‘Except of course that wasn’t what happened. On the fifth of September, 1914 began the Battle of the Marne . . . Actually an author of mine wrote a splendid novel on the subject . . . rather better than more recent, over-praised works of fiction covering the same period . . .’ His eyes strayed towards the bookshelves, before he returned with slight reluctance to his narrative. ‘Battle went on for a week and was actually an Allied victory. Not that that was much comfort for the seventeen hundred-odd British casualties . . . amongst whose number was included . . . yes, you guessed it, Agnes Wardock’s fiancé.’
The old man was silent for a moment. Though he was enjoying having an audience for his story, the effort of telling it was taking it out of him.
‘There were a lot of young women who were bereaved in that way,’ prompted Carole, with surprising gentleness.
‘Oh yes. And a lot of them stiffened their upper lips and got on with life, channelling the love they had lost into good works or whatever. But that didn’t happen with Agnes Wardock. She fell to pieces in a very un-British way. Her parents, her friends tried to comfort her, but nothing could break through her carapace of grief.
‘Within a week of hearing the news of her fiancé’s death Agnes Wardock hanged herself. And because it was on the Lockleigh House real tennis court that she had first met the young man, that was where she did the deed. Wearing the wedding dress which she had already had made for the following May.’
After a long silence Tom Ruthven asked, ‘Where did she do it?’ For a moment Jude feared that he was going to ask which chase the girl had died on, but fortunately he was not so crass, and continued, ‘Was it from one of the high walkways up by the windows?’
Cecil Wardock nodded.
‘So,’ asked Jude, ‘it is Agnes Wardock’s ghost who is said to haunt Lockleigh House?’
‘Yes. Or more specifically, she is said to haunt the tennis court adjacent to Lockleigh House.’
‘Presumably there have been sightings of her over the years?’
‘Presumably. Though, as ever with ghost stories it’s hard to get proper evidence. The imaginations of people who regard themselves as psychic are extremely fertile. A rumour very quickly takes on the mantle of fact. One of my authors –’ he gestured again to the bookshelves – ‘did an excellent study of the ghosts of West Sussex, but although I pointed him in the direction of Agnes Wardock, he didn’t include her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Lack of evidence. He made a rule that for inclusion in the book a ghost had to have had at least two sightings, authenticated either by the individual who had seen the apparition or by some written record. He couldn’t find even one for Agnes Wardock.’
‘But within the family . . .’ said Carole. ‘You said it was a cousin of yours who mentioned the idea of the ghost. Had he seen it?’
‘He claimed to have talked to one of the housemaids who’d seen a female figure in a long white dress on the tennis court.’
‘What would a housemaid have been doing on the court?’ asked Tom Ruthven.
‘According to my cousin, she was there after dark to meet one of the boot boys. For an assignation of a carnal nature, I fear.’
Carole and Jude exchanged looks. It seemed the court might have a long history of the kind of rendezvous that Oenone Playfair had worried about her husband arranging.
‘I think it’s quite possible, though,’ Cecil Wardock went on, ‘that the housemaid invented the story of the ghost to divert suspicion from what she was really up to.’
‘And that’s the only sighting you know of?’ asked Carole.
‘Yes. Maybe members of the Wardock family who actually lived here might be able to provide more detail . . . if there were any of them around to ask.’
‘And are there?’
‘Sadly, no. I’m afraid the line dies with me. My marriage was blessed in every way possible, except in the matter of children. So no, when I go . . . which cannot by the law of averages be too far into the future . . . that will be the final pruning of the Wardock family tree.’ Though the thought might be a melancholy one, it was spoken with great cheerfulness. ‘Getting old isn’t as bad as some people say, you know. It has its consolations. In fact, I published a slim volume written by a philosopher friend of mine on that very subject.’ Another gesture towards the bookshelves. ‘Very thoughtful piece of work. It brings me renewed comfort each time I get round to reading it again.’
‘Cecil, we can’t thank you enough for telling us all this,’ said Jude.
‘No hardship for me at all, my dear young lady. I love telling stories. That’s why I went into publishing. And it’s nice for me to have such an attentive audience. I’m afraid back in the days when I used to lord it in the coffee room at the Garrick Club . . .’ He gestured to his salmon and cucumber bow. ‘Recognize the tie, do you? Anyway, back then most of the members had heard all my stories before, so it’s a pleasure for me this afternoon to know that I haven’t repeated myself.’
‘There is one thing I’d like to ask,’ said Carole.
‘Ask away. I’m not about to go anywhere.’
‘Tom said you mentioned the story of Agnes Wardock’s ghost to him some years ago . . .’
‘Yes. I hope you’re not going to ask me how many. When it comes to time these days I always have to double the number I first thought of.’
‘No, that wasn’t going to be my question. I just wondered whether you’d told the ghost story to anyone else more recently?’
‘Funny you should ask that, because there was a chap came to see me within the last month who seemed extremely interested in Agnes Wardock’s ghost. You probably know him, Tom. He’s a member of the real tennis club.’
‘Oh? What’s his name?’
‘Reggie Playfair,’ said Cecil Wardock.
It had started to rain while they had been talking, so the other two waited under the porch of Lockleigh House while Carole went to fetch the Renault from the car park.
‘Cecil didn’t seem to know about Reggie Playfair’s death, did he?’ Jude observed.
‘No. Otherwise he’d have been bound to mention it when the poor old bugger’s name came up.’
‘There didn’t seem to be any point in saying anything.’
‘Absolutely not. He’d only met Reggie the once.’
There was a silence. The rain looked set in for the afternoon.
‘Pity you haven’t started playing tennis yet,’ said Tom Ruthven.
‘You still looking for a fourth for your Wednesday doubles?’
‘That’s it. I suppose Jonty’s gout might be better – he’s such a hypochondriac with his ailments, and not above using them for a bit of gamesmanship too – but I’d like to have a back-up.’
Jude had a good idea. Her lover was due back from Paris the following day. She didn’t know his plans for the next week, but he always seemed ready to drop everything for a game of real tennis. ‘Why not ask Piers?’
‘Oh, I asked him. He couldn’t do it. Some business meeting, he said.’
‘In Paris?’
‘He didn’t mention Paris.’
Jude felt a disturbing trickle of anxiety. ‘Did you speak to him on his mobile?’
‘No, his home number.’
‘In Bayswater?’
‘No, no. Down here. In his house at Goffham.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
But Piers Targett was supposed to be in Paris till Sunday. Jude’s manner gave no sign of the turmoil in her mind as she said lightly, ‘Thank goodness you mentioned that, Tom.’