The Hanging in the Hotel. Simon Brett
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looks, his showmanship and waspish tongue might be just what a television scheduler wanted in the ever-more-desperate search for new ways of dressing up images of food.
Wearily, Suzy stretched out her long, perfect body till it was a straight line between chair seat and back. Then she snapped upwards to her feet. ‘Must get on. They’ll be coming soon. Kerry’s supposed to be laying the tables. She should be finished by now.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Thanks, Jude. Yes, give me a hand with a bit of set-dressing.’
Max Townley was now singing to himself. Quite a tuneful version of ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’. Maybe that was another part of his sales pitch for the television moguls. The Singing Chef. God knows, thought Jude, as she followed Suzy out into the hall, they’ve tried every other kind.
Some of the tables in the restaurant had been locked together to make a twenty-seater for the Pillars of Sussex. The basic laying-up had been started, but apparently abandoned. The table settings were certainly not yet ready for those final touches which Suzy alone could provide. Of Kerry, the table-layer, there was no sign. Suzy and Jude exchanged a puzzled look.
Alerted by a clink of glass, Suzy led the way through to the darkened bar area. In the dim light behind the bar, Jude could see a slight blonde girl in a black-and-white waitress’s uniform, standing guiltily with a balloon of brandy in her hand.
‘What the hell are you doing, Kerry?’ Suzy snapped. ‘I’ve told you before, you’re not to drink on duty!’
‘I h-had to,’ the girl stuttered. ‘I was so shocked.’
She pointed across to an armchair where the substantial figure of a balding elderly man was slumped.
‘I’ve never seen a dead body before.’
Chapter Four
Suzy appeared unfazed and reached for a light switch. As she did so, the crumpled figure in the armchair stirred blearily.
‘Dead body, Kerry?’
The girl shuffled awkwardly and put down her glass. ‘It was dark. I just thought . . . He looked dead. I’ll go and help Max.’ Seizing the excuse like a lifeline, she rushed out of the room.
Suzy’s beautiful eyes narrowed. ‘Little liar,’ she murmured. ‘Mind you, that was a new excuse.’
Then why do you keep her on? Jude was about to ask, but the man in the armchair had risen to his feet, embarrassed at having been caught – literally – napping. He swept his hand across his forehead as if to straighten the hair that was long gone.
‘I’m so sorry, ladies. Arrived early. Must’ve nodded off.’ His voice aspired to, but didn’t quite achieve, a patrician bonhomie.
He was in his sixties, dressed in a striped three-piece suit of an earlier generation, and wore a tie with red, blue and white striations, which didn’t quite manage to look regimental. The watch-chain bridging his waistcoat pockets established him as something of a poseur. In his lapel buttonhole gleamed the dull gold of a badge which neither woman recognized as the prized insignia of the Pillars of Sussex.
‘I’m Suzy Longthorne. And this is Jude.’
Fastidiously, he took the hotelier’s hand. Unlike most men she met, he didn’t add that extra pressure that beautiful women learn to live with. ‘Donald Chew. We spoke on the phone. I’m outgoing president.’ He left a gap for an impressed reaction. Receiving none, he went on, ‘And of course we have met here before, haven’t we?’
Suzy smiled polite acknowledgment of this, though she didn’t look as though their previous encounter had made much impression on her.
‘Always know we’ll be well looked after at Hopwicke House. Excellent food –’ he nodded across the hall ‘– and of course your wonderful cellar.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Thought I’d come along a little early to check the arrangements. No one around, so I toddled through here and . . . just d-dozed off.’
The slight hesitation suggested he had got himself in training for the evening’s dinner with a heavy lunch.
‘I think you’ll find everything is as we agreed, Mr Chew. The table isn’t fully set yet, but we’re just about to do it.’
‘Fine. I wasn’t really worried. Just felt I should check, you know . . . as outgoing president.’
‘Of course. Well, we’ll serve drinks to your members in here.’
A glint came into his eye. ‘Is the bar actually open now?’
‘The bar’s open to residents at all times,’ said Suzy, moving behind the counter. ‘Could I get you something?’
‘Large one of those wouldn’t hurt.’ He pointed to the bottle of Famous Grouse. ‘With the same amount of tap water.’ He guffawed meaninglessly. ‘Start as I mean to continue, eh?’
‘And then would you like to check into your room, Mr Chew?’ asked Suzy, as she handed his drink across.
‘No hurry. If you just let me have the key, I’ll find my own way.’
‘Of course.’ She went to fetch it from the set of pigeonholes on the wall behind the reception desk. In the brief ensuing silence, Donald Chew made no attempt to say anything to Jude.
Suzy returned and handed him a key with a heavy brass fob. ‘Would you excuse us, Mr Chew? I’ll just finish the table settings and when they’re done, I’ll call you and you can check everything’s all right.’
‘Fine.’ Slumping back into his armchair, he tapped his breast pocket. ‘Got the seating plan in here. Very important. Can’t have a New Pillar sitting nearer the president than an Ancient Pillar.’
Suzy Longthorne smiled acknowledgement of what a solecism that would be, and returned to the dining room, with Jude in tow. Donald Chew’s voice followed them, ‘And if I want another drink, I’ll just shout.’
‘Yes. Or ring the bell at reception.’
Once again Jude was struck by the dignity with which her friend fulfilled her menial role. Even in her most high-flying days, Suzy had maintained a core of pragmatism. Though many men had spoiled her, she had never let herself be spoilt. Suzy was well-enough grounded to bear stoically whatever fortune might throw at her.
She looked at the unfinished table setting without overt annoyance, and started to align knives and forks from the cutlery tray. ‘Could you ask Kerry to come and help?’
Jude nodded. ‘And should I be getting into my kit?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right.’ Jude grinned. ‘I always wanted a part in Gosford Park.’
As she approached the kitchen door, she could hear Kerry talking about her favourite subject.
‘I mean my voice is definitely good enough, and I know I’m better-looking than most of the girl singers you see on Top of the Pops, but in television you’ve got to get that one lucky break.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Max was saying, as Jude entered the kitchen.
The relaxed way in which Kerry lolled at the table, chatting to the chef, confirmed what Jude had suspected, that the girl’s talk of a dead body in the bar had been a spur of the moment fabrication, a cover-up for her brandy-sipping. According to her boss, Kerry, in spite of her age, had a propensity for sampling the goods in the bar; she had been ticked off more than once about it.
‘Suzy wants some help in the dining room.’
Elaborately lethargic, the girl rose to her feet. She was wearing the uniform Jude was shortly to don, a long black dress with a white, lace-fringed apron. By the time the guests arrived,