As if aware of her thoughts, Mr. Mayhew added, “Naturally, he had offers. Indeed, he had them constantly, for he was very well-known and who in London would not love to have a chef who once cooked for Napoleon? But Monsieur Alphonse was quite particular in his tastes and could not be happy in just anyone’s kitchen. James Van der Straeten—he is a banker as well but runs a small branch of his family’s concern in Paris—hired him and Monsieur Alphonse left without putting a single saucepan on the fire because he was appalled by his Rumford stove.”
“Castrol,” said Bea, who had listened in silence as he maligned the Bank of England.
Mr. Mayhew, resenting the interruption, was just confused enough by it to look at her with benign curiosity. “Excuse me, your grace?”
“It was the Castrol stove that he found objectionable, not the Rumford,” Bea explained, recalling the description of Mr. Van der Straeten’s inadequate kitchens from the chef’s memoir. “The Rumford is quite modern and what you yourself have.”
Although much could be excused in a duchess’s behavior, particularly one who had assumed the mantle only the day before, lecturing a man about the various apparatuses in his own home was not among the allowances and Mr. Mayhew growled irritably at her presumption. Nevertheless, he managed to reply in a smooth tone when he said, “While I have never been in my own kitchen long enough to notice what type of stove I have, let alone become familiar with its name, I am confident Mr. Van der Straeten has a Rumford. Monsieur Alphonse used that term specifically while assuring me of the superiority of all my equipment, and that is why I am certain he had no intention of leaving. He found me to be the ideal employer, for I was not forever at his heels, demanding that he create new, better, more elaborate dishes for my guests. I required him only to make a small variety of delicious and technically difficult meals, which pleased him greatly. I know this because he frequently complimented me on my palate. It was, he said, the most minutely restricted one he had ever met.”
If Bea had any doubt that Mr. Mayhew was making a May game of her, it was banished by this observation, for no one could be so lacking in brain power as to miss the implied insult. No, he was merely pretending to be a lackwit to continue to thwart her in the most audacious way possible. If he was too stupid for consideration, he could neither be a suspect in her investigation nor a threat to it.
“But if Monsieur Alphonse had intended to leave you for a less restricted palate, you would have no objections?” she asked.
Mr. Mayhew waved his hand in a sweeping arch and assured her he would have none at all. “I will not deny that employing the world’s most lauded chef has greatly benefited my business. As his grace kindly noted earlier, I crave both wealth and prestige, and Monsieur Alphonse has helped me attain both. Everyone accepts an invitation to dine at number forty-four, even Prinny”—here, a slight pause to allow for gasps of surprise, which were not forthcoming—“who desired to taste croquembouche made by the hand of its creator,” he said, then turned to look at the duke with rueful humor. “You are my only failure, your grace.”
Kesgrave accepted this communication with a dip of the head and allowed that he had higher standards than the regent.
Mr. Mayhew readily agreed with his assessment and continued, “As valuable as Monsieur Alphonse was to me, I would never begrudge him the opportunity to take another position. I am a man of business, of course, and would try to change his mind through negotiation. But I would never resort to immoderate violence, if that is what you are implying. I am a banker, your grace, and no banker worth his salt would consider decapitation to be a satisfying solution to a problem.”
Bea appreciated how principled he made basic human decency sound, as if bankers should be commended for their unwillingness to remove the heads of members of their staffs.
Even so, she was not sure she believed he would accept Mr. Réjane’s decision to leave as easily as he claimed. Only a short while ago, Bea had tried to leave his drawing room and he responded by grabbing her arm. There was, to be clear, a significant difference between squeezing someone’s elbow and chopping off his head, but it demonstrated that his first instinct was to respond physically. Mr. Mayhew believed that he was owed things—Bea’s compliance, Mr. Réjane’s loyalty—and he did not respond well when denied them. It was naïve to think he would happily allow the chef to walk out of his home, especially when there was a chance he would walk into Thomas Coutts’s or one of the other bankers who resided in London.
It would not have happened, of course, for Mr. Réjane had no intention of remaining in England. But Mr. Mayhew did not know that.
Nobody knew except Mrs. Wallace, Joseph and any other servants at Kesgrave House who happened to be in or near Mrs. Wallace’s office during their conversation.
Wondering if the victim’s plan to open a patisserie was in some way related to his desire for a loan, Bea asked what Monsieur Alphonse had intended to do with the money.
The question elicited a world-weary sigh from Mr. Mayhew, who hung his head as if in shame and admitted that it was for the chef’s brother. “His brother! It was an act of imprudence so pronounced I could not speak for a full five minutes. To ask Mayhew & Co. to advance funds to an unknown Frenchman who had not even had the pleasure of boiling water for the great Czar Alexander’s tea. And he wanted to use my funds to open
