The Corpse on the Court Read Free

hell.’
    And as Jude saw Reggie Playfair puff his way to miss another ball, she could see what his wife meant. His face was redder than ever and sweat dripped off nose and chin. Individual damp patches on his white shirt were starting to join together.
    Oenone raised her eyes to heaven, expressing the hopelessness of trying to make her husband change in any particular, then asked, ‘So do you do your healing work at home?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And where is home?’
    â€˜Fethering. Do you know it?’
    â€˜Of course. Just down from Fedborough. Where the River Fether reaches the sea.’
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜And you’re kept busy, are you . . . you know, with the healing?’
    â€˜It varies.’ And with a feeling that was uncharacteristically close to guilt, Jude realized that she hadn’t actually treated any clients for a couple of weeks. Hadn’t actually been to her home, Woodside Cottage, for a couple of weeks. Since Piers Targett had come into her life. Or since she had moved into Piers Targett’s life.
    Something happened on the court that prompted raucous applause and cheering. ‘Game, set and match!’ called out Ned Jackson, for the first time that morning saying something that Jude could understand. She watched the four players exchange handshakes over the low scoop of the net.
    â€˜Reggie will be insufferable now,’ Oenone Playfair observed.
    â€˜I’m sorry? Why?’
    â€˜Well, they won – didn’t you notice? Means they’ll go through to the semis.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜And Reggie will be particularly pleased to have beaten your Piers. There’s always been quite a lot of rivalry between those two.’
    â€˜Friendly rivalry, I hope.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, friendly . . . not that that means it doesn’t go deep.’
    They looked up at the arrival of the four players in the dedans. Reggie immediately found a bottle of red wine and poured a glass, which he quaffed with relish. Piers, crossing towards Jude, ruffled his hand ruefully through her bird’s nest of blonde hair. ‘Not my brilliant best this morning, I’m afraid.’ He grinned at Oenone. ‘See you two’ve met. What’ve you been putting in the old man’s cocoa? He was on fire.’
    â€˜Who’ll they be playing in the semi?’
    â€˜Whoever wins the next one.’
    Jude looked with pleasure at Piers Targett. Though in his sixties, he didn’t have the kind of metabolism that put on weight and looked surprisingly trim. His hair was white but abundant and he wore it almost foppishly long with a centre parting. Eyes of a surprisingly deep blue. The recent exertions on the tennis court had not raised a sweat on his pristine polo shirt. His long white trousers were neatly creased, with a knotted striped old school tie doing service as a belt.
    He turned at the approach of his young doubles partner, who had just been chatting with Felicity Budgen. The girl was pretty with black hair and ice-blue eyes. She moved coltishly as if she hadn’t quite got used to her long limbs ‘Sorry, Tonya,’ said Piers with mock humility. ‘If the way I was playing this morning doesn’t give you the message to steer clear of old men, then nothing will.’
    The girl smiled nervously. On the court she had looked secure; she had been well taught, moving effortlessly into the right positions and returning the ball with a strength that was surprising in one so slender. Outside the game, however, she was awkward, aware of her juvenile status amongst so many older people.
    â€˜Bad luck, Tonya,’ Oenone Playfair commiserated and was rewarded by another edgy grin. ‘How are Roman and Natalya?’
    â€˜Oh, you know. Grandpa’s lost it a bit, really.’
    â€˜Yes, so I’d heard. Oh, sorry, this is Jude.’
    â€˜Nice to meet you,’ said the girl politely.
    â€˜Anyway, Tonya,’ said