Free Murder at the Laurels by Lesley Cookman Page A

grace to look a little discomfited. ‘I’m sorry if he hasn’t.’
    â€˜So what would you have done if I hadn’t been there?’ Charles wasn’t going to let this go, Fran saw.
    â€˜I – I – I don’t know.’ Barbara now looked worried. ‘Goodness, how terrible.’
    â€˜Yes, isn’t it. Perhaps you’d better check with young Paul that he’s done anything else you asked him to do.’
    â€˜I will. I’ll call him now.’ She began to get up, but Charles put his hand on her arm.
    â€˜Leave it until after we’ve gone.’ She sat down again.
    â€˜Now, the other thing is, her will. I know she kept it in her bureau, and you brought that away, didn’t you?’
    She looked even more downcast. ‘Oh dear, was that wrong, too? I just thought Mrs Headlam would need the room cleared as soon as possible.’
    â€˜Barbara, I’m her executor, you know that.’ Charles sounded exasperated. ‘And I had power-of-attorney. None of this is strictly to do with you, you know. So fetch me the will and be done with it.’
    She looked at him in silence for a moment. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t there.’
    â€˜So you knew where it was kept, too?’
    â€˜Well, yes. She told everybody.’
    Charles sighed and stood up. ‘Let’s have a look at the bureau, then.’
    â€˜I’m afraid you can’t do that, either,’ she said, now looking definitely uncomfortable. ‘It’s in Paul’s office.’
    â€˜It’s where?’
    â€˜Well, we didn’t have room for it here. Some of her other stuff is there, too.’
    â€˜Barbara, you have no right to do any of this. You’d better organise young Paul to get that stuff taken up to Mountville Road as soon as possible.’
    â€˜You don’t want any of it, surely,’ she said, her eyes wide.
    â€˜That isn’t the point,’ he said. ‘But I see that you might have done. Or Paul.’
    â€˜That’s not a very nice thing to say.’ Barbara was indignant.
    â€˜It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it? Come on, Fran, we’ll get off. What’s the name of the funeral director?’
    Fran could see Barbara didn’t want to tell him, but knew she had no choice.
    â€˜Stallwood and Stallwood in Nethergate,’ she said. ‘They do all The Laurels funerals.’
    â€˜Nice for them,’ said Charles. ‘Right, Fran, next stop Stallwood and Stallwood.’
    â€˜We never had any tea,’ said Fran as they set off in a spray of gravel to drive into Nethergate.
    â€˜What an irritating woman,’ said Charles. ‘Didn’t want her bloody tea.’
    â€˜I could see that,’ said Fran, mildly. ‘So now we’re going to the undertakers and then to Paul’s office, are we?’
    Charles looked briefly at her, a startled look on his face. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
    â€˜It was obvious. You don’t trust either of them, so you want to make sure the bureau is in his office and not hidden away somewhere else.’
    â€˜Well, yes.’
    â€˜Let’s get on with it, then,’ said Fran, and settled back comfortably in her seat.

Chapter Eight
    T HE COMFORTABLE AND CARING lady at the reception desk of Stallwood and Stallwood was most accommodating and sympathetic. Mrs Denver was going to produce the death certificate and other paperwork, she understood. Perhaps Mr Wade would be kind enough to clarify the position as soon as he could?
    Cross, Charles set off down Nethergate High Street to find Paul Denver’s office, Fran trailing in his wake.
    â€˜Death certificate,’ he said, ‘that means she represented herself as next-of-kin. That’s – that’s – I don’t know, falsification or something, isn’t it? Criminal?’
    â€˜No idea,’ panted Fran. ‘How do we find