One did not have to have a proclivity for detection to perceive his objective, and Bea, deciding not to quibble for the sake of her investigation, allowed herself to be maneuvered into greater intimacy with her neighbor by suggesting they meet with her in her dressing room.
Mr. Mayhew blinked rapidly several times as if taken aback by the proposal and then complimented her grace on the ingenuity of her solution. “Yes, yes, of course, you must meet with her in her dressing room. I am sure she will have just enough vigor to entertain you there. You are so clever to have thought of it.”
Bea dipped her head in acknowledgment and refrained from seeking out Kesgrave’s gaze, for she knew he could not be pleased with the familiarity.
The banker, barely able to contain his enthusiasm, summoned Henry and instructed him to deliver the fresh tray to Mrs. Mayhew’s dressing room. Then, bouncing with a sort of suppressed delight, he led them into the hall. As much as he resented her for destroying the comfortable little fiction he had arranged with the constable, he was equally determined to make the most of the situation, and Bea, following him into the corridor, wondered again about the depth of his cool calculation.
Chapter Ten
The fact that Mrs. Mayhew’s dressing room could not comfortably accommodate visitors merely underscored the severity of the situation. Only in a circumstance so utterly dire would she consent to allow her husband to lean against the wall for support, as if he were some sort of cleaning implement like a mop or a broom. And for the Duke of Kesgrave to sit on the rickety John Cobb chair—it was a beloved antique, yes, handed down from her mother’s mother, but so unreliable! Only the thought of Monsieur Alphonse’s desecrated corpse could distract her from the sight of the duke wobbling back and forth on its uneven legs like a ship on a roiling sea.
“I knew it could not have been his chopping device,” Mrs. Mayhew said softly, her tone bearing no sense of satisfaction at having her conclusion affirmed. She was a small woman about a decade and a half younger than her husband, with porcelain skin, pale blue eyes and a languid affect, which she attributed to the shock of that morning’s events. Ordinarily, she was a far more animated hostess. “It is too dainty, I thought, like a miniature version for a dollhouse, and while Monsieur Alphonse was not a large man by any measure, he certainly was not the size of a doll. I thought for certain it had to be something else, but I did not say anything to Mr. Mayhew because I hated to upset him further. He was already so distressed by Monsieur Alphonse’s death, and devoting all his attention to getting rid of the device appeared to settle his nerves, so I did not interfere.”
Although the rebuke was minor, the banker was not immune to its effects and he straightened his shoulders, pulling them slightly away from the narrow slice of teal blue wall that was available to him. The rest of the perimeter was adorned with either paintings of pheasants and cherubic children or furniture required for the presentation of a well-turned-out female, such as a dressing table with a mirror, a dressing screen in the pastoral mode, and a pair of mahogany cabinets. Like the room itself, the dressing table was heaving with necessities: ribbons, brushes, toilet water, dentifrice, perfume, laudanum, vinegar, face powder, soap, a sponge. Above it hung a handsome rosewood clock with mother-of-pearl inlay.
Mr. Mayhew, defending his actions, explained stiffly to his wife that he thought he was destroying a deadly apparatus. “I could not stand by and allow other servants to get hurt.”
At once, Mrs. Mayhew’s expression turned fond. “You are so good and thoughtful, my dear.”
Her husband demurred and insisted that ensuring no other members of their staff suffered fatal injuries in their kitchen was the very least he could do.
But Mrs. Mayhew refused to be swayed and chastised him for being unduly humble. Then she said to Bea, “He is always underestimating his own abilities. It comes, I believe, from having four younger brothers who often question his judgment. Each one would like to be head of the London bank rather than overseeing a subsidiary concern in the provinces.”
As Mr. Mayhew had failed to mention any siblings in his lengthy narration of his family’s illustrious history, Bea had no idea he had any, let alone so many. In his version of events, he was the lone successor of generations of greatness, and she could not decide if it was vanity or arrogance that allowed for the erasure of the rest of his family.
Now the banker was the one who looked fondly at his spouse as he explained that his wife’s affection for him tended to color her perception of reality. “I assure you my brothers are quite satisfied with my leadership and have no interest in assuming control of the bank. They enjoy life in the country and have no desire to move to the capital. Furthermore, they are grateful not to have to worry about business issues all the time.”
Mrs. Mayhew shook her head, as if contending with a familiar matter, and announced that she was permitted to deem her husband heroic if it suited her.
The banker, browbeaten into being admired, said meekly, “Yes, of course, my dear.”
Although the exchange revealed a good deal about the couple’s relationship, it did nothing to move the investigation forward and Bea prodded the interview back to the original topic by asking Mrs. Mayhew about her dealings with the chef. “Were they cordial?”
Sighing deeply, with either exhaustion or regret, she replied, “Oh, yes, they were, quite cordial. But I did not have much cause to associate with him. As having a masterful French
