Simon Brett - The Corpse on the Court

They had gone straight back to the nursing home after the Budgens had left. In the interim since they had last been there the residents had had their evening meal. The woman on reception was of the view that it was rather late for another visit, and rang through to check Cecil Wardock’s own views on the subject. It was only with his enthusiastic say-so that Carole and Jude were allowed upstairs.

Jude felt pretty stupid as they approached the old man’s room. She should have made the connection. After all, hadn’t Tom Ruthven described his distant relative as ‘the eyes and ears of Lockleigh House’? Jude herself had seen from his window how perfectly placed an insomniac Cecil Wardock would be to witness the arrivals and departures at the main gates of Lockleigh House. If they’d asked him earlier, they could have saved themselves a great deal of trouble.

‘It was when I first arrived here at Lockleigh House that I started it,’ the old man explained. ‘I was not in a very good state of mind at the time. My wife had not died long before and the step of moving into a nursing home seemed to me a huge one, an acknowledgement that, to all intents and purposes, my life was over. My sleeping patterns were completely destroyed and it was then that I embarked on my career as a nocturnal chronicler.

‘I was also at that time suspicious that certain of my possessions seemed to have disappeared in the course of the move from my own house. So initially my vigilance was directed towards the tracking down of thieves. In retrospect, I think that too was just a symptom of my general malaise. I don’t probably think anyone was stealing from me. It was my overriding misery that made me paranoid.

‘Anyway, as I settled down into the routine of my new life I came to terms with accepting that some things had gone forever, and I got into the pattern of reading — ’ he gestured to the bookshelves — ‘which has provided me with such intellectual sustenance.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you know, I have only three more books to read before I reach the end of my entire publishing oeuvre .’

‘And then of course you start again at the beginning,’ said Jude.

‘That indeed has been my invariable practice, so there is no reason why the cycle should not be repeated one more time.’ But as he spoke the old man sounded distant and thoughtful.

Then with an effort he brought his concentration back to the present. ‘I did not, however, break the habit of making entries in my log.’ He tapped a black-covered notebook on the table beside him. ‘An old man’s idle diversion, you may say, but I derived some harmless satisfaction from the record keeping.’

‘You only did it during the night time?’ asked Carole.

‘Oh yes, just while I was wakeful in the small hours. Frequently there was nothing to record. Weeks would go by with no after-hours visitors to the tennis court.’

‘And you never mentioned to anyone at the tennis court what you were doing?’

Cecil Wardock spread his thin hands wide in a gesture of ignorance. ‘I don’t know anyone at the tennis court. Well, except for Tom Ruthven and I certainly didn’t mention what I was doing to him. No, I don’t know the names of any of them. . though I did make up names for some of the ones who appeared regularly.’

‘Oh?’

‘There’s a young man — I think he might work at the court, he’s certainly around there a lot. . and he’s certainly around a lot after hours. . him I nicknamed “Lothario”.’

‘Very appositely,’ said Jude.

‘As I say, I don’t know him, but I can’t think of another reason for his regular late-night visits to the court. Particularly because his arrival is always quickly followed by that of a young lady.’

‘Always the same young lady?’

‘Over the years there have been a few different ones. But recently it has been the same girl, the one with the bicycle. She I nickname “The Damsel in Distress”.’

‘Why?’ asked Carole.

‘Because she always looks a little frightened, as if she doesn’t really think she should be doing what she is doing.’

‘Your nicknames are very accurate,’ observed Jude.

‘Any other regulars there?’ asked Carole.

‘There’s an older couple. I don’t know whether they meet at the court for the same purpose as “Lothario”, but appearances make that unlikely, in her case at least. She is a very soignee lady, who looks as though in her mouth the temperature of butter would not change by the tiniest subdivision of a degree. My nickname for her is “Lady Muck”.’

‘And who does she meet?’ asked Jude miserably.

‘A tall man with long white hair. Whatever time of night, he always strolls through the gate as if he hasn’t a care in the world. I call him “The Smoothie”.’

Jude nodded, avoiding her neighbour’s eye.

Carole didn’t notice; she was too concerned with getting Cecil Wardock on to one specific date. ‘Could we go back to the night of the Tuesday before last. .?’

The old publisher flicked back through the pages of his black notebook. ‘Ah, that was quite a night, wasn’t it? Like Piccadilly Circus it was here then.’

Cecil Wardock showed them the relevant page of fountain-pen-written entries and arranged with the girl at reception to have a photocopy made of it. When they were back at Woodside Cottage, over a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay, Carole and Jude once again read through the neat italic record of that night’s events.

10.17 p.m.

The Damsel in Distress arrives (with her bicycle).

10.32 p.m.

Lothario arrives.

11.08 p.m.

Lothario leaves.

2.33 a.m.

A tall (unknown) woman with long blonde hair arrives.

3.19 a.m.

A man driving a BMW enters through the main gates (for which he has an electronic entry card).

3.47 a.m.

The Damsel in Distress leaves hurriedly on her bicycle.

4.41 a.m.

The Smoothie arrives.

4.53 a.m.

The Smoothie leaves with the (unknown) tall blonde woman.

7.22 a.m.

The Smoothie returns through the main gates in his red E-Type Jaguar.

7.29 a.m.

A plump, blonde-haired lady arrives.

There wasn’t much there that needed explanation. When he’d received the summons from Felicity Budgen, Reggie Playfair must have taken a taxi from London to Pulborough to pick up his car. Otherwise Carole and Jude could piece together the complete sequence of events.

‘Funny,’ said Carole. ‘The one person who wasn’t actually at the court that night was the person who committed the crime. Felicity Budgen. She set the whole thing in motion.’

Jude nodded listlessly.

The nearest approximation Carole Seddon could do to a teasing grin appeared on her face. ‘“A plump, blonde-haired lady”. Hm. I wonder what nickname Cecil Wardock would have given you if he had the chance. .?’

‘“The Sucker”?’ suggested Jude.

Of course the police never heard about Reggie Playfair’s murder. Just as well, probably. As Carole had observed, it would have been a difficult case to bring to court.

And, except for a select few, none of the members of Lockleigh House tennis court had ever thought it was murder, anyway. Reggie Playfair had had a heart attack. ‘Poor old bugger.’ Only Jonty Westmacott still occasionally muttered darkly about ‘foul play’.

So there was never any question of Felicity Budgen being prosecuted. But her husband did finally, unwillingly admit that she needed psychiatric help. She spent four months in an exclusive private clinic. The Budgens’ acquaintances were told this was for ‘a little gynie op’, which was acceptable in a way that treatment for mental illness wouldn’t have been.