by Simon Brett
‘No.’
‘Pity. We’re one short. Jonty Westmacott has injured his toe. At least he says he’s injured his toe, but I rather think it’s a recurrence of his gout.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. But why did you think I might be offering my services?’
‘Well, I’ve tried ringing round a few of the usual suspects, but without any luck, so I asked George Hazlitt if he might try to fix us up with a fourth. I thought he might have asked you.’
‘But I don’t even know how to play the game. And I’m not a member of the club.’
‘Not yet,’ said Tom Ruthven.
‘I may never be.’
‘You will if you stay with Piers. No way he’d tolerate having a girlfriend who didn’t play real tennis.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’
‘Anyway, if it’s not about tennis, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?’
‘It’s to do with something Oenone Playfair said to me.’
‘Oh? How is the poor darling? She must be in a terrible state. In spite of the rather cavalier way Reggie treated her at times, the pair of them were absolutely devoted to each other. I’ve been meaning to write to Oenone, but I keep procrastinating. Difficult to put into words what you feel for a bloke like Reggie. Poor old bugger.’ Jude was beginning to wonder whether those three words would be what ended up carved on Reggie Playfair’s tombstone.
‘Oenone and I were talking about Reggie’s interest in ghosts.’
‘I didn’t know the old reprobate had an interest in ghosts.’
‘Well, apparently he did, and Oenone was wondering whether that might have had something to do with why he had gone to the court that Wednesday morning.’
‘Really?’ For the first time there seemed to be a note of caution in Tom Ruthven’s voice.
‘Well, do you have any idea why he might have been there?’ It was worth asking.
But she didn’t get much by way of return. Tom Ruthven replied rather woodenly that perhaps Reggie had left something behind after his unexpected exit from the Sec’s Cup.
‘Oenone said he definitely hadn’t.’
‘Then I’ve no idea why he might have been there.’ The old man’s tone made it clear they’d come to the end of that particular line of questioning. Once again Jude got a sense of closing ranks. The men who played at Lockleigh House tennis court looked after their own. They might entertain their own suspicions about what Reggie Playfair had been doing, but they were not about to share them with anyone else.
‘Going back to the ghosts, though . . .’
‘Yes, Jude.’ Tom Ruthven sounded relieved that the conversation had moved on.
‘Oenone said you’d once mentioned some ghostly sighting at Lockleigh House, or the tennis court or somewhere around. Does that ring any bells?’
‘Distantly. Oh, goodness, that was years ago. I’m surprised she remembers that far back. It was something I was told by some relative of mine called Cecil. I can never remember whether he’s my great-uncle or second cousin. Cecil’s a Wardock.’
‘Oh, from the family who built Lockleigh House?’
‘Yes. So I might have some connection to them as well, though I’m not sure what. Some ancestor of mine married into the Wardocks, I think, but I’ve never bothered to check the details. Yes, Cecil did tell me some vague story about a ghost, a woman who topped herself, I can’t remember the details.’
‘Might Cecil himself remember them? That is, if he’s still around.’
‘Oh yes, he is still around. Just. Mind you, he’s seriously old.’
Coming from a man in his eighties, Jude wondered just how old that might be.
‘Is there any way of contacting him?’
Tom Ruthven chuckled. ‘Well, that couldn’t be easier.’
‘Oh?’
‘Cecil is an inmate – no, that’s not what they call them – he’s a resident, that’s right, of Lockleigh House. You know it’s now an old people’s home?’
‘Of course. And is he still . . .?’ Jude hesitated.
‘Compos mentis, is that what you’re asking? Well, the old marbles roll about a bit, but on a good day he’s still got most of them. I go to see him from time to time, what with him being a relative. Not as often as I should.’
‘Would it be possible to introduce me to him?’
‘What, to talk about his Lockleigh House ghost story?’
‘Yes.’
‘The old boy’d love it. Nothing he likes better than maundering on about the past. Particularly maundering to ladies.’
‘When could it be arranged?’
‘Well, when I visit him, it tends to be on a Saturday. Would tomorrow be too soon for you?’
‘No,’ replied Jude. ‘It wouldn’t be too soon at all.’
That afternoon, as she was folding up her treatment table, Jude felt pleasantly exhausted. Exhausted because healing always took more out of her than she could ever possibly explain to someone who hadn’t had the experience. And pleasantly so, because the session she had just finished had been successful. The client had been a high-flying female solicitor who had suddenly been struck down by ME. This was the third session she had had and she was now finally beginning to recognize the fact that she was genuinely ill. She was coming to accept that her sudden inability to function was not her fault. The woman was by no means cured – that would take a long time – but Jude felt they had made a start on the road to a cure.
She was about to go upstairs to wash away her weariness in a bath with aromatic oils when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah, is that Jude?’ Another elderly man’s voice, pernickety like a stage lawyer. She could not immediately place the speaker, but he was quickly identified for her. ‘I’m Jonty Westmacott. We met at the tennis court on Wednesday.’
‘Yes, of course. And at the Lockleigh Arms.’
‘Mm.’ He hesitated, ordering his thoughts. ‘I hear from Tom Ruthven that you’ve been enquiring about Reggie Playfair’s death.’ Once again Jude was struck by how quickly news spread in the world of real tennis.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that because you think he may have been murdered?’
Jude was quick to deny that she had ever considered such a thing, although of course it had been her first thought.
‘Hm. Well, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’
‘Jonty, are you saying you think he was murdered?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Why not? Is there some information you have that makes you say that?’
‘More suspicion than information. I mean, everyone in the Lockleigh House club knew that Reggie had a weak heart.’
‘Yes.’
‘So anyone could have lured him down to the court and given him some terrible shock there, which would have been enough to give him another heart attack, a big final one.’
Jude was intrigued. ‘Yes, that could have happened. But the major questions that raises are: who lured him down to the court? And: why did they want to kill him?’
‘Yes, those are the major questions, I agree.’
These words were spoken with an air of finality, and there was a silence before Jude asked, ‘And do you have an answer to them, Jonty?’
‘Oh, no. But I got the impression from Tom that you were some kind of investigator.’
‘Well, not in any professional way.’
‘Professional or amateur, if you’re an investigator, then you’ve got to investigate.’
‘Ye–es.’
‘So let me know when you come up with something.’
‘Yes, of course I will. But, Jonty, just to check again . . . You do genuinely believe that Reggie Playfair was murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘I have an instinct for these things.’
It wasn’t the most helpful answer that had ever been given to an investigator, professional or amateur. But Jude did find it interesting that she and
Carole were not the only people whose first thought had been that Reggie Playfair’s death was murder.
FOURTEEN
Jude had had no problem in persuading Tom Ruthven that Carole should join them on their Saturday visit to Lockleigh House Nursing Home for the Elderly. ‘The more the merrier,’ he’d said. ‘Cecil likes an audience – particularly if it’s a female audience.’
So they went together in the Renault to meet Tom, as arranged, at two thirty. The plan was to visit Cecil Wardock in his room, but when Tom announced them the smartly-suited woman on reception said, ‘If you don’t mind waiting for a moment. The nurses are just tidying things up for you upstairs.’ Whether it was the room or Cecil himself who was being tidied up for them they had no means of knowing.
So they waited in the rather splendid hall of Lockleigh House. This area had not been updated, but rather restored to its former glory, recreating what a Victorian country house should feel like. And though the reception desk gave it the air of a public rather than a private dwelling, it felt more like an upmarket hotel than an old people’s home. There wasn’t even a whiff of urine or disinfectant.
‘So did Cecil ever actually live here?’ Jude asked Tom. ‘I mean, while the Wardocks still owned the place?’
‘No. He was a different branch of the family. Visited quite a bit as a child, I believe. Then worked and lived in London most of his life. Was in publishing, quite successful, I think. Not that it’s a world that I know much about.’
‘What was your world?’ asked Carole. ‘You know, before you retired?’
‘Oh, I worked in a bank. Back in the days, I hasten to add, before bankers became the pariahs of society they are now. I enjoyed it, spent my entire working life in the City. Very healthy pension, retired down here, I can’t complain.’
‘And did Cecil have connections to this area before he moved in here?’
‘Yes. While he was London-based, they bought a weekend place in Smalting and moved in there full-time when he retired. Then his wife died a few years back and he was getting to the point where he couldn’t manage on his own. So he moved into what he refers to as “the family house”.’
‘Did he ever play real tennis?’ asked Jude.
Tom Ruthven chuckled. ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure he would have mentioned it to me if he had.’
They might have heard more about Cecil Wardock’s background, had not the woman on reception told them that he was now ready to receive his visitors.
There was a lift for the more infirm residents and guests, but they took the broad oak staircase instead. Tom Ruthven led them along the landing to a door with the number seven on it. He tapped and a thin voice shouted, ‘Come in.’
The room was luxuriously appointed, maintaining the Victorian country house feel of the hallway below. Large windows looked out over the gravel driveway and main gates of Lockleigh House. The panelled walls on one side were completely obscured by high bookshelves. On the other hung half a dozen watercolours of shorelines. They looked to be by the same artist and they looked expensive. There was no bed, so presumably the bedroom and bathroom lay beyond the interior door. The only details that suggested the room was part of a nursing home were the wheelchair neatly folded up by the wall and the pair of crutches propped against the owner’s high armchair.
Whether it was thanks to the nurses’ tidy-up or his own efforts, Cecil Wardock looked extremely dapper. He wore a gingerish tweed jacket and smartly-creased grey corduroy trousers, a blue shirt and a bow tie with stripes the colour of salmon and cucumber. The ensemble was only slightly let down by the fleece-lined and Velcro-strapped slippers on his feet.
His thin hair was neatly parted and combed back over his head. Thick-lensed glasses with heavy frames balanced on the narrow bridge of his nose. In spite of his bulky clothes, Cecil Wardock still looked painfully thin. He seemed to have been stacked into the chair rather than sitting in it.
‘Afternoon, Tom,’ he said in a cultured, slightly reedy voice, ‘Forgive me, ladies, for not rising to greet you. I’m afraid getting out of this chair is one of the many things I seem unable to do these days.’ The words were not spoken self-pityingly, but with wry resignation.
Tom Ruthven effected the introductions and Carole said she hoped Cecil didn’t mind his afternoon being invaded by two women he’d never seen before.
‘Mind? Why’d I mind? I’m starved of female company in this place. I don’t mean that there aren’t women here, but they do tend to be . . . how shall I put it graciously? Rather on the mature side? So it’s unalloyed pleasure for me to have my afternoon invaded by two considerably less mature and beautiful women.’
Jude grinned and Carole blushed. They both recognized that Cecil Wardock must have been quite a charmer in his day. ‘A wonderful collection of books you have,’ said Jude, gesturing to the shelves.
It was the right thing to say. The old man beamed as he responded, ‘Yes, and do you know, every one of them I published myself.’ Carole looked more closely at the books. There were quite a few literary names she recognized amongst them. ‘When I retired, I had those bookshelves made specially to accommodate every title into whose publication I had some input, you know, starting from when I was just a humble editor, then when I was publishing director and finally as MD. And I’ve spent a large proportion of my retirement rereading the books.’
‘And never reading anything new,’ said Tom Ruthven.
‘Exactly. Those bookshelves are my personal Forth Bridge. As soon as I get to the end bottom right, I start again at the beginning top left. And in fact, you know, I’m actually speeding up on my reading now.’
‘How’s that?’ asked Jude.
‘One of the effects of getting older – which some people regard as a curse – is the fact that you don’t need so much sleep. At least I don’t. And rather than as a curse I regard that as a blessing. Enables me to read my books quicker, you see.’
‘Don’t you ever get bored reading the same stuff time and again?’ asked Carole.
‘Good Lord, no. You see –’ he let out a mischievously complacent chuckle – ‘I was a very good publisher.’ He looked around the room. ‘Now, ladies, Tom, can I order up something for you? Tea? Coffee? Rich tea biscuits? The staff are very good at organizing that kind of thing.’
His visitors said that they’d all had coffee recently and didn’t require anything.
‘Well then,’ said Cecil Wardock, ‘what can I do for you, ladies? Tom was exceedingly mysterious on the phone.’
‘We really wanted to ask you,’ said Jude, ‘about any ghost sightings there may have been in Lockleigh House.’
‘Good gracious me.’ The old man chuckled again. ‘So am I in the presence of the West Sussex Spiritualists’ Association?’
‘No,’ replied Jude. ‘You are just in the presence of two nosy middle-aged women.’
Carole winced a little. Though she undoubtedly was middle-aged, she thought it a little indelicate to draw attention to the fact. But she was relieved that Cecil Wardock didn’t ask more about the reasons for their investigation. They’d agreed that they wouldn’t talk about Reggie Playfair’s death unless Cecil initiated the subject. Tom wasn’t sure how open the lines of communication were between Lockleigh House’s nursing home and its tennis court. It was quite possible that Cecil Wardock had heard nothing of the recent tragedy.
‘And Tom,’ Jude went on, ‘seemed to recall hearing you mention something about a ghost attached to Lockleigh House.’
‘Hm.’ Cecil Wardock was silent for a long time and the two women worried that he might be unwilling to share his story with them. But in fact he was only marshalling his thoughts and eventually he began. ‘Yes, there is a rumour, which I heard through family connections. As Tom may have told you, I was a distant cousin of the Wardocks who used to own this place. Whether there’s any truth in the story I have no means of knowing and the cousin who told it to me was a bit of a fantasist, so I’m sure he embellished his tale in the telling . .
. that is, assuming he didn’t just make the whole thing up.
‘Anyway, it went back to before the First World War. One of the daughters of the house was called Agnes – Agnes Wardock, of course. From all accounts she was a very beautiful young woman – I’ve seen a photograph, actually, pure English rose, long blonde hair, quite a stunner – and she was courted by a good few of the local gentry. A good prospect in many ways – the Wardocks were still pretty well heeled at that time. But Agnes was her own woman and didn’t want to take advice from her parents as to whom she should marry. She was, I gather, a romantic, waiting for Mr Right to come along, and confident that she’d recognize him when he did.
‘And I think she enjoyed a happy life in that Edwardian dream world which so many writers have evoked in novels of varying quality. In fact, there was one I published back then . . . beautiful, sensitive novel about a young man growing up in a world of shooting parties and regattas and . . . it’s on the shelf over there. I’ll be reading it again in a couple of months – can’t wait. Just so exquisitely done.’ He sighed fondly for a moment. ‘Charming author who sadly was taken too young, by breast cancer, before she fulfilled her undoubted promise.’ He shook himself out of his reverie.
‘But sorry, I digress. Agnes Wardock, yes. Not finding Mr Right and, in her parents’ view, getting rather close to being left on the shelf. I mean, she was probably only twenty-four or twenty-five, but back in those days . . . the ideal was for a young woman to be engaged by the end of her first season.
‘Anyway, finally, Agnes does meet a young man who . . . what’s that expression people use so much these days? “Ticks all the boxes”, that’s right. And . . . this’ll amuse you, Tom, Agnes actually met her Mr Right through real tennis.’
‘Excellent.’ The (marginally) younger man smiled. ‘Can’t go wrong with the kind of chap who plays real tennis.’
‘So you keep telling me. I really must get round to learning how to play it one day . . . though maybe I have left things a little late.’ Cecil giggled for a moment. ‘Now I don’t know much about Agnes Wardock’s young man, not even his name, but apparently he was a university chum of one of her brothers. They’d both played the game at Oxford, I believe, I don’t know where.’
