Bea allowed her the flourish and conceded silently that she would have considered a vengeful ladle to be a matter of grave concern if the victim had been battered to death by the kitchen utensil.
Nevertheless, the housekeeper’s list of convenient weapons included a cleaver, which Bea could not ignore and she asked the other woman to describe the incident.
Here, Mrs. Blewitt’s confidence faltered, for she did not know which incident to relate. “Horrifyingly, there are too many to count. The most recent one was about a month ago, when Monsieur Alphonse decided to take a stroll around the square while he was preparing espagnole to go with the lamb. He told Gertrude to simmer the roux but didn’t say for how long and of course it burned because she was also chopping carrots and onions for the soup. It caused an awful mess, even smoked up the kitchen, and she made her usual route around the room, muttering angrily and swinging the cleaver. We all know to give her a wide berth when she is in a mood, which is easy enough because she’s a little scary when she gets her dander up. I have overlooked it in the past because she is reliable and efficient. Her anger, while intense, is always fleeting, but this time I fear she was unable to let go of her resentment,” she said fiercely before tempering her statement with the caveat that she could be wrong. “Truly, I hope I am.”
But Bea rather thought she did not, for if someone was going to hang for the chef’s murder, it might as well be the irascible kitchen maid with a habit of threatening his life.
Although Bea had no more questions, Kesgrave leaned forward and asked where the shovel was now. “I did not see it in the courtyard.”
Startled, the housekeeper explained that it had been put away. “I do not know by whom.”
The duke nodded and asked her to bring the implement to the room so that he could examine it. Mrs. Blewitt blanched visibly at the request but immediately complied.
Once she had left the room, Bea asked, “You think the killer bashed him over the head with the shovel to render him insensible?”
“I am not quite sure what I think,” he confessed. “But I cannot conceive of any man losing his head without making a sustained effort to retain it. None of our suspects have injuries that indicate a violent struggle.”
Bea, acknowledging it was a reasonable supposition, added that they had little reason to believe the constable ran his fingers along the contour of the skull to look for a bruise or a bump. “I am sure he was too squeamish to even contemplate the idea.”
The housekeeper returned a minute later, her breath slightly shallow as she handed the shovel to the duke. Unremarkable in every way, it had a long handle roughened from use and a broad flat blade about a quarter inch thick. Applied to the back of a man’s head, it would certainly knock him out—if the assailant was able to raise it high enough in the air to put sufficient heft into the swing.
Mrs. Blewitt, by her own account, possessed the strength to wield it effectively.
Had she?
Esther, the scullery maid who had pointed them toward the housekeeper, certainly thought so.
Or, rather, she claimed to think it in order to support her own agenda.
Smothering a sigh, Bea thanked the housekeeper for her time and requested she send in Gertrude next.
At once Mrs. Blewitt’s expression lightened, and she left the room in much better spirits than she’d entered it.
Kesgrave handed the shovel to Bea to inspect. “It’s heavy but manageable. Stebbings would claim he could not lift it an inch off the ground.”
Bea smiled faintly at the cynical assessment of the valet’s performance as she clutched the implement in both hands. Examining the blade, she noted that there did not appear to be any blood on it. “But it is difficult to say because it is so dirty.”
“It would not have been necessary to break skin to render Réjane unconscious,” Kesgrave said. “All the attacker needed to gain the advantage was to stun him momentarily.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Bea leaned the shovel against the wall while bidding the servant to enter. Gertrude Vickers, her arms laden with a tea tray, crossed the threshold and placed the salver on the table. Then she stood awkwardly by the table, an apprehensive expression on her face as she examined the hem of her apron. Clearly, she had heard enough accounts of what went on during these private interviews to worry about her associates’ depictions of her.
Seeking to ease some of her discomfort, Bea smiled warmly and asked her to be seated.
The kitchen maid started with surprise and might have argued if she had not the sense to reconsider bickering with a duchess. Gingerly, she lowered herself onto a chair.
Timidity from the woman who had scrupulously scrubbed away all traces of Mr. Réjane’s blood from the kitchen floor was unexpected, and Bea wondered if it was the product of a guilty conscience or the natural response to being considered for a murder by an exalted peeress of the realm.
Her discomfort was so acute, she protested her innocence before either Bea or the duke could say a word, her voice trembling with fear and passion as she exclaimed, “I would never, never, never harm Monsieur Alphonse. You must believe me. I never wished him ill. Never!”
Although her tone was forceful, the speech had the paradoxical effect of making her seem frail, a significant
