Bea acknowledged this assertion with another noncommittal nod, for a claim of friendship with the victim was another common feature of her interviews.
By all accounts, the dead chef had rubbed along well with the entire household: Edward Laurent, the groom, a fellow French exile whose shared heritage forged a nigh-on-unbreakable bond; Martin Stebbings, the valet, who considered the victim to be as a father, often seeking his advice on personal matters; and Henry Peace, the footman, whose success at nine pins had increased considerably since the victim had begun instructing him on the game’s finer points.
For every tale of Mr. Réjane’s selfishness, privilege or general inconsideration she heard, she was treated to three more describing his generosity, thoughtfulness and good humor.
The barrage of stories, the way they seemed to volley from cruel to kind and kind to cruel, further squiggled the shape she was trying to discern. After speaking to almost the entire staff, she still could not identify a single cohesive narrative amid the jumble of noise. It was all clamor—screechy and distorting—and she didn’t know what to think.
Indeed, the only thing she knew for certain was that she had failed to eliminate a single suspect from her list, other than Mrs. Mayhew and her maid. Everyone to whom she had spoken had both an opportunity to harm the victim and a reason to wish him ill.
And everyone, just like Mrs. Blewitt, had professed bewilderment when she broached the subject of their disagreement with the renowned chef.
Kindly, Bea said to the housekeeper, “I do not doubt that there was much you admired about Monsieur Alphonse. He seems to have been well liked among the servants. That said, you were seen threatening him with a shovel at one in the morning, which is after the time you claimed to have retired to bed. I trust you perceive why I doubt your statement.”
A trapped look entered the housekeeper’s eye as she realized she would not be able to brazen out the interview with an audacious lie. Abruptly, she glanced at Kesgrave, then swiftly returned her attention to Bea, and in the brief moment, in that fleeting gaze, the new duchess felt an entire tragedy play out: act one, act two, act three.
Bea wanted to say something to ease Mrs. Blewitt’s terror, to assure her that she had nothing to worry about, that she was just gathering information. But knowing nothing of the shape of the crime, Bea could draw no conclusions about the housekeeper’s culpability. Any reassurances she offered would be empty.
Breathing heavily, as if struggling for control, Mrs. Blewitt said that she did perceive the problem and apologized for trying to misdirect her grace. “We did have our usual quarrel about the roses—truly, I swear. I noticed that he was standing on one of the branches and I kindly asked him to please tread carefully, for he was always trampling them. He insisted he was not standing on the bush, just next to it, but I have eyes. I know what I saw. We argued heatedly because he refused to acknowledge that he had done anything wrong. I could tell he was determined to be unreasonable about it so I left in a lather and went to the pantry to assess our supply needs. But before going to bed, I visited the kitchen to make sure everything was in order and I saw him out in the garden smoking a cheroot with two dozen uprooted rosebushes around him. He had dug them up with the shovel,” she said, her fury at the vandalism still strong. “He’d rooted them all out and then he said to me with a smirk, ‘Now I’ve trampled them.’ It’s true, I was angry. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my whole life so, yes, I raised the shovel over my head and said I would show him trampled.” Her eyes were dark brown spots against her white face. “But that’s all I did. As soon as I realized how heated I had got, I was horrified by my lack of control. I dropped the shovel, ran out of the garden and into my room, shut the door and sat at my table for several minutes while I struggled to calm down. Then I got ready for bed, prayed for the patience to deal with Monsieur Alphonse’s mercurial nature and went to sleep.”
Thoughtfully, Bea nodded and asked the woman if she knew Monsieur Alphonse had resigned his position.
Mrs. Blewitt, her hands shaking slightly, said she had heard talk of it today but had no idea of his plans when they had their confrontation the night before. “Do you think that is why he was so cruel? Because he knew he was leaving?”
Obviously, Bea could not ascribe any motive to the dead man, but she thought it was more likely his ordinarily mellow temper had been frayed by the events of a long and disappointing day. Not only did he discover that his employer planned to deceive him indefinitely in order to avoid granting his loan request, he also learned that the woman he loved did not return his regard with enough ardor to justify moving away from her mother. It was little wonder he had released his anger and frustration on the poor rosebushes and Mr. Mayhew’s silk waistcoat.
Bea posited that perhaps he was tired, and Mrs. Blewitt nodded sadly.
As deeply ashamed as she was by her unrestrained response, the housekeeper felt it paled in comparison to the kitchen maid’s inability to control herself. “I behaved immoderately once, but Gertrude regularly threatened Monsieur Alphonse
