The Hanging in the Hotel (28 page)

‘Mr Chew . . .’

‘Oh, please, call me Donald,’ he said expansively. ‘Out of the office. This is a social meeting, not a professional one.’

‘Very well. Then you’d better call me Carole.’

‘I would be honoured to, Carole.’ Still very much the conventional gentleman of the old school. And yet there was something else in Donald Chew, something else beneath his bonhomous
exterior. Carole had been aware of it on their other meetings, but never so strongly. The drink seemed to have weakened his facade, and what showed through looked very much like pain. Carole found
herself wondering what life was really like inside the Chews’ marriage. Why had they not had children? Why was Brenda so obsessively busy all the time? Why was she constantly seeking
approval? And, come to that, why did her husband drink so much?

As if prompted by her thought, the suspicious face of Brenda Chew suddenly poked round the dining-room door. ‘Donald, I’m not going to warn you again. If you’re drunk tonight,
I don’t want you with me.’

The face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Donald Chew’s jaw fell and into the embarrassed vacuum Carole easily dropped a change of subject. ‘Donald, I’d like to talk a
bit more about Nigel Ackford.’

But it wasn’t the right subject. The claret-coloured face clouded instantly. ‘There’s not much purpose in that, Carole. Nigel’s death was very sad, a tragedy for one so
young, but I don’t really think we should dwell on it. Time to move on. Apart from anything else, I seem to remember you saying you’d never met him.’

‘That’s true, but my friend did.’

Donald Chew sighed ingenuously. ‘I don’t honestly think I have anything more to say about Nigel Ackford.’

Carole took a risk. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance know about a note that was found in his room at the hotel?’

The solicitor looked very alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’

His reaction was sufficient for her to persevere. ‘A note was found in the four-poster room early on the evening of the dinner. It read:

Rather than cranking up his anxiety, to Carole’s surprise, this seemed to relax Donald Chew. ‘Oh yes.’ he smiled. ‘I left that for him.’

‘But why?’

‘To wish him luck for the evening.’

His response sounded innocent, but Carole had to say, ‘It doesn’t sound like a good-luck wish.’

He sighed. ‘Nigel and I had argued about a lot of things – professional things – he had all kinds of misplaced scruples about our work. He didn’t seem to understand how
necessary solicitors are for the smooth-running of life and society, he didn’t realize how much good we do. I tried to persuade him, and engineered his introduction to the Pillars of Sussex.
It was a terrific opportunity for someone his age. So I left him the note. He knew what it meant. Enjoy yourself, join in, don’t get on your high horse about ethics. If you don’t do as
I suggest, I said – then this is the last Pillars of Sussex evening you’ll ever attend.’

‘Oh.’ Carole was utterly deflated. The explanation sounded all too credible. Had Jude over-dramatized once again?

‘Did you tell the police about the note, Donald?’

‘Of course I didn’t. Given the way the night ended, I wasn’t going to volunteer the fact that I’d been up to his room.’

‘The room must’ve been locked. How did you get the letter in?’

‘Pushed it under the door. I was only wishing him luck, for heaven’s sake. There was nothing sinister about it.’

‘Did you know it was Kerry Hartson who found the note?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Or that later that night it disappeared?’

‘No.’

The openness of his reply suggested that Donald Chew was probably telling the truth. Time to move on. ‘I was wondering,’ she said, ‘about Nigel Ackford’s private
life.’

The solicitor spread his hands wide. ‘Who can say? These young people, they don’t get married early like my generation did. Goodness knows what they get up to.’

‘But do you happen to know what Nigel himself got up to?’

A shake of the head. ‘Not really. Some talk of a girlfriend at some stage.’ His words were slurring badly now. As his wife had feared, Donald Chew was already very drunk.
‘W-working in a building society or something – I never met her.’

‘But, Donald, you knew him well.’

‘Just in the way a boss knows an employee.’

‘Did you ever hear any suggestion – or get any impression that Nigel Ackford might have been gay?’

‘Gay?’ The word went through him like an electric shock.

‘Yes. Homosexual.’

‘Why would I know about that?’ he asked in a state of panic.

‘Because you worked with him.’

‘No. I don’t think . . . No, there was nothing of that. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’ He lumbered to his feet. ‘Excuse me, I must – sorry. Call of
nature.’

And he stumbled out of the bar.

When the Pillars of Sussex assembled with their womenfolk, Carole was struck, not for the first time, at how much easier men have it on formal occasions. For them, ‘black
tie’ on an invitation is a very simple directive. And, though some try to tart up the basic image with frilly shirts, rainbow ties, cummerbunds and amusing braces, at bottom they all know
that they’ll look fine in a simple, unadorned dinner suit.

Whereas for women, the potential choices are infinite. Even within the description of a ‘little black dress’. Carole was aware that the all-purpose one she was wearing (and had worn
for every formal event since her retirement) too obviously trumpeted its Marks and Spencer’s origins. Those of the Pillars’ womenfolk who had also opted for black were wearing much more
expensive designer labels, but without the aplomb with which such garments were modelled in fashion magazines.

And the women who had ventured beyond black provided a wonderful demonstration of the old truism that money does not necessarily imply taste. There must be a way of dressing the older woman
elegantly for a formal evening, but British designers appeared not to have found it. The basic sartorial rule among the Pillars’ wives seemed to be that all their dresses should be made of
two contrasting fabrics, divided at the waist. (Since most of the guests were of an age when waists become ill-defined, this was a bad idea.) Whether the top half was in heavy velvet and the bottom
in something silky and diaphanous, or vice versa, did not seem to matter. Colours were either too garish or too subdued, and accessories gold and fussy. The womenfolk would have looked better if
they’d simply worn the price tickets. In that way, they could have made the main point – how much they’d paid for the dresses – without looking dreadful in them.

As if to provide a shaming benchmark for their lack of taste, among the womenfolk floated Suzy Longthorne, stunning in the simplest of long sleeveless dresses in burgundy silk. Carole felt
grateful for the anonymity of her own Marks & Spencer’s black.

Suzy recognized her and flashed a quick professional smile. ‘Did I gather you were one of the people in charge?’

‘A mere helper. You’ll find the one who gives the orders is Brenda Chew. Over there in the gold brocade skirt with the green bolero jacket.’

‘Right.’ Suzy Longthorne looked anxiously at her Piaget watch. ‘I want to get them through to the dining room soon. Otherwise I’ll have a grumpy chef on my hands. The
first course is a soufflé.’

‘Sounds great.’ If the hotelier thought she was one of the organizers, Carole might as well take advantage of the fact. ‘Is it you we have to thank for persuading your
ex-husband to be our auctioneer tonight?’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ Suzy replied, with considerable asperity. Another look at the Piaget. ‘He hasn’t arrived yet. Always leaves everything to the last
minute.’

‘Do you think he’ll come?’

‘If Rick says he’s going to do something, he’ll do it. He’s always true to his word.’ A wry grin came to the famous lips. ‘Well, professionally at least. Not
perhaps if you’re married to him. I’ll go and have a word with Mrs Chew. Mrs Chew, would you like me to start telling your guests to move through?’

Suzy wafted away, and Carole was joined by James Baxter who, as current president of the Pillars of Sussex, felt it his duty to meet everyone. He introduced himself and, with some puzzlement,
asked who she was with. He thought he knew all the members’ wives and girlfriends; the idea that someone had brought along a new specimen of womanfolk apparently caused him considerable
excitement.

‘No, I’m on my own. I’ve been helping Brenda out with the arrangements.’

‘Ah. Right.’ He was glad he had placed her. ‘Well, let me introduce you to some people.’ James Baxter turned to a couple who had just come in from the hall.
‘Evening, Barry. Evening, Pomme. I’d like to introduce you to Carole . . . er, Seddon, wasn’t it?’

The expression on Barry Stilwell’s face was one Carole would treasure forever. Indeed, in subsequent moments of low spirits she would often try to cheer herself up by recapturing the
image.

He looked like a fox who’d mistakenly gatecrashed a Hunt Ball. His eyes bobbled like frogspawn in a jar and his thin lips trembled. ‘Ah. Ah. Carole . . .’

‘Good evening, Barry. And you must be Pomme.’

Anyone who described Barry Stilwell’s second wife as ‘statuesque’ would have to be thinking, not so much of the Venus de Milo, as of the Statue of Liberty. The idea that she
spent every Thursday evening line-dancing was mind-boggling. God had been very generous to her with all of His gifts except, from the expression on her face, a sense of humour.

‘You know each other?’ she asked in the manner of a matron summoning small boys to cold showers.

‘Er . . . yes,’ said her husband, in a voice as thin as his lips. ‘We did meet once.’ Then, with a ferociously pathetic flash of his eyes, he pleaded, ‘Didn’t
we, Carole?’

She could see the relief flood his body as she confirmed that this was indeed the case. Carole had no intention of embarrassing Barry Stilwell further. The pleasure of watching him squirm was
quite sufficient; she didn’t need anything else. Since the attraction between them was all in his mind, she felt emotionally untouched by the encounter. But she was amused by the speed with
which he left her and moved on to greet other Pillars and their womenfolk.

For Carole, the crowning glory of the moment was Pomme’s dress. Its inspiration was vaguely Spanish. Under a tiny scarlet silk waistcoat, her huge body was swathed in frills and swirls of
a midnight-blue material, braided in red piping from which dangled fluffy red bobbles of wool. Yes, it was actually true. Pomme was wearing pom-poms.

Brenda Chew approached, with an anxious-looking Sandra Hartson in tow.

‘I think we’d better go through to the dining room. I’ll tell people. You’d have thought the hotel staff’d do that, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone
here.’ This was characteristically unjust, since Carole had heard Suzy Longthorne offering the service.

‘I don’t know where Bob’s got to,’ said Sandra. ‘He was bringing Kerry.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He should be here by now.’

‘Don’t know where Donald’s got to either. He’s drifted off somewhere.’ But Brenda Chew didn’t sound very concerned about her husband’s whereabouts.
She’d said she didn’t want him around if he was drunk, so Donald Chew had made himself scarce.

Brenda started shepherding Pillars and womenfolk through to the dining room, so Carole followed Sandra out into the hall. ‘Did you say your husband was picking Kerry up?’

‘Yes, from her flat. Ridiculous, isn’t it, a girl of her age having her own flat in Brighton?’

Interesting to hear this common first reaction being voiced by the girl’s own mother. ‘But presumably you’re not far away?’ suggested Carole. ‘You can keep an eye
on her.’

‘Yes, one or other of us drops in most days. Well, Bob more often than I do, I suppose . . .’ Sandra Hartson seemed to lose her way.

‘I’m surprised to hear Kerry’s coming this evening.’

‘Not her usual idea of entertainment, I agree. But we needed to make up the table, and Bob asked her. At first we got all the adolescent whingeing about how she’d be bored out of her
skull, but when she heard that Rick Hendry was going to be here . . .’

As if cued by Sandra’s words, at that moment her daughter came in through the hotel’s front doors with her stepfather, whose arm was draped lightly round the girl’s bare
shoulders. Kerry’s little black dress showed how much easier it was for a woman to look stunning at fifteen than when she reached the age of the Pillars’ womenfolk.

Only a step behind father and stepdaughter came the unmistakably lanky figure of Rick Hendry. His evening dress was entirely conventional, except for the grey silk of his shirt.

‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Sandra Hartson tautly.

‘It’s all right,’ her husband soothed. ‘We got delayed. Geoff’s parking the car now. We’re fine, don’t worry.’

‘You’ve missed the reception.’

‘But we’re here in time for the dinner,’ said Rick Hendry, with a laid-back open-palmed gesture, ‘so no problem.’

Sandra gave the old rocker a small smile of acknowledgment. Clearly they’d met before.

‘Yeah, don’t get all uptight, Mum,’ said Kerry. ‘Stay cool.’

Her mother suddenly became aware of Carole’s presence and remembered her manners. ‘Oh, this is Carole Seddon, who’s been helping with the organization of the
evening.’

Rick Hendry nodded an uninterested nod, but, as he shook her hand, Bob Hartson repeated her name, and gave her a piercing look. Then, with a hearty chuckle, he put his arm round his
stepdaughter’s waist, and followed Rick into the crowd.

For a nanosecond Sandra Hartson seemed to freeze, watching them. Then she too went through into the bar.

Carole looked around the comforting calm of the Hopwicke House hall, and wished that, rather than going through to the dining room, she could spend the whole evening there – or, even
better, back at High Tor with Gulliver and the television. She wasn’t looking forward to what lay ahead.

She took a deep breath and went through to join the Pillars of Sussex and their womenfolk.