Parsons, reminded of his duty by the sternness of the duke’s tone, straightened his shoulders and managed a respectful response that was interrupted only once by a hiccup.
Kesgrave nodded and advised the butler to sit down.
Bea, bracing for another flood, watched in relief as the servant smoothly lowered into the chair and looked at the duke for further instruction. Remnants of his outburst remained on his face, particularly his gray eyes, which were red and damp, but he presented an otherwise composed appearance.
He was mortified by the breach, Bea knew, for he could not quite bring himself to look directly upon her or the duke. But his voice was steady as he apologized for the appalling display and explained its cause. “I am aware of how the situation appears, and in a moment of unrestrained apprehension, I allowed myself to be overcome. It will not happen again, your grace.”
Parsons addressed his comment to the duke, but then he tilted his head slightly and spoke directly to Bea, silently acknowledging that it was, first and foremost, her investigation. “Please ask your questions, and I will endeavor to answer them to the best of my ability.”
His demeanor was so greatly altered from their interaction earlier in the day, Bea could scarcely believe it was the same person. That murder could chasten a Berkeley Square butler demonstrated its insidiousness and why it must be rooted out and not merely buried. “You said you are aware of how the situation appears. How does the situation appear?”
“I did not like the victim,” Parsons admitted matter-of-factly as he began to list the many facts aligned against him. “I had a vicious row with the victim. I have the physical strength to overcome the victim and harm him. No one can attest to where I was during the time of the incident. I discovered the victim’s body. I told Mr. Mayhew that the victim’s death was an accident. These facts taken together make it appear as if I killed Monsieur Alphonse and then tried to cover it up. I know the staff has informed you of these factors because they resent me for trying to keep the household in order and had a great liking for Monsieur Alphonse, who made them lovely cakes and tarts.”
Well, yes, Bea thought, the case against him did seem rather solidly made. Fortunately for the butler, she was dubious of solid cases. “Why did you say it was an accident?”
Although Parsons’s shoulders rounded again and he had to take a deep breath before speaking, his composure held. “I was scared, your grace. When I saw him lying there dead, I panicked. I didn’t mean to lie. It’s just the words came out and I knew what everyone would say so I kept lying. I kept exonerating myself. It was necessary because we’d had an argument the day before, a vicious argument that everyone knew about. I tried to control my temper, I tried very hard, but Monsieur Alphonse’s disregard of the danger he had put me in infuriated me and I yelled. Everyone heard me yelling at him. So I knew they would think I did it. That’s why I said it was an accident. I don’t know if Mr. Mayhew believed me, but he does not like dealing with complications and the murder of his French chef was a very large one. He was grateful, I think, to have an explanation that simplified the situation. The constable was as well. The matter had been resolved, and there seemed like there was no reason to tell the truth.”
It was a reasonable answer, and Bea had enough empathy to imagine how terrifying it must be to see a corpse and know you were the one to whom the whole staff would point.
Everyone always cried, “It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it.” But in the end someone had.
“Very well,” Bea said with in a hint of weariness in her tone, “let’s try this again. Tell me the truth about discovering Monsieur Alphonse’s body, and do not leave out any details this time.”
Parsons blanched at the instructions and looked fleetingly at Kesgrave, uncertain if he should really make such a grim description to the duchess. Finding nothing to indicate otherwise, he explained that he had awoken at five as usual. “I performed my customary waking activities, dressed and went into the kitchen to reignite the fire so that I may begin to boil water—all that was true. But it was actually in the passageway that I realized something was wrong. My foot kicked an object, and not thinking very much on the matter, I leaned over with the candle and noticed the thing was hairy. I assumed it was a small animal, but when I touched it, it rolled and I realized it was Monsieur Alphonse’s head.”
He paused here, as if expecting a reaction from Bea—a cry of alarm, perhaps a mild faint of horror—and when he failed to get anything but an encouraging nod, he continued. “It was horrible, horrifying, terrible. I…I dropped it at once and then leaned against the wall for a dozen seconds, trying to stop my heart from racing. Slowly, it occurred to me that the rest of him had to be somewhere, so I raised the light and looked around. It was not far, the body, perched at the entrance of the kitchen. I must have cried out because as I was standing there trying to gather my wits, Thomas, the kitchen boy, appeared. And he looked at me with such terror, as if I had been the one who had done it. I knew then how it would be, the assumptions, the accusations, so I panicked and looked around and saw the le peu, just sitting there, and it seemed so plausible in the moment.”
Bea, who had only a few days before found herself standing a few
