Calmly, she recounted her movements during the relevant interval in helpful detail, explaining that after reviewing all the items in the pantry so that she could replenish the stores the following day, she had inspected the kitchen to make sure it was up to her cleanliness standards. Then she retired to her room, performed her nightly ablutions, said her prayers and climbed into bed. Although she had not checked the clock specifically to see the hour, she felt strongly it was a little after one.
Furthermore, she readily owned to having a longstanding disagreement with Monsieur Alphonse regarding the plants she chose to cultivate in the little courtyard garden. It was a trifle annoying, yes, the way the Frenchman repeatedly derided her rosebushes, but certainly nothing over which she bore him a grudge.
“He would have preferred that I grow onions,” she explained, “because he thought you could never have too many of them. I am sure that is true, but my garden is an English one and must contain roses. I told him I was happy to share the plottage so that he may grow his own crops, but he had no interest in doing the work. I think he just enjoyed tweaking me about my roses. I did not mind in the least. It was like a game to him. Monsieur Alphonse did not take many things seriously. I understood that.”
As the chef’s nonchalant attitude had been mentioned in several interviews, Bea nodded absently at this statement and opened her mouth to question the nature of the disagreement, which had been described to her in considerably harsher terms by the scullery maid.
Before she could utter a word, however, Mrs. Blewitt’s placidity broke and she cried plaintively, “But I do not understand why you are asking all these questions about my behavior when you must already know who the killer is. It’s Gertrude. Gertrude hated Monsieur Alphonse and everyone knows it. She could not bear how freely he moved about the house, coming and going as often as he pleased. Every time he wandered out of the kitchen to walk around the square or visit Gunter’s, she seethed with anger, and he wandered out all the time, whenever the mood struck. It happened just yesterday! In the middle of preparations for the party! He simply disappeared for almost an hour, leaving the pots boiling and the quails roasting and not telling a soul. Gertrude was beside herself. I have never seen anyone so angry. She roamed the kitchen, muttering to herself and brandishing a ladle like it was a club. I really thought she was going to knock him on the head as soon as he returned. I was prepared to intercede before things got out of hand, but eventually she remembered to check on the quails and returned to work. Even so she could not stop muttering. I paid it no heed because she was always fuming about one thing he did or another. Also, the kitchen boy spilled a bowl of cream and that created another uproar. But then this morning…when I saw…when I saw…his body…”
She lowered her head ignominiously and confessed that she had been so distraught to realize what Gertrude had done, she had fainted dead away.
“Never in my life have I behaved with such abandon,” she confessed, falling silent again.
A moment later, however, she continued without prompting. “When I saw what had happened to him, I realized that I’d misjudged Gertrude. Her anger had not subsided but had grown worse and terrible. She’s the one you are looking for, your grace. It pains me greatly to say it, for I have worked alongside her for four years, but the truth cannot be suppressed: Gertrude Vickers killed Monsieur Alphonse. May God have mercy on her soul.”
Curiously, Stebbings, the valet, had said almost the exact same thing about Henry Pearce, the brown-haired footman who had requested Bea’s calling card before allowing her to enter the house. He had made the accusation with a hint of outrage in his voice, as if he could not believe he had to defend his own behavior when a man like Henry was allowed to roam freely.
“Did I lose my temper when I saw Monsieur Alphonse standing on Mr. Mayhew’s coat—the silk weave with the cerulean stripes?” the valet had asked, his tone reasonable. “Why, yes, I did, and I defy any man of sense and feeling to act with total equanimity when confronted with wantonly abused silk. Did I wish he had more respect for the fine quality of Mr. Mayhew’s wardrobe? Without question, I’d begged him before to take more care when looking for a cheroot. Indeed, I had advised him to stop treating the master’s dressing room as his own private tobacconist. Did I slice his head off because of it? Good gracious, no. As beautiful as it is and as flattering to Mr. Mayhew’s frame as its tailoring is, it is just a coat, and I have the sense to realize it is just a coat. But I will tell you who doesn’t have that sense of proportion: Henry Pearce.”
Bolstering his argument, he’d cited the footman’s ready temper, which had been frayed by months of little sleep because he shared a wall with the chef, who snored loudly. “He would be up all night long listening to the thunderous noise. Some nights he cannot get a single minute of sleep. I am not surprised he finally reached his limit and snapped. He is, you will notice, disconcertingly robust. He carries wood up to the top floor several times a day, and he can lift the drawing room table all by himself. I can do neither,” Stebbings added, “for I would never do anything so uncouth as develop muscles. They ruin the lines of one’s jacket. I can barely slice through a joint of mutton without causing a muscle strain.”
More curious yet, Henry had described Mr. Laurent, the groom, in similar terms when he had identified him as the murderer.
“Obviously,
