‘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.