There, she did it again—stood on her consequence. It was remarkably easy to do when the advantage to be gained was marked so clearly.
As improper as it was to allow a duchess to investigate the horrible death of one’s French chef, it was somehow more egregious to stand in the hallway and argue with her about investigating the horrible death of one’s French chef. Consequently, Parsons bowed his head and, submitting to what must have felt like an irresistible force, said, “Right this way, your grace.”
As she had supposed, the stairs were located at the end of the hallway to the right, in the same general vicinity as in Portman Square, only a few feet farther from the front door.
Taking the first step, Parsons inquired after her comfort and asked if she would perhaps like a cup of tea as she examined the scene of Monsieur Alphonse’s horrendous accident.
In fact, she did not require anything other than truthful answers and the freedom to pursue them, but she thought having a task might put the servants at greater ease and acquiesced to his suggestion.
“Very good, your grace,” he murmured smoothly, regaining some of his composure with the assumption of a rudimentary chore.
Alas, it slipped again only a few seconds later when they arrived in the kitchen and the protocol for serving tea to a duchess in the servants’ quarters escaped him. Fortunately, the slight awkwardness was overcome a moment later when Bea asked him to show her the precise spot where he had discovered the body. His eyes practically popped out of his head at the request.
As she waited for him to regain his poise, she examined the room, which also bore a resemblance to the primary cooking area at Portman Square, with its modest proportions, wooden floor, Rumford stove and long, narrow table scattered with mixing bowls, serving platters and a plate of parsley. Outside, in the courtyard leading to the chicken shed, there was a tidy little garden, which appeared to be in transition, as its assortment of rosebushes had recently been dug up, perhaps due to an infestation of beetles or thrips.
The space varied from the Hyde-Clare kitchen in its ruthless organization, with every pot, pan, bowl, skillet, trivet, kettle, bellows, poker, porringer, roasting rack, pan stand and hook slotted into its proper place. Hanging neatly along the walls were utensils in varying sizes: measuring spoons, grill skewers, knives, ladles, trammels, spatulas, hearth forks, cleavers, skimmers and food choppers.
Mrs. Emerson did not allow Cook to run a chaotic kitchen but neither did she demand such perfection, which was understandable, as food preparation was rarely a tidy pursuit.
At once, Bea wondered if the room always looked like this or if its pristine appearance was an attempt to scrub away the gruesomeness of Mr. Réjane’s death. To be sure, the inhabitants of the kitchen were accustomed to blood and viscera, but the head of a fish was a very different matter from the head of a human, particularly one belonging to a French chef you had worked alongside for years.
While she was examining the room, two women entered from the scullery, and Parsons, clearly flummoxed, fell back on the demands of decorum as he understood them and announced with intimidating assurance that the Duchess of Kesgrave required a fresh pot of tea.
Although Bea assumed his intention in speaking with such confidence was to awe the servants into behaving with instinctive propriety, the situation was far too strange for either one to do anything except stare blankly. It seemed inconceivable that the duchess had come belowstairs to fetch her own tea, and yet was that not the implication?
But what else could Parsons do? Presenting her to the kitchen staff was plainly beyond all bounds of decency. As wretched as that morning’s discovery had been, its handling had followed established protocols: alert the master, send for the constable, scrub every surface, proceed with life as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Subsequently, Bea had no choice but to step forward and introduce herself. It was, moreover, the most practical option because it allowed her to explain her purpose with clarity and simplicity.
“Good afternoon. As highly unusual as it may seem, I am indeed the Duchess of Kesgrave and I am here to investigate Monsieur Alphonse’s death,” she said, more than a little astonished that she could utter such an outlandish statement with ease when she had spent six years stuttering her own name with unintelligible confusion. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
The older woman, who was a stout creature with a square face and thin lips that twisted down in the corners, responded for the both of them, dropping a curtsey and identifying herself as Gertrude Vickers. “I am the kitchen maid, your grace. And this”—she gestured to the girl who stood next to her and was, at eighteen or nineteen, more than a dozen years her junior—“is Esther Simon, scullery maid.”
Esther, whose blunt features were offset by a willowy frame, looked down at her feet as she mumbled an acknowledgment.
Bea nodded with approval, for she had intended to seek out the kitchen staff for interrogation. “As you worked closely with Monsieur Alphonse, I am sure you have information vital to my investigation. First, I would like to discover what Parsons knows and to examine the device known as le peu guillotine for evidence of what happened.”
As she spoke, she looked around the room and realized what she had missed in her initial inspection: the absence of the supposedly lethal apparatus.
“Where is le peu guillotine?” Bea said.
Esther kept her gaze studiously focused on the floor while Gertrude looked expectantly at Parsons. The butler coughed slightly and explained that Mr. Mayhew ordered
