As Bea already knew there were two sets of rules—one for him and one for everyone else—she saw no point in responding to his comment. Instead, she turned her attention to their puzzling discovery. Naturally, when she had realized that Monsieur Alphonse had secreted away a mysterious item in Mrs. Wallace’s office, she had not actually believed it was a slip of paper that revealed the name of his murderer.
But she had not completely rejected it either.
And now she had thirty-seven guineas.
As Mrs. Wallace had said on multiple occasions, it was a small fortune, and the most logical and obvious conclusion was that it had originally belonged to someone else—someone who had perhaps tried to regain it and killed the chef in the process.
Or maybe merely sought revenge for the theft.
Kesgrave, however, took issue with her deduction and pointed out that the money might have belonged to Réjane. “Given that his head was ultimately removed from his body, it is not unreasonable to assume he felt some concern for his personal safety. Perhaps he was in the process of removing his possessions by degrees so as not to call attention to his plan to leave the establishment under the cover of darkness. He might have been planning to join his brother in Paris all along.”
Although Bea appreciated any scheme that included a midnight escape, she felt the size of the fortune precluded such a benign explanation. “No, it must be in some way tied to his fate. If we discover the source of the funds, we might discover the identity of the killer.”
But Kesgrave was not convinced, for the amount was not so great as to incite murder. “As you yourself said, the method of decapitation indicates a tremendous amount of anger toward the victim. Would the theft of such a paltry sum really provoke so much wrath?”
Ah, but it was not a paltry sum, Bea thought, so astonished by the duke’s perspective that she stared at him as if he had just announced the Earth was flat. “Are you truly ignorant of how little money your servants make? Thirty-seven guineas is four years’ worth of wages for Joseph.”
“It is actually three years’ worth for Joseph,” Kesgrave said smoothly. “It is four years’ worth for Helen in the scullery and fourteen years’ worth for Silas the kitchen boy, but he is only twelve and will see reasonable increases as he ages. It is twice what Mrs. Wallace makes per annum, one and a half times what Marlow earns and eight pounds more than what Jenkins receives. I give these figures to demonstrate that I know precisely how little money my servants make and would counter that the word little is inaccurate, as I provide salaries that are well above the average for a London household. I may jest about treading carefully among my staff to retain their goodwill, but the truth is, I compensate them well and they know it. That is why Mrs. Wallace adores me.”
He spoke softly, mildly, his tone almost conversational, but Bea detected the thread of irritation just beneath the surface and realized she had given offense without intending to. It was a surprise, to be sure, for she considered her observation to be entirely innocuous, for only someone who was insulated from the vagaries of fate would consider thirty-seven guineas to be an insignificant sum. Men were murdered for far less in the noisome alleyways of St. Giles.
As Bea had not intended to provoke a response from her husband, she was not quite sure how she did it. Was it the implication that he did not know something that pertained specifically to the management of his estate? He was, after all, a man who prided himself on knowing the particulars of a great many things, and the amount of money he paid his servants was not a minor detail. Even Aunt Vera could rattle off the list of salaries for 19 Portman Square, although she always did it in a peevishly helpless tone, as if at once baffled and annoyed by the fact that one had to pay one’s staff at all. Perhaps knowing the servants’ wages was a basic requirement of household management, and she had insulted him by implying he fell short of the minimum standard.
That was certainly in keeping with the duke’s perception of himself.
Or she was giving the matter too much thought and the problem was simply that he resented being accused of naiveté?
Possibly, he was embarrassed by the charge.
No doubt he considered himself hugely cynical, for he was endlessly sought after for the things he could provide—comfort, stature, consequence—and had learned to distrust the motives of the vast majority of the ton.
If that was the case, she thought, calling attention to his response would only make the situation worse, would it not, for there was nothing more embarrassing than having one’s embarrassment remarked upon. Likely, he would grow even more defensive and list the salaries of every member of Haverill Hall.
They would remain in the drawing room for hours and grow no closer to identifying the person who chopped the head off the greatest chef in Europe.
For Mr. Réjane’s sake, then, Bea decided to evade the issue entirely by changing the subject. Thoughtfully, she drew her eyebrows together and observed that the reason his housekeeper worshipped him—“Note, I never said anything as insipid as adore”—was he’d noticed the flowers. “It is your eye for minutia that makes you so popular with your staff and is one of the reasons why you are so well suited to be an investigative assistant.”
Kesgrave regarded her silently for several long moments before saying with amusement, “Investigative assistant, brat? Previously, I was your partner. How did I merit the demotion?”
“You did not get a demotion, your grace, so much as I earned a promotion,” she explained helpfully. “But you must not despair that you will remain in the subordinate position indefinitely, for you show great promise. Figuring out where Mr. Réjane had hidden his treasure
