The Hanging in the Hotel

Chapter Twenty-Two

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 for Carole 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 Ack-ford’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 modernized, they retained certain quasi-Dickensian features. Windows bulging with asymmetrical panels of glass, narrow creaking staircases, porcelain fingerplates and door handles, an 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 and 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 House. It was a different pinstriped 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 looped across his waistcoat was an 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 everyone who put on an act had something to hide.

Beneath the hairless dome of his head, Donald Chew’s rubicund face wore an understanding smile. Again, the reference point was Dickens. Here was the solicitor who, at the end of the book, would make all well, 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 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 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 this 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 a time 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 me 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 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 and 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 she.’

He let out a patronizing 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 it, 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 “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 naivety, she continued, ‘My friend says the Pillars of Sussex is an organization devoted to professional backscratching.’

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 organizations.’

‘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.’

‘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 organized 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 organizing 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. 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.