The Corpse on the Court

ELEVEN

When Carole Seddon got back to High Tor, her Labrador, Gulliver, looked extremely reproachful. She hadn’t been out long, but his expression was that of a child whose mother had abandoned him at birth. Though he’d had his normal early-morning walk, Carole couldn’t resist the baleful pressure to take him out for another blow on Fethering Beach.

So it was only after she’d done that that she checked her emails on the laptop incarcerated in her spare bedroom. And found one from the Susan Holland she had contacted about the Lady in the Lake case.

Yes, the woman would be happy to meet. She lived in Brighton, had a part-time job and no car, so it would be easier if they could meet there. She worked afternoon and evening shifts at a nursing home, but was free most mornings. There was a coffee shop in Brighton called Bean in Love that would be a good place to meet.

The email gave no impression of the kind of woman Susan Holland was. It was properly spelled and punctuated, but offered no indication of age, social standing or any other details of her life.

Seizing the moment before her mind started to dither and equivocate, Carole sent back an email wondering whether Susan Holland might be free to meet at Bean in Love the following morning at, say, eleven o’clock . . .?

She was gratified to receive a reply within minutes, assenting to the rendezvous. It had been sent from a Blackberry. For a moment Carole considered the possibility that this meant Susan Holland was rich. But only for a moment. Everybody has Blackberries these days.

Having set up the meeting gave her a warm glow. This was an investigation she was doing without Jude. And though she had been included in the request for help from Oenone Playfair, Carole was still feeling a little resentful towards her neighbour. Not only was Jude getting into far too serious a relationship with Piers Targett, she was also bound to be the major player in any investigation into Reggie Playfair’s last hours. It was Jude, after all, who had found the body, Jude who had the contacts at Lockleigh House tennis court.

All in all, Carole Seddon was quite glad she had a case of her own to investigate.

It was the following morning, the Friday, that a call came through to Woodside Cottage.

‘Hello, it that Jude?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Oenone Playfair.’

‘Oh, how good to hear you. How are you bearing up?’

‘I’m fine. The only possible thing to be said in favour of organizing a funeral is that at least it keeps you so busy that you can’t think about other things. No time to brood.’ She was in a more forceful, less twittery mood that morning, though Jude rather doubted whether she was feeling any better deep down.

‘Also I’ve had so many letters and cards and what-have-you. I had no idea what a lot of people were fond of the old bugger.’

‘Well, on very brief acquaintance, I can see why everyone would have like Reggie. He seemed very straight, very honest.’

‘Yes.’ Was there a slight hesitation in the monosyllable? Had ‘honest’ not been the right word to use in the circumstances? Whether it was or not, Oenone did not allow anything to stop her flow for long. ‘Anyway, in the middle of the night I suddenly remembered.’

‘Remembered what?’

‘What we talked about yesterday morning. You know, your friend Carole asked if there were any ghost stories attached to Lockleigh House and I said it did ring a vague bell, but I couldn’t remember who I’d heard it from. Well, in the middle of last night I did remember.’

‘Oh, well done.’

‘I knew it was one of the tennis club members and I suddenly recalled a conversation from . . . ooh, way back, and it was Tom who mentioned something about some old rumour.’

‘Tom?’

‘Tom Ruthven.’

‘The one who plays in the Old Boys’ Wednesday doubles?’

‘That’s the lad. I can’t remember any details, but I know it was he who mentioned it. He’s got some family connection with the Wardocks . . . you know, the ones who used to own Lockleigh House. Anyway, if you want to follow up, Tom’s your man.’

‘Do you have a number for him?’

‘Oh, just a minute, Reggie’s membership list is around here somewhere. God, he was so untidy.’ Not, thought Jude, from what she had seen of the interior of Winnows. Or indeed his car. But then maybe his wife had always followed round tidying up after him.

‘Ah, here it is,’ announced Oenone triumphantly from the other end of the phone. And she gave the number. ‘Tom’s retired, so he’s around a lot of the time. You shouldn’t have any problem making contact. Unless, of course, he’s out playing golf.’

‘Well, thank you very much for the information. I’ll certainly talk to him.’

‘Oh, and incidentally, Jude . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t feel you have to come to the funeral.’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, you hardly knew Reggie. Piers obviously will be there, but don’t feel you have to tag along.’

‘I won’t, unless Piers specifically asks me to do so.’

‘Good wheeze. Where is Piers at the moment?’

‘He’s in Paris, got some business there.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Fingers in many pies, as usual, our Piers.’

In different circumstances Jude would have asked for elucidation of that enigmatic remark, but it didn’t seem to be the moment, as Oenone went on, ‘It’s on Thursday, by the way, the funeral. A week today. I could have arranged it for Wednesday – the vicar would have preferred that – but I didn’t want the Old Boys to miss their doubles.’