Her husband agreed fervently with this statement and took the opportunity to tell the duke about his three highly intelligent boys, who were studying at Eton.
Bea, recognizing it as the delaying tactic it no doubt was, reminded the banker that they were waiting for him to detail his movements.
Churlishly, he said, “My valet can provide you with the precise time I went to bed, but I believe it was around one, and Parsons woke me with the horrific news soon after he discovered the body. I do not have someone to account for my specific movements in the interim, but I trust that is not necessary.”
Well, obviously, it was, for that was the exact purpose of the exercise, removing him from suspicion based on an insurmountable alibi. Nevertheless, she accepted it without comment because she was grateful he had provided the information without arguing further.
“What else can we tell you?” Mrs. Mayhew asked eagerly, darting a meaningful look at her husband, whose expression was not nearly as congenial as hers. “We are determined to be of as much assistance as possible in hopes of furthering our association. I want you to find us to be the most helpful suspects you have ever had the pleasure of questioning.”
“Yes,” Mr. Mayhew said with a tight smile, making, Bea thought, a sincere effort to comply with his spouse’s wishes, “the most helpful suspects ever.”
Although the wife was as determined to use the dead chef’s gruesome murder to satisfy her social ambition as the husband, Bea was far less appalled by her forthright approach than Mr. Mayhew’s manipulative one. It was amusing, how frankly she spoke, almost artless and winsome.
Bea glanced at the duke to see how he received Mrs. Mayhew’s offer to help and noted he was also diverted by its extravagance. The object of three decades’ worth of toadying, he had naturally assumed he had been subjected to every form of sycophancy, and yet there he was, married to Miss Hyde-Clare for a single day, and already he had been introduced to a new level of fawning.
As if aware of the tenor of her thoughts, Kesgrave dipped his head in acknowledgment.
Returning her attention to the Mayhews, Bea asked who among the household did they think could be capable of such a crime.
“Nobody!” Mrs. Mayhew said with vehemence. “I cannot imagine a single one of our servants responding to anything with such severe brutality.”
Fervently, the banker echoed her sentiment.
“You mentioned the kitchen maid scalding the velouté sauce. Was that Gertrude?” Bea asked, recalling the stout woman who had scrubbed the blood off the floor and resisted the urge to faint. She seemed to have both the temperament and strength to chop the head off her superior.
“Yes, that is she. Gertrude is a rough-seeming creature but very capable. I am sure the problem with the birds last night was an aberration and won’t happen again,” she said firmly, then she pressed her lips together tightly as if struggling to hold in strong emotion. After a long pause, she said, “Forgive me, your grace. I just realized there will not be a next time, for we could not possibly serve quail à la Saint-Jacques without our beloved chef.”
While his wife collected herself, Bea looked at Mr. Mayhew and asked what the issue was with the quails. “You said previously that they were of excellent quality.”
“They were of excellent quality before the kitchen maid allowed them to dry out,” he replied plaintively.
As Mr. Réjane was the one who abandoned the quails to pay a romantical call on the neighbors, Bea did not think it was entirely fair to hold the kitchen maid responsible. Nevertheless, she was not surprised that the person with the lowest rank had to shoulder the most blame. “How did Gertrude and Monsieur Alphonse get along? Was he frustrated by these mistakes?”
Mrs. Mayhew firmly denied any tension between the associates and insisted they rubbed together well. But then she bowed her head in slight abashment and confessed she was not actually privy to the day-to-day management of the kitchens. “I look in from time to time, of course, to make sure everything is as it should be, but I leave the management to Mrs. Blewitt. That said, I assume there was no discord belowstairs because none has bubbled up and I trust you know as well as I do, your grace, how difficult it is to suppress the grumbling of disaffected servants.”
As Bea did in fact know this to be true, she accepted the answer and asked the banker if he had any thoughts to add. “Only to reiterate that I believe you are approaching the problem from the wrong perspective. You are assuming the culprit is within the house, but I
