Kesgrave, perceiving the injustice, murmured consolingly.
Although Bea did not mind the digression, she had no interest in extending it and brought the conversation back to the topic at hand. “If Mr. Mayhew finds out that Monsieur Alphonse not only stole the key to the cellar but availed himself of its stock, you will be fired.”
Parsons bowed his head. “Yes.”
“You must have been furious over his disregard for your welfare,” she said.
He did not try to deny it, which was sensible because even now his fury over the maltreatment was palpable. But he did attempt to claim that it did not matter. “Getting angry at Monsieur Alphonse was futile because he was like an overindulged child. He took responsibility for nothing and did as he pleased regardless of whom it hurt. He was so skilled and talented that he always got his way, and it simply did not occur to him to deny himself, not even out of courtesy to others. That is why he made free use of the wine cellar without caring that Mayhew would cast me out if he discovered the truth. But he was also kind and generous with his skill and talent—like a child as well. He genuinely loved watching people enjoy his food, and it made no difference to him if it was a scullery maid or the prince regent. He just wanted his work to be enjoyed. That is why it was hard for anyone here to bear him true malice, even myself, although I was irate with him yesterday and would still be irate with him today if he hadn’t suffered such a grievous fate.”
As Bea had heard a variation on the same general idea from several of the other servants, she nodded and reviewed his movements after the party. “You said you last saw him in the garden.”
“Yes,” the butler promptly replied, “smoking a cheroot, which he frequently did after a dinner party. Sometimes he would sit out there for hours. Mr. Mayhew was aware of the habit and regularly supplied him with cheroots. It was the cause of some resentment in the household.”
Although Annette had already mentioned the valet’s envy, Bea tilted her head with interest and said mildly, “Resentment?”
“Stebbings felt that the same consideration should be extended to him and was bitter that it never was,” he said, then paused as if reluctant to continue. Then he added, “And Mrs. Mayhew did not like it. She feared that showing a marked preference for one servant over the others, even one with such prodigious talents as Monsieur Alphonse, would create tensions among the staff.”
As it had plainly done exactly that, Bea thought Mrs. Mayhew had been right to worry. But Monsieur Alphonse was the recipient of so many advantages, one more hardly made a difference. As Parsons had said, the masterful French chef was spoiled.
Having gathered all the information she needed, Bea looked at Kesgrave to see if he had any questions and when he demurred, she thanked the butler for his time. Unnerved by the courtesy, he apologized again for making a mockery of Monsieur Alphonse’s death by lying about its cause.
Although it was not Bea’s place to absolve him, she offered her understanding and told him it was better to tell the truth later than never at all. “If you recall anything else that might be relevant, however slight, please send a note to Kesgrave House.”
The butler agreed at once, opening the door to leave the servants’ hall and revealing Henry on the threshold with a hesitant look on his face.
“I did not want to interrupt,” he explained as he awkwardly stepped aside to allow the butler to pass, “but I have a missive from Mr. Mayhew that I was instructed to give you right away. He says it’s of vital importance and requires your immediate attention. He is awaiting your reply.”
Bea accepted the note with great reluctance. “Thank you, Henry.”
The footman nodded, visibly relieved to have successfully discharged his duty after an extended delay, and then paused in the doorway uncertainly. Neither the duke nor the duchess seemed inclined to respond to his master’s command with anything resembling urgency, and he was not quite sure if he should hover while they read the letter or leave them in peace.
Obviously, it was the latter, Bea thought, wondering if she was allowed in her new position to shoo servants away.
“That will be all,” Kesgrave said.
Henry mumbled something unintelligible and closed the door.
Unable to believe the letter contained a single sentence that was genuinely helpful, she handed it to her husband, observing that it was most likely addressed to him anyway.
“Yes, his sycophancy does seem of the particular sort that focuses on me. But do not despair, soon you will have a dozen toadies of your own. You must decide how you will want to handle them. As you know, I find ostentatious displays of knowledge to be diverting for them and satisfying for me,” he said, unfolding the note and scanning it quickly. “Ah, he apologizes for the state of the servants’ hall. If he had realized we would be using it as our private study, he would have applied a fresh coat of paint.”
“How very like him to cut to the heart of the matter,” Bea said.
“Mr. Mayhew is eager to update us on the progress of his investigation and to review his list of people who he believes would like to see him suffer,” he continued. “It’s an exhaustive catalogue containing eighteen names, and he worries that hunger might undermine our ability to think clearly so he suggests we share a light meal before we discuss our findings.”
“He’s very clever,” Bea murmured, unable to determine if his invitation stemmed from a desire to stay abreast of their investigation in order to frustrate its outcome or to exploit its opportunity for greater intimacy with the duke.
When she posed the question to Kesgrave, he
