Although his cheeks were still pale, the footman spoke calmly, displaying no anxiety as he explained that he could tell her nothing in particular about the instrument, as he had never seen the le peu guillotine.
As Beatrice herself was unfamiliar with a device called the little guillotine and she had read several compendiums on cooking, she could not fault his ignorance. “Le peu guillotine?”
“An invention of Monsieur Alphonse,” Joseph explained, “to make chopping meat and vegetables more efficient. As I understand it, it worked like the original it was modeled after, with a blade that dropped a goodly distance to create a clean cut. But of course the le peu is much smaller.”
With this description it was easy enough to picture the device, to visualize a diminutive version of the apparatus that had stood in the Place de la Revolution and dealt death to thousands, and Bea felt a shiver pass through her at the thought of Europe’s greatest chef meeting his end like a joint of mutton.
Ah, so she was not so ghoulish after all.
“How little is it?” she asked.
“I cannot say,” Joseph replied, reminding her that he possessed no direct knowledge of the instrument. “But based on the description I was given, I did not imagine it was large enough to fit a human head.”
Although Bea appreciated the specificity of his answer, for it anticipated her next question, Marlow found it in bad taste and drew his brows closer together. The footman, shrinking under the glare of his disapproval, apologized to the duchess for speaking so freely.
As she was the one who had used the word hacking only a few minutes ago, she thought this display of sensibility was both highly unnecessary and faintly ridiculous. Nevertheless, she thanked Joseph for his consideration and observed that the machine was clearly larger than its name indicated. “If it could chop off a human head, then it cannot differ greatly from its template. What a very distressing thing to keep in the middle of one’s kitchen.”
Joseph agreed. “Parsons said the truly shocking thing is that nobody had hurt themselves on it before.”
“Parsons?” Bea asked.
“The butler at number forty-four,” the footman replied. “It was he who told us about the accident. He call on us this morning, very distressed about the whole thing. He is usually quiet and rarely says a word, but this morning he was talkative.”
Although a chatty butler was in itself a novelty worthy of further exploration, the fact that he claimed the decapitation was an accident interested her more. “That was how he described the incident? As an accident?”
“Yes,” Joseph said firmly, his whole demeanor changing as he darted a look at Marlow that was equal parts smug and relieved as the comment seemed to validate his concern. “He said it was an accident. He said that Monsieur Alphonse must have been fiddling with the blade, which sometimes becomes stuck on its hinge, and it came loose at an inopportune moment and sliced off his…that is, sliced forcefully.”
Bea could not tell if the amendment was for her benefit or his own. Despite demonstrating a convincing lack of sensibility, she was nevertheless a female of high rank and required a delicate touch. “But you don’t think that’s what happened.”
Joseph’s expression turned doubtful as he explained that he didn’t know what to think. “I suppose it is possible. From its description, I know the device has a sharp blade and can do significant damage to a cut of meat. But it was Monsieur Alphonse’s own invention and he had been using it for years. It just seems to me that he would know how it works. If it got stuck frequently, as Parsons said, then Monsieur Alphonse would know how to repair it without endangering himself.”
It was, Bea thought, a reasonable argument and one she herself would have made if prompted. “And that is why you sought my assistance?”
Joseph nodded. “It’s just that the matter was settled so quickly. Parsons discovered the body and decided it was an accident. Mr. Mayhew accepted his explanation and called the constable, who also agreed. That was the extent of the investigation, and I think it’s horribly unfair not to at least consider the possibility that he didn’t cause his own death in such a clownish way.”
Naturally, yes, the greatest chef of Europe deserved a little consideration before being dismissed as a buffoon, and she wondered why the butler would be determined to deny it to him. The obvious answer, of course, was that he was hiding his own guilt. “As far as you are aware, did Parsons have a reason to wish Monsieur Alphonse ill?”
Perceiving the implication at once, for the question was hardly subtle, the footman shook his head emphatically and said he knew of no resentments against him. “As I said, he loved to experiment with new dishes, so he kept the staff at forty-four very well fed. Honestly, your grace, I think Mayhew’s servants eat better than the prince regent. And he was amiable and good-natured and rarely took a pet about anything. I remember once he brought us wonderful little rolls shaped like crescents, and Cook was critical of them. She said it was the crumbliest kipferl she had ever had because a bit of pastry fell into her lap when she took a bite. Monsieur Alphonse was quite disdainful of her opinion and said she did not understand pastries or dough. And, furthermore, it wasn’t kipferl at all, but a variation on the Viennese classic. He went on for quite a while, scorning all of Cook’s opinions, but then he asked for her own kipferl recipe and left eager to give it a try, and all was forgotten.”
Having read the victim’s memoir, Un Humble Chef Confie Ses Trésors au Monde et Partage Ses Expériences avec les Grandes Maisons d’Europe, Bea was not surprised by this description of affable
