Murder at the Laurels by Lesley Cookman

writing classes? She smiled and drew the thin cotton curtains across the glass. Or were they going to have a bath in a rusting tub and get ready for a meal out with a cousin they hardly remembered?
    Meanwhile, the sudden emergence into her life of long-lost relatives, even dead ones, was a welcome diversion. And a change from beans on toast for supper.
    The Poule au Pot was a hangover from the late sixties. It still had red and white checked tablecloths, candles stuffed into straw-covered Chianti bottles and a menu redolent of the era. Prawn cocktail, beef bourguignon and Black Forest gateau had been retained at the behest of the clientele, despite several changes of ownership and the fads and fancies of fashionable cooks and cooking. In fact, Fran knew from reading the magazines while she lurked in the paper shop, it was coming back into fashion, as, indeed, her rather down-at-heel area of London was itself. Nowhere would escape if it boasted a London postcode, which unfortunately meant that the prices were rising almost daily. When her landlord caught on, she knew she would no longer be able to afford even the Betjeman flat.
    Charles was sitting at a table at the side of the room, underneath a large and somewhat romanticised depiction of French peasants disporting themselves in a cornfield. His grey head – grey! – was bent over a menu.
    â€˜Hello, Charles.’ She sat down opposite him as he tried to struggle to his feet. ‘Don’t get up.’
    He subsided and sat back in his bentwood chair. ‘Fran,’ he said. ‘You haven’t changed much.’
    â€˜Rubbish. I was a child then, and now I look like my mother.’ She looked at him consideringly. ‘You’ve changed. Your hair’s grey.’
    He looked amused. ‘You’re very direct, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Not always.’ Fran looked down at her hands. ‘I can dissemble beautifully if I have to.’
    â€˜Oh? And you feel you don’t have to with me?’
    Fran looked up and grinned. ‘I don’t do I? I knew that. But I did at The Laurels.’
    â€˜Before we go into that, have a look at the menu.’ Charles handed it over. ‘What would you like to drink?’
    When they had given their order and both had a glass of a robust red vin de table in front of them, Charles started again.
    â€˜Now. Tell me all about The Laurels.’
    Fran took a sip of wine and leaned back in her chair. ‘Do you mean tell you exactly what I did there and who I met?’
    â€˜Yes. And try and explain again why you went.’
    â€˜That’s difficult.’ Fran frowned into her glass. ‘It just came over me when you phoned. I felt suffocated. And then there was this absolute conviction that I had to go there. That’s all I can say. And then …’ she looked up, ‘I got the same feeling again. When I was in her room.’
    â€˜Which feeling?’
    â€˜The suffocating feeling. I made a fool of myself I’m afraid, but they put it down to shock and grief. I felt a complete fraud.’
    â€˜Start at the beginning.’ Charles leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. ‘I’m fascinated.’
    Fran told him everything from her arrival at The Laurels to her departure, including her dream on the train. When she had finished and the waiter had served their respective starters of pate and soup, Charles poured more wine into their glasses.
    â€˜Did you say that Barbara had cleared the room?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Fran spooned up some onion soup. ‘Except for a few dresses in the wardrobe.’
    â€˜The bureau wasn’t there?’ Charles was frowning.
    Fran shook her head and swallowed. ‘Nothing. Even the television belonged to The Laurels.’
    Charles stared absently at the French Peasants above him. ‘No bureau. That was quick.’
    â€˜No bureau.’ Fran put down her spoon. ‘Is it important?’
    â€˜Her