Murder at the Laurels (7 page)

‘No. And it's worse because I'm here. I shouldn't be.'

‘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.

‘You were saying?' she said.

‘Mrs Headlam tells me you've arranged Aunt's funeral. You didn't tell me.'

‘Oh, Charles, I'm sorry. But I saw Aunt regularly, so I assumed you would want me to do it.'

‘Even so, you hadn't thought to inform me afterwards. How would I have known?'

‘Paul was supposed to phone you from the office.' Barbara had the grace to look a little discomfited. ‘I'm sorry if he hasn't.'

‘So what would you have done if I hadn't been there?' Charles wasn't going to let this go, Fran saw.

‘I – I – I don't know.' Barbara now looked worried. ‘Goodness, how terrible.'

‘Yes, isn't it. Perhaps you'd better check with young Paul that he's done anything else you asked him to do.'

‘I will. I'll call him now.' She began to get up, but Charles put his hand on her arm.

‘Leave it until after we've gone.' She sat down again.

‘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.'

‘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.'

‘So you knew where it was kept, too?'

‘Well, yes. She told everybody.'

Charles sighed and stood up. ‘Let's have a look at the bureau, then.'

‘I'm afraid you can't do that, either,' she said, now looking definitely uncomfortable. ‘It's in Paul's office.'

‘It's where?'

‘Well, we didn't have room for it here. Some of her other stuff is there, too.'

‘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.'

‘You don't want any of it, surely,' she said, her eyes wide.

‘That isn't the point,' he said. ‘But I see that you might have done. Or Paul.'

‘That's not a very nice thing to say.' Barbara was indignant.

‘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.

‘Stallwood and Stallwood in Nethergate,' she said. ‘They do all The Laurels funerals.'

‘Nice for them,' said Charles. ‘Right, Fran, next stop Stallwood and Stallwood.'

‘We never had any tea,' said Fran as they set off in a spray of gravel to drive into Nethergate.

‘What an irritating woman,' said Charles. ‘Didn't want her bloody tea.'

‘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?'

‘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.'

‘Well, yes.'

‘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.

‘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?'

‘No idea,' panted Fran. ‘How do we find out?'

‘From this little bastard,' muttered Charles, pushing at the glass door of Denver and Denver, Estate Agents. It remained firmly shut.

‘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.

‘You don't know where we could find him?' Fran asked.

The woman shrugged. ‘No idea, love. I don't move in his circles.'

‘Now where?' said Charles. ‘Back to dear Barbara?'

‘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?'

‘What happened when your mother died?'

‘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.'

‘I think what we really need is the medical certificate.'

‘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.'

‘They'll have a regular doctor there, I should think. Do they have to have a medical certificate before the body can be moved?'

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.'

‘So the funeral couldn't possibly go ahead yet?' said Fran, surprised.

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.

‘Charles,' he said, ‘and Cousin Fran. Good to see you.'

Oh, yeah
, thought Fran.

‘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?'

‘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.

‘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.

‘She isn't
playing
at anything, Charles. I'm sure, if you've been to see Stallwood and Stallwood you know the position.'

‘I gather Marion Headlam had the body removed and because Aunt Eleanor wasn't being attended by a doctor, the coroner had to be informed before a death certificate could be issued. So why not tell me this in the first place?'

And that was the idea
, thought Fran.
They didn't want Charles to know anything about it
. Startled, she looked at Charles. He flicked a glance at her and looked back at Barbara. Her colour had returned, but her eyes were wide, and Fran could swear she could see her heart beating fast beneath her pale blue cardigan.

‘Barbara, there must be an explanation for all this,' she said gently. ‘You removed all Aunt Eleanor's things without permission and tried to keep the facts from Charles. And me, for that matter.'

‘Fran, excuse me, but what's it got to do with you? You never visited her,' said Paul. His mother opened her mouth as if to say something, but Paul pressed her shoulder and she stopped, like a gasping cod.

‘That's beside the point,' said Charles, irritated. ‘You didn't tell me. I had Power of Attorney and I'm the executor of the will – which, you tell me, now can't be found.'

‘That's hardly our fault, is it? And as to moving the belongings, Mrs Headlam wanted to clear the room as soon as possible. I would have thought,' said Paul, smiling sweetly, ‘we were doing everybody a favour.'

‘Well, if you don't mind, you can have everything packed up and moved to Mountville Road.'

‘Why should we?' Paul's manner was beginning to turn belligerent.

‘Because you removed it without permission. Now you put it back. All those items are covered by the will, and the will has to go to probate, or didn't you realise that?'

‘Of course we did.' Barbara had obviously recovered. ‘There was no intention of removing anything for ourselves. I told you, most of it's gone to the office – we haven't room for it here.'

‘Plenty of room at the office, though,' said Charles, with a nasty little smile. ‘Nothing much else there, is there?'

Paul looked uneasy and Barbara furious.

‘Anyway, get a van and have it delivered to Mountville Road. Tell me when it's coming and I'll be there to receive it. You can send the bill to the solicitors and the estate will settle it.' Charles began to move towards the door.

‘But we can't find the will, and we don't know who the solicitor is.' Barbara's voice was a harsh contrast to her previous cooing tones.

‘As soon as I've found out, I'll let you know,' said Charles, ‘and they'll have a copy of the will, so I shouldn't worry about it.' He continued to the door. ‘Come on, Fran.'

Fran smiled nervously at the Denvers, who watched her leave with defiant expressions on their faces, and scurried out to Charles's car.

‘Well!' she said, as, with another scattering of gravel, they pulled out of the drive of Blagstock House. ‘I hope you can find the solicitor's letter. Otherwise, everybody's in a right old state.'

‘I'll find it,' said Charles, grimly. ‘Did you see their faces? They didn't expect me to know who the solicitor was. That was a shock to them.'

‘They didn't want you to know anything. That was the whole point.'

‘Are you having a Moment?' Charles darted a look at her from the corner of his eyes.

‘I don't know. I just knew it.'

Charles sighed. ‘But I'd have asked about the funeral eventually. If it hadn't happened, they could hardly say it had, and what excuse would they have had for not letting me know?'

‘No idea.' Fran turned to look out of the window. ‘What they did was perfectly reasonable, you know. Barbara and Paul visited regularly and, as Mrs Headlam said, she dealt mainly with Barbara, so what more normal than for her to clear the stuff? And sort out an undertaker. I expect the Headlam told her to use Stalker and Stalker.'

‘Stallwood and Stallwood.'

‘Whoever. But don't you see? It was all perfectly normal. The only thing they didn't do was let you know what was going on. And Barbara did say Paul was supposed to have phoned you.'

‘So why didn't he?'

‘Ah, well, that's the point. For some reason they didn't want you to know. I'm certain of it. Where are we?'

‘Going towards Steeple Martin. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, but we're a bit earlier than I expected. I'd better make sure Libby's ready for me.'

Predictably, Libby's mobile was either switched off, or out of credit. The landline went straight to answerphone, so Fran left a message asking Libby to call her back.

‘Where do you want to be dropped, then?' asked Charles. ‘Do you want me to wait with you?'

‘We could go to the pub,' suggested Fran, ‘and I'll buy you a pint and a sandwich.'

‘It hasn't changed much,' said Charles, as they walked from the car to the pub. ‘Fancy being able to park almost in front of the pub.'

‘Not at night, though,' said Fran. ‘All the spaces are taken up by residents. There's a free car park down one of the side streets where the new houses are.'

‘New houses? I didn't think they'd be allowed!'

‘I don't know about that. I've only visited a couple of times.' Fran pushed open the door to the pub. The barman caught her eye and nodded, although she was sure he couldn't place her.

Charles was ordering drinks when Fran's mobile rang.

‘Hi!' said Libby. ‘Where are you? I was out stocking up for your visit when you rang. There was no signal inside the supermarket.'

‘I'm in the pub with Charles. Do you want to come and join us?'

‘Will he want that? Won't I be butting in?'

‘No, of course not. He says he wants to meet you.'

‘OK. See you in five.'

In fact it was nearer ten minutes when Libby erupted into the bar in a flowing of scarves. Charles looked startled.

Fran introduced them and gave Libby a succinct, edited version of the morning's events. Libby thoughtfully sipped her lager and regarded Charles over the edge of her glass.

‘So, Charles, what are you going to do now?' she asked.

‘I'm going back home to try and find the solicitor's letter. I can't have been mad enough to destroy it.'

‘Home?' asked Fran. ‘I've just realised I don't know where you live.'

‘Why, Mountville Road, of course,' he said. ‘I thought you knew.'