Free Murder at the Laurels by Lesley Cookman

moved to the door.
    â€˜I’ll go. I probably need to make my peace with Mrs Headlam,’ said Charles, and went.
    Fran went to the french windows and looked out at the neatly manicured grounds. Nothing was to be seen except fields in the distance, and a few brownish dots she took to be cows. She supposed the road ran somewhere behind the hedge in the middle distance, and, as if to prove her point, the roof of a car appeared skimming along the top of it.
    Since they’d come in to the room, she’d been waiting for a repeat of the suffocating feeling, but nothing had happened. She told herself this meant she’d been imagining it before, but didn’t really believe it. Something had happened, and possibly in this room. Which of course, it had. Aunt Eleanor had died here, and probably many other occupants, too.
    Charles came back with a bin bag. ‘She’s most grateful,’ he said.
    â€˜I bet she is,’ said Fran, as she began to slide the garments in to the bag. ‘Nothing else you can see, is there?’
    Charles ran his hand along the sides of the wardrobe and inside the drawers. ‘No. No suspicious bits of paper with cryptic messages. Your magic moment must have been wrong.’
    â€˜I was just thinking that. You see, I told you it wasn’t reliable.’
    They loaded the bin bag into the boot of Charles’s car and said goodbye to Marion Headlam, who saw them go with a hint of relief showing on her professional face.
    Blagstock House turned out to be a grey stone building with ambitions to be a castle, set at the bottom of a gravel sweep depressingly bordered by laurels and other gloomy shrubs of Victorian taste. Plenty of room here to hide little old ladies in winceyette nighties.
    Fran recognised Barbara Denver from Libby’s description. Smallish, her fawn-coloured hair smooth against her head and in a neat pleat at the back, her clothes had the look seen at point-to-points and upmarket beauty counters. This was somebody who wouldn’t take kindly to poverty. Fran tried to imagine her buying her linen skirt in a charity shop, and failed.
    â€˜Charles,’ she said, with a slight smile, and offered her cheek to be kissed. ‘And you must be our cousin Frances?’
    â€˜Please, just Fran.’ Fran held out her hand. Looking vaguely surprised, Barbara shook it. ‘And I was Uncle Frank’s niece, really, not Aunt Eleanor’s.’
    â€˜Oh, but we’re still cousins.’ Barbara ushered them into the hall, which could have been used as it stood for the set of a Victorian melodrama. The drawing room was slightly lighter, decorated mainly in shades of grey and eau-de-nil, which depressed Fran even further.
    â€˜Aunt’s funeral,’ began Charles, before he’d even sat down on the shiny silver sofa to which he’d been directed.
    â€˜Tea?’ interrupted Barbara, indicating a tray set on a low stool. ‘I’ll just boil the kettle.’
    Charles looked helplessly at Fran as she left the room. ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’
    â€˜No. And it’s worse because I’m here. I shouldn’t be.’
    â€˜You wanted to be.’
    Fran nodded and looked round the room. Even the weather had turned cloudy now, further increasing the depression factor. She tried to find some kind of intuitive reaction to it, but came to the conclusion that it was simply a dismal place altogether.
    Barbara returned carrying a china teapot, placed it on the tray and sat down next to Charles on the sofa.
    â€˜You were saying?’ she said.
    â€˜Mrs Headlam tells me you’ve arranged Aunt’s funeral. You didn’t tell me.’
    â€˜Oh, Charles, I’m sorry. But I saw Aunt regularly, so I assumed you would want me to do it.’
    â€˜Even so, you hadn’t thought to inform me afterwards. How would I have known?’
    â€˜Paul was supposed to phone you from the office.’ Barbara had the