‘Well then, get a bloody different supplier! How am I supposed to produce a celeriac remoulade without bloody celeriac?’
‘You’ll have to do something else.’
‘I thought you’d agreed a menu with the guests.’
‘They won’t notice.’
The chef’s head snapped back and he faced his employer, but the retort on his lips died in her stare. He returned to the vegetables, mumbling, ‘No, hardly matters what I give them, does it? Might as well nip down and get them takeaways from Macdonald’s. Bloody peasants’d probably prefer that.’
Morosely, unzipping his leathers, he went through into the pantry to change into his freshly laundered white jacket, black-checked trousers and clogs.
Jude knew she had just witnessed a battle of wills, and also knew Suzy had won it beyond doubt. The triumph might simply be a credit to strength of personality, or maybe there was some other source of power. There had been rumours of an affair between the chatelaine of Hopwicke House and her chef, but Jude doubted their veracity. Such rumours clung around Suzy and every attractive man she met, but she was too shrewd an operator to put her business at risk by an unprofessional liaison.
Kitted out in his chef’s gear, Max slipped a couple of heavy-bladed knives out of their slots, like a cowboy drawing his six-shooters, and started to chop fresh carrots on the butcher’s block. His movements were slick from experience, and flamboyant by choice. He was a chef who, when he was working, welcomed – and played up to – an audience. Jude recalled some talk of his being considered for a television series, of a pilot programme about to be made, but she’d never heard the outcome. She could imagine Max successful in the role. His sulky good looks, his showmanship and waspish tongue might be just what a television scheduler wanted in the ever-more-desperate search for new ways of dressing up images of food.
Wearily, Suzy stretched out her long, perfect body till it was a straight line between chair seat and back. Then she snapped upwards to her feet. ‘Must get on. They’ll be coming soon. Kerry’s supposed to be laying the tables. She should be finished by now.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Thanks, Jude. Yes, give me a hand with a bit of set-dressing.’
Max Townley was now singing to himself. Quite a tuneful version of ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’. Maybe that was another part of his sales pitch for the television moguls. The Singing Chef. God knows, thought Jude, as she followed Suzy out into the hall, they’ve tried every other kind.
Some of the tables in the restaurant had been locked together to make a twenty-seater for the Pillars of Sussex. The basic laying-up had been started, but apparently abandoned. The table settings were certainly not yet ready for those final touches which Suzy alone could provide. Of Kerry, the table-layer, there was no sign. Suzy and Jude exchanged a puzzled look.
Alerted by a clink of glass, Suzy led the way through to the darkened bar area. In the dim light behind the bar, Jude could see a slight blonde girl in a black-and-white waitress’s uniform, standing guiltily with a balloon of brandy in her hand.
‘What the hell are you doing, Kerry?’ Suzy snapped. ‘I’ve told you before, you’re not to drink on duty!’
‘I h-had to,’ the girl stuttered. ‘I was so shocked.’
She pointed across to an armchair where the substantial figure of a balding elderly man was slumped.
‘I’ve never seen a dead body before.’
Chapter Four
Suzy appeared unfazed and reached for a light switch. As she did so, the crumpled figure in the armchair stirred blearily.
‘Dead body, Kerry?’
The girl shuffled awkwardly and put down her glass. ‘It was dark. I just thought . . . He looked dead. I’ll go and help Max.’ Seizing the excuse like a lifeline, she rushed out of the room.
Suzy’s beautiful eyes narrowed. ‘Little liar,’ she murmured. ‘Mind you, that was a new excuse.’
Then why do you keep her on? Jude was about to ask, but the man in the armchair had risen to his feet, embarrassed at having been caught – literally – napping. He swept his hand across his forehead as if to straighten the hair that was long gone.
‘I’m so sorry, ladies. Arrived early. Must’ve nodded off.’ His voice aspired to, but didn’t quite achieve, a patrician bonhomie.
He was in his sixties, dressed in a striped three-piece suit of an earlier generation, and wore a tie with red, blue and white striations, which didn’t quite manage to look regimental. The watch-chain bridging his waistcoat pockets established him as something of a poseur. In his lapel buttonhole gleamed the dull gold of a badge which neither woman recognized as the prized insignia of the Pillars of Sussex.
‘I’m Suzy Longthorne. And this is Jude.’
Fastidiously, he took the hotelier’s hand. Unlike most men she met, he didn’t add that extra pressure that beautiful women learn to live with. ‘Donald Chew. We spoke on the phone. I’m outgoing president.’ He left a gap for an impressed reaction. Receiving none, he went on, ‘And of course we have met here before, haven’t we?’
Suzy smiled polite acknowledgment of this, though she didn’t look as though their previous encounter had made much impression on her.
‘Always know we’ll be well looked after at Hopwicke House. Excellent food –’ he nodded across the hall ‘– and of course your wonderful cellar.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Thought I’d come along a little early to check the arrangements. No one around, so I toddled through here and . . . just d-dozed off.’
The slight hesitation suggested he had got himself in training for the evening’s dinner with a heavy lunch.
‘I think you’ll find everything is as we agreed, Mr Chew. The table isn’t fully set yet, but we’re just about to do it.’
‘Fine. I wasn’t really worried. Just felt I should check, you know . . . as outgoing president.’
‘Of course. Well, we’ll serve drinks to your members in here.’
A glint came into his eye. ‘Is the bar actually open now?’
‘The bar’s open to residents at all times,’ said Suzy, moving behind the counter. ‘Could I get you something?’
‘Large one of those wouldn’t hurt.’ He pointed to the bottle of Famous Grouse. ‘With the same amount of tap water.’ He guffawed meaninglessly. ‘Start as I mean to continue, eh?’
‘And then would you like to check into your room, Mr Chew?’ asked Suzy, as she handed his drink across.
‘No hurry. If you just let me have the key, I’ll find my own way.’
‘Of course.’ She went to fetch it from the set of pigeonholes on the wall behind the reception desk. In the brief ensuing silence, Donald Chew made no attempt to say anything to Jude.
Suzy returned and handed him a key with a heavy brass fob. ‘Would you excuse us, Mr Chew? I’ll just finish the table settings and when they’re done, I’ll call you and you can check everything’s all right.’
‘Fine.’ Slumping back into his armchair, he tapped his breast pocket. ‘Got the seating plan in here. Very important. Can’t have a New Pillar sitting nearer the president than an Ancient Pillar.’
Suzy Longthorne smiled acknowledgement of what a solecism that would be, and returned to the dining room, with Jude in tow. Donald Chew’s voice followed them, ‘And if I want another drink, I’ll just shout.’
‘Yes. Or ring the bell at reception.’
Once again Jude was struck by the dignity with which her friend fulfilled her menial role. Even in her most high-flying days, Suzy had maintained a core of pragmatism. Though many men had spoiled her, she had never let herself be spoilt. Suzy was well-enough grounded to bear stoically whatever fortune might throw at her.