She was, Bea discovered, a little embarrassed on his behalf.
Deciding enough was enough, she straightened her shoulders and resolved to interrupt her host. Assuaging his vanity was all well and good, but only hours before a man’s head had been detached from his body and at some point that terrible event had to take precedence. After she had identified the man or woman who had killed Auguste Alphonse Réjane, the greatest chef in Europe, they could adjourn to the drawing room, where Mr. Mayhew could resume glorifying his family name to his heart’s content.
Before Bea could insist on turning the conversation to the more pressing topic, her host finished his tediously long speech with a brisk conclusion: “And that, your grace, is everything you get when you conduct business with the Mayhew family. I felt it was necessary to explain it in details so that you may be pleased with the transaction. I trust you are?”
Having absolutely no idea what her host was talking about, Bea feared that she had in fact become unconscious for some portion of his dissertation.
Misinterpreting the look on her face, he waved his hands with approval and said, “Of course, of course. You are overwhelmed. It is entirely understandable. All this grandeur is new to you, the impressive family lines and the great wealth. You require a moment to gather your thoughts, I understand. But you mustn’t be too modest, your grace, as you also bring something meaningful to the agreement.”
“Mr. Mayhew, I do not know what your footman told you, but I am not here to negotiate a transaction of some sort,” she said plainly. “I am here to investigate the murder of your chef. This story you and the constable settled on regarding Monsieur Alphonse’s cutting apparatus is highly implausible and cannot be allowed to stand. He was decapitated with a cleaver from your own kitchen.”
The banker nodded vigorously, by all indications delighted by her statement. “Yes, yes, precisely, and it is beyond all things wonderful.”
His idiotic response to her disquieting news caused her to wonder if she was talking to a man with a mental deficiency. She had entered the room convinced that he had something to hide, for there was no other explanation for why he would dispose of the supposed murder weapon so quickly and thoroughly, but now she wondered if he was simply too dull-witted to behave logically.
To wit, his observation that Mr. Réjane’s passing was wonderful.
Demonstrating that he was not entirely lost to sense, the banker rushed to clarify his meaning, insisting that the death of the great chef was a deep and abiding tragedy. “He and his stunning creations will be sorely missed by myself and Mrs. Mayhew. Just last night he made potage anglaise de poisson à Lady Payton, which has been described as the most difficult soup in the world, and it was glorious. The expression on Mr. Carmichael’s face as he had his first taste made Monsieur Alphonse worth every shilling he soaked me for. But no, I was referring to your murder investigation, for that is what is wonderful. I have long wished to align myself with a duke.”
Although she had briefly understood her host, for the soup Mr. Réjane had devised in honor of the well-known Irish writer had indeed been hailed as one of most complicated dishes ever assembled, Bea once again found herself bewildered. “A duke?” she echoed.
“How right you are, your grace,” he said with sly appreciation. “I misspoke. The duke.”
And still comprehension eluded her.
He took no note of her confusion and added with relish, “The Duke of Kesgrave, the most elusive peer of the realm. I have tried for years to capture his interest or seek his favor, but he has always brushed me off. I am beneath his notice, which I cannot resent given the disparity in our situations. But that is all in the past because now I have the ideal opportunity to earn his support and finally gain a foothold in the highest echelon of society. And that, your grace, is truly wonderful. But you must not think you are getting the worst end of the staff, for the Mayhews deserve nobody’s scorn, as I have already explained. Our history might not reach back five hundred years, but our past century is impressive and certainly more illustrious than the Hyde-Clares.”
Bea heard the disparagement of her family. Oh, yes, she perceived with perfect clarity the disdain for their mediocrity and inconsequentiality, and she was not immune to its effect, for she already felt deeply discomfited by the social imbalance between her and the duke. But as disturbing as his casual denigration was, it was nothing compared with the way he looked at her now with avarice and greed, a gleaming rapaciousness glinting in his eyes as if her very person had been supplanted by something he could use—a tool, perhaps, like a dibble to firmly plant his ambition or a rope to pull himself up.
Bearing the weight of his avidity, she felt nothing like herself, neither the familiar person she had been yesterday
