Next came the test. ‘And could I see some of the bedrooms as well?’
Suzy Longthorne made no demur. There was apparently no part of her hotel which was closed to scrutiny. As she pointed out the various facilities, she let drop a few well-practised gobbets of information. But they all concerned the early history of Hopwicke House; she was not so indiscreet as to mention any of its more recent – and more newsworthy – guests.
A front bedroom and a back bedroom on the first floor had been inspected, and Suzy stood on the landing looking quizzically at her visitor. The moment had come.
‘I understand,’ said Carole, ‘that there is a room with a four-poster as well?’
Suzy Longthorne did not blanch. ‘Yes, there is. It is rather more expensive than the others. Popular for honeymoons and that kind of thing. Special celebrations.’
‘I don’t think money’s a problem for my son.’ As she said the words, Carole realized she had no idea whether or not they were true. Stephen had never shown any particular signs of extravagance. He had always managed his finances carefully. But maybe being engaged to Gaby had raised his aspirations. Maybe it was her money he was budgeting with. There were certainly any number of cheaper options in the area than Hopwicke Country House Hotel.
Suzy pointed out the wonderful view from the top landing. ‘If I had a telescope, I could probably see my house,’ said Carole.
‘Oh. Where do you live, Mrs. Seddon?’
‘Fethering.’
‘Well, you can certainly see the route of the Fether as it reaches the sea.’
Carole looked at the thin ribbon of water threading down through the coastal plain. The river shone in reflected sunlight with a duller gleam than the surrounding rectangles, glasshouses of local nurseries.
‘Come and have a look at the four-poster.’ Suzy Longthorne pushed through the fire door into the corridor where Jude had found the drunken Nigel Ackford. She unlocked the bedroom door.
Inside, everything was immaculate. The curtains around the bed were neatly roped back. Sunlight beamed cheerfully through the tall windows. Nothing betrayed the room as a scene of death.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Carole. ‘I’m sure my son and his fiancée would like this.’
‘Getting married, are they?’ Ever the businesswoman, Suzy Longthorne picked up the cue. ‘We’ve had some wonderful weddings at Hopwicke House. If they were looking for somewhere for the reception . . . If your prospective daughter-in-law’s local . . .’
‘No, I’m afraid she isn’t,’ said Carole, realizing she hadn’t a clue where Gaby lived. She’d assumed London, but she didn’t actually know. Nor did she know where her prospective daughter-in-law might want to get married. Hopefully, such details would become clearer once she had lunched with the happy couple on Sunday week.
Carole was now faced with a dilemma. The hotel tour having ended, it was clearly her cue to leave, and she could do that. On the other hand, she felt she should take something back for Jude. So, resorting to bad acting, she announced, ‘I’ve suddenly remembered. This must be the room where that poor young man died.’
Suzy was far too controlled to react violently, but her beautiful face hardened as she said, ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I should explain. I’m a friend of Jude’s.’
‘Ah.’
‘She’s my next-door neighbour.’
‘Of course. Fethering. I’ve been to her house. What did she tell you?’
‘Just that there had been this . . . sad incident up here. I’d forgotten about it until . . . actually being in this room . . .’
The explanation sounded implausible even to Carole’s own ears, but Suzy did not pick up on it. Calmly, she said, ‘Yes, it was very unfortunate. I’m afraid that’s one of the hazards of the hotel trade. Apart from the cases they’re carrying, you don’t know what other baggage your guests bring with them. Maybe the anonymity of a hotel room appeals to people in that condition. Certainly doesn’t show much concern for others, but then I suppose suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness. Just as people who throw themselves under buses don’t think of the effect of their actions on the driver and passengers, so the reactions of the staff are not uppermost in the mind of someone who chooses to end his life in a hotel room.’ An expression of concern crossed Suzy’s face. ‘Jude is all right, is she? It must have been a terrible shock for her.’
‘She was a bit shaken, but she’s fine.’
‘Good.’
As she was escorted down the splendid staircase, Carole plucked up her courage and asked baldly, ‘There is no doubt that the death was suicide, is there?’
‘No,’ Suzy replied firmly. ‘No doubt at all. And, incidentally, Mrs Seddon . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I would be most grateful if you didn’t say anything about the young man’s death to your son – or indeed to anyone else. Word of mouth is so important in a profession like mine. It would be very damaging for me if news of this unfortunate occurrence were to get around.’
As she nosed the Renault gently over the gravel of the Hopwicke House drive, Carole mulled over her recent conversation. Suzy Longthorne had certainly closed her mind to the possibility that Nigel Ackford’s death had been anything other than suicide. And it looked as though the police shared that opinion. Surely, if they had any doubts on the matter, the four-poster room would still be under forensic examination, not open to receive the next guest.
For a moment, Carole’s own conviction wavered. She had seen nothing untoward, she only had Jude’s suspicions to animate her own. And even Jude’s customary serenity had been shaken by the shock of what she’d found. Maybe at such a time her responses weren’t entirely reliable.
These thoughts were interrupted by the blare of a hooter, suggesting the Renault was nearer the crown of the road than it should have been. As she steered closer to the hedge that lined the lane, Carole was overtaken by a throatily roaring motorcycle, driven by a man in black leathers.
Clinging round his waist, a helmet crammed down over her blonde hair, was the unmistakable figure of Kerry Hartson.
Chapter Fourteen
Jude was not one of those women for whom the visit was an essential weekly ritual, but she did enjoy going to the hairdresser. She had been blonde for so long that she’d almost forgotten her original hair colour, though she was relieved to observe her roots were not yet showing white. For her the signal to go to the hairdresser was not the blondness creeping away, but a sudden sensation one morning that there was too much hair to pile on top of her head. That was when she’d book in, or more often just appear without an appointment.
She wasn’t particularly bothered who did the cutting, being able to find subjects for conversation with most people. As usual, she did more listening than volunteering information. She found the process restful, the washing, the application of the colour, the cutting.
But the most enjoyable part was waiting for her hair to dry after the colour had been applied. Jude liked lying back in a chair, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing else she could be doing at that point. The drying process would take as long as it took, at such times the hairdresser would be busy with another client so conversation would not be required. And Jude could either let her thoughts wander, or idly skim through a variety of magazines which did not impinge on the normal course of her life.