by Lynn Messina
“We must interview him again,” Bea said tersely. Clearly, Stebbings knew a lot more information than he had revealed the day before.
Kesgrave agreed at once.
Gratified, she announced she would fetch her pelisse from upstairs and be ready to leave in five minutes.
But the duke had another idea. “No, let us stay here and I will send a footman to bring him to Kesgrave House.”
Although her instinct was to object to the delay—would he never grasp the importance of urgency?—she quickly perceived the advantages of the alteration, for they were all around her in the gilded ceiling and the marble hearth and the Aubusson rug, which was still pristine despite years of abuse. “Oh, yes, that is an excellent plan. We shall intimidate him with the opulence of your drawing room and he will tell us everything we want to know, perhaps even confess to the crime,” she said, regarding him with sincere admiration. “I must commend you, your grace, on possessing such a wily and devious mind.”
His lips quivered as the duke shook his head. “As much as I desire your approval, Bea, I had nothing conniving in mind. I simply have no inclination to return to Mayhew’s home, for in doing so I would be forced to converse with him again and I will not do that for anyone, not even you, my love.”
But Bea, who was determined to see him as a diabolical genius, rolled her eyes at this demurral and grinned.
Chapter Sixteen
Bea knew that the next time Marlow grumbled to his fellow servants about their brash and assertive mistress he would start with the unutterable vulgarity of her inviting the neighbor’s valet to enter Kesgrave House through the front door.
The front door!
If the butler had possessed a string of pearls, he would have clutched them in dismay until his knuckles turned white.
Lacking the adornment as well as the freedom to express his outrage, he nodded slightly and murmured, “Very good, your grace.”
As he left the room, Bea shook her head sadly and said with pursed lips, “You have offended the butler with your cunning scheme to intimidate Stebbings.”
“It was not a scheme,” Kesgrave said again. “I was simply desiring my own comfort.”
“There is no need for false modesty, for Marlow is gone,” Bea insisted as she stuck her head out of the door to confirm his absence, “and cannot be convinced.”
Kesgrave pulled her away from the door and into his arms. “Brat,” he said fondly before indulging in a delightfully luxurious kiss that ended far too soon with the appearance of Mrs. Wallace bearing a tea tray.
Silently, he watched as the housekeeper placed the silver salver on the table and neatly arranged its contents, including a plate piled high with tea cakes. When she left, he said, “Tea? We are now serving tea to Mayhew’s valet?”
“I simply desire your comfort, your grace,” Bea explained as she took a cake off the top of the stack and tore off a small bite. As always, the baked goods Mrs. Wallace managed to supply on a regular basis were delicious.
“I believe we’ve switched to considering your comfort now,” he said.
Bea’s response was forestalled by the arrival of Marlow, who announced the presence of the valet in a begrudging yet imperious tone. Then he immediately closed the door, as if unable to look upon the scene unfolding before him—first the front door, now the heirloom china.
’Twas all too much to bear.
Amused, Bea turned her attention to Stebbings and noted that he appeared to be in little better condition than the butler, his face pale, his eyes fluttering, his hands fisted in discomfort as he apologized for interrupting.
“Y…you are…are having tea, your grace,” he sputtered. “I am happy to stand in the hallway while you finish.”
Bea waved breezily and bid him to come farther into the room as she and the duke settled onto the settee. “There is no need to wait. Please, come sit down.”
This seemingly harmless request put the valet in a terrible fix—for he could not possibly take a seat in the Duke of Kesgrave’s drawing room like a proper guest but nor could he defy the duchess’s order—and he looked around desperately as if seeking a third option, like a bed of nails or something equally uncomfortable.
Find nothing to suit his needs, he settled for the hardest chair in the room and lowered himself gingerly. Then he bowed his head and grasped the wooden seat.
Bea lifted the plate of tea cakes off the tray and offered him one. “I’m sure they are not as good as Monsieur Alphonse’s delightful creations, but they are rather tasty.”
Stebbings squarish face lost its last bit of color as he raised his head to look at her in the eye. He seemed determined to hold himself together, his grip tightening as if in physical exertion, but something in Bea’s curious gaze shattered his resolve and he shrieked in protest. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t! I swear! You must believe me! I never touched him, not even when I saw all those guineas in his hand! Never, never, never,” he chanted frantically, “never, never, never.”
Even as Bea leaned forward to seize on his statement regarding the coins, Kesgrave, demonstrating yet again a lack of urgency, ordered Stebbings to calm himself. The command was issued in the same matter-of-fact tone the duke used to request tea and had the desired effect. The valet’s shallow breaths slowly gave way to normal inhalations.
When he was satisfied with the other man’s control of himself, Kesgrave said, “Now, without getting worked up again, please tell us about your encounter with Monsieur Alphonse in Mayhew’s dressing room. I believe you just mentioned something about coins? Do tell us about those.”
Although the valet looked as though he was seconds away from succumbing to another fear-induced convulsion, his voice was even as he apologized for his intemperate response. “I did not anticipate a summons to Kesgrave House, and having received one I expected to be accused of murder. Everyone knows what you did at the Stirling ball,” he said, speaking to Beatrice now, his focus directly on her as his voice grew stronger, “how you coerced Lord Wem into confessing, and I was terrified you brought me here to trick me to confess, just like Wem. But I am innocent and Wem was guilty—I have to keep reminding myself of that: Wem was guilty and I am innocent. I have faith in you, your grace. I have faith that you compelled Wem to confess because he had done something terrible to your parents. I have faith that you won’t compel an innocent man to confess to a crime he did not commit. So, please, ask your questions. And if I may, yes, I would like a tea cake, thank you.”
As she held the plate out again for his perusal, she noted that despite the smoothness of his tone, his hand shook slightly as he selected a pastry. He was frightened.
“I believe his grace has already posed it,” she said gently as she returned the plate to the table. “Tell us about the coins.”
“Right, yes,” Stebbings said, gripping the tea cake a little too tightly as crumbs fell into his lap, creating a small mess that he was too distressed to notice. “Mr. Mayhew keeps a collection of coins in a box in the clothespress. It is not a very great amount of coins, usually around fifty guineas, so that he may take a few when he is going to his club or to church. Monsieur Alphonse was angry with Mr. Mayhew on Friday for lying to him about the bank loan for his brother. I do not know the details, but Monsieur Alphonse felt grievously mistreated and was determined to take what he felt he was owed from Mr. Mayhew. He found the box with the coins and stuffed every last guinea into his pockets. That is when I discovered him.”
Bea nodded, for what he had said aligned with her own conclusions. “And what did you do?”
“I told him if he put the money back, I would not say anything about it to Mr. Mayhew,” Stebbings explained.
“But he did not put the money back,” she said.
His gaze remained steady at he answered the implied question. “No. I begged him to return the coins but he refused. Then I told him that if he did not return the money, I would tell Mr. Mayhew at once what had happened.”
“And that is when the e
xchange grew heated?” she asked, recalling Annette’s description of their argument.
His faith in her wavered—just a little bit but enough for her to see the doubt creep into his eyes—and he took a deep breath before responding. “No, it grew heated when he threatened me in return. I had been stealing from Mr. Mayhew for years, which Monsieur Alphonse knew because he had once observed me pocketing a few coins while he was waiting for an opportunity to sneak a cheroot. I did not take a lot, I swear, just a coin here and there every few weeks. Mr. Mayhew never noticed because he did not keep careful count and he did not realize I knew the box was there. Monsieur Alphonse said that if I told Mr. Mayhew about his thievery, he would tell him about mine, and of the two of us who would be turned over to the magistrate for our crimes, I was the only one who would suffer the consequences, for he was the most famous chef in the world and I was nobody in particular. He said all he would have to do is bake a few croquantes for the magistrate and—poof—the charges would be gone. I trust you see now, your grace, why I must have faith in your decency and wisdom. I have confessed to a crime, and you could have me sent to Newgate if that is your desire. I humbly submit to your wisdom.”
As much as Bea wanted to dismiss his statement as extravagant toadying to her new title, she realized the submission was actually made to Miss Hyde-Clare. The faith he professed to have was in the woman who had confronted Lord Wem, not the one who married Kesgrave.
With that consideration in mind, she told him that her interest in the matter extended only to discovering who killed Monsieur Alphonse. “If you are not the one who removed his head from his shoulders, then the business between us is concluded. Although I would advise you going forward not to steal money from your employer, as that is an excellent way to see your own head removed from your shoulders.”
This sobering piece of advice did little to temper his relief at her statement, and his entire body seemed to exhale with the deep breath he let out. “That is precisely what you will discover because I had nothing to do with it. After Monsieur Alphonse issued his threat, I withdrew mine and begged him to take only a few coins at a time because Mr. Mayhew would notice if they all disappeared at once.”
“And you would be blamed,” Bea observed, silently noting that he had a far better motive than she had ever imagined. The theft of thirty-seven guineas was grand larceny. If the jurors found him guilty, he would be hanged.
“I would be blamed, yes, of course. The dressing room is my domain, and I know it intimately.”
“And you had taken money from him before,” Bea pointed out. “If he sometimes wondered why it seemed as though he had fewer coins in his box than he’d thought, those suspicions would solidify and he would realize you had been stealing from him for years.”
Stebbings lowered his head in shame. “Yes.”
Was fear of the gallows enough to drive the valet to murder?
It was certainly an inducement, she thought, looking at his pale face. If the chef was dead, he could neither assert his innocence nor proclaim Stebbings’s guilt. He would be blamed for the theft, and the valet would slip the noose.
As always, she was struck by the brutality of the assault and wondered why Stebbings would choose such a violent and difficult method. Possibly, it was necessary for the story he had planned to tell in the morning about ruthless thieves or evil-minded associates who had broken into the house and murdered the victim. Whatever tale he had contrived became unnecessary the moment Parsons told his own fiction.
How relieved he must have been when the butler announced it was an accident.
Having devised a damning scenario for the valet, Bea wondered if it was likely.
The fact that he had stolen from his employer for years indicated a conscience somewhat in repose, but decapitation was many miles removed from judicious thievery. And Stebbings had been quite judicious in his thievery, skimming just enough coins to line his pockets and evade suspicion. That was the act of a prudent man who understood consequences, valued patience and possessed the self-control to keep his greed in check.
It was these character traits, Bea thought, that argued in favor of his innocence. Chopping the head off the chef to solve a problem simply seemed too immoderate and extreme for a man with his fortitude and foresight.
“Am I correct in assuming Mr. Mayhew hasn’t noticed yet that the money is gone?” Bea asked.
Stebbings, his gaze firmly focused on the lovely Aubusson rug, admitted that he had not. “He has been too distracted.”
But he did not say the incriminatory part out loud: that Mr. Mayhew’s distraction and Mr. Réjane’s death all but ensured he would escape prosecution.
Perhaps aware of where his interlocutor’s thoughts had gone, he added that he hoped his freely given confession would weigh in his favor.
Bea, however, was not convinced that freely was the accurate description, for as soon as he received the summons to Kesgrave House he realized something quite inauspicious was afoot. He might not have been certain the duchess knew about the guineas, but he had enough cause to suspect it. In that case, revealing the truth before she asked was his only recourse, for it gave his admission the patina of honesty when it actually bore the luster of desperation.
When Bea failed to congratulate him on his candor or agree with his assessment, Stebbings raised his eyes to meet hers and pleaded for understanding. “I was angry and terrified, I admit it. We did not rub together very well, Monsieur Alphonse and I. For all his generosity, I found him to be a very selfish man. I know the staff thinks I am inordinately focused on this business with the cheroots, but I believe it sums up the whole issue. He had an abundance of cheroots. Mr. Mayhew gave him cheroots, and he took them periodically from the dressing room. Yesterday, I saw even Mrs. Mayhew slip him two. He had all the cheroots he could desire and still he never shared a single one with me. He was miserly when it counted, and I did not like him. But I did not kill him,” he said earnestly. “No matter how much I disliked him, I would never have killed him or anyone. I hope you can believe that, your grace. But even if you cannot, I have faith that your sense of fairness and justice will not allow doubt to guide your behavior and you will continue to investigate the crime until you have found the true perpetrator.”
Although she knew he was trying to manipulate her, she could not resent the effort, for regardless of his status—guilty or innocent—he had every right to try to save himself by employing whatever means were at his disposal.
And like every other member of the staff, he had pointed the finger elsewhere.
Recalling their previous interview, she asked if he still thought Henry was responsible.
Blushing brightly, he shook his head and said that the footmen would never have killed Monsieur Alphonse over a little snoring.
“A little snoring?” Bea repeated wryly. “Last time we spoke you said it sounded like a dozen horses thundering down the lane.”
Stebbings lowered his eyes again to the carpet and muttered something about the effectiveness of a well-placed pillow over a fellow’s ears. Then he mumbled an apology for attempting to mislead her and the duke. “I knew with our argument in the dressing room that I appeared guilty and I wanted to supply a better suspect. It is a measure of my desperation that the only name I could come up with was Henry. He could never have done it, for he is quite mild-mannered and gentle for all his strength. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have said someone more notoriously volatile like Gertrude in the kitchen. She has a terrible temper and little control over it. Everyone has witnessed it, even Mrs. Mayhew,” he said offhandedly, then he stiffened in his chair as a thought struck him. “Yes, even Mrs. Mayhew. She was meeting with Mrs. Blewitt in her office one morning when Gertrude had a most alarming tantrum. And it was particularly egregious because that was the time Gertrude threatened to assault Monsieur Alphonse with a clever. You must ask…I mean, you should ask Mrs. Mayhew about the incident. I think you will find it speaks to Gertrude’s lack of control. Even wi
th the mistress in the room she could not restrain her anger.”
He was doing it again, Bea thought, supplying another suspect, a better one who, he must know, had already been brought to her notice.
And yet she could not entirely dismiss the information, for his observation was accurate. Even with the lax supervision at 19 Portman Square the staff knew better than to lose their tempers in the presence of the family. Once, when she was sneaking out of the house through the servants’ entrance, she heard Dawson upbraiding Harris sharply for spilling milk into the eggs after assuring him with soothing calm in the breakfast room that it was no bother. That the kitchen maid could not show the same restraint was very damning indeed and allowed for the possibility that she had lashed out at Mr. Réjane later for the drubbing she had suffered at Mr. Mayhew’s hands during the dinner.
Revealing nothing of her thoughts, Bea thanked him for sharing his opinion and looked at Kesgrave to see if he had any questions. Assured he had none, she announced to the valet that their business was concluded at that time.
His color still high, Stebbings nodded profusely and owned himself to be deeply grateful for her consideration. “I promise everything I have told you is the truth. I will not lie to you again, your grace.”
As soon as Marlow had shown the valet out, Bea turned to the duke and said, “We seem to be acquiring new suspects, rather than culling them.”
Kesgrave dipped his head in acknowledgment and added that Stebbings’s motive was particularly strong—stronger, to be sure, than the kitchen maid’s. “It was clever of him to make it a matter of temperament.”
“Yes, and he does have a point. Having had the self-control to implement a yearslong scheme to steal money from his employer, he hardly seems likely to act with such immoderation or abandon,” she said, then sighed deeply and leaned her head against the back of the settee. “He has put us in a devil of a fix.”