Harold scowled and opened the back door, heading this time for the garden. It was well tended, the first level set out to Cotswold stone paving and herbaceous borders and the upper level to turf. A cast-iron café table and two chairs occupied the eastern corner and Harold presumed it received a good dose of late afternoon sun. He sometimes envied people these small, intimate gardens. The wide expanses of the manor were majestic but less conducive to small intimacies.
The flower beds were just coming into exuberant growth, but there were plenty of blooms from tulips and wallflowers, overwintering pansies and yellow forsythia. Steps led down into what had been transformed from a cheap emergency bomb shelter to a serviceable underground shed. He noted several windows cut into the mound and what looked like a skylight.
There was an ashtray on the little table. The old lady had like a quite smoke, it seemed. A pity it had killed her.