At once, Mrs. Blewitt’s posture relaxed and she repeated the name in surprised relief. “Oh, yes, I see, Gertrude. Well, that’s all right, then. What would you like to know about her?”
Bea marveled at the change in her demeanor. “We are trying to assess her ability to control her temper. You have talked previously about her many outbursts, but we are interested in one in particular.”
This information confused the housekeeper, and she regarded Bea cautiously. “Of course, your grace. I will do my best to recall the specific incident.”
“It is in regards to Mrs. Mayhew,” Bea said.
At once Mrs. Blewitt shook her head. “Gertrude has a fierce and unregulated temper, but she would never lose it with Mrs. Mayhew. She has full respect for her authority and desires to keep her position. She knows which side her bread is buttered, even with all her problems with Monsieur Alphonse.”
“Of course,” Bea replied, for she had not imagined the kitchen maid losing her temper with her mistress. “Rather, I was wondering if Gertrude had one of her episodes in front of Mrs. Mayhew.”
Once again, the housekeeper fiercely denied it.“Oh, no, never!” she said. “She is not lost to all reason. In their presence she is as respectful and deferential as anyone would want.”
As Stebbings himself had freely admitted that he had cast around somehow desperately for someone else to blame, Bea was only mildly surprised to hear his account contested by the housekeeper. Increasingly, it appeared that the spinning top pointed firmly at Stebbings.
“What about near them?” Kesgrave asked, drawing attention to himself for the first time. “Has Gertrude lost her temper when Mrs. Mayhew was belowstairs? Perhaps she did not realize she was there?”
“Oh, that, yes,” Mrs. Blewitt said with an easy smile. “She has done that on at least two occasions that I can recall or maybe three. She doesn’t realize how her voice travels from the kitchen when she yells, even though I have told her repeatedly that I can hear every word in my office and stillroom. I am sure it is the same in the butler’s pantry. One time she threatened to burn Monsieur Alphonse’s ear off while Mrs. Mayhew and I were discussing the sugar budget. It was very embarrassing for me because it looked as though I have poor control of the staff. It would have been in her rights to criticize me, but even though the yelling made our conversation difficult, she spoke as if nothing was amiss in the kitchen and we never discussed it. She is very gracious like that, always worrying about everyone else’s comfort. Another time the hubbub was so loud she had no choice to interrupt our meeting and investigate.”
“And what did she find?” Bea asked.
“Gertrude pacing the kitchen floor and yelling about Monsieur Alphonse’s inconsideration. Four pots boiling and he walked out! He wanted a muscadine ice from Gunter’s so he left to get one in the middle of dinner preparations. She was irate.”
Now that sounded more like the scene Stebbings had described, Bea thought. “Was she wielding a tool as she paced and yelled?”
“An implement?” she repeated pensively, then shook her head. “I cannot recall any one in particular, but she must have had something because Gertrude is always clasping a poker or tongs or whatnot.”
Vague though it was, the answer still substantiated the valet’s version of events. “And did she cease pacing and yelling when she saw Mrs. Mayhew?”
Mrs. Blewitt laughed wryly. “Gertrude stop in the middle of a tantrum? Never! She continues to wail and scream until she wears herself out, usually after three or four minutes. Then she calms down and acts as though nothing remarkable has happened. I have never heard her apologize or even acknowledge that her response might not have been appropriate, especially when she is wrong. On that occasion the four boiling pots were actually simmering broths, so there was nothing to be done but wait.”
It seemed to Bea that the woman she was describing—hot-headed, impetuousness, irrational—could easily swing the meat clever she happened to be holding in her hand and make several deep cuts in her victim’s neck before she even realized what she was doing. Red-hot rage was swept along by its own momentum, like a wave crashing on the seashore, but it needed a push to begin its wild descent. It required provocation.
The question, then, was: Did Mr. Réjane provide it?
Given what they knew about his actions on the night of the murder, it did not seem impossible. He had torn up Mrs. Blewitt’s roses in a fit of pique because his temper had been worn thin by his confrontation with Mr. Mayhew and his was tired of her accusations. In a similar mood, he could have decided to take out his churlishness on the kitchen maid for past offenses.
“How did Monsieur Alphonse respond to Gertrude’s outbursts?” Bea asked.
Mrs. Blewitt furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, your grace.”
“What did he do while Gertrude was pacing the kitchen with a poker or tongs and yelling invectives?” Bea clarified.
“Oh, I see. He had no response because he was never around. Gertrude always lost her temper after he left the room,” she explained.
“So he bore her no resentment in return?” Bea asked.
Smiling faintly, Mrs. Blewitt said, “He bore no resentment against any person, just my roses. He was remarkably even-tempered for a chef, especially one who worked in the finest kitchens in Europe. I am not saying he didn’t have his moments because he did, but most of the time he was pleasant and calm. He seemed to truly enjoy cooking and creating things and he was always happy to teach Thomas how to do something better, like slicing onions. I think the most impassioned I’ve ever
