The Corpse on the Court

by Simon Brett

  ‘So she and Reggie . . .?’ Some people might have thought the idea of the fat man in his seventies having an affair incongruous, but Reggie Playfair had been young once. And Jude knew that passion was not always diminished by age.

  ‘I don’t actually know for a fact that they did. But Jonquil certainly slept with other members of the club round that time. And I think she wanted to add Reggie to the list. Whether he was strong enough to resist her, I’m not sure. I’ve a feeling Reggie was one of those old-fashioned chaps who genuinely believed in the sanctity of the marriage vows. But one thing I know for a fact – if he did resist Jonquil’s advances that would have made her absolutely furious. She liked getting her own way – particularly when it came to men.’

  ‘You and Reggie never discussed it?’

  ‘No. Very British of us, wasn’t it? He knew – and Oenone knew – that Jonquil was making a fool of me with other men, but the subject was never mentioned. So, needless to say, the subject of whether Reggie himself was actually one of her conquests . . . well, that wasn’t mentioned either.’

  Jude felt a surge of pity for Piers, being saddled with Jonquil, the kind of woman who would never be completely out of his life. She felt pity for Jonquil too, as she would for anyone suffering from mental illness, but not as much as she did for Piers.

  ‘If Jonquil sent the text message,’ she began slowly, ‘and Reggie reacted instantly, in the middle of the night, that must suggest quite regular contact between them, since the time that they . . . well, if they did have an affair.’

  Piers shrugged. He looked almost pathetic, inadequately wrapped in orange silk. His deep blue eyes were tight with pain. ‘Jonquil was strange about keeping in touch with people. Suddenly someone’d be her new best friend and she’d be phoning and texting them all the time. Equally suddenly, they’d drop out of favour. Or she might, out of the blue, one day call someone she hadn’t spoken to for years. Just another example of her volatility. Trying to second-guess what Jonquil is about to do next is a very exhausting business – as I know to my cost,’ he concluded with feeling.

  ‘And do you know whether she had been in touch with Reggie recently?’

  He nodded. ‘They never really lost touch. There was a professional relationship, apart from anything else.’

  ‘Reggie acting for her as a stockbroker?’

  ‘That’s it. As I mentioned, Jonquil’s always been pretty well heeled, and she came into a lot when her parents died. Reggie looked after her portfolio, did very well for her in fact. But, according to Jonquil, they’d recently found another interest in common.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She picks up new fads and ideas with the same randomness that she does people. None of them last very long. But her latest obsession is with ghosts.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now, Jude felt, they were getting somewhere. ‘Which of course is a subject that Reggie was very much into.’

  ‘How did you know that? You only met him once.’

  ‘Oenone told me.’

  ‘Really?’ Piers didn’t ask why Jude had been in contact with Reggie’s widow, but he was clearly puzzled by the idea. Still, he moved on. ‘Well, there is a ghost story attached to Lockleigh House tennis court.’

  ‘Agnes Wardock,’ said Jude.

  That really did shake him. ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘I was told about it by Cecil Wardock.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  ‘Relative of Tom Ruthven. Tom introduced me to him.’

  ‘And he told you the Agnes Wardock story? Goodness, Jude, you seem to know everything.’ He gave a shudder that was only half in jest. ‘Being with you is like spending time with an amateur detective. I feel as if you’re constantly investigating me.’

  She added no comment to that. Instead she asked, ‘So do you think that Jonquil summoned Reggie down to the court on a ghost-hunting mission?’

  ‘I’m rather afraid she did. When she’s in one of her manic moods Jonquil’s sense of humour is sometimes totally inappropriate.’

  ‘Sense of humour?’ Suddenly something slotted into place in Jude’s mind. Something she’d seen in Jonquil Targett’s car outside the house at Goffham. ‘Oh, she didn’t . . .? It wasn’t the wedding dress, was it?’

  Piers looked at her aghast. ‘You know about that too? My God, is there anything you don’t know about?’ Gloom spread over his face as he admitted, ‘Yes, that was Jonquil’s idea of a joke. She thought it would be amusing to summon Reggie Playfair down to the court, telling him that she had seen the ghost of Agnes Wardock. And of course he went. Jonquil would have loved the idea that he did that. Nothing gives her more pleasure than having power over men.’

  ‘So the ghost . . .?’

  ‘Was Jonquil wearing a wedding dress. The dress in fact that she wore at our wedding.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I asked her what on earth possessed her to do that, and as I did I realized that “possessed” was absolutely the right word. When Jonquil’s in a manic phase, she is possessed.

  ‘As she explained it to me, she said Reggie was so keen on seeing Agnes Wardock’s ghost that she thought she’d make his dream come true. She thought she’d “give him a surprise”.’

  ‘And it turned out to be a surprise that killed him?’

  Piers nodded. ‘The way she told it, she arrived at the court before he could possibly have got down from London.’

  ‘How did she get in?’

  ‘She knows the keypad code, which doesn’t get changed nearly as often as it should do. Jonquil used to be a member. Well, still is a member actually, though she doesn’t play much now. So she went through to the club room, put on the wedding dress and waited. She heard the main door open, she saw Reggie’s torchlight coming down the side of the court, then she saw him go on to the court itself. That’s where she’d said she’d meet him.

  ‘Jonquil took that as her cue to enter the dedans area. At a distance, in the white dress, with her long blonde hair, her image slightly blurred by the netting in the dedans . . . I’m sure Reggie Playfair thought he was looking at the ghost of Agnes Wardock.’

  ‘And the shock killed him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence. Then Jude asked, ‘When did Jonquil tell you all this, Piers? Over the weekend?’

  ‘No, she told me that morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  There was shame in his expression when he said, ‘When things go really badly for Jonquil, I’m afraid it’s still me she rings. Seeing Reggie’s corpse on the court, beginning to realize what she’d done, Jonquil rang me. I went and got her off the premises.’

  ‘So when you went in with me later, you already knew that we would find Reggie there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied soberly.

  ‘Well, why the hell didn’t you say something?’ demanded Jude in uncharacteristic anger. ‘Why haven’t you said anything since? Why haven’t you told the police?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that, Jude. Jonquil’s so unstable. Having enquiries into what she did is just the kind of thing that might push her over the edge.’

  There was another long silence. Finally Jude said ruefully. ‘You are so far from being over her, aren’t you, Piers?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Reggie Playfair’s funeral took place at St Peter’s, Goffham, in whose parish Winnows lay. Oenone had arranged everything with exemplary efficiency, and all those attending were invited back to the house afterwards.

  Sir Donald Budgen did a bible reading, but the encomium, delivered by one of Reggie’s former partners in his stockbroking business, made only a glancing reference to real tennis. The emphasis was more on the deceased’s professional life and his involvement in charities, particularly the good works he did through his livery company. The strange circumstances of his death were not mentioned and, because they were in church, no one in the congregation said, ‘Poor old bugger.’ Though there was no doubt that most of the real tennis fraternity felt it.

  Oenone
Playfair was dressed in an immaculate black linen suit and a black straw hat rather in the shape of a Beefeater’s. She stood, bold and brave in the front pew and, whatever emotions she may have been feeling, she betrayed no sign of any of them.

  There was no coffin at the funeral. A cremation had taken place earlier in the day, attended, at her request, only by Oenone.

  At the end of the service at St Peter’s she followed the vicar up the aisle and stood at the door, greeting her guests with the manners of a well-schooled hostess. Outside the church, one or two of the Lockleigh House tennis court members did say, ‘Poor old bugger.’

  The array of parked cars bore testament to the wealth of the Playfairs’ circle. To add to Piers’ E-Type, there were BMWs, Jaguars, Range Rovers and even a couple of Rolls-Royces. As the church emptied, the cars filled and everyone drove the half mile to Winnows.

  Needless to say, at the house, too, everything was punctiliously organized. In the sitting room where Jude and Carole had talked to Oenone, the furniture had been pushed back against the walls and a large trestle table set up. The food that was being served from there was substantial, a proper meal rather than nibbles. But then the funeral had ended at one o’clock, so it was lunchtime.

  The food and the drink were served by smart young girls in black uniforms. On arrival in the front hall the guests were greeted by two of these, holding trays loaded with flutes of champagne. Jude heard Oenone saying to someone, ‘Reggie wouldn’t have wanted anything less. Always loved a good party. His only disappointment with this one would be that he can’t attend it. And he’d definitely have wanted it to be a celebration rather than a wake.’

  Piers seemed to know everyone. Again Jude enjoyed his company and she felt that their being together at an event like this, albeit a sad occasion, marked another advance in their relationship. And because of the real tennis players she had met through Lockleigh House tennis court, she didn’t have to stay at his side all the time, dependent on him for introductions.

  She saw Wally Edgington-Bewley, who raised a glass of red wine to her. ‘Glad to see that Oenone’s brought out Reggie’s best claret. I’m never that bothered about champagne, you know. Give me a robust red any day. That of course is one of the many advantages of going to the tennis court in Bordeaux – can always fit in a visit to the odd chateau. Oh, but of course you know about that, don’t you, Jude?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Sorry, maybe you haven’t had a chance to read it yet.’

  At last she understood what he was talking about. ‘Oh yes, of course, the book you lent me. No, sorry, Wally, haven’t got round to it yet, but I will, I will. Why, do you need it back?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. That copy’s for you, Jude. Think of it as a rich gift from Wally Edgington-Bewley.’ He blushed. ‘I have actually written in it for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I still have plenty more copies.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tom Ruthven came across to join them. After a bit of chat, Jude asked if he’d seen Cecil Wardock again since the weekend.

  ‘The eyes and ears of Lockleigh House? No, I might go again on Saturday. But he does get other visitors you know. Felicity Budgen goes there quite regularly . . . she’s very dutiful on the good works front. Visits a lot of the old crocks at Lockleigh House. But why were you asking about Cecil?’ He chuckled. ‘You haven’t seen the ghost of Agnes Wardock, have you?’

  Jude too chuckled at the pleasantry, though after what she had heard from Piers the night before, she wasn’t that amused by the idea.

  They were joined by Jonty Westmacott.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jude. ‘How are you?’

  Too late she remembered that he was not the person to put that question to. ‘Well, I woke up this morning,’ Jonty replied, ‘with a bit of a twinge in my lower back. I think that’s probably why I wasn’t at my best in the doubles yesterday.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Wally Edgington-Bewley, dead-pan but with the slightest twinkle, ‘that you played badly yesterday because the net was the wrong height.’

  ‘Well, that didn’t help, obviously. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it, Wally. But then I suppose your game’s always been less precise than mine . . . you know, you do all those shots ballooning over the net. But I think it was my back that was affecting me more yesterday. You remember I had that problem with a slipped disc a couple of years back and it never really got properly sorted and then I . . .’

  Jude managed to drift away and found herself beside Sir Donald and Lady Budgen, both gracefully black-suited. ‘I enjoyed your reading,’ said Jude.

  The former ambassador inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said his wife. ‘Don can always be relied on to do the right thing on a public occasion.’

  Jude wondered whether there was an edge of irony in that remark but, looking at Felicity Budgen’s face, she could see none. And when she came to think of it, she couldn’t imagine irony – or indeed humour of any kind – playing much of a part in the Budgens’ marriage.

  ‘You’d presumably both known Reggie for a long time?’ said Jude.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Sir Donald. ‘Though Felicity tended to see more of the Playfairs than I did. When I was on foreign postings, she came back home to settle the various children into schools, that kind of thing. Reggie and Oenone were very generous to you when you were here on your own, weren’t they, darling?’

  Felicity Budgen agreed that yes, they had been, darling.

  Jude couldn’t believe the formality of the couple. She had a vision of them being exactly like that all the time, always saying the right thing, never letting their hair down, never letting their masks slip. The idea of the two of them in bed together was almost comically incongruous.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jude, making conversation, ‘Tom Ruthven was just saying that you sometimes visit Cecil Wardock in Lockleigh House.’

  ‘Yes.’ Felicity Budgen smiled sympathetically. ‘I go and see quite a few of the residents there. Very few have that many visitors. How do you come to know Cecil Wardock?’

  ‘Tom introduced me to him.’ Felicity still looked at her quizzically, requiring a little more explanation. ‘I wanted to ask him about . . .’ She paused, realizing that it might be better not to get going on the whole Agnes Wardock ghost story. ‘About things that had happened on the tennis court.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ came the apparently satisfied response.

  As the wine flowed, the guests – with the exception, obviously, of the Budgens – began to relax, and the noise level rose. Jude, queuing at the table to get her lunch plate loaded up, heard more than one person refer to the late Reggie Playfair as ‘poor old bugger’.

  Because seats were needed when the guests were eating, the party had spread out of the sitting room into adjacent spaces. Jude found herself drifting towards a conservatory and, just as she was about to enter, she heard what sounded like an argument conducted in low tones.

  She hovered for a moment. A voice she recognized as George Hazlitt’s was saying, ‘. . . and I thought last time we spoke about it, we agreed you wouldn’t do it again.’

  ‘Look, I haven’t got anywhere else to go,’ protested a younger voice. ‘You know what Kelly’s like about that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s not my problem. If anyone on the committee found out what you’d been doing, they’d—’

  ‘They won’t find out. That lot’re so dozy they—’

  ‘You going to eat through there?’ Piers had suddenly appeared behind Jude, with a piled-up plate, to which a glass of red wine was attached by a plastic holder.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jude and they walked through into the conservatory. The conversation inside immediately stopped.

  But Jude saw that the person George Hazlitt had been talking to was the junior pro, Ned Jackson. Joining up a few links of logic in her mind, she thought she might know what they had been talking about. And she wondered how she might engineer
an opportunity to find out if she was right.

  Because, if she could, it might offer a whole new perspective on Reggie Playfair’s death.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Oenone Playfair was amazing. Though no one doubted the depth of her pain, during the post-funeral party she was a model of affability and good cheer. There was something to be said, Jude thought, for old-fashioned breeding. Oenone Playfair and Felicity Budgen had come out of the same mould. The qualities required of them on public occasions were charm and interest in the doings of others. Emotions should be contained, restricted to the private arena and, in the case of the club chairman’s wife, Jude wondered whether they were even expressed there. As for Oenone, she had no doubts about the darkness that would engulf the new widow when she was on her own, when she no longer had the logistics of organizing the funeral to keep her mind occupied. But equally she knew that no other human being would ever be allowed to see Oenone Playfair cry.

  George Hazlitt had gone to get some more mineral water (perhaps he never drank alcohol, a necessary deprivation for a professional sportsman). Then Piers went off to top up their glasses with Reggie’s excellent claret. Leaving Jude alone in the conservatory with Ned Jackson, who was finishing up a large plate of coronation chicken.

  She’d never have a better opportunity. Moving a little closer to the junior pro, she said, ‘Sounded like George was giving you rather a hard time.’

  He looked up with some alarm and for the first time Jude noticed how long his eyelashes were. With his straight black hair and his greyhound-thin body, he really was a very attractive young man.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply. ‘Jude, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. What I mean is that just as I was coming into the conservatory I heard what George was saying to you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ned Jackson looked positively scared now. ‘But you’re not going to tell anyone about it, are you? I mean, if anyone on the committee found out, my job could be on the line.’