Joseph’s visage, however, was equally bereft of emotion, which was, she supposed, a testament to the quality of servant a ducal home retained.
Patiently, Bea waited until the two men were standing in front of her before explaining why she had summoned them. “It has come to my attention that an associate of Joseph’s has suffered an untimely death and he—Joseph, not his associate,” she said in an unnecessary clarification that indicated she felt more anxiety than she had realized, “would like to consult with me on the matter. I am prepared to offer my assistance now, provided Marlow approves. I am new to this household and have nothing but respect for the orderly workings of its management. I trust you will let me know if you have any objections?”
As Bea had no intention of deferring to Marlow on the matter, she was being deliberately provoking in hopes of eliciting a reaction. The butler did not oblige, keeping his expression entirely empty. Not by a single twitch of a muscle did he reveal that the information he had just heard was shocking to him in any way. His eyes remained focused, his forehead smooth, his shoulders still. To any observer witnessing the exchange, he would appear to be hearing something commonplace that everyone already knew, such as the sun set in the west or grass was green.
Ah, but Joseph…
Baffled by the information, he gawked in astonishment, jaw dropping open and his eyes seeming to pop out of his head. Staring at her in confusion, he tried to comprehend what had just happened. How did she know?
He glanced quickly at Marlow, and finding no edification there, returned his attention to Bea. “But how…?” he asked, trailing off as he struggled to formulate the question. “I don’t…I…I mean, how…?”
And still Marlow’s demeanor remained unaltered.
It was an impressive achievement by any measure, and although Bea heartily resented his attitude toward her, she could not help admiring his self-control. Perceiving it, she regretted just a tiny bit that the scene in the bedchamber had not descended into full-fledged farce, with Marlow getting down on his hands and knees to find the new Duchess of Kesgrave trembling under his bed. Surely, the surprise of that development would have been too much for even the resolute butler. He would have been compelled to reveal some sort of response, even if it was just distress at the unsightly accumulation of dust beneath his mattress.
But of course, there would not be thick layers of dust under the beds in the servants’ quarters. Kesgrave House was too well run for such slipshod housekeeping.
Bea wondered how Marlow would react if she were to repeat his own words back to him. That, she felt confident, would unsettle him enough to cause him to draw his lips together in a slight frown.
But verbatim repetition would also expose her methods, and that was the last thing she wanted. It was far more satisfying to appear slightly omniscient or as if in the short time she had been in the house, she had acquired an efficient network of spies.
To bolster that image, Bea said in response to Joseph’s question, “I am a skilled investigator and make a practice of knowing things. That is why you sought my expertise, is it not?”
Dumbfounded, the footman nodded. Then, horrified by the informality of the response, he straightened his shoulders and said, “Yes, your grace.”
Happily, Bea did not flinch.
Progress, she thought, before turning to Marlow and inviting him to stay. “I fear the events Joseph is about to relate will be terribly upsetting, and I suspect he will need your support. But you must not feel compelled to remain if you have other, more pressing matters to which to attend. I trust you to determine how best to allocate your time.”
He dipped his head.
At last, a response!
Then he spoke: “If it meets with your grace’s approval, I will remain.”
As Bea had hoped he would remain for the entire interview, she made no objection. “Very good,” she said. “Let us begin, then. Tell me about Monsieur Alphonse, Joseph.”
The footman darted his eyes at his superior, as if seeking his consent. Bea detected no movement, but Joseph, satisfied by what he found, explained that the deceased servant was the chef at number forty-four. “It is the house just around the bend of the square. Mr. Mayhew hired him two years ago, during a trip to Calais, where Monsieur Alphonse owned a little patisserie. He made extraordinary cakes that looked like the pyramids of Egypt or Roman temples. He could make a cake that looked like anything, just anything at all. But he made other things as well such as these wonderful crispy, caramel biscuits he called croquantes. Last week he brought a box of almond ones when he came to visit Mrs. Wallace, and they were splendid. He called on Mrs. Wallace often because he was sweet on her,” he said, before hastily adding with a defensive look at Marlow, “Mrs. Wallace herself said that, so it is not gossip.”
Bea was astonished by this information. If he had said that Napoleon Bonaparte himself lived next door she could not have been more shocked. “Monsieur Alphonse was Auguste Alphonse Réjane?”
As she had already established herself as slightly all-knowing with the footman, he displayed no surprise at her question, merely tilting his head to the side and asking if she knew him as well. “He was very popular in the square because he was so good-natured and generous. Mrs. Wallace says that French chefs are usually demanding and unpleasant to work with, but Monsieur Alphonse was nothing like that. He was always smiling, even though
