Free Murder at the Laurels by Lesley Cookman Page B

out?’
    â€˜From this little bastard,’ muttered Charles, pushing at the glass door of Denver and Denver, Estate Agents. It remained firmly shut.
    â€˜Never open, ’e isn’t, love.’ A female head popped out of the newsagent’s next door. ‘Nothing to sell, anyway.’
    A glance in the window confirmed this. A couple of flyblown old pictures of houses with no prices attached were all that indicated the nature of the business.
    â€˜You don’t know where we could find him?’ Fran asked.
    The woman shrugged. ‘No idea, love. I don’t move in his circles.’
    â€˜Now where?’ said Charles. ‘Back to dear Barbara?’
    â€˜I suppose so. We need to find out about this death certificate business. Don’t you have to provide some sort of proof of identity, or something?’
    â€˜What happened when your mother died?’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know. The doctor gave me the medical certificate and I took it to the registrar. There wasn’t any question about who I was or anything. Perhaps it doesn’t matter who does it?’
    Charles looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps that’s the case. And after all, if an old biddy dies somewhere like The Laurels there might not be a next-of-kin handy.’
    â€˜I think what we really need is the medical certificate.’
    â€˜I never thought of that.’ Charles stopped suddenly. ‘Who signed it? We all left Mrs Headlam in charge. I suppose she got a doctor in.’
    â€˜They’ll have a regular doctor there, I should think. Do they have to have a medical certificate before the body can be moved?’
    â€˜Oh, lord, I don’t know. Let’s ring her.’
    Back in the car, Charles found The Laurels’ phone number on his mobile. Fran listened to his end of the conversation.
    â€˜I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mrs Headlam, but who signed the death certificate for my aunt? Oh, really? Are they allowed to do that?’
    He switched off and turned to Fran.
    â€˜It appears that if the doctor treating the deceased isn’t available, the body can be removed by ambulance, and has to be reported to the coroner. Stallwood and Stallwood are probably expecting the certificate to be sent to Barbara to go and get the death certificate from the registrar.’
    â€˜So the funeral couldn’t possibly go ahead yet?’ said Fran, surprised.
    â€˜I don’t think so. We need to find out from Barbara. Come on.’
    A low-slung silver sports car sat on the drive of Blagstock House when they returned.
    â€˜Paul,’ said Charles. ‘Watch out for fireworks.’
    It took a long time for Barbara to open the door, and when she did, she looked flushed and nervous.
    â€˜I didn’t expect you back,’ she said, although not expecting to be believed, if Fran was any judge.
    A young man appeared behind her, smiling determinedly.
    â€˜Charles,’ he said, ‘and Cousin Fran. Good to see you.’
    Oh, yeah , thought Fran.
    â€˜Paul.’ Charles nodded. ‘Barbara, we need to talk. I’m afraid you’ve led us up the garden path. May we come in?’
    Paul took his mother by the shoulders and moved her aside. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Do come in, both of you. I gather you didn’t get any tea on your last visit? Shall we make some more?’
    â€˜No, thanks. We’d just like a chat.’ Charles went straight past mother and son into the drawing room, where the abandoned tea tray still sat. Fran followed, getting a whiff of something sharp and expensive as she sidled past Paul.
    â€˜The funeral isn’t booked, Barbara,’ began Charles, standing in front of the empty fireplace like a Victorian squire. ‘I thought you said it was.’
    Barbara looked as though she might faint. Paul pushed her into a chair and turned to face Charles.
    â€˜She isn’t playing at anything, Charles. I’m sure, if you’ve