In the Frame - By Dick Francis Page 0,15

‘I’ll be glad to have all that in writing.’

He inclined his head. ‘As soon as I report back.’

Maisie said ‘Good,’ and Greene, lifting his hat again, wished her good afternoon and walked along to a white Ford parked a short way along the road.

‘That’s all right, then,’ Maisie said with satisfaction, watching him go. ‘Now, how much for that picture?’

‘Two hundred plus two nights’ expenses in a local hotel.’

‘That’s a bit steep, dear. One hundred, and two nights, and I’ve got to like die results, or I don’t pay.’

‘No foal, no fee?’

The generous red mouth smiled widely. ‘That’s it, dear.’

We settled on one-fifty if she liked the picture, and fifty if she didn’t, and I was to start on Monday unless it was raining.

4

Monday came up with a bright breezy day and an echo of summer’s warmth. I went to Worthing by train and to the house by taxi, and to the interest of the neighbours set up my easel at about the place where the front gates would have been, had they not been unhinged and transplanted by the firemen. The gates themselves lay flat on the lawn, one of them still pathetically bearing a neat painted nameboard.

‘Treasure Holme.’

Poor Archie. Poor Maisie.

I worked over the whole canvas with an unobtrusive coffee-coloured underpainting of raw umber much thinned with turpentine and linseed oil, and while it was still wet drew in, with a paintbrushful of a darker shade of the same colour, the shape of the ruined house against the horizontals of hedges, shingle, sea and sky. It was easy with a tissue to wipe out mistakes of composition at that stage, and try again: to get the proportions right, and the perspective, and the balance of the main masses.

That done and drying, I strolled right round the whole garden, looking at the house from different angles, and staring out over the blackened stumps of the tamarisk hedge which had marked the end of the grass and the beginning of the shingle. The sea sparkled in the morning sunshine, with the small hurrying cumulus clouds scattering patches of dark slate-grey shadow. All the waves had white frills: distant, because the tide again had receded to the far side of a deserted stretch of wet-looking, wave-rippled sand.

The sea wind chilled my ears. I turned to get back to my task and saw two men in overcoats emerge from a large station wagon and show definite signs of interest in what was left of Treasure Holme.

I walked back towards them, reaching them where they stood by the easel appraising my handiwork.

One, heavy and fiftyish. One lean, in the twenties. Both with firm self-confident faces and an air of purpose.

The elder raised his eyes as I approached.

‘Do you have permission to be here?’ he asked. An enquiry; no belligerence in sight.

‘The owner wants her house painted,’ I said obligingly.

‘I see.’ His lips twitched a fraction.

‘And you?’ I enquired.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Insurance,’ he said, as if surprised that anyone should ask.

‘Same company as Mr Greene?’ I said.

‘Mr Who?’

‘Greene. With an “e”.’

‘I don’t know who you mean,’ he said. ‘We are here by arrangement with Mrs Matthews to inspect the damage to her house, which is insured with us.’ He looked with some depression at the extent of the so-called damage, glancing about as if expecting Maisie to materialise Phoenix-like from the ashes.

‘No Greene?’ I repeated.

‘Neither with nor without an “e”.’

I warmed to him. Half an ounce of a sense of humour, as far as I was concerned, achieved results where thumbscrews wouldn’t.

‘Well… Mrs Matthews is no longer expecting you, because the aforesaid Mr Greene, who said he was in insurance, told her she could roll in the demolition squad as soon as she liked.’

His attention sharpened like a tightened violin string.

‘Are you serious?’

‘I was here, with her. I saw him and heard him, and that’s what he said.’

‘Did he show you a card?’

‘No, he didn’t.’ I paused. ‘And… er… nor have you.’

He reached into an inner pocket and did so, with the speed of a conjuror. Producing cards from pockets was a reflex action, no doubt.

‘Isn’t it illegal to insure the same property with two companies?’ I asked idly, reading the card.

Foundation Life and Surety.

D. J. Lagland. Area Manager.

‘Fraud.’ He nodded.

‘Unless of course Mr Greene with an “e” had nothing to do with insurance.’

‘Much more likely.’

I put the card in my trouser pocket, Arran sweaters not having been designed noticeably for business transactions. He looked at me thoughtfully, his eyes observant but