The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  “Well, I’m amazed.”

  “Yes. I . . . erm . . . I knew you would be.”

  “But you are going to change your will now?”

  “Oh yes. Yes, absolutely. I am. And that’s the point. I thought I ought to tell you.”

  “There was no need. Since it never occurred to me that I might still be a beneficiary.”

  “No . . . erm . . . it’s the way I’m going to change it that is the point.”

  “Ah?”

  “I’m going to skip a generation.”

  “Sorry? You’ll have to explain.”

  “Well . . . erm . . . the way I see it, Stephen is very well set up for himself, with his work.” Whatever that may be, thought Carole, yes. “And he’s obviously going to be much better set up when he’s married Gaby.” Another indicator that her future daughter-in-law came from moneyed stock. Two incomes. Or at least was well paid for what she did. “So I’m going to . . . erm . . . change my will to leave everything to their children.”

  “But they haven’t got any children.”

  “Yet. And, all right, they may never have any. The terms of my will take that into account. If they don’t have any children, then everything’ll go straight to Stephen and Gaby. But if they do . . . erm . . . it’ll be divided amongst them . . . the children.”

  “Right.”

  “I thought that would be the prudent course to take. Avoid two sets of inheritance tax.”

  “Yes, well . . . very prudent. If Stephen and Gaby are happy with the arrangement . . .”

  “They are. I’ve discussed it with them, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “So I was wondering, Carole, if . . . erm . . . you might be thinking of doing the same.”

  “Leaving my money to these . . . erm . . . conjectural grandchildren?” Oh God, she was doing it now.

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, David, but . . . well, it’s certainly something to consider.”

  “It is. Is there a solicitor who you deal with at the moment?”

  Carole almost found herself giggling. But she didn’t think her ex-husband was yet ready to hear about the oleaginous advances of Barry Stilwell.

  “Because I . . . erm . . . I did my will through Humphrey . . . you know—?”

  “Yes.” Their former mutual solicitor, who had represented David in the divorce. Carole certainly wasn’t going to deal with him. Humphrey was symbolic of a period in her life she wished to blank out completely.

  “But perhaps you wouldn’t want to . . . erm . . . ?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Carole agreed hastily. “No, if I decide to go ahead with the change, I’ll use someone down here.” And it wouldn’t be Barry Stilwell. The thought of his having a professional reason to lure her into his new office was not to be contemplated.

  “Right. Well . . . erm . . . good to hear your voice.”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t in all honesty reciprocate. Hearing David’s voice had set all kinds of unwelcome thoughts running through her head and would, she knew, disturb her sleep that night.

  “And . . . erm . . . if not before . . . see you on September the fourteenth.”

  “September the fourteenth?” came the baffled echo.

  “The wedding, Carole.”

  “Oh yes, of course. The wedding.”

  Jude had called Inspector Goodchild as soon as Max Townley left the coffee shop. Mobile to mobile, but he was actually in his office at the Worthing Police Station. A short walk. Yes, why didn’t she come round straightaway?

  The fastidiousness and slight condescension in his voice were so familiar she felt that she had met many more times than their two previous encounters. His office was small and institutional, but somehow contrived to look soigné. A couple of well-tended potted plants and a photograph—not, predictably, of family, but of a Scottish beach—added to the distinction given by his almost foppish charcoal suit. The image resolutely denied that Inspector Goodchild was a standard-issue, insensitive copper.

  Jude refused the offer of tea or coffee. He gave her an avuncular look and linked his hands on the desk in front of him. “So, Jude, what have you got to tell me? Something new, I hope?”

  “Yes. Well, new to me, anyway.”

  He chuckled, and she realised this had been the wrong thing to say. Of course, Goodchild’s look seemed to imply, we in the police have rather more information to hand than a mere amateur could possibly accumulate. Jude’s words had put her on the back foot right from the start of the interview.

  “So, what breakthrough do you wish to confide in me, Jude?”

  “Just that the Pillars of Sussex were not the only people staying on the Hopwicke House site on the night of Nigel Ackford’s death.”

  The Inspector gave her a shrewd look, as though she had told him something he hadn’t been expecting, but then let his face relax into a smile. “So who are we talking about here?” he asked blandly, before siphoning all wind out of her sails. “Miss Longthorne’s ex-husband. ‘Television’s Mr. Nasty?’ Rick Hendry?”

  “Yes,” Jude was forced to admit.

  Inspector Goodchild steepled his hands together and pressed them against his lips, almost as though he were suppressing a laugh. “I’m sorry, Jude. We do rather have the advantage, you know. You see, appealing and charming though the concept of the amateur detective may be, investigation is actually our job. When we in the force make enquiries, generally speaking people tell the truth. So, though at the time of their stay none of the Pillars of Sussex may have had any idea that they were so close to Mr. Hendry, Miss Longthorne told me he had been there as soon as I asked her whether any other people were staying on the premises.”

  “I suppose she would have done,” Jude mumbled in her humiliation.

  “Yes. She’s a very honest woman.”

  Not to me she hasn’t been. But the thought only made Jude more aware of the gulf between her own amateurism and the police’s professional information-gathering resources.

  “But congratulations,” Inspector Goodchild went on, with a smile of condescension. “Well done for working that out.” He stopped as a thought struck him. “Why, may I ask, did you think Mr. Hendry’s presence so important? You weren’t about to suggest that he murdered Mr. Ackford, were you?”

  “No,” Jude growled disconsolately.

  “Good.” Then, with a new hardness in his voice, he continued, “Because I would really discourage you from throwing around accusations of murder. That’s the point where your little games cease to be harmless. You might find yourself in court on charges of defamation.”

  The moment of censure was allowed to register before the Inspector’s mocking smile returned. “So, any other information—or indeed suspicions—you want to share with me?”

  Jude decided she might as well press on. She couldn’t make Goodchild’s estimation of her any lower than it already was. Contrary to popular advice, in some holes you might as well keep digging.

  “All right. What about Bob Hartson’s chauffeur, Geoff?”

  “What about him?” The smile played infuriatingly about his lips. “Are you about to drop the bombshell that he was also at Hopwicke House that night?”

  “Well, yes, I . . .”

  “This is so kind of you, Jude . . . to have gone to so much trouble. Yes, we do know that Mr. Hartson’s chauffeur was there. He slept in the staff quarters . . . the converted stable block—”

  “But—”

  “And his movements can be vouched for all the time he spent on the premises.”

  “By whom?”

  “Mr. Hartson himself, and his daughter Kerry.”

  “Ah well, you’d expect them to—”

  “And Miss Longthorne herself,” the Inspector concluded implacably.

  Jude felt like a schoolgirl hauled up in front of the head teacher. And with no defence. She had done what she was being accused of.

  And Goodchild gave her a full, head-teac
herly dressing-down for her breach of the rules. Drawing to a close, he said, “It is deeply irresponsible to make random accusations. After a death, people are, not unexpectedly, hurt and confused. They need to grieve, not to have their pain compounded by the insensitive probings of amateurs. So I would ask very firmly, Jude, that you and your friend immediately cease any further investigation into this unfortunate young man’s death.”

  Jude still had just enough defiance left in her to demand, “So that you can get your nice safe suicide verdict at the inquest?”

  “The inquest has already happened,” he coldly informed her. “As I anticipated, it was adjourned to give us time to gather together our evidence. When that is presented at the reconvened inquest, the coroner will form his own opinion as to the cause of Mr. Ackford’s death.”

  He didn’t say it out loud, but Jude knew Inspector Goodchild would have bet his pension on a verdict of suicide.

  The shingle of Fethering Beach crunched beneath their feet. The sea gargled against the sand. Gulliver, quixotically determined to rid the world of seaweed, traced eccentric circles around them. The April sun was paling now, but earlier in the afternoon it had held the promise of summer.

  The decision to walk on the beach had been vindicated. Jude, furious after the humiliation of her encounter with Inspector Goodchild, had suggested going straight to the Crown & Anchor for a drink, but Carole’s inbuilt Calvinist streak demanded a walk first. Then they would have earned a drink. Rather as her grandmother would make her have a slice of plain bread and butter before she was allowed one with jam.

  “I think I’m going to have to confront Suzy,” Jude announced grumpily. “Now I know that Rick Hendry was there that night. I bet it was him who called her on the mobile.”

  Carole sniffed. She was still feeling raw and exposed after the call from David. Her pale blue eyes blinked behind their rimless glasses. “I can see that it’s interesting, the fact that he was there, but I don’t see how it can possibly have anything to do with the death of Nigel Ackford.”

  “If it doesn’t, why would Suzy want to keep it quiet?”

  “That doesn’t take much working out. If she’s as paranoid about publicity as you say, the last thing she wants is the tabloids knowing her ex-husband had been there. Particularly at a time when they’re already sniffing around him over this underage sex thing.”

  “True. So you reckon it’s just a coincidence he was at Hopwicke House the night of the death?”

  “I haven’t got enough information to reckon anything,” Carole replied rather tartly. “But I find it pretty unlikely that someone like Rick Hendry would have any dealings with the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “Yes, it’s hard to see an obvious connection . . .”

  “Jude, it’s hard to see even an extremely obscure connection. The two worlds couldn’t be further apart.”

  “And yet they did come together that night at Hopwicke House . . . at least, geographically.” Jude stopped walking and her brown eyes thoughtfully scanned the waters of the English Channel. “I’ll ring Suzy when I get home. We’ve got to sort this out.”

  “Yes.” Carole looked a little wistful. “And I can’t really come with you when you confront her . . .”

  “No. We’re old friends. The meeting has got to be handled with great delicacy and sensitivity.”

  The minute she’d said the words, Jude knew they were the wrong ones. Carole, already bristling, bristled further. “And of course I haven’t got anything in the way of delicacy or—”

  “I didn’t mean that. Just . . . Suzy and I go back a long way. If she’s going to talk to anyone, she’ll talk to me.”

  “And probably lie to you again.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “Huh.” Carole’s feathers hadn’t yet been satisfactorily smoothed down. “I wish there was something useful I could do.”

  “But there is. You can get more information on the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “How?”

  “Come on, Carole. Your ex-husband advised you to consult a solicitor about your will.”

  “Yes, but if you think I’m going to get into a professional relationship with Barry Stilwell, you can—”

  “Who said anything about Barry Stilwell? There’s another solicitor, very conveniently also based in Worthing, who’s a Past President of the Pillars.”

  A smile sweetened Carole’s sour face. “Yes, of course. Donald Chew.”

  “All right, Jude,” Suzy agreed with surprising readiness when her friend rang. “Let’s talk. Do you fancy lunch in London?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ve got to go up for a couple of meetings, and a bit of body maintenance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hair, facial, nails, massage. Staving off the ravages of time.”

  “You still look great, Suzy.”

  “Maybe.” As an acknowledged beauty for as long as she could remember, Suzy Longthorne had never been winsome about accepting compliments. “But getting to look great takes a little bit longer every day.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Jude automatically, though the line wasn’t really appropriate for her. She didn’t work hard on her appearance. She was overweight and, in her layers of floaty garments, at times looked downright scruffy. But it didn’t bother her. She wasn’t terribly interested in people who let that kind of detail put them off. “Okay, where shall we meet?”

  Suzy Longthorne named an exclusive women’s club in Mayfair.

  “Renton and Chew.” The voice was very carefully modulated, its natural vowels corralled into middle-class receptionist-speak.

  “Good morning. My name is Carole Seddon, and I wanted to talk to someone about making a change to my will.”

  “Certainly. And who have you dealt with before, Mrs. Seddon?”

  “No one. This is my first contact with your firm.”

  “Right. And could you tell us, Mrs. Seddon, how you came to hear about Renton & Chew? Was it through seeing an advertisement, personal recommendation, or just random selection from the Yellow Pages or similar listings directory?”

  God, thought Carole, is there anywhere left in the world where you can avoid questionnaires? “It was through personal recommendation.”

  “Excellent, Mrs. Seddon. That means we must be doing something right.” But the words didn’t sound spontaneous. The receptionist was still sticking to her script. “Well, Mrs. Seddon, perhaps I could put you through to Donna High-stone, who is very experienced in matters of wills and—”

  “The personal recommendation I had was for Donald Chew.”

  “Ah. Yes, well, Mr. Chew himself is very busy at the moment with—”

  “The recommendation came from someone connected with the Pillars of Sussex.”

  Having worked out the lies she was going to tell, Carole was not about to deviate from her chosen course. What she said did have the desired effect. There was an impressed “oh” from the other end of the line. “Perhaps I should have a word with Mr. Chew then. . . . May I ask, Mrs. Seddon, the name of the person from the Pillars of Sussex who gave you the recommendation?”

  “Nigel Ackford,” Carole announced, exactly according to plan.

  “Ah. Um, well, er . . .” The receptionist’s script was now out of the window. So was her assumed accent, as she floundered on. “Um. Tell you what, Mrs. Seddon, I’ll speak to Mr. Chew. And maybe you got a number what I can call you back on?”

  21

  THE EXTERIOR OF Suzy Longthorne’s club looked like an eighteenth-century private house. But given its Mayfair location, very few British private citizens could have afforded to live there, even if the property didn’t include a swimming pool in the basement, first-floor gym suite, second-floor beauty salon and top-floor restaurant with a panoramic view across the roofs of London.

  Nor indeed could many private citizens have afforded the annual subscription, which, as it happened, Suzy didn’t pay. When the premises opened in the late eighties, she a
nd various other famous faces had been offered life membership to enhance the club’s image and ensure celebrity-studded press coverage for the launch. Few of the other honorary members had continued to use the facilities, but Suzy Longthorne, as ever recognising a bargain when she saw one, was a regular visitor. Her trips to London were essential breaks from the pressures of running Hopwicke Country House Hotel, and a necessary part of what she had described as her “body maintenance.”

  Suzy had already put in an hour’s swimming and an hour in the gym by the time Jude arrived for lunch. She had also been massaged and had her facial. The glowing skin, with her hair swept back in a bandana, showed off the natural beauty of her cheekbones. The afternoon’s schedule would include hairdresser and manicurist. Then she would be back in time to spread the largesse of her loveliness over the evening’s diners at Hopwicke House.

  Though the club’s membership was exclusively female, men were allowed in as guests, and so the top-floor dinning room looked just like any other exclusive restaurant. The chef had, in fact, been recently poached from one of London’s most fashionable eateries, and the menu proffered to Jude was both lavish and exciting. In spite of all the equipment on the lower floors, the club had no pretensions to be a health farm. Its raison d’être was the pampering of its members. Those who got pleasure from depriving themselves were at liberty to pursue that course; those who enjoyed self-indulgence were equally free to follow their desires.

  Suzy chose not to drink alcohol. “I’ll wait for the one I grant myself at the end of the day. Never tastes so good if I’ve had one earlier. But don’t let me stop you.”

  Jude didn’t. She consulted the wine list for half-bottles, but Suzy said it’d be simpler to order a bottle, and there was no demur from her guest. Jude didn’t have anything to do in the afternoon except return to Fethering, and a mild alcoholic haze was the best condition in which to ignore the Third World discomforts of southbound trains from Victoria Station. She was slightly nervous about the forthcoming conversation, and thought a couple of glasses of the excellent New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc Suzy had ordered might relax her.