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.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Carole Seddon’s upbringing did not allow her to make a habit of arriving unannounced on people’s doorsteps at half-past ten at night. But this was an exceptional occasion. The lights were still on in Woodside Cottage. And Jude was her friend, for heaven’s sake.
The white wine was open almost before she’d finished announcing Donald Chew’s death.
‘What happened, Carole? Was the word “murder” mentioned?’
‘Certainly not. Nor suicide. Plenty of talk of a tragic accident, mind. There was a police inspector there. He took charge of things. Called Goodchild.’
‘Tall man, rather smooth?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Carole, surprised.
‘He was the one who investigated Nigel Ackford’s death. Came and talked to me.’ Jude looked thoughtful. ‘So he actually is a Pillar of Sussex . . .’
‘Don’t know that for sure. He could have been someone’s guest. All the members were being encouraged to drum up support from their friends.’
‘But at least he’s close to the Pillars of Sussex.’
‘Yes. Everyone seems to be. The editor of the Fethering Observer was at my table too, which might explain the minimal coverage the paper gave to Nigel Ackford’s death.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the same thing happens with Donald Chew.’
‘Not so sure, Jude. He was a respected local figure, a pillar of the local community as well as a Pillar of Sussex. I should think there’d be a big spread about him.’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the exact circumstances of his death were glossed over. “Following a tragic accident . . .”, that kind of thing.’
‘Probably.’
‘Did Inspector Goodchild actually talk to you, Carole? Or to anyone else?’
‘No. He called out the local police, and said that if further investigations were required, he’d be in touch with us. He had a copy of the guest list and contact numbers.’
‘But he can’t just leave it like that,’ Jude protested. ‘A suspicious death – the second suspicious death at Hopwicke House – can’t just be shuffled under the carpet.’
‘There wasn’t any suggestion it would be. As I say, everyone was talking about an accident.’
‘It couldn’t have been an accident. That cellar door is always kept locked.’
Carole shook her head. ‘Usually it is. But Suzy had left it open tonight. Because of the large party in the dining room she was expecting extra bottles might have to be brought up at some point.’
Jude looked disappointed. ‘So, for those who go with the “tragic accident” scenario, what’s supposed to have happened?’
‘All right.’ Carole spelled out the Pillars of Sussex’s consensus. ‘Donald Chew was very drunk. I can vouch for that. I talked to him in the bar before the reception and he was well away.’
‘Did he say anything of interest – I mean anything useful to our investigation?’
‘Well . . .’ Carole’s thin nose wrinkled as she tried to concentrate. Death had upstaged her memories of the conversation in the bar. ‘Oh yes. He did explain the threatening note.’ She repeated what Donald Chew had told her, concluding, with a rueful nod, ‘And it all sounds quite feasible. So at least we know where that note appeared from.’
‘Yes. But we don’t know where it disappeared to.’
‘What do you mean, Jude?’
‘Remember, it vanished from Suzy’s apron in the kitchen. Someone must’ve taken it.’
‘Oh yes,’ Carole agreed thoughtfully.
Jude moved on. ‘Anyway, don’t let’s bother about that for the time being. You were saying Donald Chew was pretty drunk before the dinner?’
‘Yes. His wife Brenda had spotted the signs and told him if he couldn’t behave, she didn’t want him around to spoil her big evening. Apparently her acting like that was not uncommon. The Pillars of Sussex seemed to find the spats in their marriage rather an amusing spectator sport. So the theory is that Donald, knowing how drunk he was and not wishing to provoke the wrath of Brenda, went off and fell asleep in the residents’ lounge. Apparently he drops off to sleep quite easily, particularly when he’s in his cups.
‘Then, the theory goes, Donald wakes up and he’s desperate for another drink. The dinner’s in full swing, he knows better than to antagonize his wife, the bar can be seen from the dining room, so the only source of booze he can think of is the cellar. He finds the door open, starts down the steps, loses his footing in his inebriated state and lands head first on the stone floor. End of story – and end of solicitor.’
‘And it was definitely the fall that killed him?’
Carole shrugged. ‘Who knows for certain until his body’s been examined by a police surgeon? But among the Pillars that was the general assumption.’
‘So how did they react?’
‘With remarkably little emotion, really. The only surprise seemed to be that something like that hadn’t happened to Donald Chew before. They all knew he had a big drink problem.’
‘Any individuals react strangely?’
Carole shook her head. ‘No. Well, one or two seemed quite relieved that the evening had been broken up. They’d managed to eat their gourmet dinner, and weren’t going to have to sit through the auction of promises.’
‘Yes, I’m quite relieved that no one’s going to take me up on my two-hour kinesiology session.’
‘I thought you were properly qualified,’ said Carole, affronted.
‘I am. But it’s a long time since I’ve practised. I’m a bit rusty.’ She smiled for a second, then turned serious. ‘What about Brenda Chew? Was she devastated?’
‘She was, yes.’ Carole shook her head in disbelief. ‘But not because her husband was dead. The way she reacted, you’d think Donald had engineered his death deliberately to scupper the auction of promises – on which she had worked so far beyond the call of duty. Strange . . . Probably it was a shock reaction, and she will mourn him in time – but this evening all that seemed to upset her was the fact that she wasn’t going to be presented with her bouquet.’