“And that is when the exchange grew heated?” she asked, recalling Annette’s description of their argument.
His faith in her wavered—just a little bit but enough for her to see the doubt creep into his eyes—and he took a deep breath before responding. “No, it grew heated when he threatened me in return. I had been stealing from Mr. Mayhew for years, which Monsieur Alphonse knew because he had once observed me pocketing a few coins while he was waiting for an opportunity to sneak a cheroot. I did not take a lot, I swear, just a coin here and there every few weeks. Mr. Mayhew never noticed because he did not keep careful count and he did not realize I knew the box was there. Monsieur Alphonse said that if I told Mr. Mayhew about his thievery, he would tell him about mine, and of the two of us who would be turned over to the magistrate for our crimes, I was the only one who would suffer the consequences, for he was the most famous chef in the world and I was nobody in particular. He said all he would have to do is bake a few croquantes for the magistrate and—poof—the charges would be gone. I trust you see now, your grace, why I must have faith in your decency and wisdom. I have confessed to a crime, and you could have me sent to Newgate if that is your desire. I humbly submit to your wisdom.”
As much as Bea wanted to dismiss his statement as extravagant toadying to her new title, she realized the submission was actually made to Miss Hyde-Clare. The faith he professed to have was in the woman who had confronted Lord Wem, not the one who married Kesgrave.
With that consideration in mind, she told him that her interest in the matter extended only to discovering who killed Monsieur Alphonse. “If you are not the one who removed his head from his shoulders, then the business between us is concluded. Although I would advise you going forward not to steal money from your employer, as that is an excellent way to see your own head removed from your shoulders.”
This sobering piece of advice did little to temper his relief at her statement, and his entire body seemed to exhale with the deep breath he let out. “That is precisely what you will discover because I had nothing to do with it. After Monsieur Alphonse issued his threat, I withdrew mine and begged him to take only a few coins at a time because Mr. Mayhew would notice if they all disappeared at once.”
“And you would be blamed,” Bea observed, silently noting that he had a far better motive than she had ever imagined. The theft of thirty-seven guineas was grand larceny. If the jurors found him guilty, he would be hanged.
“I would be blamed, yes, of course. The dressing room is my domain, and I know it intimately.”
“And you had taken money from him before,” Bea pointed out. “If he sometimes wondered why it seemed as though he had fewer coins in his box than he’d thought, those suspicions would solidify and he would realize you had been stealing from him for years.”
Stebbings lowered his head in shame. “Yes.”
Was fear of the gallows enough to drive the valet to murder?
It was certainly an inducement, she thought, looking at his pale face. If the chef was dead, he could neither assert his innocence nor proclaim Stebbings’s guilt. He would be blamed for the theft, and the valet would slip the noose.
As always, she was struck by the brutality of the assault and wondered why Stebbings would choose such a violent and difficult method. Possibly, it was necessary for the story he had planned to tell in the morning about ruthless thieves or evil-minded associates who had broken into the house and murdered the victim. Whatever tale he had contrived became unnecessary the moment Parsons told his own fiction.
How relieved he must have been when the butler announced it was an accident.
Having devised a damning scenario for the valet, Bea wondered if it was likely.
The fact that he had stolen from his employer for years indicated a conscience somewhat in repose, but decapitation was many miles removed from judicious thievery. And Stebbings had been quite judicious in his thievery, skimming just enough coins to line his pockets and evade suspicion. That was the act of a prudent man who understood consequences, valued patience and possessed the self-control to keep his greed in check.
It was these character traits, Bea thought, that argued in favor of his innocence. Chopping the head off the chef to solve a problem simply seemed too immoderate and extreme for a man with his fortitude and foresight.
“Am I correct in assuming Mr. Mayhew hasn’t noticed yet that the money is gone?” Bea asked.
Stebbings, his gaze firmly focused on the lovely Aubusson rug, admitted that he had not. “He has been too distracted.”
But he did not say the incriminatory part out loud: that Mr. Mayhew’s distraction and Mr. Réjane’s death all but ensured he would escape prosecution.
Perhaps aware of where his interlocutor’s thoughts had gone, he added that he hoped his freely given confession would weigh in his favor.
Bea, however, was not convinced that freely was the accurate description, for as soon as he received the summons to Kesgrave House he realized something quite inauspicious was afoot. He might not have been certain the duchess knew about the guineas, but he had enough cause to suspect it. In that case, revealing the truth before she asked was his only recourse, for it gave his admission the patina of honesty when it actually bore the luster of desperation.
When Bea failed to congratulate him on his candor or agree with his
