The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  Kitted out in his chef’s gear, like a cowboy drawing his six-shooters, Max Townley slipped a couple of heavy-bladed knives out of their slots and started to chop fresh carrots on the butcher’s block. His movements were slick from experience, and flamboyant by choice. He was a chef who, when he was working, welcomed—and played up to—an audience. Jude recalled some talk of his being considered for a television series, of a pilot programme about to be made, but she’d never heard the outcome. She could imagine Max Townley successful in the role. His sulky good looks, his showmanship and waspish tongue might be just what a television scheduler wanted in the ever-more-desperate search for new ways of dressing up images of food.

  Wearily, Suzy Longthorne stretched out her long, perfect body till it was a straight line between chair seat and back. Then she snapped upward to her feet. “Must get on. They’ll be coming soon. Kerry’s supposed to be laying the tables. She must be finished by now.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, Jude. Yes, give me a hand with a bit of set-dressing.”

  Max Townley was now singing to himself. Quite a tuneful version of “Boiled Beef and Carrots” Maybe that was another part of his sales pitch for the television moguls. The Singing Chef. God knows, thought Jude as she followed Suzy out into the hall, they’ve tried every other kind.

  Some of the tables in the restaurant had been locked together to make a twenty-seater for the Pillars of Sussex. The basic laying-up had been started, but apparently abandoned. The table settings were certainly not yet ready for those final touches that Suzy Longthorne alone could provide. Of Kerry, the table-layer, there was no sign. Suzy and Jude exchanged a puzzled look.

  Alerted by a clink of glass, the hotel’s owner led the way through to the darkened bar area. In the dim light behind the bar, Jude could see a slight blond girl in a black-and-white waitress’s uniform, standing guiltily with a balloon of brandy in her hand.

  “What the hell’re you doing, Kerry?” Suzy snapped. “I’ve told you before, you’re not to drink on duty!”

  “I h-had to,” the girl stuttered. “I was so shocked.”

  She pointed across to an armchair where slumped the substantial figure of a balding elderly man.

  “I’ve never seen a dead body before.”

  4

  SUZY LONGTHORNE APPEARED unfazed and reached for a light switch. As she did so, the crumpled figure in the armchair stirred blearily.

  “Dead body, Kerry?”

  The girl shuffled awkwardly and put down her glass. “It was dark. I just thought . . . He looked dead. I’ll go and help Max.” Seizing the excuse like a lifeline, she rushed out of the room.

  Suzy’s beautiful eyes narrowed. “Little liar,” she murmured. “Mind you, that was a new excuse.”

  Then why do you keep her on? Jude was about to ask, but the man in the armchair had risen to his feet, embarrassed by having been caught—literally—napping. He swept his hand across his forehead as if to straighten the hair that was long gone.

  “I’m so sorry, ladies. Arrived early. Must’ve nodded off.” His voice aspired to, but didn’t quite achieve, a patrician bonhomie.

  He was in his sixties, dressed in a striped three-piece suit of an earlier generation, and wore a tie with red, blue and white striations, which didn’t quite manage to look regimental. The watch-chain bridging his waistcoat pockets established him as something of a poseur. In his lapel buttonhole gleamed the dull gold of a badge which neither woman recognised as the prized insignia of the Pillars of Sussex.

  “I’m Suzy Longthorne. And this is Jude.”

  Fastidiously, he took the hotelier’s hand. Unlike most men she met, he didn’t add that extra pressure that beautiful women learn to live with. “Donald Chew. We spoke on the phone. I’m outgoing president.” He left a gap for an impressed reaction. Receiving none, he went on, “And of course we have met here before, haven’t we?”

  Suzy smiled polite acknowledgment of this, though she didn’t look as though their previous encounter had made much impression on her.

  “Always know we’ll be well looked after at Hopwicke House. Excellent food”—he nodded across the hall—“and of course your wonderful cellar.” He cleared his throat. “Thought I’d come along a little early to check the arrangements. No one around, so I toddled through here and . . . just d-dozed off.”

  The slight hesitation suggested he had got himself in training for the evening’s dinner with a heavy lunch.

  “I think you’ll find everything is as we agreed, Mr. Chew. The table isn’t fully set yet, but we’re just about to do it.”

  “Fine. I wasn’t really worried. Just felt I should check, you know . . . as outgoing president.”

  “Of course. Well, we’ll serve drinks to your members in here . . .”

  A glint came into his eye. “Is the bar actually open now?”

  “The bar’s open to residents at all times,” said Suzy, moving behind the counter. “Could I get you something?”

  “Large one of those wouldn’t hurt.” He pointed to the bottle of Famous Grouse. “With the same amount of tap water.” He guffawed meaninglessly. “Start as I mean to continue, eh?”

  “And then would you like to check into your room, Mr. Chew?” asked Suzy, as she handed his drink across.

  “No hurry. If you just let me have the key, I’ll find my own way.”

  “Of course.” She went to fetch it from the set of pigeonholes on the wall behind the reception desk. In the brief ensuing silence, Donald Chew made no attempt to say anything to Jude.

  Suzy returned and handed him a key with a heavy brass fob. “Would you excuse us, Mr. Chew? I’ll just finish the table settings and when they’re done, I’ll call you and you can check that everything’s all right.”

  “Fine.” Slumping back into his armchair, he tapped his breast pocket. “Got the seating plan in here. Very important. Can’t have a New Pillar sitting nearer the president than an Ancient Pillar.”

  Suzy Longthorne smiled acknowledgement of what a solecism that would be, and returned to the dining room, with Jude in tow. Donald Chew’s voice followed them, “And if I want another drink, I’ll just shout.”

  “Yes. Or ring the bell at reception.”

  Once again Jude was struck by the dignity with which her friend fulfilled her menial role. Even in her most highflying days, Suzy Longthorne had maintained a core of pragmatism. Though many men had spoiled her, she had never let herself be spoilt. Suzy was well enough grounded to bear stoically whatever fortune might throw at her.

  She looked at the unfinished table setting without overt annoyance, and started to align knives and forks from the cutlery tray. “Could you ask Kerry to come and help?”

  Jude nodded. “And should I be getting into my kit?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Jude grinned. “I always wanted a part in Gosford Park.”

  As she approached the kitchen door, she could hear Kerry talking. About her favourite subject.

  “I mean my voice is definitely good enough, and I know I’m better looking than most of the girl singers you see on Top of the Pops, but in television you’ve got to get that one lucky break.”

  “Tell me about it,” Max was saying, as Jude entered the kitchen.

  The relaxed way in which Kerry lolled at the table, chatting to the chef, confirmed what Jude had suspected, that the girl’s talk of a dead body in the bar had been a spur-of-the-moment fabrication, a cover-up for her brandy-sipping. According to her boss, Kerry, in spite of her age, had a propensity for sampling the goods in the bar; she’d been ticked off more than once about it.

  “Suzy wants some help in the dining room.”

  Elaborately lethargic, the girl rose to her feet. She was wearing the uniform that Jude was shortly to don, a long black dress with a white, lace-fringed apron. By the time the guests arrived, they would both be wearing white lacy mob-caps as well. Kerry’s confidence about her looks was justified. She was a l
ittle below average height, but generously rounded, with that glow that young women exude when they’ve finally put the awkwardness of adolescence behind them. Her naturally beautiful skin and blond hair were enhanced respectively by skillful makeup and expensive cutting. Her manner implied a precocious sexuality, though Jude had no idea whether the image was backed up by actual experience. In her Edwardian black, Kerry looked good and knew it. Lolita in fancy dress.

  Jude herself wasn’t particularly keen on being kitted out like a refugee from Upstairs, Downstairs and a thousand other television series, but that was Suzy’s house style, so she went along with it. The only advantage she could see, with an evening of drunken Pillars of Sussex ahead, was that none of them could put a hand up her skirt.

  “All right. I’ll go,” said Kerry, as if the most unreasonable request in the world had just been foisted on to her, and slouched out of the kitchen.

  As the door swung back and forth in her wake, Jude caught the sardonic eye of Max Townley. “Attitude problem . . . ?” she suggested.

  “Whatever it is, Suzy’s stuck with it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t you know who Kerry’s Dad is?”

  Jude shook her head.

  “Well, stepfather, actually. Bob Hartson.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Big local property developer. Often seen buzzing around in a chauffeur-driven Jaguar. You’ll see him tonight. He’s one of the bloody Pillocks of Sussex. And he’s bailed Suzy out.”

  “What?”

  “She’s had a bit of a cash crisis in the last six months . . .”

  “I knew that, but I didn’t know how serious it was.”

  “Serious enough for her to look for an investor. Bob Hartson obliged. Which means that if he wants Suzy to teach his useless daughter the hotel trade—or if he wants her to do anything else for him—then that’s what Suzy has to do.”

  While Jude was taking in the implications of this, the chef changed tack. “How long have you known Suzy?”

  “Goodness . . . Thirty years? Nearly forty now, I suppose.”

  “And did you know her through media connections?”

  “It’s so long ago that in those days the word media was hardly invented. But yes, I suppose, I met Suzy through the fashion world.”

  “Did you work in television too?”

  “A bit.”

  “And are you still in touch with people from those times?”

  “A few, yes. Friends like Suzy. Some others . . .”

  “Because what I really wanted to ask you, Jude, was—”

  But Max Townley never got to his question, because the door banged open to readmit a heavily sighing Kerry, suffering the unjust imposition of having to fetch more side plates.

  As Suzy Longthorne had anticipated, for drinks before dinner most of the Pillars of Sussex favoured pints of beer. At least, maybe some of them would have preferred something else, but drinking pints of beer before dinner was a necessary component of their masculine ritual.

  So Suzy was kept busy behind the counter, pulling pints, and Jude was kept busy handing them round and taking orders, a system that avoided a crush at the small bar. The dinner was scheduled to start at eight, and at ten past Suzy asked Jude to warn Max Townley she was about to usher the Pillars through to the dining room.

  In the kitchen Max and the spotty youth who glorified in the title of sous-chef where rushing around in a panic of preparation, while Kerry sat at the table pontificating on the merits of the current Top Twenty. In front of her there was an open bottle of wine the chef had been using for cooking. As Jude came in, Kerry pushed it away, as though she hadn’t just been taking a surreptitious sip.

  “Are you set, Max? Suzy wants to send them through.”

  “Bloody hell! Why doesn’t she ever give me enough notice?”

  “The dinner was meant to be at eight.”

  “Yes, but . . . Kerry, have you put all the bloody starters out?”

  “I will,” replied the girl, once again put-upon.

  “They should bloody be there!”

  “I’ll help,” said Jude, and passed Kerry a tray of stuffed field mushrooms from one of the heated cupboards.

  Kerry rose complaining from her seat, but at that moment the door from the hall opened and she lost all interest in the dinner. “Hello, Geoff. Is Dad here?” she asked excitedly.

  The man who had entered, without knocking, did not wear a uniform but his dark suit instantly spoke the word chauffeur. He was short, thickset and balding; his features sagged, as though they had melted in excessive heat.

  Kerry’s manner toward him was one of indifferent acceptance, treating him like some kind of fixture or fitting.

  “Your dad’s just freshening up in his room. I’m wondering where I’m going for the night.” He nodded at Max Townley. “I’m Geoff, Bob Hartson’s driver.”

  “And what do you think you’re doing, just walking into my kitchen?”

  “It’s where the chauffeur always goes, in the kitchen,” the driver replied evenly. “It’s his proper place. While the boss eats the posh grub in the dining room.”

  “Oh, shit!” said the chef gracelessly. “I’m not meant to be feeding you too tonight, am I?”

  “No, I don’t want your ponced-up nosh. I’ll go down the pub and get something with chips. Then I’ll come back and play on my Gameboy, so if anyone can show me which room I’m in, I’ll be fine.”

  “Be in the stable block,” said Kerry. “I’ll show you.”

  “Bloody stable block?” the driver objected. “What’s this? Staff quarters? I thought if I got to stay in this poncy gaffe, at least I’d get a decent room.”

  “That’s where Suzy’s put you, Geoff. I suppose I could have a word and see if there’s a room in the hotel where—”

  “No,” Jude interposed firmly. “Suzy’s got quite enough on. If that’s the room she’s allocated, then you’d better stick with it.”

  The driver shrugged, unworried. His protest had only been for form’s sake. Always worth trying, like asking for an upgrade on an aeroplane. Sometimes it actually worked.

  Kerry took him out through the back door to the stable block.

  At that moment, Suzy Longthorne came in from the dining room. “Okay. We’re off!”

  5

  “I AM BOB Hartson, a Pillar of medium height . . .” a ripple of knowing laughter greeted this sally. Kerry’s stepfather was a tall man with the muscle-bound body of a retired wrestler. The corrugated face beneath his corrugated grey hair was red and unvisited by imagination.

  “ . . . and I would like to introduce to the Pillars of Sussex my guest—Mr. Nigel Ackford.”

  His sponsor looked on indulgently, as the young man at the far end of the table rose unsteadily to his feet. His suit was perhaps a little too sharp and his tie a little too pastel for the tastes of some of the guests, but he said what protocol demanded of him.

  “I am very honoured to be here, even at the pediment of the great Pillars.”

  The formula was greeted by raucous laughter and wild applause, disproportionate to any possible interest or wit in what had just been said. Jude doggedly continued clearing the sweet dishes.

  In the remains of one sherry trifle a cigarette butt had been stubbed. Max wouldn’t like that. It wasn’t the first thing of the evening Max wouldn’t like. Normally, he would have returned home by this time, and missed seeing the latest insult to his cuisine, but that evening he had tried to neutralise his anger by drinking vodka. The ploy hadn’t worked—the alcohol seemed to make him even testier—but it had ensured that he’d stay the night in one of the staff rooms. He might not have cared about the dangers to himself, but there was no way he was going to put his precious Ducati at risk from drunken driving.

  Donald Chew, by now almost comatose with drink, smiled on approvingly as the current president rose to his feet to reply to the young guest. James Baxter wore the heavy, overelaborate chain, which had until rece
ntly hung around Donald Chew’s neck. Baxter had spent his life in local government, working mostly in the planning department, and was seeing out his last couple of years before retirement in a job where, in spite of a fine-sounding title, he could do little harm. His main professional duty now seemed to be lunching, and he took disproportionate pride in being president of the Pillars of Sussex. He cleared his throat portentously before his reply.

  “Your words are pleasing to the highest Pillar of Sussex. Welcome, and may you enjoy our dinner.”

  Since they’d already finished eating, this didn’t seem to make sense, but Jude had much earlier in the evening realised that logic played little part in the protocol of the Pillars of Sussex.

  “And tell me, Mr. Ackford,” the president rumbled on, “a little of yourself . . . or of those details which you are willing to share with the Pillars of Sussex.”

  This was greeted by another automatic ripple of hilarity. Not for the first time, Jude wished she understood the rituals of male laughter. Its triggers seemed to have nothing to do with the humour of what had just been said; there were just certain prompts which, in an all-male assembly, required an immediate responsive guffaw. How to recognise these prompts Jude had no idea; she reckoned she never would—been born the wrong gender.

  Trifle dishes balanced up her arm, a skill mastered in her late twenties when she’d run a café, Jude made her way back toward the kitchen. As she left, she heard Nigel Ackford begin to present his professional credentials to the assembled Pillars.

  “After being educated at Portsmouth Grammar School, and studying Law at the University of Bristol, I was articled to Renton & Chew in Worthing . . .” A rumble of appreciative recognition greeted the name. Donald Chew was his boss. The young man moved in the right circles. He was one of them. “I qualified as a solicitor two years ago, and was fortunate enough to be kept on by Renton & Chew, working mostly at the moment on the conveyancing side, though I hope in time to expand my portfolio of skills to include . . .”

  When Jude and Suzy returned to the dining room with the coffee, the rituals were over. Guests had been welcomed, a new member initiated, and a toast drunk to “Pillars Past, Pillars now standing, and Pillars yet to be erected.” The wording of this last invocation, innocently coined in the late nineteenth century, was followed by the obligatory sniggering guffaw that in such company greets any form of the word erect.