by Simon Brett
‘And in the weeks before his death he was on the phone a lot to you, so—’
‘That’s enough!’ said the young man with sudden vehemence. ‘Why’s everyone always on to me about Nigel? I’m not going to talk about him. And I’m going to chuck this mobile and get a new one.’
The line went dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Carole Seddon really resented having paid out a hundred and fifty pounds to attend the Pillars of Sussex Auction of Promises. At that price, she thought bitterly, I hope I at least find something that’s relevant to the investigation. As it turned out, she got rather more than she had bargained for.
None of the attendees at the auction would be staying overnight at the hotel. Not that the Pillars of Sussex intended to drink any less than was their custom, but on this occasion they had their womenfolk with them. And, among that class and that generation, one of the marriage vows taken by wives was to drink less than their menfolk at social events, and to drive them home.
Brenda Chew had asked her ‘little group of helpers’ to arrive at six, though the pre-dinner drinks were not scheduled to start until seven-thirty. The early call was avowedly ‘so we can double-check everything’s all right’, though, in fact, it was so that Brenda could reiterate to her helpers how much hard work she’d put into organizing the event, but how she didn’t mind at all, she was used to it.
She was also very concerned with the stage management of her bouquet – at exactly what point in the evening it should be presented to her, and who would say the few words about ‘the infinitely dependable Brenda Chew, who has worked far beyond the call of duty to make this event such a success, and without whom nothing on the fund-raising side of the Pillars of Sussex’s work would ever happen.’
Since, however, the presentation was meant to be a surprise about which she knew nothing, getting her anxiety across with regard to the bouquet was quite a challenge, but a challenge Brenda Chew met with consummate skill born of long practice. Indeed, the finesse with which she managed to make her points without actually mentioning the word ‘bouquet’ might well form the basis for a long-running Radio 4 panel game.
In spite of their rapprochement, Suzy had not called on Jude to help out with the event, but, working with waitress staff Carole had not seen before, the hotelier had yet again transformed the dining room into a magnificent venue. From a centrepiece on each table swirled a display of greenery intertwined with ribbons picking up the colours of the Pillars of Sussex tie. As well as a thick menu, at each place-setting stood a stout auction catalogue with the association’s insignia embossed on the front. Beneath this crest, given appropriate star billing, was printed the name of the evening’s auctioneer.
Carole flicked through and found the promise of ‘A two-hour session of kinesiology given by a well-known professional practitioner.’ So Brenda had decided that the attraction of the package would not be augmented by the addition of Jude’s name.
By a quarter to seven, there was nothing left for Carole to do. All possible double-checking had been double-checked, and Brenda Chew was engaged in indicating to Sandra Hartson and some other helpers the best curtain behind which her bouquet should be hidden. As soon as the week for two in the Hartson’s Spanish villa had been knocked down by the auctioneer, that would be the ideal cue for the flowers to be produced. If Rick Hendry could be persuaded to make the presentation himself, that would also be ideal. Since Brenda was still abiding by the rule of not mentioning the word ‘bouquet’, explaining all this was a complicated procedure.
Carole drifted through to the bar, to find Donald Chew, dressed in a dinner jacket that knew his contours well, sitting there with a glass of whisky in his hand. No surprise, really. Daft to bring two cars and, since Brenda had to be there at six, her husband would have had to tag along. Donald could always be relied on to kill a bit of time with a glass in his hand.
The way he greeted Carole suggested the drink wasn’t his first of the day. He rose unsteadily and enveloped her in a whisky-hazed hug. ‘My dear Mrs Seddon, wasn’t expecting to see you here, though now I come to think of it, entirely logical you should be since you’ve been helping Brenda on the . . . Amazing how much she gets done, Brenda, isn’t it?’ Long habit still did not allow him to mention his wife without an accolade to her remarkable industry, but the words sounded less than heartfelt.
Carole sat down, and Donald subsided with relief back into his chair. ‘Will you have something to drink? Only have to ask the lovely Suzy and . . .’
‘No, thank you. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of drinking later on.’ Carole was very good about alcohol when she was driving. (She had actually been very good about alcohol when she wasn’t driving – until she met Jude.) Like the rest of the womenfolk, she would be restricting her intake that evening.
Still, she had a perfect opportunity to start getting her hundred and fifty pounds’ worth. Jude had filled her in on the truncated conversation with Karl Floyd, which raised some potentially interesting speculations about Nigel Ackford’s private life. And here was Carole fortuitously sitting next to the young man’s boss.
‘Mr Chew . . .’
‘Oh, please, call me Donald,’ he said expansively. ‘Out of the office. This is a social meeting, not a professional one.’
‘Very well. Then you’d better call me Carole.’
‘I would be honoured to, Carole.’ Still very much the conventional gentleman of the old school. And yet there was something else in Donald Chew, something else beneath his bonhomous exterior. Carole had been aware of it on their other meetings, but never so strongly. The drink seemed to have weakened his facade, and what showed through looked very much like pain. Carole found herself wondering what life was really like inside the Chews’ marriage. Why had they not had children? Why was Brenda so obsessively busy all the time? Why was she constantly seeking approval? And, come to that, why did her husband drink so much?
As if prompted by her thought, the suspicious face of Brenda Chew suddenly poked round the dining-room door. ‘Donald, I’m not going to warn you again. If you’re drunk tonight, I don’t want you with me.’
The face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Donald Chew’s jaw fell and into the embarrassed vacuum Carole easily dropped a change of subject. ‘Donald, I’d like to talk a bit more about Nigel Ackford.’
But it wasn’t the right subject. The claret-coloured face clouded instantly. ‘There’s not much purpose in that, Carole. Nigel’s death was very sad, a tragedy for one so young, but I don’t really think we should dwell on it. Time to move on. Apart from anything else, I seem to remember you saying you’d never met him.’
‘That’s true, but my friend did.’
Donald Chew sighed ingenuously. ‘I don’t honestly think I have anything more to say about Nigel Ackford.’
Carole took a risk. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance know about a note that was found in his room at the hotel?’
The solicitor looked very alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’
His reaction was sufficient for her to persevere. ‘A note was found in the four-poster room early on the evening of the dinner. It read:
ENJOY THIS EVENING.
IF YOU’RE NOT SENSIBLE,
IT’LL BE YOUR LAST.
Rather than cranking up his anxiety, to Carole’s surprise, this seemed to relax Donald Chew. ‘Oh yes.’ he smiled. ‘I left that for him.’
‘But why?’
‘To wish him luck for the evening.’
His response sounded innocent, but Carole had to say, ‘It doesn’t sound like a good-luck wish.’
He sighed. ‘Nigel and I had argued about a lot of things – professional things – he had all kinds of misplaced scruples about our work. He didn’t seem to understand how necessary solicitors are for the smooth-running of life and society, he didn’t realize how much good we do. I tried to persuade him, and engineered his introduction to the Pillars of Sussex. It was a terrific opportunity for someone his age. So I l
eft him the note. He knew what it meant. Enjoy yourself, join in, don’t get on your high horse about ethics. If you don’t do as I suggest, I said – then this is the last Pillars of Sussex evening you’ll ever attend.’
‘Oh.’ Carole was utterly deflated. The explanation sounded all too credible. Had Jude over-dramatized once again?
‘Did you tell the police about the note, Donald?’
‘Of course I didn’t. Given the way the night ended, I wasn’t going to volunteer the fact that I’d been up to his room.’
‘The room must’ve been locked. How did you get the letter in?’
‘Pushed it under the door. I was only wishing him luck, for heaven’s sake. There was nothing sinister about it.’
‘Did you know it was Kerry Hartson who found the note?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Or that later that night it disappeared?’
‘No.’
The openness of his reply suggested that Donald Chew was probably telling the truth. Time to move on. ‘I was wondering,’ she said, ‘about Nigel Ackford’s private life.’
The solicitor spread his hands wide. ‘Who can say? These young people, they don’t get married early like my generation did. Goodness knows what they get up to.’
‘But do you happen to know what Nigel himself got up to?’
A shake of the head. ‘Not really. Some talk of a girlfriend at some stage.’ His words were slurring badly now. As his wife had feared, Donald Chew was already very drunk. ‘W-working in a building society or something – I never met her.’
‘But, Donald, you knew him well.’
‘Just in the way a boss knows an employee.’
‘Did you ever hear any suggestion – or get any impression that Nigel Ackford might have been gay?’
‘Gay?’ The word went through him like an electric shock.
‘Yes. Homosexual.’
‘Why would I know about that?’ he asked in a state of panic.
‘Because you worked with him.’
‘No. I don’t think . . . No, there was nothing of that. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’ He lumbered to his feet. ‘Excuse me, I must – sorry. Call of nature.’
And he stumbled out of the bar.
When the Pillars of Sussex assembled with their womenfolk, Carole was struck, not for the first time, at how much easier men have it on formal occasions. For them, ‘black tie’ on an invitation is a very simple directive. And, though some try to tart up the basic image with frilly shirts, rainbow ties, cummerbunds and amusing braces, at bottom they all know that they’ll look fine in a simple, unadorned dinner suit.
Whereas for women, the potential choices are infinite. Even within the description of a ‘little black dress’. Carole was aware that the all-purpose one she was wearing (and had worn for every formal event since her retirement) too obviously trumpeted its Marks and Spencer’s origins. Those of the Pillars’ womenfolk who had also opted for black were wearing much more expensive designer labels, but without the aplomb with which such garments were modelled in fashion magazines.
And the women who had ventured beyond black provided a wonderful demonstration of the old truism that money does not necessarily imply taste. There must be a way of dressing the older woman elegantly for a formal evening, but British designers appeared not to have found it. The basic sartorial rule among the Pillars’ wives seemed to be that all their dresses should be made of two contrasting fabrics, divided at the waist. (Since most of the guests were of an age when waists become ill-defined, this was a bad idea.) Whether the top half was in heavy velvet and the bottom in something silky and diaphanous, or vice versa, did not seem to matter. Colours were either too garish or too subdued, and accessories gold and fussy. The womenfolk would have looked better if they’d simply worn the price tickets. In that way, they could have made the main point – how much they’d paid for the dresses – without looking dreadful in them.
As if to provide a shaming benchmark for their lack of taste, among the womenfolk floated Suzy Longthorne, stunning in the simplest of long sleeveless dresses in burgundy silk. Carole felt grateful for the anonymity of her own Marks & Spencer’s black.
Suzy recognized her and flashed a quick professional smile. ‘Did I gather you were one of the people in charge?’
‘A mere helper. You’ll find the one who gives the orders is Brenda Chew. Over there in the gold brocade skirt with the green bolero jacket.’
‘Right.’ Suzy Longthorne looked anxiously at her Piaget watch. ‘I want to get them through to the dining room soon. Otherwise I’ll have a grumpy chef on my hands. The first course is a soufflé.’
‘Sounds great.’ If the hotelier thought she was one of the organizers, Carole might as well take advantage of the fact. ‘Is it you we have to thank for persuading your ex-husband to be our auctioneer tonight?’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Suzy replied, with considerable asperity. Another look at the Piaget. ‘He hasn’t arrived yet. Always leaves everything to the last minute.’
‘Do you think he’ll come?’
‘If Rick says he’s going to do something, he’ll do it. He’s always true to his word.’ A wry grin came to the famous lips. ‘Well, professionally at least. Not perhaps if you’re married to him. I’ll go and have a word with Mrs Chew. Mrs Chew, would you like me to start telling your guests to move through?’
Suzy wafted away, and Carole was joined by James Baxter who, as current president of the Pillars of Sussex, felt it his duty to meet everyone. He introduced himself and, with some puzzlement, asked who she was with. He thought he knew all the members’ wives and girlfriends; the idea that someone had brought along a new specimen of womanfolk apparently caused him considerable excitement.
‘No, I’m on my own. I’ve been helping Brenda out with the arrangements.’
‘Ah. Right.’ He was glad he had placed her. ‘Well, let me introduce you to some people.’ James Baxter turned to a couple who had just come in from the hall. ‘Evening, Barry. Evening, Pomme. I’d like to introduce you to Carole . . . er, Seddon, wasn’t it?’
The expression on Barry Stilwell’s face was one Carole would treasure forever. Indeed, in subsequent moments of low spirits she would often try to cheer herself up by recapturing the image.
He looked like a fox who’d mistakenly gatecrashed a Hunt Ball. His eyes bobbled like frogspawn in a jar and his thin lips trembled. ‘Ah. Ah. Carole . . .’
‘Good evening, Barry. And you must be Pomme.’
Anyone who described Barry Stilwell’s second wife as ‘statuesque’ would have to be thinking, not so much of the Venus de Milo, as of the Statue of Liberty. The idea that she spent every Thursday evening line-dancing was mind-boggling. God had been very generous to her with all of His gifts except, from the expression on her face, a sense of humour.
‘You know each other?’ she asked in the manner of a matron summoning small boys to cold showers.
‘Er . . . yes,’ said her husband, in a voice as thin as his lips. ‘We did meet once.’ Then, with a ferociously pathetic flash of his eyes, he pleaded, ‘Didn’t we, Carole?’
She could see the relief flood his body as she confirmed that this was indeed the case. Carole had no intention of embarrassing Barry Stilwell further. The pleasure of watching him squirm was quite sufficient; she didn’t need anything else. Since the attraction between them was all in his mind, she felt emotionally untouched by the encounter. But she was amused by the speed with which he left her and moved on to greet other Pillars and their womenfolk.
For Carole, the crowning glory of the moment was Pomme’s dress. Its inspiration was vaguely Spanish. Under a tiny scarlet silk waistcoat, her huge body was swathed in frills and swirls of a midnight-blue material, braided in red piping from which dangled fluffy red bobbles of wool. Yes, it was actually true. Pomme was wearing pom-poms.
Brenda Chew approached, with an anxious-looking Sandra Hartson in tow.
‘I think we’d better go through t
o the dining room. I’ll tell people. You’d have thought the hotel staff’d do that, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone here.’ This was characteristically unjust, since Carole had heard Suzy Longthorne offering the service.
‘I don’t know where Bob’s got to,’ said Sandra. ‘He was bringing Kerry.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He should be here by now.’
‘Don’t know where Donald’s got to either. He’s drifted off somewhere.’ But Brenda Chew didn’t sound very concerned about her husband’s whereabouts. She’d said she didn’t want him around if he was drunk, so Donald Chew had made himself scarce.
Brenda started shepherding Pillars and womenfolk through to the dining room, so Carole followed Sandra out into the hall. ‘Did you say your husband was picking Kerry up?’
‘Yes, from her flat. Ridiculous, isn’t it, a girl of her age having her own flat in Brighton?’
Interesting to hear this common first reaction being voiced by the girl’s own mother. ‘But presumably you’re not far away?’ suggested Carole. ‘You can keep an eye on her.’
‘Yes, one or other of us drops in most days. Well, Bob more often than I do, I suppose . . .’ Sandra Hartson seemed to lose her way.
‘I’m surprised to hear Kerry’s coming this evening.’
‘Not her usual idea of entertainment, I agree. But we needed to make up the table, and Bob asked her. At first we got all the adolescent whingeing about how she’d be bored out of her skull, but when she heard that Rick Hendry was going to be here . . .’
As if cued by Sandra’s words, at that moment her daughter came in through the hotel’s front doors with her stepfather, whose arm was draped lightly round the girl’s bare shoulders. Kerry’s little black dress showed how much easier it was for a woman to look stunning at fifteen than when she reached the age of the Pillars’ womenfolk.
Only a step behind father and stepdaughter came the unmistakably lanky figure of Rick Hendry. His evening dress was entirely conventional, except for the grey silk of his shirt.
‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Sandra Hartson tautly.
