In the Frame by Dick Francis Read Free Book Online

rebuilt, no one will believe how awful it was, and I want to hang it in the new house, just to show them.’
    ‘But…’
    ‘So how much would you charge? Because I dare say you can see I am not short of the next quid but if it would be hundreds I might as well get the photographer of course.’
    ‘Of course,’ I agreed gravely. ‘How about if I came to see the house, or what’s left of it, and gave you an estimate?’
    She saw nothing odd in that. ‘All right, dear. That sounds very businesslike. Of course, it will have to be soon, though, because once the insurance people have been I am having the rubble cleared up.’
    ‘How soon?’
    ‘Well, dear, as you’re half-way there, could you come today?’
    We discussed it. She said she would drive me in her Jaguar as I hadn’t a car, and I could go home by train just as easily from Worthing as from Plumpton.
    So I agreed.
    One takes the most momentous steps unawares.
    The ruin was definitely paintagenic, if there is such aword. On the way there, more or less non-stop, she had talked about her late husband, Archie, who had looked after her very well, dear.
    ‘Well, that’s to say, I looked after him, too, dear, because of course I was a nurse. Private, of course. I nursed his first wife all through her illness, cancer it was, dear, of course, and then I stayed on for a bit to look after him, and, well, he asked me to stay on for life, dear, and I did. Of course he was much older, he’s been gone more than ten years now. He looked after me very well, Archie did.’
    She glanced fondly at the huge opal. Many a man would have liked to have been remembered as kindly.
    ‘Since he went, and left me so well off, dear, it seemed a shame not to get some fun out of it, so I carried on with what we were doing when we were together those few years, which was going round to auction sales in big houses, dear, because you pick up such nice things there, quite cheap sometimes, and of course it’s ever so much more interesting when the things have belonged to someone well known or famous.’ She changed gear with a jerk and aggressively passed an inoffensive little van. ‘And now all those things are burnt to cinders, of course, and all the memories of Archie and the places we went together, and I’ll tell you, dear, it makes me mad.’
    ‘It’s really horrid for you.’
    ‘Yes, dear, it is.’
    I reflected that it was the second time in a fortnight that I’d been cast in the role of comforter; and I felt as inadequate for her as I had for Donald.
    She stamped on the brakes outside the remains of her house and rocked us to a standstill. From the opulence of the minor mansions on either side, her property had been far from a slum; but all that was left was an extensive sprawling black heap, with jagged pieces of outside walldefining its former shape, and the thick brick chimney, as she’d said, pointing sturdily skywards from the centre. Ironic, I thought fleetingly, that the fireplace alone had survived the flames.
    ‘There you are, dear,’ Maisie said. ‘What do you think?’
    ‘A very hot fire.’
    She raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘But yes, dear, all fires are hot, aren’t they? And of course there was a lot of wood. So many of these old seaside houses were built with a lot of wood.’
    Even before we climbed out of her big pale blue car, I could smell the ash.
    ‘How long ago…?’ I asked.
    ‘Last week-end, dear. Sunday.’
    While we surveyed the mess for a moment in silence a man walked slowly into view from behind the chimney. He was looking down, concentrating, taking a step at a time and then bending to poke into the rubble.
    Maisie, for all her scarlet-coated bulk, was nimble on her feet.
    ‘Hey,’ she called, hopping out of the car and advancing purposefully. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
    The man straightened up, looking startled. About forty, I judged, with a raincoat, a crisp-looking trilby and a down-turning moustache.
    He raised his hat