Dick Francis: In the Frame

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.

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 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.’