Kesgrave had never veered from the path, not in any significant way. What did it matter if he had, for example, worn unadorned trousers to court, rather than the embroidered breeches of custom?
He was, Bea thought, rather like Job professing his faith in the midst of abundance.
Marrying her was the first time he had stepped off the path, and she feared he could not comprehend the consequences because he had never suffered any before. Briefly, she glanced at him and noted how untroubled he appeared by the disaster she seemed determined to bring to his door. Nothing about this investigation would remain private, and she wondered how firmly he would hold to his faith once it had actually been tested.
To be sure, Bea did not consider herself the embodiment of a curious god’s uncertainty or even a May game set into motion by a conniving devil. Nevertheless, she thought it would be prudent to forego paying a visit to the constable.
Instead, she asked Parsons again about the temperature of Monsieur Alphonse’s body, a question to which he had taken great offense during their first interview. “Was it still warm to the touch or did it feel a little cooler than usual?”
Appalled anew, he stammered that he had not made contact with the chef’s skin. Then he shook his head fiercely and admitted that his finger might have grazed the chef’s hand while he was settling the tablecloth over him.
“And how did he feel?” Bea asked, knowing that the answer would provide only minimal insight. She had no idea how quickly a body cooled, but given the time frame she was dealing with—between one-thirty and five—the only useful answer was if Mr. Réjane’s temperature had felt normal. That would indicate that the murder had just happened.
Alas, Parsons was unable to answer this question without any equanimity. He babbled that the chef had felt warm but cool and then cool but warm, then coolish and warmish. Then tears flooded his eyes and he cried in earnest for a full minute before composing himself and apologizing quite ardently for his lack of control.
“After I put the tablecloth over him, I banished everyone from the kitchen until Mr. Mayhew came down to take over the matter,” he said, quickly adding that he had done that because he thought it was disrespectful for everyone to stand there and gawk, not because he was hiding something. “I instructed everyone to return to their daily chores. The silver needed polishing and the mirrors needed cleaning and the lamps needed trimming and the clocks needed setting.”
It was an ambitious list to attempt, Bea thought, with a beheaded servant lying under a cloth in the kitchen. “Did the chores get done?”
Parsons shook his head. “As far as I know, nothing has been done properly today. Earlier, I watched Henry polish the same fork for twenty minutes.”
“What happened after Mr. Mayhew took over?” Bea asked.
“He sent Henry to fetch the constable, and then went into his study to wait for him. He did not go down to see the…um, Monsieur Alphonse until after the constable came. They had a long consultation in his study, and then they went down to the kitchen together to examine the scene. After inspecting the evidence, the constable agreed with my assessment and considered the matter resolved. He had just issued instructions to his men for removing the body when Annette came running down the stairs calling for smelling salts. Mrs. Mayhew had fainted, and she couldn’t revive her. Mr. Mayhew grew quite distressed, and I volunteered to get smelling salts from the neighbor.”
Solemnly, he thanked his grace for the loan.
Kesgrave, unaware of his own generosity, assured him it was no bother.
“And Mrs. Mayhew was still in a faint when you returned?” Bea asked.
“She was, yes, but the smelling salts brought her around immediately,” he said. “By then the constable’s men had removed the body. As soon as it was gone, Mr. Mayhew ordered Henry to remove the le peu so nobody else would get hurt. Everything had sorted itself out nicely until you arrived.”
The butler’s tone was neutral, but Bea felt the implied criticism and sweetly apologized for undoing all his excellent work in hiding the true cause of Mr. Réjane’s death.
Horrified, Parsons sputtered with embarrassment, apologizing profusely and insisting that was not what he had meant. “In truth, your grace, I am very grateful for your interest. My behavior this morning was rash and deplorable, and I am ashamed of it now. If you had not come, my actions would have stood and then we would never discover what had really happened to Monsieur Alphonse. I am not so blinded by personal antipathy that I do not recognize what a tragedy that would have been.”
Bea did not know if she should take him at his word, but it was a persuasive speech well delivered. “Tell us about your argument with him regarding the wine cellar.”
Although he had known the question was in the offing, Parsons startled as if surprised and blinked several times. “As you’ve already heard the story, I am not sure what I can add. Monsieur Alphonse defied my authority, arranged my insentience and removed the key to the wine cellar from my person. It was a tremendous betrayal of trust and a thoroughly unethical act, which I discovered only yesterday, when I was assessing the wine needs for the dinner. I confronted him, and he was unrepentant. He actually laughed and said I was getting myself in a lather over nothing, just a few bottles of mediocre wine. Mediocre wine!” he intoned again, unable to suppress the shock in his voice. Then he turned to the duke and implored him to understand the hopelessness of the situation. “Your grace, it was four bottles of Château d’Yquem. If
