not only that he would lose business opportunities if the great chef went to work for another banker in London. He would see it as a loss of honor as well. He would not allow that Mr. Réjane was acting reasonably because a reasonable person would not have asked for the loan in the first place. Furthermore, Mr. Mayhew feels entitled to things, as if they belong to him. I am sure he considered Mr. Réjane his and his alone, and would be outraged at the idea of his possession exerting its own authority. That’s why I believe he could have killed him and why the assault was so violent. Mine, he would think, as he swung the cleaver. Mine, he would think, as he chopped through bone.”
Although Kesgrave agreed wholly with her assessment of both Mr. Mayhew’s character and conceded that perhaps violence did undergird his resentment, he could not believe that a man of business would act so rashly. “For all his ridiculous fawning and dinner invitations, he is still a banker occupied with practical concerns. What you’re suggesting doesn’t make pragmatic sense. Réjane planned to return to Paris, not accept a position with Thomas Coutts. Perhaps if he intended to remain in London, Mayhew’s sense of entitlement and outrage would be a factor but the chef was leaving the country. I have to assume that as a matter of expediency, Mayhew would allow that resolution to prevail rather than slicing off his head. The latter is simply too messy in every sense of the word.”
“Well, yes, that is all true,” Bea replied, “but Mr. Mayhew did not know that Mr. Réjane was returning to Paris. Nobody in the house knew.”
The duke found this to be a very curious thing and lowered the sliver of Wiltshire he was about to eat to examine her inquisitively. “How are you in possession of information that is unknown to the people with whom he resided?”
“Mrs. Wallace,” she said as she spread foie gras on a thick slab of bread.
Having little expectation of his housekeeper’s introduction into the conversation, he stared at her in confusion. “Mrs. Wallace?”
Oh, yes, of course, the Duke of Kesgrave knew nothing about the romantical dealings that may or may not flourish among his servants. Why in the world would he? “Mr. Réjane told her because they had a bit of a flirtation.”
Although she spoke with conviction, he assumed she was jesting and he laughed for several seconds before breaking off abruptly. “Truly?”
Since Bea herself found the relationship highly perplexing, she was not at all surprised by his attitude. It had progressed to the stage of a marriage proposal, and yet both parties seemed to treat the offer as a matter of blithe consideration.
“Truly,” she said, relaying a general summary of the couple’s romance as described first by Joseph and then later by the housekeeper. “By all accounts, neither party seemed especially upset by her refusal. Mrs. Wallace, in particular, admits to being a little confused as to why the offer was made in the first place, which I can only assume indicates she had not realized the depth of Mr. Réjane’s regard.”
But the idea of his brisk, practical-minded housekeeper being courted by an effusive French chef was too far beyond Kesgrave’s comprehension for him to entertain theories about the latter’s intentions. “I am certain you misunderstand the situation.”
“I do not,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Mrs. Wallace confirmed the story herself.”
“But was it an actual proposal?” he asked, settling into a theory of miscommunication. “It is possible he said something that she mistakenly construed as a proposal?”
The poor dear was grasping at straws, Bea thought, giggling at the outlandish suggestion. “Yes, yes, of course, Damien, you have hit the nail on the head, you clever man. He said, ‘Will you carry tea, and she heard, Will you marry me.’”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” he muttered in a disgruntled tone as he raised to his lips a glass of champagne, recently poured and still deliciously chilled. “Perhaps he was discussing his return to France and said something to the effect of: ‘I would love to show you Paris.’ And she misinterpreted from there.”
Now Bea laughed harder, for the image of the brisk, practical-minded housekeeper creating a romantical proposal out of half cloth was even more entertaining. Restraining her mirth, she conceded that it was an intriguing theory. “Without question, it is. But recall that the original report came from Joseph, who was in the stillroom and overheard the conversation. If Monsieur Alphonse had spoken otherwise or was there for another purpose entirely, then Joseph would have—
”
But she was struck by her own words: another purpose.
Another purpose…another purpose…another purpose.
Oh, yes, of course!
Squealing with exhilaration, Bea leaped across the bed, upending the tray and tackling her husband without care or consideration for the food on the bed or the drink in his hand. Forcefully, he flew back against the pillow as champagne spilled onto the covers and she landed on top of him.
“You clever man!” she said excitedly, kissing him deeply in appreciation, “you clever, clever man!”
Just as suddenly, she rolled off him, bounding to her feet as she marveled at how obvious it was. Another purpose!
“No, come back here,” Kesgrave said, tugging her hand. “I don’t feel lauded enough.”
Chuckling lightly, she said, “No, I cannot imagine you ever do.”
But she allowed herself to be drawn back for another consuming kiss and found herself genuinely tempted by the ardor of his response.
“You clever man,” she breathed on a sigh as his fingers tugged her night rail up higher.
With gentle determination, she extricated herself from his embrace and fetched his dressing gown from the chair on which it had been discarded. She tossed it to him. “Come on, let’s go.”
He sat up—but to straighten the mess she had made on the bed, not to don his robe. Showing only mild curiosity as he returned the loaf of bread to the tray, he asked where they were going.
“To the housekeeper’s room,” she said impatiently. “Do not worry about the crumbs. We can clean them up later.”
Of the two propositions, it was impossible to tell which one horrified him more. Stiffly, he said with some of his old imperiousness, “My dear former Miss Hyde-Clare, you may welcome the advent of vermin into your bedchamber, but I have many reasonable objections that I am happy to list in great detail if you do not find the prospect innately repellant.”