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was in the kitchen, making tea. Ten minutes later, when he came back downstairs and found her with the pot brewed and the cups out ready, they sat for a few seconds, sipping in silence.
    ‘Poor chap, he must’ve popped off in his sleep. Then again, I wouldn’t have expected it,’ sighed Marks, thoughtfully. ‘After all, he was in remarkably sound health.’
    Mrs Hayward had started to tremble again and had to put her cup down. Marks prescribed her a mild sedative and told her to pick it up at the chemist, then go home and rest.
    ‘I can’t possibly do that,’ she snapped, irritation clearly showing. ‘I have work to do around the village, people will be expecting me.’
    ‘Well, at least take it easy, you’ve had quite a shock, no point killing yourself…’ Realising what he had said, he allowed the sentence to tail off. ‘Well,’ he added, apologetically, ‘you know what I mean.’
    ‘Don’t you go worrying about me, Dr Marks,’ she answered, pushing her chair back from the table and carrying her cup across to the sink. No rush to wash it up now. ‘I’ll be fine once I’ve gathered my wits.’ Mrs Hayward grabbed her short beige mac from the hall and hurriedly collected the rest of her belongings. She left by the back door.
    Upset by what had happened, she was, and sorry for poor old Mr Janson, yes genuinely, but neither of those emotions outweighed her excitement. She could barely stop herself from running, but had to make do with a brisk walk. She relished the fact that nobody else could have the news before she parted with it. She was, after all, the one who had experienced it first-hand.
    She waved to Gloria Tufnell, who was watering plants in the window box at the front of her shop in the high street. She didn’t stop to chat.
    She was still working out her itinerary for the rest of the morning when she got to Mrs Newbould’s door. Emily Newbould was obviously the first person to call on. As Anna Janson’s closest friend in Sewel Mill, she could be relied on for an enjoyable exchange of views on the subject. Mrs Hayward tried to get her smile under control and replace it with a more respectable expression of grief. It wasn’t easy.
    Monday, May 6, Brentwood Mansions, 9.40AM
    Kate Brown looked in on Emma before she left. Being the boss meant that Kate could choose her hours.
And us creative types don’t tend to get moving too early in the day do we? That wouldn’t be coo-wal, would it?
Kate had a healthy sense of humour about the world she lived and worked in. Her office was only down the road in Saint Christopher’s Place anyway. It was two minutes away, if you walked fast, which Kate did.
    Both type-A people, she and Emma were old friends from college days, and when she had said, ‘Stay as long as you like,’ that was exactly what she’d meant. Kate was rich, meaningseriously rich. So much so that she didn’t think about how much she had and whether or not she could afford it.
    She wasn’t dizzy though, far from it. She just knew she was okay financially and had never known anything else. The family was old money, her father owned large tracts of forest in north Wales, mainly for paper production, and this had been left to his father and his before him. Not being prolific breeders, but bearing enough children to carry on the line, the Brown family was well-provisioned.
    She looked down at her friend. Emma seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough now, but she had been restless in the night. Kate had heard her pacing around a little before she herself dropped off.
    She was looking forward to her day at work, as she always did, but she would’ve much preferred to wait for Emma to wake up so that they could have a good chat. She had been reluctant to press her friend too much the night before for an explanation of why she’d needed somewhere to stay at such relatively short notice. She was just delighted to have her around and happy to provide a refuge in a time of trouble.
    They’d