The Corpse on the Court

‘Oh, how good to hear you. How are you bearing up?’

‘I’m fine. The only possible thing to be said in favour of organizing a funeral is that at least it keeps you so busy that you can’t think about other things. No time to brood.’ She was in a more forceful, less twittery mood that morning, though Jude rather doubted whether she was feeling any better deep down.

‘Also I’ve had so many letters and cards and what-have-you. I had no idea what a lot of people were fond of the old bugger.’

‘Well, on very brief acquaintance, I can see why everyone would have like Reggie. He seemed very straight, very honest.’

‘Yes.’ Was there a slight hesitation in the monosyllable? Had ‘honest’ not been the right word to use in the circumstances? Whether it was or not, Oenone did not allow anything to stop her flow for long. ‘Anyway, in the middle of the night I suddenly remembered.’

‘Remembered what?’

‘What we talked about yesterday morning. You know, your friend Carole asked if there were any ghost stories attached to Lockleigh House and I said it did ring a vague bell, but I couldn’t remember who I’d heard it from. Well, in the middle of last night I did remember.’

‘Oh, well done.’

‘I knew it was one of the tennis club members and I suddenly recalled a conversation from. . ooh, way back, and it was Tom who mentioned something about some old rumour.’

‘Tom?’

‘Tom Ruthven.’

‘The one who plays in the Old Boys’ Wednesday doubles?’

‘That’s the lad. I can’t remember any details, but I know it was he who mentioned it. He’s got some family connection with the Wardocks. . you know, the ones who used to own Lockleigh House. Anyway, if you want to follow up, Tom’s your man.’

‘Do you have a number for him?’

‘Oh, just a minute, Reggie’s membership list is around here somewhere. God, he was so untidy.’ Not, thought Jude, from what she had seen of the interior of Winnows. Or indeed his car. But then maybe his wife had always followed round tidying up after him.

‘Ah, here it is,’ announced Oenone triumphantly from the other end of the phone. And she gave the number. ‘Tom’s retired, so he’s around a lot of the time. You shouldn’t have any problem making contact. Unless, of course, he’s out playing golf.’

‘Well, thank you very much for the information. I’ll certainly talk to him.’

‘Oh, and incidentally, Jude. .’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t feel you have to come to the funeral.’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, you hardly knew Reggie. Piers obviously will be there, but don’t feel you have to tag along.’

‘I won’t, unless Piers specifically asks me to do so.’

‘Good wheeze. Where is Piers at the moment?’

‘He’s in Paris, got some business there.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Fingers in many pies, as usual, our Piers.’

In different circumstances Jude would have asked for elucidation of that enigmatic remark, but it didn’t seem to be the moment, as Oenone went on, ‘It’s on Thursday, by the way, the funeral. A week today. I could have arranged it for Wednesday — the vicar would have preferred that — but I didn’t want the Old Boys to miss their doubles.’

TWELVE

Carole Seddon arrived at Bean in Love before Susan Holland. It was one of those laid-back coffee shops with lots of sofas and an air of aggressive informality that always made Carole feel tense. Service seemed to happen from the counter rather than from waitresses. As she approached, she looked up at the infinite variety of coffee types and cup sizes on the chalkboards.

‘Good morning. What can I get you?’ asked a girl with a butterfly tattooed on the side of her neck and a badge reading ‘Barista Celine’.

‘Just a black coffee, please?’

‘Would that be an Americano, espresso or filter?’

‘Just ordinary black coffee, thank you.’

‘Filter.’

‘If that’s what ordinary black coffee is, yes.’

Carole took the white mug to a table and opened her Times to the crossword page. But her eyes kept glancing off the clues, refusing to let her brain engage in unpicking their logic. She was nervous. What was she doing, a middle-aged woman setting herself up as some kind of superannuated private eye, poking her nose into things that didn’t concern her?

‘Hello. Are you Carole?’ She looked up at the sound of the voice. It hadn’t occurred to her that Susan Holland might go and get her own coffee before greeting her, but that’s what the woman had done. Her ease in the Bean in Love environment suggested that she was a very regular customer.

Susan Holland was one side or the other of fifty. She was shortish, dressed in black leggings and a grey fleece. Her features were strong and dark, suggesting perhaps some Hispanic blood in her genetic make-up. Shortish hair, coloured to a chestnutty sheen, perhaps to hide the incipient grey.

‘First thing I have to ask,’ she said very directly as she took a seat opposite Carole, ‘is what your interest is in the Lady in the Lake?’

‘A perfectly legitimate question. And one to which I feel it is difficult to give a simple answer.’

‘You will understand my caution. A lot of rather dubious people involve themselves in missing-person cases. There are plenty of weirdos out there, people with their own bizarre agendas, some whose interest is distinctly unhelpful.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve read a lot of the stuff that’s been posted on the Internet.’

‘So you understand, Carole, why my instinct is to be extremely careful.’

‘I understand completely.’

‘Then why’ve you contacted me?’ The woman could not keep the neediness out of her voice any longer. ‘Have you got any new information? Have you got any proof that the Lady in the Lake was Marina?’

Carole felt guilty now. She should have thought, should have realized how desperate the woman would be for news of her daughter. Her email contact had been unwittingly cruel, raising hopes where there were none.

‘I’m sorry. I have nothing like that to offer you.’ The younger woman looked predictably crestfallen. ‘It’s just that I live in Fethering, so obviously I heard about the discovery of the Lady in the Lake up at Fedborough and I just. . thought maybe it might be worth doing some investigation into it.’

Stated like that, her intention did sound painfully woolly.

‘I’m presuming you’re nothing to do with the police?’ said Susan Holland.

For a brief moment Carole considered mentioning her former career in the Home Office, but she knew it was irrelevant, so she replied, somewhat shamefacedly, ‘No.’

The reaction that prompted was better than she feared. ‘Thank goodness. They’re a useless bunch of tossers. When I asked them to make enquiries into Marina’s disappearance, they treated me like I was an idiot, just another menopausal mother who’d had a spat with her teenage daughter.’

‘On thing does strike me,’ said Carole. ‘Surely it would be very simple for the police to find out whether the Lady in the Lake was Marina or not. They’d find a DNA match with you.’

‘That wouldn’t have worked.’

‘Oh?’

‘Marina was adopted. I don’t know anything about her birth parents.’