The Hanging in the Hotel

Chapter Seven

Suzy, sensible as ever, recognized that Edwardian nanny costumes would look incongruous at eight o’clock in the morning, so the staff’s daytime uniforms were neat blue suits. Jude always found at least two in the uniform cupboard which fitted her, suggesting that a lot of the hotel’s staff were mature matronly women.

As she had surmised, almost all the Pillars of Sussex went for the full English breakfast option. One or two looked a little sweaty and greenish about the gills, but they managed to keep up a diluted version of the night-before’s banter. The misogyny certainly remained. There were many shouted exchanges along the lines of ‘Don’t get sausages this big at home!’

‘That’s what your wife was saying to me only the other day!’

And each such sally would be rewarded by its statutory guffaw.

Because the Pillars came down to breakfast in dribs and drabs, and because Suzy was busy at reception collating their bills, it was a while before any kind of head-count could be done. And since eating breakfast was not mandatory, guests who chose to could stay in their rooms until the ten-thirty check-out time.

So it wasn’t until then that the absence of three of the previous night’s diners was observed. Jude checked the names against a printout of the guest list, which showed who had been allocated which room. Two gaps were quickly explained. Donald Chew, for reasons of his own, had gone early. He’d demanded his bill at seven-thirty, and left before breakfast. Next, after a couple of slices of toast and a cup of coffee on the dot of eight, Bob Hartson had been driven away by his chauffeur.

But no one had seen Bob Hartson’s guest, Nigel Ackford.

Having witnessed the state of the young man the night before, Jude wasn’t surprised. Either he was still sleeping it off, or he was simply immobilized by his hangover. Stupid boy, she thought as she climbed up towards the top floor. She wasn’t judgmental about people who over-indulged; she just reckoned they made life unnecessarily difficult for themselves. Jude drank a lot of white wine, but she very rarely got drunk. In spite of her laid-back manner, there was within her a steely core of discipline. Perhaps it was recognizing the same quality in Suzy that had kept the two of them friends.

She climbed up the hotel stairs, pushing the folded guest list into the pocket of her blue suit. On the top landing, she took out a pass-key, and opened the door of Nigel’s room Inside it was still pitch dark. As the sprung door clicked shut behind her, the brocade curtains squeezed out every glimmer of daylight.

‘Time to get up, I’m afraid, Mr Ackford.’ She crossed to the curtains and grasped the pull-string. ‘Shield your eyes, because I’m about to let the day in.’

Jude pulled the curtains wide, and turned back to face the bed.

Nigel Ackford had not shielded his eyes. They stared, prominent in their sockets, their whites discoloured with specks of red. His face was congested to the colour of claret. His body hung still, sock-clad feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Around his neck, suspending him from the end crossbar of the four-poster, was one of the silken ropes that had tied back the curtains.

Nigel Ackford had been spared his hangover.