She was determined to exploit the opportunity of her unexpected presence at Hopwicke House and speak to Kerry. There were a lot of questions she wanted to put to the girl about the night of Nigel Ackford’s death. But the interrogation would have to wait. At the moment they were all too busy refilling champagne glasses and circulating the delicately delicious nibbles that Max Townley and his sous-chef had produced.
The format for the reception was a merciful one, in that a decision had been made to have the speeches before the meal rather than after. This was welcomed by the groom and the best man, who were among that large section of the community for whom public speaking ranks as a horror above noticing that the passenger in the seat next to you on a plane has plastic explosives strapped to his body.
James Baxter, of course, with his wide experience of chairing Pillars of Sussex meetings, had no such inhibitions. He thought of himself as a natural public speaker.
In this opinion he was misguided. He also believed himself to be such a natural public speaker that he did not require the support of notes. In this he was even more misguided. Notes might at least have imposed some structure on his maunderings.
He started, safely enough, by welcoming the guests, but immediately blotted his copybook by repeating one of the jokes which had been delivered by the rugby club speaker earlier in the week. It had been a bit iffy at the Pillars of Sussex dinner; in mixed company it could not have been less appropriate. His wife flashed him a look of iced venom, and when the groom laughed loudly, the bride shot him a look of iced venom, suggesting he had a long, hard marriage ahead.
Fortunately, Jude’s waitressing duties meant she didn’t have to listen to all the speeches, but as she slipped in and out of the kitchen she heard enough to suggest she wasn’t missing much.
The groom said, without much conviction, that he was very lucky to have captured such a lovely bride, and he knew all his friends were envious of him. All his friends, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and who had started the day’s drinking at noon in the pub, were perhaps injudiciously honest in their assessment of the bride’s charms.
The best man had bought a book on best man’s speeches, and tried to reproduce some of the jokes he had read there. He interlarded these with stories of a blueness which made the rugby ones sound entirely innocent. But, since he spoke throughout in an inaudible monotone, he caused no offence.
Finally, the speeches were over, the cake was cut, and the photographer had finished his posings of the bride and groom, praying that the camera might work miracles. The guests then went through to the dining room, expertly decorated by Suzy Longthorne to resemble an Edwardian conservatory, and Jude had a chance to pursue her investigation.
In its heyday, Hopwicke Country House Hotel had had a restaurant manager and a maître d’ to oversee dining arrangements, but staffing economies had left Suzy in charge. She controlled the flow of food delivery and removal with her customary efficiency, and proved that in the right circumstances it was possible even for a beautiful woman to become invisible. Once the diners got into their stride of eating, drinking and talking, they became completely unaware of the stage management around them.
During the preliminary seating of the guests, the waiting staff were kept busy. But as soon as the pre-prepared starters had been served, Jude found herself alone in the kitchen with Max Townley, as he plated up the main courses and put them in a heated cupboard to await their summons to the dining room.
‘Did the police talk to you?’ asked Jude. ‘You know, about the boy who died?’
A flicker of panic crossed his face, but was quickly controlled. ‘Yes. Had I heard or seen anything unusual during the night? No, I hadn’t. I’d been heavily into the vodka and just passed out . . . not that I told the police that bit.’
‘It’s not like you to drink that much, Max. At least not here. Is it?’
‘No. I’d had some bad news that day, that’s all.’
‘Oh?’
But he didn’t rise to the bait and specify what the bad news had been. Instead, he went on, ‘Presumably the police asked you rather more, since you actually found the body?’
‘Yes.’ She phrased her next question carefully. ‘They didn’t say anything, did they – about the possibility of the death not being suicide?’
The chef stopped ladling Cumberland sauce. The blankness in his face showed he’d never even contemplated the idea.
‘No. What are you suggesting, Jude? Be pretty difficult to do that to yourself by accident. One of these auto-erotic sex games that went wrong?’
She shook her head lightly. ‘Just a daft thought.’
Max resumed his ladling. He was still twitchy and ill at ease. ‘It’s a first for me, you know. Someone topping himself in a hotel where I was working. You hear about it, but . . .’
‘Does it upset you?’
He shrugged. ‘Not my problem. Didn’t even meet the bloke.’ He moved away from the main courses and picked up a mixing bowl. He held a coated wooden spoon out to Jude. ‘Have a taste.’
She did. ‘Bloody marvellous. What’s the liqueur in it?’
‘Calvados. One of my specials. Goes over the apricot meringues.’ He gave a dispirited nod towards the dining room. ‘Not that they’ll notice what it is. Far too pissed. That’s the trouble with these late weddings.’
‘You ever been married, Max?’
He laughed at the idea. ‘Why would I want to do a thing like that?’
‘Why does anyone want to do it?’
‘A question, Jude, to which I’ve never found a satisfactory answer.’
‘Max . . .’ she lowered her voice, ‘Tuesday night . . .’
‘Mm?’
‘The night Nigel Ackford—’
‘I know the one you’re talking about.’ But he didn’t sound as though he wanted to pursue the subject.
‘Did you see Kerry?’
‘Saw her when she was waitressing.’
‘No. Later. After the Pillars of Sussex had gone to bed?’
He looked at her with undisguised suspicion. ‘Why should I have seen her then?’
‘She wasn’t around to help tidying up.’
‘Just gone to bed, I expect. Lazy little cow.’
‘No. She wasn’t in her room. I went in there by mistake.’
‘And are you suggesting she was with me?’ He was angry now.
‘No, of course I wasn’t.’
‘I should bloody hope not. All right, I like women, but you’d never catch me going for jailbait like that. Kerry’s trouble, let me tell you. She’s a danger to—’
But who she was a danger to Jude did not find out. The door from the dining room clattered open, revealing Suzy, cool as ever in a long, seamless, light grey dress. ‘Time to clear away the starters.’
Talking to Kerry proved more difficult. Jude was in the girl’s company all evening, as they bustled back and forth with trays of fresh dishes and dirty plates, as they filled wine glasses and swept up breadcrumbs, but they were never just the two of them. And Jude needed to talk to Kerry on her own.
At last, in the pause before the coffee pots were taken in, they both arrived in the kitchen with armfuls of dessert plates. Max and his sous-chef, having set out dishes of petits fours, reckoned their evening’s work was over and had set off home. Kerry looked anxious when she realized the room was empty except for the two of them.
As they unloaded the dirty dishes onto a table, she looked at Jude defiantly, like a schoolgirl who had been caught smoking. She was aware this was the first chance they had had to talk since Nigel Ackford’s death.