It was a cogent argument, enlightened self-interest, and Bea found it persuasive. If his presence in the house did in fact lighten her load, then chopping off his head would only increase it. Few kitchen maids were inclined to do that, especially at the risk of going to the gallows. Furthermore, she had been dealing with Mr. Réjane’s impetuosity for more than two years, and the fact that she was frequently seen swinging one kitchen implement or another threateningly only lessened the likeliness of her guilt, for it begged the question: Why kill him now?
But the query was disingenuous because the answer was obvious: She had been taken to task by her employer for Mr. Réjane’s failing. Although it had been his sudden disappearance that had caused the quails to overcook, Gertrude had suffered the humiliating consequences. Irate at the unfairness, she could have lashed out at the person she held responsible.
While Bea considered the merits of her theory, Kesgrave said, “Château d’Yquem is an expensive wine from the Sauternes region. How did Réjane gain access to Mr. Mayhew’s cellar without his permission or knowledge?”
As logical as the question was, especially from a gentleman who possessed a very fine cellar as the Duke of Kesgrave most certainly did, the kitchen maid was surprised by it and sat up sharply in her chair. Visibly uncomfortable, she looked down at her fingers grasping the table and said softly, “He stole the key from Parsons.”
Beatrice, who had struggled from the beginning of her investigation to find a convincing motive among the petty squabbles over cheroots and roses, thought she had finally stumbled across something that made sense. Preserving the sanctity of the wine cellar was the butler’s single most important responsibility. He was the only member of the household staff who was allowed to enter the room, and he controlled every aspect of the wine: He tracked the stock, kept records of purchases and condition, ensured a varied and balanced assortment of vintages, chose wine to pair with each course. His authority was so complete, he even poured the wine during meals.
The rule was inviolate: No one but the butler touched the wine.
To discover that Auguste Alphonse Réjane had not only dared to invade the sacred space but to rummage through it as though it were his own private pantry was shocking.
And yet, Bea thought, not shocking at all, for how could he perfect a mushroom soup that required Château d’Yquem without Château d’Yquem? Naturally, he would have considered it just another ingredient like butter or chicken broth.
How he had contrived it was the more interesting question, for Parsons did not strike her as lax in his management. His severe demeanor and stiff posture indicated that he would be a vigilant guardian of his domain. And Mr. Mayhew was by all appearances a demanding employer who would expect a certain standard of service.
“He stole the key on multiple occasions?” Kesgrave asked.
“Oh, no, not multiple times,” Gertrude said quietly. “He stole it once—he made Parsons his favorite stew, which contained a sleeping draught—and took it to a locksmith, who made a copy. It was a violation, a gross violation. Parsons was in a towering rage when he found out.”
Bea, darting a look at the duke, who agreed that it was a very gross violation, especially in pursuit of a flawless dish. It would be slightly more understandable, though certainly not forgivable, if something significant was at stake. “When did Parsons find out?”
Her discomfort increasing, the kitchen maid said yesterday morning. “While organizing the wines for the dinner. He was deciding which would go with each course, and he noticed several bottles of the Château d’Yquem were missing. He knew right away the culprit was Monsieur Alphonse because nobody else would have the nerve to steal from the master’s collection. He did not deny it. He felt no shame at all and argued it was more sinful to deny an artist the tools he needed to craft his creation. After that, it became a very big row. The yelling and screaming—I’ve never seen anyone as angry as Parsons.”
It required very little imagination for Bea to picture the butler’s rage and still less for her to envision him acting on it. Thoughtfully, she asked the inevitable follow-up question. “Angry enough to kill him?”
But Gertrude, who had been so recently on the defensive about her own immoderate temper, refused to go on the offensive about someone else’s. “Oh, no, your grace, please, you must not think it. I didn’t want to mention it in the first place because I knew that was what you would think.”
Even as she shook her head vehemently in denial a thoughtful look came over her face and she conceded it was a serious infraction, for which Parsons, not Monsieur Alphonse, would be held accountable. “There are dozens of butlers in London, aren’t there, who could easily do his job. But a masterful chef is irreplaceable. There is not another like him in all