Murder at the Laurels by Lesley Cookman Page A

going?’
    â€˜That pub where we first met. OK, Charles, cross here.’ Libby took his arm and guided him across the crowded street. ‘Just down here.’
    The pub, in a side street where Libby and Fran had first been introduced, was still fairly quiet. The decorative barman didn’t sparkle quite as much as he had done to Harry, but provided them with drinks fairly rapidly, and indicated the blackboard where simple lunches were chalked up.
    â€˜Well, surprise, surprise.’ Ben stood up from the table in the window.
    Fran looked suspiciously at Libby.
    â€˜Hi, Ben,’ beamed Libby. ‘This is Charles, Fran’s cousin.’
    Ben held out his hand. Charles took it tentatively and cleared his throat.
    â€˜Ben Wilde,’ said Ben. ‘Friend of Libby’s, and I occasionally work with Fran.’
    Charles looked surprised. ‘I didn’t know you worked,’ he said to Fran.
    â€˜Didn’t she tell you? She’s a psychic investigator,’ said Ben.
    Convinced now that the meeting had been set up between Ben and Libby, although she didn’t know how, Fran opened her mouth to refute the statement.
    â€˜Didn’t you tell him, Fran? Naughty of you,’ said Libby, settling herself more comfortably into the corner of the bench set. ‘She’s very good at it, Charles. She found a murderer a couple of months ago.’
    Charles was looking pale. ‘You said you had “moments”,’ he said faintly.
    â€˜I do,’ said Fran, crossly. ‘Honestly, you two. Don’t make me out to be something I’m not.’
    â€˜But you are, Fran. You investigate properties for a major estate agent and you virtually saved Libby’s life after The Hop Pickers .’ Ben sounded reasonable.
    â€˜I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Fran. ‘All I did was make a phone call. Libby wasn’t in any danger.’
    â€˜What are we having to eat?’ asked Libby. ‘Charles?’
    â€˜I don’t think I want anything, actually,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll just finish my drink and get going. I’ve got to get back to London.’
    â€˜I thought you wanted company?’ said Libby.
    â€˜Well, I’ve got it, haven’t I?’ Charles smiled weakly. ‘But I really have got to get back to London. I’ve got to organise the transport of Aunt’s furniture back to the house.’
    â€˜I thought you told Paul to do that?’ said Fran.
    â€˜I can’t trust him to do it. I’ll do it and he won’t have a choice.’
    â€˜Didn’t Fran say it was at his office and he’s never there? How can you trust him to be there when the removals people arrive?’ said Libby.
    â€˜He wouldn’t dare,’ said Charles, sounding more confident, ‘it would be tantamount to theft, which it already is, technically.’
    â€˜About the will, Charles,’ said Fran suddenly, leaning across the table. ‘I forgot to say yesterday when you phoned, but you said you heard from the solicitor when you were made executor. And the letter you found was from the solicitor who did the Power of Attorney. So there must be another letter.’
    Charles looked at her like a rabbit caught in headlights. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.’
    â€˜Well, I’d go home and have another jolly good look, if I were you,’ said Libby, ‘because if you don’t find a will, probate will take ages and …’ she stopped. ‘Well, it’ll be a right pain, anyway,’ she finished.
    Charles looked at his drink for a minute, picked it up and downed most of it.
    â€˜I’ll be off, then,’ he said, suppressing a belch and standing up. ‘Thanks for coming, Fran.’ He lifted a hand vaguely at Ben and Libby and went, bumping into several tables on the way.
    â€˜That was a put-up job, wasn’t it?’