The Hanging in the Hotel

Chapter Thirty-Three

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 recognize 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 realize again how marginalized 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 dessert as a cue to leave the dining room and cross the hall. Which should ensure 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 illumination 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.