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.’
‘Merton College,’ Tom Ruthven supplied.
‘Ah, knew I could rely on you to have all the facts at your fingertips. Anyway, Agnes’ brother invited his chum down here to have a game, the two young people met and that was it. For Agnes it was undoubtedly love with a capital L. Young man was equally keen. Her parents had hoped for someone with a title perhaps, but they recognized a good thing when they saw it and didn’t make any objections.
‘So the engagement was official, wedding date set for the following May, notice in The Times, all that stuff. But then for that particular young couple, as for so many people round that time who felt confident that the Edwardian summer idyll would last forever, things changed.
‘Small matter of some Austrian archduke being assassinated in Sarajevo . . . I don’t need to spell it all out, do I? Well, caught up in jingoistic fervour, Agnes’ fiancé joined up at the first opportunity. Never any doubt he would, being an honourable young man –’ Cecil Wardock winked at Tom Ruthven – ‘not to mention a real tennis player. And since everyone knew that the war would be over by Christmas, no need to change the wedding plans. The fiancé would go off and sort out the Boche, return to England probably decorated for conspicuous gallantry and everything’d be tickety-boo for him to walk Agnes up the aisle in May.