She had also explained to them how the car had got back to Winnows. ‘George Hazlitt – you know, the pro – he drove it over. With his junior, Ned, following in another car to take them back.’
She gave them the keys, saying, ‘Obviously if you find anything of interest, let me know. Otherwise, just drop the keys back through the letterbox. I think I might go and put my feet up for a while.’
And they both realized how desperately exhausted Oenone Playfair was. In spite of her overt stoicism, the events of the past days had taken a heavy toll on her. And the long conversation with Carole and Jude couldn’t have made her any less tired.
She saw them to the door and added, ‘Oh, and by the way, do let me know if you find Reggie’s mobile phone in the car. I couldn’t find it in the clothes that came back from the hospital . . . not that I really looked that hard. I was . . .’ The strain was beginning to show more forcibly now. ‘As I say, I’m just going to put my feet up for a while. Then I’ll have to address myself to the subject of funeral arrangements.’
They could both tell that she was now just desperate to be on her own, so they said their hasty goodbyes. And as soon as Oenone had closed the front door, they started their inspection of the BMW.
‘Be very handy,’ said Carole, ‘if we did find his mobile phone, with a text on it from someone arranging to meet him at the tennis court.’
‘Well, don’t hold your breath,’ said Jude. ‘The business of investigation, as we have found out, is seldom quite as simple as that.’
And so it proved. The BMW did not contain a revelatory mobile phone. Nor a note setting up an assignation with an old flame. Nor indeed anything else that one wouldn’t have expected to find in the car of a wealthy married man in his seventies.
As she sedately drove her sedate Renault back to Fethering, Carole Seddon observed, ‘There’s one thing that’s struck me as particularly odd in everything I’ve heard today.’
‘Something Oenone said?’
‘No. Something you said.’
‘Oh?’
‘When we were driving over to Winnows. You said when you arrived at the tennis court yesterday morning Piers Targett was standing beside his Jaguar . . .’
‘The E-Type, yes.’
‘And where was Reggie Playfair’s BMW?’
‘Parked by the wall of the tennis court, a little bit further along.’
‘But Piers didn’t refer to it before he went into the court?’
‘No.’
‘You said they were great friends, though, didn’t you?’ Jude nodded. ‘So Piers would have recognized Reggie’s car?’
‘Yes,’ Jude agreed unwillingly.
‘Which must mean that Piers knew Reggie was at the court before you found his body.’ There was a silence. ‘Mustn’t it?’
Jude felt very wretched.
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 . . .’