The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  “Oh?” Carole didn’t like the concept of “womenfolk,” with its implication that the females belonged to a different tribe.

  “The November Dinner,” Donald Chew went on, “is always a Ladies’ Night . . . for wives, girlfriends and,” he chuckled, “other women in relationships we don’t delve into too deeply. And some of the fund-raising events are organised by the womenfolk. My wife Brenda’s very active for the Pillars. You should talk to her. That’d change your image of the society.”

  “Perhaps I should.”

  “You could actually help her too. Right now she’s organising an Auction of Promises for the Pillars. Happening Saturday week. Brenda’s taken too much on herself, as usual, so she’s in need of willing helpers.”

  “But don’t the willing helpers all have to be wives of Pillars of Sussex members?”

  He pooh-poohed the idea. “Good heavens, no. As long as they don’t mind a bit of hard work—that’s all that matters.” So while for the men, membership of the Pillars of Sussex was an essential passport to their rituals, “womenfolk” didn’t have to pass any tests to be entitled to do the boring bits.

  “As I say, have a word with Brenda. We’re in the book. Only three Chews in the local directory, and we’re the East Preston ones.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “She’ll put you right. Whatever image we may have locally, there’s nothing sinister about the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “But don’t you think any society that’s secretive is bound to get that sort of reputation?”

  The solicitor shrugged. “Maybe. Like the Masons, I suppose. They’ve had their share of bad press. But there’s no basis for those kind of allegations about the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “So it’s not true that a lot of deals get made at the society’s dinners?”

  “Certainly not. The dinners are social functions . . . just opportunities for like-minded people to get together and relax over good food and good wine.” He was now positively Pickwickian in his innocence.

  “I see,” said Carole, apparently retreating. “My friend must’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”

  “Yes, I’m rather afraid she has.”

  “Oh, well. Perhaps I’d better be off.”

  Again she made as if to leave, but again the solicitor detained her. Whatever information he had been delegated to extract, he hadn’t got it yet.

  “Mrs. Seddon,” he began, with an attempt at casualness, “You said your friend knew of some connection between Nigel Ackford and the Pillars of Sussex?”

  “Well, yes. He told her he was going to some Pillars of Sussex dinner, so he must have been a member and—”

  “No, no, Mrs. Seddon. He was a guest, not a member.”

  She shrugged, deliberately provocative. “Same difference, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly not.” He was, as she had intended him to be, affronted. Edging a little closer to what he wanted to find out, Donald Chew went on, “Did you actually meet Nigel Ackford?”

  “No,” she replied, honestly.

  “Mm . . . the fact is . . . this is rather awkward, Mrs. Seddon, but . . . you haven’t heard anything recently about Nigel Ackford, have you?”

  “No,” she replied, dishonestly.

  “Well, I’m afraid I have rather bad news about the poor young man. He is no longer with us.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “He’s dead, Mrs. Seddon.”

  “Oh dear. He was very young.”

  “Not even thirty.”

  “Poor boy. And may I ask, Mr. Chew . . . how did he die?”

  The solicitor smiled a smile of avuncular solicitude. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Mrs. Seddon. But I’m sure we’ll hear in time. Maybe at the funeral . . . which, of course, as his employer, I will attend.” Donald Chew sighed at the unfairness of life. “It’s very sad. Why should someone so young suddenly die?”

  Why indeed, thought Carole.

  23

  AFTER HER LAVISH lunch with Suzy Longthorne, the last thing Jude really felt like was fish pie, but she didn’t want to offend the cook in Carole, so she did her best with her piled plateful. And the new bottle of Chardonnay helped maintain the comforting haze which had been engendered by the lunchtime’s Sauvignon Blanc. She was excited too, and although Carole wanted to talk about her meeting with Donald Chew, Jude was full of what she had learned from Suzy.

  “Rick Hendry was actually staying at the hotel that night! Well, not at the hotel—in Suzy’s barn conversion behind the hotel.”

  “Why? Surely they’re not back together again?”

  “No. It was just Rick living up to his image as the meanest man in rock. He’d been down in Brighton doing auditions for his Pop Crop show, and he wanted to save on accommodation costs, so a free bed at his ex-wife’s place sounded like a good idea. But at least that explains it, doesn’t it?”

  “Explains what?” asked Carole a little testily. She was miffed that Jude’s news had taken priority over hers.

  “Explains the way Suzy’s clammed up over what happened. A death in the hotel would be bad enough publicity, but if it got out that Rick Hendry was on the premises at the time, the tabloids’d be all over her. I can see the headlines now: TV’S MR. NASTY IN DEATH RIDDLE AT EX-WIFE’S HOTEL.”

  Carole tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You said the chef told you he was there?”

  “That’s right. Max.”

  “I wonder who else knew . . .”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Just that you said the girl Kerry was terribly keen on the idea of a career as a pop singer—or whatever they call themselves nowadays. And Rick Hendry’s television show is very influential in launching young singers’ careers.”

  “I see. Yes.” Jude nodded. “Bit of a coincidence. If Kerry did know he was there, she wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to introduce herself. She’s not lacking in self-confidence, that kid. And, actually,” she remembered, “Max said something about taking her to an audition in Brighton.”

  “Maybe you should ask her about it.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.” Jude forked the remainder of her fish pie to the side of her plate. She really had tried, but after that lunch . . . She avoided Carole’s reproachful eye, as she went on, “Still, it makes me feel better about Suzy.”

  “What does? I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

  “Well, as you know, she’s one of my oldest friends—” Carole nodded curt acknowledgement of this fact—“and I hated the idea that she was lying to me, or holding out on me, so Rick’s presence does at least explain her behaviour.” The lines around the brown eyes tightened with frustration. “But I’ve thought it through from every angle, and I still can’t see how Rick being there can have had any connection to Nigel Ackford’s death.”

  “No, of course it can’t. That’s to do with the Pillars of Sussex. Some internal feud or argument there.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right.” Jude looked wistful. “We’re never going to find a connection between Rick Hendry and those wretched Pillars. . . .”

  “No.”

  Jude shook herself out of introspection and looked her friend straight in the eye. “So, tell me about your meeting with Donald Chew.”

  Which Carole did. And Jude heard how the Pillars of Sussex were now even covering up the fact that Nigel had died by suicide. Let alone murder.

  “Well, they can’t keep that up forever. The adjourned inquest will happen at some point. The press’re going to get hold of the story then.” The pile of blonded hair shook gloomily. “Unless of course the coroner is a Pillar of Sussex—or the local newspaper proprietor is—and he’s given his reporters instructions to stay away.”

  “I don’t think that’d be possible,” said Carole, with the authority of her Home Office experience.

  “Hm. I like the idea of a conspiracy theory better.”

  “Well, according to Donald Chew, you shouldn’t entertain any such thoughts. He kept insisting that there’s n
othing sinister about the Pillars of Sussex. Just a charitable organisation with purely philanthropic intentions.” Carole chuckled at the idea as she said, “He was even trying to get me to help his wife with some fund-raiser they’re doing.”

  Jude started at her friend. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Carole, what are you waiting for?”

  Brenda Chew’s voice wasn’t quite the genuine article, but it had been strained through a filter of gentility. “Mrs. Seddon. Yes, of course. How lovely to hear from you. Donald said you might be in touch.”

  Which Carole thought was a little odd. The solicitor’s suggestion had been vague, and she had said nothing about acting on it. An instinct for caution came to her. Did Donald Chew know that her insistence on a meeting with him meant that she was suspicious about the death at Hopwicke Country House Hotel? Had he anticipated her contacting his wife as a continuation of that investigation?

  She didn’t let these thoughts show in her voice, as she went on, “He said you might be glad of some help with this Auction of Promises you’re arranging for the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “Always glad of help,” Brenda Chew agreed. “I’m the last to complain about that kind of thing, but it is remarkable how often I’m the one who ends up making all the arrangements. Lots of people volunteer at the start, but as time goes by, and the real work starts, it’s amazing how many of them find they have other commitments or dates they can’t do or . . . Though, as I say, I’m not complaining. One is just so pleased to be able to do something to help such a good cause.”

  “Yes.” Carole decided it was time for a tactical lie. “Your husband didn’t actually say what the cause was for this particular event . . . ?”

  “Didn’t he? Typical Donald. Dear oh dear, the male of the species never have the command of detail that we do, do they? The Auction of Promises is to help build a cancer patient day centre at Queen Anne’s Hospital.”

  “Oh, Donald mentioned you’d raised money for a children’s cancer ward there.”

  “Queen Anne’s is one of the Pillars’ favourite charities,” said Brenda Chew primly, “but it’s by no means the only one we support. There are a lot of institutions across Sussex which have had cause to be grateful to us over the years.”

  “Admirable.”

  “Yes. But we do most of it very quietly. A big presentation like the hundred thousand for the cancer ward will of course get publicity, but a lot of the Pillars’ charity work is”—she lowered her voice piously—“invisible philanthropy. We don’t usually court public recognition.”

  “Oh well, you can rely on my discretion.”

  “That’s very good to hear, Mrs. Seddon.”

  “Please call me Carole.”

  “Yes, of course. And call me Brenda. Now Donald said you aren’t actually the wife of a Pillar, are you?”

  “No.”

  “So are you married, Carole?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Oh.” It was a long time since Carole had heard so much disapproval of her marital status.

  “And you would have time to help us in our efforts for the Auction of Promises? I only ask because, as I say, people do have a tendency to drop out after a short while.”

  “Yes, I’ve got plenty of time . . .” She stopped herself from saying “on my hands.” That somehow sounded pathetic. “I’m retired.”

  “Oh, good. Well, if you don’t mind leaping in straightaway, my ladies are coming round here for coffee tomorrow morning for a meeting about the auction. Eleven o’clock. Would you be free?”

  Carole assured Brenda Chew that she would be, and confirmed that she knew the address from the phone book. As she put the phone down, the feeling of caution came back to her. Her entrée to the world of Pillars of Sussex womenfolk had been so smoothly achieved, she wondered whether they were as keen to find out about her as she was about them.

  24

  “JUDE?”

  “Yes.”

  She had instantly recognised the voice at the end of the line, but made him go through the process of identifying himself. “Rick Hendry.”

  “Two calls so close from a major celebrity. How exciting.”

  He ignored her sardonic tone. “Listen, I know you had lunch with Suze.”

  “Impossible to have secrets these days, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I like to think it is.” Once again he deepened his voice to concentrate his charm; once again, to her annoyance, a part of her responded. “And that’s really what I’d like to talk to you about, Jude . . .”

  “Talk away.”

  “No, not on the phone. I’d like us to meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think we have mutual interests.”

  “Suzy?”

  “Suzy’s one of them. And Suzy not getting hurt is another.”

  “Keep going.”

  “The rest can wait until we meet. Tomorrow morning all right for you?”

  “Possibly.”

  He ignored the wariness in her response and gave her the address of a hotel conference suite in Brighton. “Eleven o’clock. Ask for me.”

  Jude was annoyed that she’d let herself be steamrollered, but pleased that the meeting had been set up. Rick Hendry had known she’d say yes, partly because she was in the course of an investigation, but also because women rarely said no to him. His arrogance about his magnetism had some justification, and that annoyed Jude even more.

  The Chews’ home in East Preston was a bungalow. The purchase had been prudent, as had everything else in the life of Donald and Brenda Chew. The mortgage had been long paid off, and its accompanying endowment bonus shrewdly invested. Those dividends, together with the extensive pension schemes Donald had set up—not to mention his continuing income from the practice—ensured that the couple lived in considerable splendour.

  Though splendour, of course, was not the same thing as taste—or, at least, not the same thing as Carole’s taste. After only a few moments in the bungalow, she found she was challenging herself to find anything in the lounge to which she would have given house-room. No expert, and fully aware that her own decorative style was minimalist to the point of austerity, Carole still winced at everything that caught her eye.

  None of it was cheap. A great deal of money, and quite possibly the services of an interior designer, had been lavished on the room, but none on a single item which Carole would have bought or even have put on display if it had been given to her by her dearest friend. Carole had never liked windowpanes with swirling designs of lilies on them, or pink curtains ruched like the petticoats of a Toulouse-Lautrec dancing girl. She’d always had an aversion to gold Dralon three-piece suites, and never been that mad on rough brown stone fireplaces with beaten brass surrounds. She disliked porcelain figurines of small children with tears welling from their eyes, had a positive aversion to floppy clowns splaying winsomely out of baskets. And she really hated tasselled velvet picture frames holding photographs textured to look like oil paintings.

  Carole knew that in time the challenge to find something in the house she might have bought would become obsessive. She found herself taking against the door handles and the window catches. Even the windowsills were spoiled by curlicues of gold, and the light switches tarted up with brass and onyx surrounds.

  Competition to this decorative nightmare was offered by her hostess’s dress sense. Brenda Chew was tiny-boned and delicate; mere survival without being crushed by her large husband must be one of the achievements of their marriage. She was wearing a skirt, blouse and cardigan of pastel fluffiness, whose every available edge was beaded with gold braid. Diamond-patterned white tights did little for her thin legs, and her patent leather shoes had large pink bows on them. The impression she gave was of being gift-wrapped rather than dressed.

  But any image of fluffy femininity was dispelled as soon as Brenda Chew spoke. Her voice on the phone had expressed only the imposed gentility, not the steel that lay beneath. “Carole, do let me i
ntroduce you to some of our other ladies. All towers of strength, without whom I could not begin to achieve all that I do.”

  The other ladies, a half dozen of them seated around the room, were mostly around Brenda’s age, sexagenarians on the verge of becoming septuagenarians. They were expensively dressed and cosseted, their faces lined in spite of the large volume of designer creams that had been rubbed into them over the years. Carole got the feeling that few of these ladies had worked for their living. They were of the generation that had played golf, tanned in Spanish villas, brought up children with the help of au pairs, and cooked cordon bleu meals with the bacon that their husbands had so satisfactorily brought home.

  She took in the names as they were introduced, but there was only one who really interested her. She was youngest in the room, in her early forties, ten years younger even than Carole. Expensively dressed, but with more taste than the rest of them. Grey knitted silk top, well-cut white jeans, black boots with high heels. Short blond hair and a family likeness so strong that Carole had identified her before being told the name was Sandra Hartson.

  Her shape and posture shadowed her daughter’s, though Kerry carried herself with more attitude, a stroppier jutting of the hips than her mother’s. Sandra Hartson had probably looked more like Kerry when Bob had married her, but now she was altogether more tentative, even self-effacing, as though her fragile personality had been crushed between the egos of her daughter and her second husband.

  Carole felt a little glow of triumph. She would talk to the woman, get to know her, through her find out more about Bob Hartson. The thought made Carole feel empowered. Up until this point, Jude, because of her connection with Hopwicke Country House Hotel and Suzy Longthorne, had been the dominant partner in their investigation. Contact with Sandra Hartson offered Carole a more equal role in the proceedings.

  But she couldn’t start her probing straightaway. Particularly because no one else was allowed to take the initiative in any room which contained Brenda Chew.