by Lynn Messina
Kesgrave, who was sitting in the wooden chair Stebbings had recently vacated, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “How so?”
“Mrs. Mayhew,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow, still not comprehending her meaning.
“We are obligated now to ask her about the incident between the kitchen maid and Mr. Réjane,” she explained.
Readily he agreed. “And?”
“And we decided earlier that we would not return to number forty-four, and we cannot invite her here, for being invited to Kesgrave House is one of Mr. Mayhew’s chief desires. If you will recall, it was on his original list of demands. I simply cannot abide the prospect of giving him anything he wants. Perhaps we can meet her in the square,” she said thoughtfully, standing to look out the window at the verdant lawn across the way. “I can post a watch in front of her house, and when she goes outside, we can bump into her as if by accident.”
“Now who is displaying a lack of urgency?” he asked, clearly entertained by her proposal.
To be sure, he was only teasing her, but his point was well taken. Waiting for Mrs. Mayhew to appear was a time-consuming and unreliable approach, and remaining on hand to hold the supposedly impromptu conversation would mean she could not pursue other lines of inquiry.
It was not a viable option.
“You are right, Kesgrave,” she admitted with a faint air of defeat, “we must strengthen our spines and invite her here. But we will remove the cakes so that she cannot claim we had her here to dine. I’ll write the note while you ring for the footman to take the tray away.”
The duke cheerfully did as instructed and found himself summoned only a moment later by his steward, who hoped to take advantage of his presence to address further issues involving the roofs.
Bea kept the missive curt and to the point, making it clear that she had a few more questions to ask regarding Monsieur Alphonse’s death and that Mrs. Mayhew would find only glancing hospitality: “As you are far too busy to linger.”
When Mrs. Mayhew arrived a half hour later, however, she announced that she had rescheduled all her commitments for the entire afternoon so that Mrs. Mayhew could remain as long as the duchess required. “I could not bear it you had felt rushed on my account, your grace. You must give me no consideration at all. My goodness, this is a lovely room,” she said, her head tipped back as she admired the frescoes on the ceiling. “So very grand. I have told Mr. Mayhew on more than one occasion that our home requires more ornamentation, for our drawing room is really quite plain, but he cannot be swayed by my appeals. He likes his creature comforts and cannot tolerate the thought of craftsmen in and out of the house for months. But if he could see the beauty of your drawing room, I am sure he would change his mind.”
It was a plea, of course, for the duchess to invite her husband to visit so that he may inspect the grandeur of Kesgrave House for himself. “I have far too much respect for Mr. Mayhew to doubt the firmness of his convictions,” Bea said.
Mrs. Mayhew laughed lightly at this statement, indicating that she perceived its undertone, and allowed that the esteem was earned, as her husband could be quite stubborn. “But even he could not resist such splendor. I feel certain he would modify his position just upon entering this room,” she said, coughing lightly and immediately apologizing for the interruption. “It is merely that I am parched.” Pause. “So very parched.”
“You must not think that I mind your little cough,” Bea assured her before she could make some endearingly deprecating comment about how she was feigning thirst to wrangle tea. “My aunt had a dreadfully persistent one last winter and I grew quite accustomed to ignoring it. Now then, taking you at your word to show you no consideration, I shall cut right to the heart of the matter and ask about an incident you witnessed in the kitchens involving Gertrude and Monsieur Alphonse.”
Mrs. Mayhew, reaffirming her pledge to be the most helpful suspect the duchess had ever interviewed, immediately apologized for not being able to help. “I cannot recall any incidents involving Gertrude and Monsieur Alphonse. I can describe several interactions between Mr. Mayhew and Monsieur Alphonse,” she said, as if offering a consolation prize, “for I was a party to several of their menu discussions, and I can speak in great detail of the conversations Monsieur Alphonse and I had, for I was known to seek him out upon occasion to request a particular dish. But I am afraid I cannot provide information about interactions between staff members. If you would like, I can arrange an interview with Mrs. Blewitt, who will no doubt know exactly which incident you are interested in.”
Bea thanked Mrs. Mayhew for her offer but assured her that this incident did indeed involve her. “It occurred while you were belowstairs.”
Mrs. Mayhew’s expression, alas, remained an unhelpful mix of incomprehension and confusion. “I am still not quite sure what that has to do with me.”
“You were in the housekeeper’s office,” Bea added.
Now the banker’s wife perked up. “Ah, there, you see! Mrs. Blewitt is precisely to whom you should talk. Shall we interview her together? I think she will find my presence reassuring.”
If Beatrice decided to interview the housekeeper again, she would certainly not do so in the presence of her mistress. “Let us approach the matter from a different direction. Mrs. Mayhew, when were you last in Mrs. Blewitt’s office?”
“Thursday,” she said promptly, an eager smile spreading across her face as she leaned forward, delighted to finally be of help. “I met with Mrs. Blewitt to finalize the menu for Friday’s dinner party. Mr. Mayhew usually takes care of such matters, but he was called away at the last minute and I was required to step in. It was so very inconvenient because I was on the way to the milliner to buy a new hat.”
“And while you were finalizing the menu for the party, did an incident occur between Gertrude and Monsieur Alphonse?” Bea asked.
“No,” she said with firm resolve.
“Are you sure?”
Mrs. Mayhew trilled with amusement. “Am I sure? My dear duchess, Monsieur Alphonse sat next to me the entire time and I am sure the kitchen maid did not enter the room once.”
“And before that, when were you in Mrs. Blewitt’s office?”
“Good gracious, the time before that…” she murmured, her nose scrunching in thought as she considered the question. “The time before Thursday…the time before.…perhaps early March? I do recall that it was quite chilly in her office because her fire had run out of coals, but maybe it was late February? It’s dreadful, your grace, because it’s so difficult to recall and yet I do so want to impress you with my memory. I must confess that I have an intense compulsion to make something up just to appear useful. Now let me think…”
Mrs. Mayhew closed her eyes as if concentrating very hard and remained silent for a full minute. “My visits to her office are infrequent because it’s far easier to summon her to the drawing room. But I do like to pop belowstairs without notice every so often because it keeps everyone on their toes. That is a management tip I would give if I presumed to give management tips to duchesses. Like on Thursday, when Mr. Mayhew was called away to meet with his new investor, Mr. Bayne, and I had to step in to discuss the menu, I could have done it in the comfort of the drawing room, but I realized it had been quite a while since I had looked in on the servants unexpectedly. And of course everything was running smoothly, just as I anticipated—as you yourself have no doubt observed, having spent some time down there yourself. It’s such a strange idea to contemplate, the Duke and Duchess of Kesgrave in one’s very own servants’ hall. I do not recall when that humble room has been so honored before. Of course, Mr. Mayhew and I would be deeply grateful for the opportunity to entertain you in slightly more splendor. You must not worry that my husband will pester you with talk of the bank, for it would be a purely social occasion. Mr. Mayhew can be a tiny bit single-minded in the pursuit of new business—it comes, I think, from being the eldest of so many brothers and wanting to p
rove himself capable—and some people might find that intensity a little off-putting, but that is why he has me. I am the civilizing force in his life, reminding him that most people do not want to be regarded only as potential depositors.”
Mrs. Mayhew continued to prattle, apologizing for her husband’s enthusiasms while lauding his many triumphs and deploring the pressures to succeed in a family business, but Bea had stopped listening. As soon as she had heard the name of the new investor, her mind began to assemble puzzle pieces, for it seemed too coincidental that the fictional clerk to whom Mr. Mayhew referred Mr. Réjane’s business shared a name with a new investor.
No, the more likely explanation was the banker had been lying again and, lacking the ingenuity to invent a new name, defaulted to one he had already used.
As Mrs. Mayhew appeared to be no closer to the end of her monologue, Bea was compelled to interject.
Her guest, afraid that she had rattled on too long, apologized with a hint of mortification and said that she may have allowed her determination to be helpful get the better of her. “I wanted to give you every detail I remember in case I know something important. I will try to be more judicial in the future.”
Bea thanked her for both her enthusiasm and restraint before following up on the piece of information that interested her. “Mr. Mayhew did not consult with Mrs. Blewitt on Thursday to finalize the menu because he had a meeting with Mr. Bayne, an investor?”
“Yes, yes, he did, but that is not at all unusual. He meets with investors frequently.”
“And are they all named Mr. Bayne?” Bea asked.
Disconcerted by the question, for she had not missed the satirical note in the duchess’s tone, Mrs. Mayhew laughed awkwardly and said with hesitance, “Well, no, they have names particular to their families. Mr. Illing is called Mr. Illing, and Mr. Scott is called Mr. Scott. I am sure the other members of Mr. Bayne’s family are also called Bayne, although having met none of them, not even Mr. Bayne himself, I cannot swear to it.”
As Bea was increasingly convinced the investor called Mr. Bayne was no less a figment of Mr. Mayhew’s imagination than the bank clerk of the same name, Bea was hardly surprised she had yet to meet him. “And Monsieur Alphonse was at this meeting?”
Now the banker’s wife was completely mystified and stared at her host in utter befuddlement. “Monsieur Alphonse? Attend a meeting with an investor? It would be highly unconventional for Mr. Mayhew, of the estimable Mayhew & Co., to bring his chef to a meeting with an investor. I suppose if the meeting was to discuss funding a joint venture with Monsieur Alphonse, it would not be so strange. I do recall Monsieur Alphonse being quite determined to help his brother establish a patisserie, but I do not believe he was seeking investors. It is possible I am wrong, as Mr. Mayhew does not discuss the particulars of bank business with me.”
“I did not mean the investor meeting,” Bea struggled to clarify. “I meant the meeting with Mrs. Blewitt to discuss the menu for the dinner party on Friday.”
“Oh, that meeting?” she said, giggling self-consciously at the misunderstanding. “Of course, that was what you meant. Good gracious, you must think I am a silly goose to make such a muddle of it. I came here so determined to help and now I am wasting your time! Yes, Monsieur Alphonse was there. After all, we were discussing the menus and reviewing what was available at the market because having the right ingredients is vital to a meal’s preparation. You cannot make duck à l’orange without duck or l’orange, although Monsieur Alphonse would never have made anything with citrus because Mr. Mayhew detests the flavor. Too strong. Oh, dear, I cannot imagine what we are going to do without him.” As if struck anew by the consequences of his death, she paused to sigh sadly and shake her head with mournful regret. But then her features brightened as she lifted her gaze. “I cannot tell you, your grace, how grateful I am for your interest. The situation was being handled in the most rag-mannered fashion until you stepped in. Blaming that idiotic device! Truly, I do not know what that constable was about, allowing Mr. Mayhew to sway his opinion, although perhaps it is not his fault as my husband can be very convincing. I do hope when this terrible episode is behind us, you will allow me to thank you and the duke for your kindness by hosting you properly.”
To be sure, Bea would permit no such thing, and ignoring the second invitation to dine just as assiduously as she had ignored the first, she sought to confirm that Monsieur Alphonse was present when Mrs. Mayhew announced why she was stepping in for her husband at the meeting. It was, however, a futile endeavor, for her guest claimed to have no recollection of any particulars that did not pertain specifically to the menu, and as if sensing the duchess’s disappointment, proceeded to relate every detail she could recall. As she listed the several dozen ingredients that went into all seven layers of the gâteau à la mousse, Bea began to suspect something slightly nefarious was afoot, and she went to the window to make sure Mrs. Crackenthorpe of The Tatler was not hovering in the square noting the number of minutes the banker’s wife remained inside Kesgrave House.
Bea would not put such a maneuver past either of the residents of number forty-four.
Even so, she saw only a maroon landau with a pair of bays drive by.
If Mrs. Mayhew was employing an extreme dilatory tactic to puff up her own importance, it was for nobody’s benefit but her own.
The idea amused Bea, for she had spent countless hours in drawing rooms with Aunt Vera and Flora, and neither one had ever felt gratified by the experience.
Ah, but she was a duchess now.
Bea returned to the settee and sat down as Mrs. Mayhew lamented the challenges of finding strawberries at Christmas.
Christmas? Bea thought, surprised to discover Mrs. Mayhew had rambled as far back as December while she was examining the square for interlopers. It was unacceptable, traveling backward in time, and she decided she had to end the session immediately or listen to another year’s worth of menus.
Interrupting curtly, she said, “I must bring this interview to an end now, Mrs. Mayhew, as I am in the middle of an investigation and do not have time for a social call.”
Although Bea’s intent had been to be abrupt and a little rude, her guest took no exception to her words, smiling brightly and murmuring, “Social call, yes, of course. I apologize for allowing our social call to run on a little too long. It was merely that I was overtaken by the comfort of Kesgrave House. Such a pleasure to see that its interior matches the gracious perfection of its exterior. I have often wondered, walking by it daily. But do allow me to leave you now in peace. I am grateful for your hospitality, your grace, and hope that I may be able to repay the kindness in the near future if you are amenable. But ,of course, I understand if you are not. You only have to say, for I am as determined to be as good a friend to you as you require.”
Once again, Bea found herself almost charmed by Mrs. Mayhew’s sycophancy, which possessed an appealing guilelessness. By openly stating her intention to be as ingratiating as possible she eliminated much of the heavy maneuvering that usually undergirded excessive flattery.
The lightness of her touch contrasted sharply with her husband’s oozingly aggressive approach, which, Bea realized now, assumed a sort of unqualified success and blamed its target when it fell short. It was this sense of entitlement that gave Bea her most enduring disgust of Mr. Mayhew and the reason she could not eliminate him from her list of suspects even though more likely ones had recently emerged.
To that end, she resigned herself to summoning yet another servant to Kesgrave House.
Chapter Seventeen
The duke appeared in the drawing room just as Joseph was setting a new tea tray on the low table next to the settee, and examining its contents, Bea tilted her head thoughtfully. It seemed to her that the pile of tea cakes could be higher. Mrs. Blewitt was a housekeeper, after all, and would not be as easy to impress as Stebbings.
“Do see if we have more tea cakes in the kitchen, for I want the plate to create a sense of ab
undance,” Bea said to the footman, “and let’s use the more impressive teapot.”
Although clearly confused by her request, Joseph nodded firmly and promised to return with the items posthaste.
Kesgrave, amused by her description, asked if she imagined a shelf with teapots arranged in order of impressiveness.
In fact, this was exactly what Bea saw when she pictured the copious storage in the butler’s pantry, with its lavish collections and neat assortments. “Given your aversion to the servants quarters, your grace, I do not know how you can be convinced they are not. Regardless, Joseph understood my request perfectly.”
“I suspect you mean adequately,” he said.
“Either way, Mrs. Blewitt will be impressed,” she said, before inquiring, as always, about the roofs.
“They will hold for another day,” he said vaguely, leaving his wife to wonder if he meant the inconvenience of dealing with them or the structures themselves. “And your conversation with Mrs. Mayhew? I trust it was productive?”
“Mrs. Mayhew certainly found it so, for she effortlessly accomplished her goal of sitting in the drawing room of Kesgrave House for a full forty-five minutes,” she said wryly. “If I had not interrupted a lamentation on the difficulty of finding strawberries in December, she would no doubt be here still, prattling cheerfully about the scarcity of grouse in July.”
Kesgrave looked at her as if she had said something at once shocking and amusing. “Why a grouse shortage in the summer? Did they all decide to fly north to the Arctic in search of cooler weather?”
Bea, who had only intended to make a point about Mrs. Mayhew’s loquaciousness, not to accurately represent hunting conditions in the British Isles, observed that it was awfully clever of the duke to have suffered a roof emergency just as their neighbor was due to arrive.
“I cannot apologize for the vastness of my estate,” he said softly, sitting on the settee and pulling her down next to him so that he could lay a delicate kiss on her lips.