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 Reggie 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.’
