The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  TO CAROLE’S RELIEF, Brenda Chew had not sat her at the same table as Barry and Pomme Stilwell. Throughout a whole dinner, the humour of his discomfiture might have palled.

  Although she wasn’t feeling at ease, Carole could recognise what a good dinner Max Townley had supplied. The Pillars of Sussex had conventional tastes, but, as with the Sunday lunch, the chef had worked subtle refinements on the traditional. Whether he had the personality to project himself on television Carole did not know, but his cooking skills were certainly up to the mark.

  She had been put at the same table as the Chews, though only Brenda was in evidence. At the beginning of the meal, she had said, with what sounded like callous disregard, “Oh, Donald has probably dozed off somewhere. Don’t worry, he’ll turn up.” And that was the last time he had been mentioned. Though his chair remained empty, no one else on the table thought this worthy of remark. And his wife hadn’t time to worry about him. She was too occupied buzzing from table to table, “double-checking” and demonstrating how much hard work she was putting into the evening.

  The other couples at her table didn’t do a lot for Carole. When introduced to the editor of the Fethering Observer, she was hopeful of his having fascinating “stories behind the news” to share, but he proved an extremely dull dog, only interested in counting down the days to his imminent retirement and a life of uninterrupted sea fishing.

  Then there were a Mr. and Mrs. Goodchild—Carole didn’t catch their first names. He was a tall man, apparently a police officer, whose talk was all about golf.

  Another couple were very excited about the preparations for their daughter’s wedding, and, once she’d established that her son was also getting married, Carole managed a bit of conversation with them. But the incredibly detailed knowledge they could bring to the subject of their daughter’s plans only made her realise again how marginalised she was in the lives of Stephen and Gaby.

  One thing Carole had made a point of finding out was the timetable for the evening’s proceedings. She had done her own bit of double-checking with Brenda Chew, and established that, when the coffee arrived, an announcement of a ten-minute “comfort break” would be made and, at the end of that, the auction would begin.

  Carole, who had a lifelong aversion to queuing for the ladies, prudently decided to take the moment of finishing her sweet as a cue to leave the dining room and cross the hall. That should ensure that she reached the limited toilet facilities—only two cubicles in the ladies—before the rush.

  So, as she put the last spoonful of Max’s summer pudding—not exactly the right season, but an ambrosial taste—into her mouth, Carole looked around the room to see if anyone else had anticipated her plan.

  Things looked good. Donald Chew’s seat was still empty. So was Kerry’s, but while his wife looked quietly on, Bob Hartson was regaling his table with some loud anecdote. All of the other Pillars’ womenfolk were in their seats. Rick Hendry was out of the room, and so was Suzy, the latter no doubt directing operations in the kitchen.

  The moment was right. Even if Kerry had gone to the ladies, there would still be one empty cubicle. Carole dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, picked up her handbag and discreetly left the dining room.

  The minute she was in the hall, she saw there was something different. The door opposite the bar, which she had never really noticed before, was open.

  Carole moved across to the entrance, and looked down.

  The cellar light had not been switched on, but enough spilled from the hall chandelier to illuminate the steep steps.

  At the bottom of them lay an inert body. The bald head identified it as that of Donald Chew.

  34

  CAROLE SEDDON’S UPBRINGING did not allow her to make a habit of arriving unannounced on people’s doorsteps at half past ten at night. But this was an exceptional occasion. The lights were still on in Woodside Cottage. And Jude was her friend, for heaven’s sake.

  The white wine was open almost before she’d finished announcing Donald Chew’s death.

  “What happened, Carole? Was the word murder mentioned?”

  “Certainly not. Nor suicide. Plenty of talk of a tragic accident, mind. There was a police inspector there. He took charge of things. Called Goodchild.”

  “Tall man, rather smooth?”

  “Yes,” agreed Carole, surprised.

  “He was the one who investigated Nigel Ackford’s death. Came and talked to me.” Jude looked thoughtful. “So he actually is a Pillar of Sussex . . .”

  “Don’t know that for sure. He could have been someone’s guest. All the members were being encouraged to drum up support from their friends.”

  “But at least he’s close to the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “Yes. Everyone seems to be. The editor of the Fethering Observer was at my table too . . . which might explain the minimal coverage the paper gave to Nigel Ackford’s death.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the same thing happens with Donald Chew.”

  “Not so sure, Jude. He was a respected local figure, a pillar of the local community as well as a Pillar of Sussex. I should think there’d be a big spread about him.”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the exact circumstances of his death were glossed over. ‘Following a tragic accident . . . ,’ that kind of thing.”

  “Probably.”

  “Did Inspector Goodchild actually talk to you, Carole? Or to anyone else?”

  “No. He called out the local police, and said that if further investigations were required, he’d be in touch with us. He had a copy of the guest list and contact numbers.”

  “But he can’t just leave it like that,” Jude protested. “A suspicious death—the second suspicious death at Hopwicke House—that can’t just be shuffled under the carpet.”

  “There wasn’t any suggestion it would be. As I say, everyone was talking about an accident.”

  “It couldn’t have been an accident. That cellar door is always kept locked.”

  Carole shook her head. “Usually it is. But Suzy had left it open tonight. Because of the large party in the dining room she was expecting extra bottles might have to be brought up at some point.”

  Jude looked disappointed. “So, for those who go with the ‘tragic accident’ scenario, what’s supposed to have happened?”

  “All right.” Carole spelled out the Pillars’ of Sussex consensus. “Donald Chew was very drunk. I can vouch for that. I talked to him in the bar before the reception and he was well away.”

  “Did he say anything of interest . . . I mean anything useful to our investigation?”

  “Well . . .” Carole’s thin nose wrinkled as she tried to concentrate. Death had upstaged her memories of the conversation in the bar. “Oh yes. He did explain the threatening note.” She repeated what Donald Chew had told her, concluding, with a rueful nod. “And it all sounds quite feasible. So at least we know where that note appeared from.”

  “Yes. But we don’t know where it disappeared to.”

  “What do you mean, Jude?”

  “Remember, it vanished from Suzy’s apron in the kitchen. Someone must’ve taken it.”

  “Oh yes,” Carole agreed thoughtfully.

  Jude moved on. “Anyway, don’t let’s bother about that for the time being. You were saying Donald Chew was pretty drunk before the dinner?”

  “Yes. His wife Brenda had spotted the signs and told him basically if he couldn’t behave, she didn’t want him around to spoil her big evening. Apparently her acting like that was not uncommon. The Pillars of Sussex seemed to find the spats in their marriage rather an amusing spectator sport. So the theory is that Donald, knowing how drunk he was and not wishing to provoke the wrath of Brenda, went off and fell asleep in the residents’ lounge. Apparently he drops off to sleep quite easily, particularly when he’s in his cups.

  “Then, the theory goes, Donald wakes up and he’s desperate for another drink. The dinner’s in full swing, he knows better than to antagonize his wi
fe, the bar can be seen from the dining room, so the only source of booze he can think of is the cellar. He finds the door open, starts down the steps, loses his footing in his inebriated state and lands head first on the stone floor. End of story—and end of solicitor.”

  “And it was definitely the fall that killed him?”

  Carole shrugged. “Who knows for certain until his body’s been examined by a police surgeon? But amongst the Pillars that was the general assumption.”

  “So how did they react?”

  “With remarkably little emotion, really. The only surprise seemed to be that something like that hadn’t happened to Donald Chew before. They all knew he had a big drink problem.”

  “Any individuals react strangely?”

  Carole shook her head. “No. Well, one or two seemed quite relieved that the evening had been broken up. They’d managed to eat their gourmet dinner, and weren’t going to have to sit through the Auction of Promises.”

  “Yes, I’m quite relieved that no one’s going to take me up on my two-hour kinesiology session.”

  “I thought you were properly qualified,” said Carole, affronted.

  “I am. But it’s a long time since I’ve practised. A bit rusty.” She smiled for a second, then turned serious. “What about Brenda Chew? Was she devastated?”

  “She was, yes.” Carole shook her head in disbelief. “But not because her husband was dead. The way she reacted, you’d think Donald had engineered his death deliberately to scupper the Auction of Promises . . . on which she had worked so far beyond the call of duty. Strange. . . . Probably it was a shock reaction, and she will mourn him in time, but this evening all that seemed to upset her was the fact that she wasn’t going to be presented with her bouquet.”

  “Huh.”

  “Still, at least she will have another event to organise, where once again she can complain that nobody else pulls their weight.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Donald’s funeral.”

  “Thanks, Carole. Very tasteful.”

  Their glasses had mysteriously become empty. Jude refilled them in silence. Then she said, “I’m assuming we don’t accept the accident verdict?”

  Carole was more cautious. “Well, it is possible . . .”

  “Come on.”

  “Oh, very well. No, we don’t.”

  “And, putting the suicide verdict on one side for the moment . . . if it was murder, who could have done it?”

  “You mean who wasn’t in the dining room during the dinner?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Obviously the hotel staff were in and out. I hadn’t seen any of the waitresses before.”

  “Let’s forget them then. Concentrate on the people who were also in the hotel on the night of the first death.”

  “All right. Well, your friend Suzy Longthorne was in and out of the dining room all evening. Max was presumably in the kitchen. Ooh, and I noticed when I left to go to the loo, just before I found the body, Rick Hendry wasn’t in his seat either.”

  “But Bob Hartson was?”

  “Yes, definitely.” As Carole pictured the scene, another recollection came back to her. “Though Kerry wasn’t.”

  “Any idea where she was?”

  “No. Maybe she was in the ladies, but I didn’t see her come out. I mean, as soon as I’d looked down in the cellar and seen the body, I went and found Suzy in the kitchen. Then she told Inspector Goodchild. Quite honestly, from that point everything got chaotic. Kerry and Rick Hendry both reappeared, but I haven’t a clue where they came from.”

  Jude circled a thoughtful finger around the top of her wineglass. “I’m sorry Bob Hartson isn’t in the frame. I’d been moving toward casting him in the role of murderer.”

  “He could have done Nigel Ackford. No way he had anything to do with Donald Chew.”

  “Pity.”

  “I suppose it’s possible that the two deaths are unconnected?”

  This tentative suggestion was immediately blown away. “Do you really believe that?”

  “No,” Carole admitted. “They’re connected.”

  She was offered a rather surprising connection between the deaths the following morning.

  Her phone rang and a voice of anguished embarrassment whispered, “It’s all right. Pomme’s at her mother’s.”

  “Ah,” said Carole. Then, mischievously, “It was a great pleasure to meet her last night. Though unfortunate, of course, that the evening ended as it did.”

  “A tragedy,” said Barry Stilwell. “A terrible tragedy. Awful when anyone dies, but when it’s a fellow solicitor . . .”

  “Doubly awful,” suggested Carole, who was having serious difficulty in not giggling.

  “I have to confess,” he said, with an audible gulp of nervousness, “that I did find yesterday evening rather difficult.”

  “I think being present when someone dies is always difficult.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant earlier in the evening, when I actually saw you and Pomme face to face.”

  “Ah.”

  “It did make me think a bit about . . . what we’re doing.”

  Speak for yourself, sunshine. I’m not doing anything.

  “And I did rather think that, well, Pomme is sometimes a . . . can be jealous at times. And she keeps getting it into her head that I might be . . . chatting up other women . . .”

  With justification, thought Carole. But she stayed silent and let him blunder on. “So I thought . . . we might cool it for a bit . . . if that’s all right with you?”

  Perfectly all right with me, since from my point of view no heat has ever been involved. “Yes, fine, Barry. Do what you think’s best.”

  “Yes, well, er . . . just for the time being.”

  “Mm.”

  “And then, in a little while, when Pomme has, as it were, calmed down . . . we might be able to, er, pick up and . . . who knows?”

  I do, thought Carole firmly. She wondered why he had rung. Nothing had happened the night before to prompt suspicion in the substantial bosom of Pomme. Unless she was one of those wives who is irrationally jealous of every woman her husband even looks at. No, Carole got the feeling Barry’s call had another agenda.

  And she was aware of him edging toward it. “As I say, tragic about poor old Donald.”

  “Tragic.”

  “Terrible how these accidents happen, don’t you agree?”

  “Oh yes.” Carole now knew the direction in which Barry was worming his way. He had once again been set up by someone powerful in the Pillars of Sussex to check out what she and Jude were thinking, whether they had accepted the accidental explanation of Donald Chew’s death. She waited.

  “Erm . . . well . . .” Barry Stilwell wasn’t finding his appointed task easy. Eventually, bluntly, he asked, “You’re convinced it was an accident, Donald’s death, aren’t you?”

  “What’s the alternative?” She wasn’t going to make it any easier for him.

  “Well, erm . . . do I gather you are convinced it was an accident?”

  “No,” said Carole. Let him sweat a bit.

  “Ah. Right.” Her response seemed to have confirmed his worst fears. “Take your point . . . I suppose. There could be a view that it was suicide.”

  “And why would Donald Chew want to commit suicide?”

  “Well, being in the hotel again . . . it must have brought it all back to him.”

  “Brought all what back to him?”

  “Hopwicke House was where his young colleague, Nigel Ackford, died.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Barry.”

  “And, um, well . . . don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, of course, but did you know about Donald?”

  “Did I know what about Donald?”

  “Well, that . . . I mean it wasn’t much of a secret amongst the Pillars of Sussex. He . . . I know he was married and—” Barry Stilwell cleared his throat. “—Donald Chew was homosexual.”

  “Oh,” said Carole, at one
level unsurprised. There had always been something slightly unreal about the solicitor, as though he were playing a part, as though he had something to hide. What Barry had just said could explain that.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “there was a feeling around his office, I gather, that Donald was very attracted to the young man . . .”

  “Was the attraction mutual?”

  “That I wouldn’t know . . . but the suggestion was that Nigel Ackford’s suicide might be in some way related to his relationship with his boss.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Apparently Donald Chew arrived at the hotel early that Tuesday evening, and there was some suggestion that he was hoping to . . . er, meet up with the young man before the dinner.”

  Who was making all these suggestions? Carole wondered.

  “And maybe Nigel resisted his advances, or said that their relationship had to end and . . . maybe Donald was so upset that . . .”

  The implication was left dangling in the air. Rather as Nigel Ackford had been.

  “So the thinking is,” Barry Stilwell continued with new energy, “that if Donald’s death wasn’t accidental—and of course it may well have been accidental—but, if it wasn’t, that being back in the hotel affected him emotionally and . . .”

  This time Carole helped him out. “And Donald Chew committed suicide in remorse for having murdered Nigel Ackford?”

  “Exactly.” Barry seemed enormously relieved that she had finally pieced the scenario together.

  “And, for those of us who were suspicious of murder having been committed, all the loose ends are neatly tied up?”

  “Yes.” He now sounded positively cheerful. “End of story.”

  Don’t you believe it, thought Carole.

  Having unburdened himself of his duty, Barry Stilwell could now afford a moment of philosophy. “Sad, to think what goes on inside human minds, stuff we never know about. We only see the surface of people, don’t we? And we’ve no idea what they’re really thinking. Awful . . . Nigel Ackford, Donald Chew . . . Two people dead, and what really lay behind it . . . we’ll never know.”

  Oh yes, we will, thought Carole.