Jude did find it interesting that she and Carole were not the only people whose first thought had been that Reggie Playfair’s death was murder.
FOURTEEN
Jude had had no problem in persuading Tom Ruthven that Carole should join them on their Saturday visit to Lockleigh House Nursing Home for the Elderly. ‘The more the merrier,’ he’d said. ‘Cecil likes an audience — particularly if it’s a female audience.’
So they went together in the Renault to meet Tom, as arranged, at two thirty. The plan was to visit Cecil Wardock in his room, but when Tom announced them the smartly-suited woman on reception said, ‘If you don’t mind waiting for a moment. The nurses are just tidying things up for you upstairs.’ Whether it was the room or Cecil himself who was being tidied up for them they had no means of knowing.
So they waited in the rather splendid hall of Lockleigh House. This area had not been updated, but rather restored to its former glory, recreating what a Victorian country house should feel like. And though the reception desk gave it the air of a public rather than a private dwelling, it felt more like an upmarket hotel than an old people’s home. There wasn’t even a whiff of urine or disinfectant.
‘So did Cecil ever actually live here?’ Jude asked Tom. ‘I mean, while the Wardocks still owned the place?’
‘No. He was a different branch of the family. Visited quite a bit as a child, I believe. Then worked and lived in London most of his life. Was in publishing, quite successful, I think. Not that it’s a world that I know much about.’
‘What was your world?’ asked Carole. ‘You know, before you retired?’
‘Oh, I worked in a bank. Back in the days, I hasten to add, before bankers became the pariahs of society they are now. I enjoyed it, spent my entire working life in the City. Very healthy pension, retired down here, I can’t complain.’
‘And did Cecil have connections to this area before he moved in here?’
‘Yes. While he was London-based, they bought a weekend place in Smalting and moved in there full-time when he retired. Then his wife died a few years back and he was getting to the point where he couldn’t manage on his own. So he moved into what he refers to as “the family house”.’
‘Did he ever play real tennis?’ asked Jude.
Tom Ruthven chuckled. ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure he would have mentioned it to me if he had.’
They might have heard more about Cecil Wardock’s background, had not the woman on reception told them that he was now ready to receive his visitors.
There was a lift for the more infirm residents and guests, but they took the broad oak staircase instead. Tom Ruthven led them along the landing to a door with the number seven on it. He tapped and a thin voice shouted, ‘Come in.’
The room was luxuriously appointed, maintaining the Victorian country house feel of the hallway below. Large windows looked out over the gravel driveway and main gates of Lockleigh House. The panelled walls on one side were completely obscured by high bookshelves. On the other hung half a dozen watercolours of shorelines. They looked to be by the same artist and they looked expensive. There was no bed, so presumably the bedroom and bathroom lay beyond the interior door. The only details that suggested the room was part of a nursing home were the wheelchair neatly folded up by the wall and the pair of crutches propped against the owner’s high armchair.
Whether it was thanks to the nurses’ tidy-up or his own efforts, Cecil Wardock looked extremely dapper. He wore a gingerish tweed jacket and smartly-creased grey corduroy trousers, a blue shirt and a bow tie with stripes the colour of salmon and cucumber. The ensemble was only slightly let down by the fleece-lined and Velcro- strapped slippers on his feet.
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.
