Beefeater’s. She stood, bold and brave in the front pew and, whatever emotions she may have been feeling, she betrayed no sign of any of them.
There was no coffin at the funeral. A cremation had taken place earlier in the day, attended, at her request, only by Oenone.
At the end of the service at St Peter’s she followed the vicar up the aisle and stood at the door, greeting her guests with the manners of a well-schooled hostess. Outside the church, one or two of the Lockleigh House tennis court members did say, ‘Poor old bugger.’
The array of parked cars bore testament to the wealth of the Playfairs’ circle. To add to Piers’ E-Type, there were BMWs, Jaguars, Range Rovers and even a couple of Rolls-Royces. As the church emptied, the cars filled and everyone drove the half mile to Winnows.
Needless to say, at the house, too, everything was punctiliously organized. In the sitting room where Jude and Carole had talked to Oenone, the furniture had been pushed back against the walls and a large trestle table set up. The food that was being served from there was substantial, a proper meal rather than nibbles. But then the funeral had ended at one o’clock, so it was lunchtime.
The food and the drink were served by smart young girls in black uniforms. On arrival in the front hall the guests were greeted by two of these, holding trays loaded with flutes of champagne. Jude heard Oenone saying to someone, ‘Reggie wouldn’t have wanted anything less. Always loved a good party. His only disappointment with this one would be that he can’t attend it. And he’d definitely have wanted it to be a celebration rather than a wake.’
Piers seemed to know everyone. Again Jude enjoyed his company and she felt that their being together at an event like this, albeit a sad occasion, marked another advance in their relationship. And because of the real tennis players she had met through Lockleigh House tennis court, she didn’t have to stay at his side all the time, dependent on him for introductions.
She saw Wally Edgington-Bewley, who raised a glass of red wine to her. ‘Glad to see that Oenone’s brought out Reggie’s best claret. I’m never that bothered about champagne, you know. Give me a robust red any day. That of course is one of the many advantages of going to the tennis court in Bordeaux — can always fit in a visit to the odd chateau. Oh, but of course you know about that, don’t you, Jude?’
‘Do I?’
‘Sorry, maybe you haven’t had a chance to read it yet.’
At last she understood what he was talking about. ‘Oh yes, of course, the book you lent me. No, sorry, Wally, haven’t got round to it yet, but I will, I will. Why, do you need it back?’
‘Good heavens, no. That copy’s for you, Jude. Think of it as a rich gift from Wally Edgington-Bewley.’ He blushed. ‘I have actually written in it for you.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘Don’t worry, I still have plenty more copies.’
‘Oh.’
Tom Ruthven came across to join them. After a bit of chat, Jude asked if he’d seen Cecil Wardock again since the weekend.
‘The eyes and ears of Lockleigh House? No, I might go again on Saturday. But he does get other visitors you know. Felicity Budgen goes there quite regularly. . she’s very dutiful on the good works front. Visits a lot of the old crocks at Lockleigh House. But why were you asking about Cecil?’ He chuckled. ‘You haven’t seen the ghost of Agnes Wardock, have you?’
Jude too chuckled at the pleasantry, though after what she had heard from Piers the night before, she wasn’t that amused by the idea.
They were joined by Jonty Westmacott.
‘Hello,’ said Jude. ‘How are you?’
Too late she remembered that he was not the person to put that question to. ‘Well, I woke up this morning,’ Jonty replied, ‘with a bit of a twinge in my lower back. I think that’s probably why I wasn’t at my best in the doubles yesterday.’
‘I thought,’ said Wally Edgington-Bewley, dead-pan but with the slightest twinkle, ‘that you played badly yesterday because the net was the wrong height.’
‘Well, that didn’t help, obviously. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it, Wally. But then I suppose your game’s always been less precise than mine. . you know, you do all those shots ballooning over the net. But I think it was my back that was affecting me more yesterday. You remember I had that problem with a slipped disc a couple of years back and it never really got properly sorted and then I. .’
Jude managed to drift away and found herself beside Sir Donald and Lady Budgen, both gracefully black- suited. ‘I enjoyed your reading,’ said Jude.
The former ambassador inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh yes,’ said his wife. ‘Don can always be relied on to do the right thing on a public occasion.’
Jude wondered whether there was an edge of irony in that remark but, looking at Felicity Budgen’s face, she could see none. And when she came to think of it, she couldn’t imagine irony — or indeed humour of any kind — playing much of a part in the Budgens’ marriage.
‘You’d presumably both known Reggie for a long time?’ said Jude.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Sir Donald. ‘Though Felicity tended to see more of the Playfairs than I did. When I was on foreign postings, she came back home to settle the various children into schools, that kind of thing. Reggie and Oenone were very generous to you when you were here on your own, weren’t they, darling?’
Felicity Budgen agreed that yes, they had been, darling.
Jude couldn’t believe the formality of the couple. She had a vision of them being exactly like that all the time, always saying the right thing, never letting their hair down, never letting their masks slip. The idea of the two of them in bed together was almost comically incongruous.
‘Oh,’ said Jude, making conversation, ‘Tom Ruthven was just saying that you sometimes visit Cecil Wardock in Lockleigh House.’
‘Yes.’ Felicity Budgen smiled sympathetically. ‘I go and see quite a few of the residents there. Very few have that many visitors. How do you come to know Cecil Wardock?’
‘Tom introduced me to him.’ Felicity still looked at her quizzically, requiring a little more explanation. ‘I wanted to ask him about. .’ She paused, realizing that it might be better not to get going on the whole Agnes Wardock ghost story. ‘About things that had happened on the tennis court.’
‘Oh, I see,’ came the apparently satisfied response.
As the wine flowed, the guests — with the exception, obviously, of the Budgens — began to relax, and the noise level rose. Jude, queuing at the table to get her lunch plate loaded up, heard more than one person refer to the late Reggie Playfair as ‘poor old bugger’.
Because seats were needed when the guests were eating, the party had spread out of the sitting room into adjacent spaces. Jude found herself drifting towards a conservatory and, just as she was about to enter, she heard what sounded like an argument conducted in low tones.
She hovered for a moment. A voice she recognized as George Hazlitt’s was saying, ‘. . and I thought last time we spoke about it, we agreed you wouldn’t do it again.’
‘Look, I haven’t got anywhere else to go,’ protested a younger voice. ‘You know what Kelly’s like about that kind of thing.’
‘That’s not my problem. If anyone on the committee found out what you’d been doing, they’d-’
‘They won’t find out. That lot’re so dozy they-’
‘You going to eat through there?’ Piers had suddenly appeared behind Jude, with a piled-up plate, to which a glass of red wine was attached by a plastic holder.
‘Yes,’ said Jude and they walked through into the conservatory. The conversation inside immediately stopped.
But Jude saw that the person George Hazlitt had been talking to was the junior pro, Ned Jackson. Joining up a few links of logic in her mind, she thought she might know what they had been talking about. And she wondered how she might engineer an opportunity to find out if she was right.
Because, if she could, it might offer a whole new perspective on Reggie Playfair’s death.
