The Corpse on the Court

by Simon Brett

  ‘Well, I’d have thought that any suspicious death—’

  ‘There is nothing suspicious about this death,’ he pronounced in the voice which he had used to face down argumentative foreigners during his long government service. ‘Poor old Reggie had a long history of heart trouble. It finally caught up with him. That’s all.’

  ‘But surely the question of why he was here in the court must be—’

  ‘I said: “That’s all.”’ Sir Donald Budgen was not used to being argued with. He cast a slightly reproachful look towards Piers Targett, as if to say, you really ought to choose your girlfriends more carefully.

  And Jude did feel a moment of, not guilt, but regret for having been so premature. The investigation of crimes in the past had made her rather prone to make instant categorization of any suspicious death as murder.

  ‘Then, of course,’ Sir Donald Budgen went on, ‘there’s the small matter of breaking the news to Oenone. As chairman, it’s my duty to do that. I’ll give her a call and then go to the house.’

  ‘Of course you’re welcome to do it, Don,’ said Piers diffidently, ‘but I think possibly it might come better from me. I’ve been a friend of the family for over thirty years.’

  The ex-ambassador accepted the offer with alacrity. Though in his professional life he had had to take on any number of unpalatable encounters, it wasn’t an experience he’d ever enjoyed and he was very happy to be let off the hook for once.

  Piers Targett read something in Jude’s face that she hadn’t realized was there. ‘I think this is a job I should do on my own,’ he announced firmly.

  And Jude, intrigued though she was at finding out more about the Playfairs, couldn’t deny that he was right.

  As it turned out, the Old Boys didn’t have their doubles cancelled. The ambulance arrived soon after half past ten and all traces of Reggie Playfair had been removed before eleven. George Hazlitt had checked to see if he’d left anything in the club room or changing room, but he hadn’t. Using the keys from the dead man’s pocket, Piers and the pro had also checked out his BMW, but found nothing unexpected. Then Piers set off on his difficult visit to Oenone Playfair.

  He told Jude that she could either call a cab and go home or stay and he’d join her for lunch in the Lockleigh Arms. Just down the lane from the court. And to kill time, she could watch the Old Boys’ doubles. That way she might get more idea of the rules of real tennis.

  EIGHT

  The Lockleigh Arms was the only pub in the village . . . though to call Lockleigh a village was perhaps straining the definition. Apart from the big house with its real tennis court, there were fewer than a dozen other dwellings. The only sizeable one of these was a farmhouse that had given up its original function in the 1970s when its extensive acres had been turned into a golf course, the club house for which was on the main road, some mile or so away from Lockleigh. The village’s other habitations had been built for farm workers, though now they had been modernized and interior-designed to within an inch of their lives to provide weekend retreats for wealthy city-dwellers.

  Isolated as it was, the Lockleigh Arms might easily have joined the gloomy and increasing statistics of pub closures, were it not for shrewd management. Building on its natural advantages of a beautiful rural location, the (relatively new) owners had invested shrewdly in refurbishing the place. But they had employed the skills of the restorer rather than the modernizer, so the result was a pub that looked as it might have done fifty years earlier. No muzak was ever heard, there were no television screens or gaming machines. The only places where the modern had been allowed to intrude were out of sight, in the superior-spec toilet facilities and the state-of-the-art kitchen, from which their award-winning chef conjured up wonderful meals.

  Just as Ted Crisp had found at the Crown and Anchor, it was the food that brought the punters in. Even in recessionary times, there was still a lot of money in West Sussex, and plenty of well-pensioned couples who enjoyed nothing more than going out for a pub lunch or dinner. The Lockleigh Arms’ menu was cleverly traditional. It featured none of the challenging taste combinations and presentational fussiness beloved of television chefs. The menu offered pub favourites – steaks, liver and bacon, sausage and mash, steak and ale pie, fish and chips – but all superbly cooked from the finest locally sourced ingredients. The Lockleigh Arms was not the cheapest pub in the area, but most visitors reckoned that the quality of the food justified the higher prices.

  Geographical proximity alone dictated that it was used a lot by members of the Lockleigh House tennis court. And it was there that Jude was joined by Piers at the end of what felt like a very long morning since they had discovered the corpse on the court.

  ‘“Resigned” is the word I’d use,’ said Piers Targett wearily. ‘Oenone is resigned to Reggie’s death.’

  ‘Did she cry when you told her?’

  ‘No, she’s made of sterner stuff than that. Oenone may be weeping her little heart out now she’s on her own, but she’d never let anyone else see how much she was suffering.’

  They were sitting in the bar of the Lockleigh Arms. Jude had been going to order a glass of Chilean Chardonnay, but Piers, being a red wine man, had persuaded her to share a bottle of Argentinian Malbec with him. As ever, he had chosen well. Drinking the fine wine in front of the Lockleigh Arms’ blazing fire was warming both physically and spiritually. They were both feeling rather battered by the events of the morning.

  And hungry. Jude’s fruit and yogurt before the taxi collected her was a long time ago and Piers said he hadn’t had any breakfast. From the Lockleigh Arms’ limited but carefully chosen menu they had both ordered the day’s special, venison casserole. That promised to continue the physical and spiritual thawing process.

  ‘How did you first meet the Playfairs?’ asked Jude.

  ‘Can’t remember exactly. It was through tennis. You know, Reggie and I had a few friendly games, played in the odd tournament . . . went out for the odd drink . . . We were friends. Then started meeting up with Oenone as well and . . . you know how it is.’

  Jude picked up the nuance. ‘You mean that you used to meet up as two couples . . . while you were still married?’

  ‘You’re very sharp, Jude. Yes, that’s what I meant.’

  ‘You’ve never told me much about . . .’

  He raised his hands to stop her in mid-flow. ‘No, I haven’t. I will in time, I promise. But after the morning I’ve just been through, the last thing I want to do is to talk about my ex-wife.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jude. And she meant it. If their relationship was going to survive, then unpacking the baggage of their pasts was going to take a long, long time. ‘I’m still intrigued to know why Reggie Playfair was on the court anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find out in time.’

  ‘And indeed when he got there. Does Lockleigh House have security cameras, because if it does, then there’d be a record of—’

  ‘It doesn’t have security cameras.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather unusual? For a big place like that?’

  ‘It doesn’t have security cameras because, being an old people’s home, there’s someone on duty all the time. Also a lot of the residents suffer from insomnia. Only an extremely stupid burglar is going to break into a place like that.’

  ‘But if there’s someone on duty all the time, then they might have seen when Reggie’s car arrived and—’

  Again the hands were raised. ‘Jude, Jude. I really don’t want to talk about this either. I’ve just lost a very close friend. I need a bit of time to get used to that idea.’

  For a moment, to her surprise, Jude wished Carole was with her. Her neighbour would have had no inhibitions about picking through the details of an unexplained death.

  But then she looked across at Piers and was overcome by a wave of sympathy. She could see from his face that he really was suffering. Though he erected defences of humour, referring to the ‘poor old bugger’, asking which chase Reg
gie had died on, the death had affected him profoundly. Jude reached across and placed her plump hand on his thin one. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘How was the Old Boys’ doubles?’

  ‘Fascinating. I really did get more of a feeling of the game from watching them. They don’t move about much, but they hit the ball beautifully.’

  ‘They were all pretty good players in their time.’

  ‘And how old are they?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure that it’s polite to ask that. Still, you reckon you’ve now got an idea of the rules now?’

  ‘I get some of it. The bit that still doesn’t make any sense is why they change ends.’

  ‘But I told you about that. It’s to do with the chases. When two chases are laid, or only one if the score has reached—’

  It was Jude’s turn to raise her hands. ‘Please, Piers, please. We’ve established there are subjects you don’t want to talk about at the moment. Well, I’ve got one too – and it’s the rules of real tennis.’

  He grinned. ‘Very well.’ He looked up towards the pub door to see the entrance of four elderly gentlemen. ‘Ah, here come the Old Boys themselves. Maybe you’ll take being taught the rules better from them . . .?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Jude.

  She knew the other three elderly gentlemen who entered because Wally Edgington-Bewley had introduced them with punctilious politeness in the dedans before they had started playing. Their names were Rod Farrar, Jonty Westmacott and Tom Ruthven. They all wore a kind of uniform of variegated cardigans and brightly-coloured corduroys.

  ‘My turn to buy the drinks,’ said Tom Ruthven.

  ‘I’ll have—’ Jonty Westmacott began.

  ‘I know what you’ll have . . . unless you’ve changed the habits of eleven years. I know what you’ll all have.’

  ‘Do you mind if we join you?’ asked Wally Edgington-Bewley, edging towards the table near the fire.

  Piers flicked a quick look at Jude, but she nodded assent. She was rather fascinated by the geriatric foursome and was pleased to see them draw comfortable chairs up to the table.

  ‘Oh, incidentally, you left this,’ said Wally Edgington-Bewley, holding out a fat envelope towards her.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Copy of my book. I said I’d leave it for you in the club room.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot, what with . . .’ Seeing a negative head-shake from Piers, she didn’t mention Reggie Playfair, just concluded: ‘One thing and another.’

  ‘Well, I do hope you’ll enjoy it. Labour of love on my part. It’s about all the real tennis courts I’ve played on.’

  ‘Which is virtually all the real tennis courts in the world,’ said Piers.

  ‘Virtually,’ Wally agreed with a modest smile.

  ‘As I know well,’ said Piers.

  ‘Oh yes, we’ve had some jolly jaunts in foreign climes, haven’t we?’ The old man recollected with a nostalgic smile.

  ‘Well, thanks. I’m sure I’ll really like it,’ asserted Jude, with possibly more tact than truth, as she took the book. Then she went on, ‘I enjoyed watching you play this morning.’

  ‘You didn’t see me at my best, I’m afraid,’ said Jonty Westmacott. ‘Just wasn’t seeing the ball today. Tweaked a tendon in my knee a couple of months back and it hasn’t really settled down yet.’

  ‘Well, you saw me at my best,’ said Rod Farrar. ‘Sadly, that’s as good as I get these days. Not that I ever was that great. And the new hips and knees, wonderful though they are, never quite match the originals.’

  ‘Have you had them done recently?’ asked Jude.

  ‘Most recent knee a couple of years ago. But I have got to second time round on both hips and knees. So what you see before you is a bionic man. All parts in more or less perfect order . . . though not all the original parts I started out with.’ He looked at Jude piercingly. ‘Are all your joints your own?’

  It was not a question that she had ever been asked before, but she was able to reassure Rod Farrar that her body had not yet been enhanced in any way by the surgeon’s knife.

  ‘Lucky you.’ Then realizing that actually asking the question might be seen as some lapse from gallantry, he said, ‘But of course you are far too young to worry about that sort of stuff. Anyway –’ he grinned at her – ‘are you hooked yet? Are you going to become obsessed with real tennis like the rest of us?’

  ‘Early days,’ she replied cautiously.

  ‘I do hope you’ll take to it,’ said Rod. ‘And it would be really good if you could join us one day for a Wednesday morning doubles.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Because,’ he replied, ‘you would lower our total age to under three hundred!’

  Quickly she did the calculation and realized that, even if Rod Farrar was being rather gallant about her age, all of the men must be in their eighties.

  By now Tom Ruthven had returned to the table with the drinks. A red wine for Jonty and for the others halves of bitter (Jude got the feeling that a few years earlier, when their prostates had been in better condition, they would have been ordering pints.)

  ‘Incidentally,’ Wally Edgington-Bewley announced, ‘George did tell us about Reggie, so if you were delicately skirting round the subject . . .’

  ‘Thanks for telling us,’ said Piers.

  ‘You two found him, I gather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We should raise a glass to him.’ Wally raised his half and said, ‘Reggie Playfair.’

  All the others around the table did the same and together, as somehow Jude knew they would, they all solemnly intoned, ‘Poor old bugger.’

  NINE

  ‘Hello, it’s Oenone Playfair.’

  Jude was taken aback by the unexpected phone call and hastened to assemble some appropriate words of condolence but Oenone briskly cut through them. ‘Yes, well, it was bound to happen one day.’ As Piers had said, she wasn’t the type to let anyone see her suffering.

  ‘Listen, Jude, the reason I’m calling you is that a great friend of mine is Suzy Longthorne . . . you know, who runs the Hopwicke Country House Hotel.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Jude knew exactly who was being referred to. Suzy, a former model, had been a friend for a long time.

  ‘Well, Suzy told me that you were very helpful to her when she had an awkward situation of a young man being found hanged in her hotel.’ Jude remembered the circumstances vividly. What had looked like a suicide had been proved to be murder.

  ‘She said you and your friend – Carole, is it? – found out the truth of what had really happened.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose we did.’

  ‘And I wondered if I could enlist your help . . . ideally yours and Carole’s?’

  ‘Of course. But can I ask what for?’

  ‘To find out what actually happened to Reggie.’

  Jude was very relieved that Carole had been included in Oenone Playfair’s request for a meeting. She was aware of her neighbour’s continuing unspoken resentment of the new relationship with Piers Targett. The fact that he had stayed over at Woodside Cottage on the Wednesday night would not have lessened that resentment.

  Anyway, Piers had set off after breakfast in the E-Type on his way to Ebbsfleet where he would take the Eurostar to Paris.

  So Jude had the perfect opportunity to do a little fence-mending. No peace offering to Carole Seddon could have been more seductive than an invitation to join in another murder investigation.

  ‘I think you should be careful about the words you use,’ said Carole when the situation had been explained to her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Oenone Playfair didn’t use the word “murder”, did she?’

  ‘No, she just said she wanted to find out what had happened to Reggie, but surely that must mean . . .?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I don’t think we should mention the possibility that he was murdered until she does.’

  It w
as a wise caution, because as soon as Carole and Jude started talking to Oenone Playfair, it was clear that the recent widow had no suspicions of foul play.

  They had agreed to go to her house, Winnows. Though reacting with apparent stoicism to her husband’s death, Oenone confessed that she didn’t really feel up to going out yet. On the way over in Carole’s immaculate Renault, Jude brought her neighbour up to date with the events of the previous day at Lockleigh House tennis court.

  Winnows was a large detached dwelling about midway between Lockleigh and Fedborough. Flint-faced like many West Sussex buildings, its size suggested that it had probably once been a farmhouse, which over the years had been expensively refurbished. The whole place breathed money. The garden was immaculately maintained. On the gravel in front of a flint-faced outhouse converted into a double garage stood two BMWs, including the one Jude had last seen outside the Lockleigh House tennis court.

  The interior of the house was equally perfect, not flashy in any way but with the kind of antique furniture, upholstery and curtains that didn’t come cheap. Like the garden, everything was irreproachably tidy, suggesting perhaps that the Playfairs had live-in staff.

  While Oenone went through to the kitchen to make coffee, the two visitors were seated on the large cushions of a sofa whose box-like back and sides were tied at the top with silken ropes. They looked round at the effortless elegance of the recessed fireplace and the grand piano. Jude noted that the only photographs on display, except for some black and white ones of presumably deceased relatives, were of Oenone and Reggie. It confirmed the impression she had somehow received on the Sunday, that the Playfairs didn’t have children.

  Over the fireplace hung a portrait of a young woman in a green ball dress. The fashion of the gown and a residual likeness declared it to be of Oenone in her twenties.

  Entering with the coffee, she saw that they were looking at the painting and grimaced. ‘A lot to be said for putting that in the attic,’ she commented. ‘A bit masochistic to have such a constant reminder of the ravages of age.’