Effortlessly, she recalled the mischief on his face as he explained to her that the list they were composing was merely figurative. “The names,” he had said, “aren’t actually being compiled on a sheet of paper somewhere.”
It had been near midnight on that occasion too, and she’d worn a white night rail markedly similar to the one she’d adorned to confer with Joseph. The sense of congeniality was also the same, that ambience of amiable camaraderie among colleagues but now with a knee-weakening dash of intimacy.
In the Lake District, every rule of etiquette and social decorum required that she, a spinster with no beauty or prospects, maintain an air of disinterest in the Duke of Kesgrave, and she had behaved with propriety. Never once had she allowed herself to look upon him with anything other than collegial regard.
Struck by the yawning gap between the two situations, she altered her position, shifting a quarter rotation and crossing her legs so that she could admire the fine line of his profile openly.
“It is my turn to identify a suspect,” she said thoughtfully. “The kitchen maid, obviously. Her quarrel with Monsieur Alphonse is longstanding, she was taken strongly to task for letting the quails dry out even though it was not her fault, and she frequently threatened him with bodily harm. Did I leave anything out?”
“Only that she is adept at chopping up large joints of meat with cleavers and isn’t squeamish,” he said.
Although Bea was not either, she flinched at this description. “I am putting her above Parsons because she pointed her finger at him. Now you may pick someone.”
“Mrs. Blewitt,” he said just as a knock sounded at the door. Although Bea shifted to answer it, he was halfway across the room by the time she had put down the ledger and uncrossed her legs. Easily, he accepted the tray from Joseph and placed it gently in the center of the large bed.
Bea’s stomach rumbled again in anticipation, but she waited patiently as the duke spread foie gras on a slice of bread for her.
“Ah, yes,” she said with an approving nod. “Driven to murder by the desecration of her beloved rosebushes. I am not a gardener, but I can easily imagine responding with violence if someone treated my books with the same violence. I believe that is the only factor aligned against her or am I forgetting something?”
“The case for her is rather slim,” he admitted, “although the roses are more convincing than the silk weave with the cerulean stripes.”
“So you do not think the valet murdered him for a puff of his cheroot?” she said taking a bite. Goodness gracious, it was delicious. Midnight snacks at 19 Portman Square had always been thin on the ground and what little there was had never tasted this wonderful.
“Highly unlikely,” he said. “I do not necessarily believe he lacks the physical strength to chop off a head, for removing dirt and stains from buckskin requires a fair amount of muscle. But strength of resolve is another matter. I think if he did summon the mettle to strike the first blow, he would recoil in horror and run away.”
Bea added Stebbings’s name about a quarter of the way from the bottom of the sheet. “We also have Edward Laurent, the groom. He argued with the victim over his taking a horse from the stable without permission. The footman insisted it was a heated argument, but other witnesses said it was a minor tussle. I do not think a minor tussle is sufficient cause for decapitation, so I am putting him beneath the valet. I’m also not convinced that the footman was driven to a murderous rage by lack of sleep. Who does that leave among the servants?”
“The scullery maid,” he said.
“Yes, of course, the case of the pernicious pickles,” Bea said, recalling the groom’s insistence that Esther acted in revenge for the wretched illness she had suffered after eating one of the chef’s improperly preserved cucumbers. “I think we can both agree that unintentional food poisoning neither counts as a murder attempt nor requires retribution.”
Kesgrave cocked his head to the side. “We can, yes. But you are not allowing for the possibility that the pernicious pickles were Réjane’s attempt at eliminating the one person who knows his terrible, dark secret.”
Delighted with the duke’s sudden gothic turn, Bea murmured bravo before assuring him that terrible, dark secrets were never far from her mind. “Although her motive might be questionable, she had the same opportunity as everyone else, so she must be kept in the mix. Bearing in mind we cannot account for the exigencies of a Mrs. Radcliffe plot or the fact that the suspect under consideration appears unable to contemplate blood without fainting, where would you like me to place her,” she asked, holding up her sheet of paper, “for the list we are composing this time is literal.”
He cut off a slice of Wiltshire and handed it to her. “Below the footman.”
“Very good,” she said as she made quick work of the cheese. “As that takes care of the servants, now let us turn our attention to Mr. Mayhew. I will admit that at first, I thought he was a clownish nodcock, but now I see the value to his approach. He only pretends to be a clownish nodcock in order to get away with singular acts of impertinence such as trying to trade social status for access to his staff. I was supposed to find his offer outrageous and refuse it out of hand. He never wanted me to accept it. The question is why, and that, your grace, I will admit I do not know. Either he was hoping to avoid
