Calmed slightly by the question, for clearly his story was not going to be dismissed out of hand, Parsons said, “He stared at me with his eyes open wide for a long time, and I thought for sure he was going to call me a liar and all at once I saw myself standing on the gallows, my head inches from the noose. But then he nodded and began to scream and run down the passageway to wake up everyone in the rooms above the stables. As soon as he was gone, I ran to the le peu and moved it closer to the body so the explanation made more sense. In my haste, I tripped over something and knew it was the real murder weapon. I didn’t look, though, I didn’t have time. I just kicked it as hard as I could under the cabinet. I swear I had no idea it was a cleaver. Then I put a tablecloth over the body so that I would not have to stare at it. I am quite ashamed to admit I forgot about the head. I left it lying in the corridor and it was kicked several more times by the staff.”
It required all her self-control, but Bea managed to not flinch at the image of the head of the greatest chef in all of Europe being knocked around the hallway like a ball in a field. Auguste Alphonse Réjane had been the master of his craft, the creator of an elaborate style of cooking that appealed to bankers and emperors alike, and for what—to suffer a hideous desecration.
As if the death itself weren’t ghastly enough in its own right.
Bea was hardly surprised Thomas and the footmen and Mr. Mayhew and subsequently the constable had latched on to the guillotine as a reasonable explanation. In her experience, people who were adjacent to the horrendous crime of murder were always happy to accept the less awful alternative, however improbable it might be.
Given that the cutting instrument was not actually the culprit, Bea sought to get a sense of what the site of the separation looked like by asking him to describe the cut at the neck.
Parsons recoiled at the question, and his pointed chin began to flap as he stuttered inarticulately for several seconds before he fell silent. Then he stared blindly, as if focusing on something only he could see, and admitted that he could not possibly say. “It was dark and I chose not to look. I am sorry if that seems cowardly to you.”
But it did not—of course it did not—and Bea rushed to assure him that he had behaved reasonably, especially with the terror of discovery upon him and a fear of being accused.
Nevertheless, knowing nothing about the site of the cut made the investigation several times more difficult, and she again regretted not having the opportunity to examine the corpse.
There was an easy solution to her dilemma, to be sure, and that was to visit the constable and ask to see the body.
How easily she could imagine it: the uproar that would cause, the bewilderment on the constable’s face as he tried to figure out if she was sincere in her request or bedeviling him with nonsense.
No, she decided, that was giving the constable too much credit. He would care nothing about her intentions, tossing her forcefully from the premises and warning her harshly of the rough treatment she should expect if she dared to return.
Except he would not do that because she was the Duchess of Kesgrave.
Nobody ejected a duchess.
The constable would permit her to make her examination, either begrudgingly or with obsequious enthusiasm.
But it would not end there, of course it would not. Within hours the story would be bandied about in every drawing room in London, and a scathing scandal would ensue.
It was exactly as Mr. Mayhew had said: The new duchess’s morbid curiosity in decapitated chefs would be mocked and reviled.
Thanks to the scene at Lord Stirling’s ball, her proclivity was widely known, but it was one thing to convince an older gentleman possibly teetering on the edge of senility to confess to the murder of one’s parents in a crowded ballroom and quite another to deliberately seek out a victim who bore no relation to you. The former could be excused because family matters were frequently messy, and sometimes it was simply impossible to contain them to the confines of one’s front parlor. But it was never acceptable to pester one’s neighbors, especially during a difficult time, which the violent execution of a masterful French chef surely was.
Bea knew her conduct was so excessively indecorous that even she would be inclined to wonder what could motivate a duchess to behave in such a shockingly ghoulish and inconsiderate manner.
Even if she was inclined to ignore the ridicule and contempt for the sake of the victim (the greatest chef in Europe!), she could not expose Kesgrave to it. The ton already thought he was the helpless dupe of her cold-blooded scheme to entrap him in marriage. How much worse the pity would be if they knew he’d been shackled to a bride who chose to examine headless corpses?
In this, Mr. Mayhew had been right.
Of course, Kesgrave had been unwavering in his insistence that he was immune to the slings and arrows of scandal and its purveyors. As the Duke of Kesgrave, he did what he pleased and allowed others to ape his ways. The moment he engaged in a particular activity was the moment that particular activity became the rage.
But what had he ever done that was shocking, she wondered now. He was the consummate nobleman who belonged to the correct clubs and possessed the correct skills and behaved in the correct manner. All his affairs—and she meant that in every sense of
