In the Frame - By Dick Francis Page 0,16

judgement suspended. He was the same sort of man my father had been, middle-aged, middle-of-the-road, expert at his chosen job but unlikely to set the world on fire.

Or Treasure Holme, for that matter.

‘Gary,’ he said to his younger side-kick, ‘go and find a telephone and ring the Beach Hotel. Tell Mrs Matthews we’re here.’

‘Will do,’ Gary said. He was that sort of man.

While he was away on the errand, D.J. Lagland turned his attention to the ruin, and I, as he seemed not to object, tagged along at his side.

‘What do you look for?’ I asked.

He shot me a sideways look. ‘Evidence of arson. Evidence of the presence of the goods reported destroyed.’

‘I didn’t expect you to be so frank.’

‘I indulge myself, occasionally.’

I grinned. ‘Mrs Matthews seems pretty genuine.’

‘I’ve never met the lady.’

Treat in store, I thought. ‘Don’t the firemen,’ I said, ‘look for signs of arson?’

‘Yes, and also the police, and we ask them for guidance.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘None of your business, I shouldn’t think.’

‘Even for a wooden house,’ I said, ‘it is pretty thoroughly burnt.’

‘Expert, are you?’ he said with irony.

‘I’ve built a lot of Guy Fawkes bonfires, in my time.’

He turned his head.

‘They burn a lot better,’ I said, ‘if you soak them in paraffin. Especially round the edges.’

‘I’ve been looking at fires since before you were born,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go over there and paint?’

‘What I’ve done is still wet.’

‘Then if you stay with me, shut up.’

I stayed with him, silent, and without offence. He was making what appeared to be a preliminary reconnaissance, lifting small solid pieces of debris, inspecting them closely, and carefully returning them to their former positions. None of the things he chose in that way were identifiable to me from a distance of six feet, and as far as I could see none of them gave him much of a thrill.

‘Permission to speak?’ I said.

‘Well?’

‘Mr Greene was doing much what you are, though in the area behind the chimney breast.’

He straightened from replacing yet another black lump. ‘Did he take anything?’ he said.

‘Not while we were watching, which was a very short time. No telling how long he’d been there.’

‘No.’ He considered. ‘Wouldn’t you think he was a casual sight-seer, poking around out of curiosity?’

‘He hadn’t the air.’

D.J. frowned. ‘Then what did he want?’

A rhetorical question. Gary rolled back, and soon after him, Maisie. In her Jaguar. In her scarlet coat. In a temper.

‘What do you mean,’ she said, advancing upon D.J. with eyes flashing fortissimo, ‘the question of arson isn’t yet settled? Don’t tell me you’re trying to wriggle out of paying my cheque, now. Your man said on Saturday that everything was all right and I could start clearing away and rebuilding, and anyway even if it had been arson you would still have to pay up because the insurance covered arson of course.’

D.J. opened and shut his mouth several times and finally found his voice.

‘Didn’t our Mr Robinson tell you that the man you saw here on Saturday wasn’t from us?’

Our Mr Robinson, in the shape of Gary, nodded vigorously.

‘He… Mr Greene… distinctly said he was,’ Maisie insisted.

‘Well… what did he look like?’

‘Smarmy,’ said Maisie without hesitation. ‘Not as young as Charles…’ she gestured towards me, ‘Or as old as you.’ She thought, then shrugged. ‘He looked like an insurance man, that’s all.’

D.J. swallowed the implied insult manfully.

‘About five feet ten,’ I said. ‘Suntanned skin with a sallow tinge, grey eyes with deep upper eyelids, widish nose, mouth straight under heavy drooping dark moustache, straight brown hair brushed back and retreating from the two top corners of his forehead, ordinary eyebrows, greeny-brown trilby of smooth felt, shirt, tie, fawn unbuttoned raincoat, gold signet ring on little finger of right hand, suntanned hands.’

I could see him in memory as clearly as if he still stood there in the ashes before me, taking off his hat and calling Maisie ‘madam’.

‘Good God,’ D.J. said.

‘An artist’s eye, dear,’ said Maisie admiringly. ‘Well I never.’

D.J. said he was certain they had no one like that in their poking-into-claims department, and Gary agreed.

‘Well,’ said Maisie, with a resurgence of crossness, ‘I suppose that still means you are looking for arson, though why you think that anyone in his right senses would want to burn down my lovely home and all my treasures is something I’ll never understand.’

Surely Maisie, worldly Maisie, could not be so naïve. I caught a deep glimmer of intelligence in the glance she gave me, and knew that