accomplishment given the sturdiness of her frame. Everything about her was thick—neck, forearms, even her fingers—and yet Bea worried she might shatter in the next moment.

Clasping the edge of the table with her fingers, she acknowledged that she had her issues with Monsieur Alphonse. “I admit it, I did. It would be stupid to deny it. But I defy anyone to work with him and not lose their temper once in a while. He was impossible, wandering away all the time without telling me he was going out, leaving me to figure it out. Figure it out! His recipes are all so complicated, his techniques so intricate, I never knew what to do. Leave the broth to boil? Take it off the fire? Add more carrots? Remove the onion? He would disappear for an hour or two and leave me in such a state. And yesterday, with the quails. Oh, the quails! They were so dry. I was sure that was the end of the road for me, that Mr. Mayhew would send me away. He was furious about the quails. Monsieur Alphonse’s reputation as the finest chef in all of London is vital to his business, and last night he had important clients, whom he was determined to impress, to dine.”

As overwhelmed as she already was by information, Bea leaned forward at this tidbit, for it was the first time the banker’s presence belowstairs had been mentioned.

And an angry outburst—that was interesting.

“Was it usual for Mr. Mayhew to visit the kitchens during a dinner party to express his displeasure?” Bea asked.

The kitchen maid shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, no. He had never done it before, which shows how very livid he was about the quails. I feared he might overexert his heart.”

As she was not the owner of a large financial concern, Bea could not say how destructive the event was to Mr. Mayhew’s business prospects. She did, however, know enough about the requirements of civility to realize absenting oneself from company to chastise the servants was not an acceptable way for a host to behave.

She felt confident the banker knew it too, and yet his anger had so consumed him, he had put aside the demands of etiquette to satisfy his temper. Like the victim, his ability to regulate his behavior had been worn thin by the anxieties of the day. Could it have been made so threadbare that he chopped off the head of his intractable French chef?

Possibly, yes.

It was difficult to rule anything out when one was in a lather.

At the same time, the woman before her had shown herself to be an overt threat.

“And you were the target of his anger, not Monsieur Alphonse?” Bea asked.

Gertrude tightened her grip on the table as she admitted there was no point in getting cross with the victim because he rarely reacted with anything but a dismissive shrug. “You could yell so loudly the glass in the windows would shake, and he would just lift his shoulders carelessly and carry on with his task. It was how he responded to everything, both criticism and praise. He knew he was the best chef in all of London and could leave at any moment and land firmly on his feet. It was why he was always wandering off. His position in this household was secure and there was nothing anyone could say to Mr. Mayhew that would change that.”

“Whereas your position is tenuous,” Bea observed.

The kitchen maid did not deny it. “But it has been more secure, I think, since Monsieur Alphonse arrived because he is such an excellent chef. Mr. Mayhew’s satisfaction with his work extended to me as well. He had no cause to upset the apple cart. The opposite is true as well, though, and last night he was very angry about the quails.”

Trying to get a better sense of the state of Mr. Mayhew’s emotions, she asked the kitchen maid if she thought the problem was truly the quails.

Gertrude tilted her head to the side as she pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I understand the question, your grace.”

“You said that Mr. Mayhew had never visited the kitchens before to complain about the meal, so I was wondering if perhaps he was upset about something else and was only focusing on the dry quails,” she explained.

Perceiving now the distinction, Gertrude refused to speculate as to the cause of Mr. Mayhew’s actions. “With all due respect, it is not my place.”

Ah, yes, Bea thought peevishly, the circumspection of servants. They were always eager to gossip about their employer except when directly called upon to.

Very well.

“Let us return, then, to your relationship with Monsieur Alphonse, which has been described as volatile,” Bea said.

Gertrude flinched at the description but quietly acknowledged its accuracy. Then, as if realizing it was better to admit to her faults herself rather than allow the gossip of her fellow servants to undermine her standing, she admitted to losing her temper quite frequently. “When I am flustered or don’t know how to do something, I respond angrily. Like yesterday, when he left me with the quails. I had no idea he was gone because he did not see fit to tell me and I had no idea how long they had been on the fire, so I became cross and threatened to assault him with the ladle. But I would never actually do it. I threatened all the time to clunk him over the head with ladles and roasting pans and, yes, with a cleaver a few times.”

Her face grew paler the longer she spoke until it was almost entirely out of color by the time she mentioned the murder weapon. Heartfully, she continued, trying to impress on Bea how much she liked Monsieur Alphonse. “He had such a carefree way about him he was impossible not to like. He was so generous with his cooking, always experimenting with new dishes and sharing the results with us. Before he came, I had to cook

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