The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  She was also encouraged by her hostess to use the menu to the full, so again she did, ordering a smoked duck’s breast salad, to be followed by monkfish with spinach and ginger. Suzy limited herself to a rare steak and green salad. She had never gone to the anorexic lengths of some models, but always ate sensibly. And Jude had known her far too long to feel any guilt about eating larger meals in her presence. Suzy Longthorne’s looks remained her fortune and her business equipment, so a proper diet was just another element in her “body maintenance.”

  When they were both settled with a drink, the hazel eyes focused on Jude, and it became clear that Suzy had thought through exactly what she was going to say.

  “First, I owe you an apology. I’ve been less than honest with you, which I shouldn’t have been, because you’ve been my friend for a long time. I value your friendship, and I don’t want to do anything that threatens it. But there are other things I value too. And I don’t have much choice about valuing the hotel. That’s my living, all my savings are tied up in it, and I can’t put it at risk.”

  Jude might have said something at this point, but the pace of Suzy’s narrative did not allow her to. “But I gather, from things you’ve said, you think there was something sinister about that young solicitor’s death. Can I ask what your basis is for thinking that?”

  Jude realised this was the first time that they had really discussed the events of that Tuesday night. Previously, Suzy had cut the conversation short; now she was prepared to listen.

  “All right. My thinking Nigel Ackford might have been murdered is based on things he said to me when I found him drunk and put him to bed. He was very optimistic, he seemed to think he’d turned a corner, both professionally and personally. He told me he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him. And, all right, I know you’re about to say that he had a history of depression and that his mood swings were—”

  “Jude, I wasn’t about to say anything. I know nothing about him. He was simply a young man called Nigel Ackford who was inconsiderate enough to die in my hotel.”

  “Didn’t any of the Pillars of Sussex say anything to you about him?”

  “No. Nothing personal. They just agreed with me that his timing and choice of location couldn’t have been more unfortunate.”

  “And did they ask you to cover up?”

  “They didn’t have to ask, Jude. Every instinct within me wanted to cover up.”

  “So you’d be happy to cover up a murder?”

  Jude stopped, as her duck breast salad was delivered by an impassively handsome young waiter.

  After he’d gone, Suzy giggled, reminding Jude how much she loved her. “You’ve got a great sense of timing. Now he’s overheard that, I’ll probably be asked to leave the club.”

  “Sorry, Suzy.” Jude too giggled at the notion.

  The ice had been broken. Jude felt closer to Suzy than she had since the death had come between them. “Look, you know I want Hopwicke House to succeed for you. I’m not trying to do anything that’ll threaten your business.”

  “I know, Jude, but regardless of whether or not it’s your intention, what you’re doing could threaten my business.” Suzy Longthorne sighed. She wasn’t enjoying holding out on her friend. “Apart from anything else, logic is not on your side. All you’re basing your suspicions on is some drunken rambling from a young man who—you now tell me—had a history of depression and mood swings. If that’s all the evidence there is to support a murder verdict, I’m not surprised the police were happy with suicide.”

  “There is something else. You must remember.”

  But the puzzlement with which Suzy shook her head suggested that she didn’t.

  “The letter. The death threat.”

  She remembered it now. And her expression suggested she’d rather she didn’t.

  “I know you told the police that it didn’t exist, but you can’t say that to me. You and I saw it. And Kerry saw the letter too—she was the one who found it.”

  Reluctantly, Suzy acknowledged this.

  “I haven’t talked to Kerry about it yet, but—”

  “Yet? Jude, what is all this ‘yet’? Are you telling me you are going to continue investigating this case?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I am.”

  Her friend sighed exhaustedly, and looked out over the vista of London. Though the roofs gleamed with April sunshine, to her everything looked bleak. “All right. I can’t stop you. I’ve known you long enough to know nobody can stop you when you’ve got a bee in your bonnet.” The will to resist had gone out of her. “What do you want to ask me?”

  “Which room did Kerry find that note in?”

  The answer came in a long exhalation of despair. “The four-poster room.”

  “And, in retrospect, Suzy, don’t you think that’s significant?”

  “Yes. It probably is.”

  “A note’s left in a room telling someone they’re not going to wake up the next morning, and the next morning the occupant of the room is dead. . . . I think there’s more than a ‘probably’ in that.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Suzy—” Jude’s brown eyes locked on to the famous hazel ones—“do you know what actually happened that night? Do you know how Nigel Ackford died?”

  An impatient shake of the head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, I’m more convinced than ever that he was murdered. . . .”

  The waiter’s timing was immaculate. He just caught Jude’s words as he swept away her salad plate. The conversation must be fun in the kitchen, she thought.

  “If he was, I can guarantee you one thing, Jude. His death had nothing to do with anyone working at the hotel. He brought his trouble with him. He must have offended one of the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “So you’re admitting it’s possible he was murdered?”

  “Possible?” Suzy Longthorne didn’t seem to have a lot of respect for the word. “Anything’s possible. It’s possible that Elvis Presley’s still alive. It’s possible that somewhere Lord Lucan is riding Shergar off into the sunset. Possible. But unlikely.”

  “If you just entertain the possibility, Suzy, then you can help me.”

  There was a defeated shrug from the shapely shoulders. “All right, Jude. Against my better judgement. All I really want to do is let sleeping solicitors lie, but—”

  “Funny. That’s exactly the expression Rick used.”

  “Rick?” Suddenly Suzy Longthorne was alive again. And worried.

  “Rick Hendry. Your ex-husband.”

  “You’ve been in touch with Rick?”

  “He rang me.”

  “Why?”

  “Basically, to tell me what you’ve been trying to get me to do for the last week—lay off the investigation.”

  “Oh, God . . .” Suzy sank back in her chair.

  “I know he was at Hopwicke House that night,” said Jude softly.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God,” Suzy Longthorne repeated. Then with a vanquished look at her friend, she asked, “How much else do you know?”

  22

  THE RECEPTIONIST AT Renton and Chew was the one Carole had spoken to on the phone, but her vowels had been reconstituted for their face-to-face encounter. She had rung back very quickly the previous day and fixed an appointment with Donald Chew for eleven o’clock on the Wednesday morning. Carole had brought with her a copy of the post-divorce will, which left everything to Stephen. Even if she didn’t get any information about the Pillars of Sussex or Nigel Ackford’s death, she did still have legitimate business to discharge.

  The offices were smart, in a neat Georgian house in a neat Georgian square near the Worthing seafront. Though extensively modernised, they retained certain quasi-Dickensian features. Windows bulging with asymmetrical panels of glass, narrow creaking staircases, porcelain fingerplates and door handles, the old-fashioned intercom on Donald Chew’s desk, all dated the office’s image, contradicting the evidence of the thin-screened computers, fax machines and photocopiers. Yes
, we’ve got all the latest technology, the message read, but basically we’re still an old-fashioned family firm. Your secrets will be safe with us. We know the world is full of distasteful inevitabilities—like death, divorce and house purchase—but here we will deal with them as discreetly as an embalmer titivating a corpse. We at Renton & Chew exist—as we have for generations—to help you cope with the little nastinesses of life.

  Donald Chew himself reinforced that image. Carole had never met him before, but he was dressed more or less exactly as he had been when Jude saw him asleep in the bar of Hopwicke Country House Hotel. It was a different pin-striped suit, but only Donald himself or his tailor would have known that. Though the nearly regimental tie was not identical to the one he’d worn at the hotel, it was very much of the same school. And the reassuring gold watch-chain that looped across his waistcoat was the original. Carole was reminded of surgeons she had met, who dressed in a way that was almost a parody of how a surgeon should look. Donald Chew’s appearance was part of an act, and Carole believed that everyone who put on an act had something to hide.

  Beneath the hairless dome of his head, in the middle of Donald Chew’s rubicund face was an understanding smile. Again, the reference point was Dickens. Here was the solicitor who, at the end of the book, would make all right, restore the riches to the rightful heir and reveal that there was no legal bar to the young lovers marrying. In Dickens he would have been called something like Mr. Cheerybumble.

  “My dear Mrs. Seddon, how very nice to see you,” he said, all bustling bonhomie. “Now do please take a seat. Can I offer you a cup of coffee or a tea or something?”

  She asked for coffee, which was ordered over the quaint intercom system, and waited to see what happened next. Carole had worked out her plan of campaign and intended to stick to it. The speed with which the senior partner had suddenly become available for their meeting suggested that he had an agenda, arising from her mention of the Pillars of Sussex and Nigel Ackford. At some point he was bound to bring the subject back to that, so all she had to do was pursue the legal enquiry which was the pretext for her presence.

  Pleasantries about the good April weather and winter really being over and the nice view of the sea from his office took them as far as the delivery of the coffee—and some iced biscuits, which Carole refused. The girl from reception acted as waitress. When she was gone, Donald Chew beamed magnanimously and asked, “So, Mrs. Seddon . . . how can I help you?”

  She described the circumstances of her son announcing his engagement—“oh, how delightful, what splendid news for you”—and the thought of changing her will to benefit her potential grandchildren rather than Stephen himself. She didn’t give the idea its proper attribution to David, but since Donald Chew neither knew nor was ever likely to meet her ex-husband, this did not seem unreasonable.

  “Well, that is an increasingly popular course for people to take, Mrs. Seddon, and a very practical one. None of us wants to pay two sets of inheritance tax, do we? And given the value of property these days, many more people are becoming liable for inheritance tax. The only caution I would offer is that it’s important that all parties know what’s going on. There could be unfortunate reactions if, say, your son was unaware of your plans and had been counting on a personal legacy at such a time as—unfortunately but inevitably—you should reach the end of your natural span.”

  “You mean when I die?”

  With the very tiniest wince at her indelicacy, the solicitor acknowledged that that was indeed what he meant.

  “Well, don’t worry about that, Mr. Chew. I would certainly not consider taking such a step without discussing it with my son. In fact, I’m meeting him . . . and his fiancée”—she still didn’t feel natural with the word—“for lunch this Sunday, so that will give me the perfect opportunity to raise the matter with him.”

  “Excellent, excellent. I’m sorry, but I did have to mention the point, to avoid any misunderstanding.”

  “There won’t be any.”

  “Good. Fine. And am I to understand, Mrs. Seddon, that you have already made a will?”

  She confirmed that she had and slid the copy across the desk. Donald Chew quickly scanned the text. “Well, all seems very straightforward. And that’s the only change you wish to make—to nominate your son’s children as the sole beneficiaries rather than your son . . . er, Stephen . . . himself?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I think—”

  He was interrupted by a buzz from the intercom. “Please excuse me, Mrs. Seddon. Yes?”

  The receptionist’s crackly voice said, “Another call from Mr. Floyd at the Fethering Observer, Mr. Chew.”

  “You know I’m in a meeting.”

  “He’s very insistent,” the voice crackled back.

  “Say I’ll definitely fix to meet him next week. I’ll call back in the next half hour.” He switched off the intercom and switched on his professional smile. “So sorry, Mrs. Seddon. Now where were we? Ah yes . . . nominating your son’s children, right. There are no other personal legacies you wish to make at this point?”

  For a brief, insane moment, Carole wanted to leave something to Jude. Nothing big, just a kind of keepsake, to show how much her friendship had been appreciated. But, as soon as she’d had the idea, it felt inappropriate and sentimental. Carole Seddon didn’t do things like that. If Jude wanted to remember her, well and good. There was no need for emotional blackmail.

  “No. No personal legacies,” she replied.

  “Well, the change will be very straightforward,” Donald Chew announced, prompting the knee-jerk thought in Carole: straightforward, yes, but it’ll still involve your coming back for another meeting and a considerable number of solicitor’s working hours added to your bill.

  “What I propose is that I should work out an appropriate form of words and produce a new will document, which maybe if you were to make another appointment for a couple of days’ time, you could come in and check over? It goes without saying that we could get the will witnessed by members of my staff . . . unless you wish to have friends do that service for you?”

  “No, no. Your staff’d be fine.”

  “Good.” He patted his watch-chain with satisfaction and chuckled. “Well, that is, as I believe the young people these days say—‘sorted.’ If only all of the clients who came into this office had such simple problems to sort out.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Chew.” Carole drained her coffee cup. “Should I make an appointment with your receptionist?” She rose as if to leave, confident that he wouldn’t let her go quite so easily.

  He didn’t. “No need to rush away, Mrs. Seddon. I always like to get to know a bit about my clients. Not nosiness, you understand—just so that one feels a personal closeness to the people one is representing in a professional capacity.”

  “Right.” Carole sank back into her chair, waiting to see what would come next.

  “Well, you’re divorced, we’ve established that, and you live in?”

  “Fethering.”

  “Charming spot, charming spot. And still working?”

  Carole gave a brief history of her employment at the Home Office. She knew the solicitor was just playing for time and was interested to see how he’d get round to what he really wanted to talk about.

  Not very subtly was the answer. “My receptionist said you had a connection with the Pillars of Sussex, Mrs. Seddon.”

  “Not a direct connection. Through a friend.”

  “Ah. And that was why you contacted our firm?”

  “It was the first time I’d needed a solicitor since I moved down here. Someone in London dealt with the conveyancing and what-have-you on the Fethering house. I asked for advice from my friend and got a recommendation for Renton & Chew.”

  “Good, good.” But he still didn’t know enough. “And this friend of yours is a member of the Pillars of Sussex, is that right? If so, he must be someone I know.”

  “No, not a member. It’s a s
he.”

  He let out a patronising chuckle. “Oh, then she certainly wouldn’t be. So is she married to a Pillar perhaps . . . ?”

  “No, no, she just met this young man, called Nigel Ackford . . .” The name sent a flicker of paleness across the claret face in front of her. “ . . . and he said he worked for a solicitor and if she ever needed one, she should get in touch with Renton and Chew.”

  “Very gratifying.” But Donald Chew didn’t sound gratified. He looked suddenly less urbane than he had for the rest of their meeting, even perhaps a little confused. Carole could see him evaluating his next move. He had an agenda, she had a feeling it was an agenda which he had been given by someone else. And one of the items on the agenda, she felt sure, was finding out how much she knew.

  Carole decided to toss something his way. “My friend said that Nigel Ackford was a great friend of somebody called . . . Bob Hartson?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure that ‘a great friend’ is quite appropriate, but they knew each other, certainly. Mr. Hartson is another client of this firm.”

  “Oh, so you deal with the legal side of all his property deals?”

  “I suppose that is a way of putting it, yes.”

  Carole pushed a bit harder. Retaining a tone of naiveté, she continued, “My friend says that the Pillars of Sussex is an organisation devoted to professional back-scratching.”

  The description pained Donald Chew. “I think that’s a rather cynical view. The primary purpose of the Pillars is a charitable one. We’ve raised an enormous amount of money in the Sussex area. Recently we’ve been working for a children’s cancer ward at Queen Anne’s Hospital. We’ve raised over a hundred thousand for that—be handing over the cheque at a ceremony next week. If you saw an event like that, you’d perhaps have a more generous view of the Pillars.”

  But Carole was not to be won round so easily. “I am afraid I’m always a bit cynical about male-only organisations.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be. Yes, all right, some of the Pillars’ activities are strictly men-only.” He let out a bluff, masculine laugh. “And we probably do drink more than we should at our dinners. But our womenfolk are involved too.”