Undercurrent by Frances Fyfield Read Free Book Online

Chisholm. I wouldn't need to be a lawyer to know. I'd just have to read the newspapers. But because I am a lawyer, Mr Evans, and Miss Chisholm is a client, there's not a single thing I have to tell you, and I may add, I'm distinctly suspicious of your motives.
    If what you say is true which if it is makes you just another menopausal man in search of an old romance - then I couldn't possibly take your money to tell you what you could find out for free in our excellent reference library. I'm not a detective and I'm not for hire. If what you say is true, the only advice I can offer you is to regard her as DEAD.' He was lighting another cigarette, shrugging his thin shoulders, either seriously cross or faking it. 'This place does not exist to make money, Mr Evans. It exists to keep the confidences of others, as far as possible. Come back if you need that house or that will.'
    Henry felt obscurely ashamed and furious at the same time. 'I didn't mean to bother you,'
    was all he could say. 'I'm not asking much, Mr Burns.'
    He was rewarded with a radiant smile. 'In which case, you have nothing in common with the rest of my clients. Do you know the way out?'
    Downstairs, where the temperature dropped with each step. A sudden panic when he could not open the door and thought he would have to ask, braced himself as he pulled on the handle, slammed it shut. Out on the busy street, remembering nothing else than the fact that all the roads led to the sea. And Francesca Chisholm might as well be dead.
    Maybe he shouldn't have stared at the fish. Maybe he should have put money on the table, but he'd got the general idea that that wouldn't have made an ounce of difference.
    But I think I've seen her, Mr Burns. Of course she's alive. She left her shawl on the banisters.

    Maggie sidled into the room, carrying two mugs of coffee which she placed on the worn leather of the desk. She tutted under her breath and searched under a pile of paperwork to unearth the ashtray, which she placed closest to him, plucked the cigarette from his nerveless fingers, took a quick drag, and stubbed it out.
    'You could have charged him a walk-in fee, Edward, you could at least have done that.'
    'Why?'
    'I dunno. Silly suggestion, really. What was it all about?' 'Nothing.'
    'OK, I dare say you'll tell me in a minute. I just heard you sounding a bit, well, you know, clipped. Not like you, Edward, I mean not normally.'
    She picked up the newspaper which littered a corner, sat back in the chair recently occupied by the client and read it nonchalantly. The day before yesterday's news was good enough. Edward Burns gulped his coffee and scalded his tongue, patently upset.
    'Mrs Forbes says he looked a nice man,' she said. 'He's staying at the House of Enchantment, because the Nelson wasn't up to hospitality, I heard. Smith sent him there as his own little revenge on the world for the fact the bar was flooded again. "The man was wearing a silly hat and was an anally retentive little prick." I quote verbatim.'
    Edward nodded. 'I know. I was in there this morning, looking at the damage. He's quite unfit to manage that hotel, even with us you, rather - checking his books and the register twice a week.
    He simply cannot cope in a crisis and he takes instant, completely unfounded dislikes to strangers.
    Hardly a qualification.'
    'Is this American good looking?' Maggie asked, casually. She seemed more than usually restless, moving round in her seat like a cat making a nest, failing to catch his eye.

    'Frightfully well dressed. Otherwise unremarkable. You'd miss him in a crowd. I don't know. I never notice things like that.'

    'No, Ed, you don't.'

    'He seems nice enough. Going to work for Fergusons. But what could I say to him? He wants to find Francesca. Says he's a longlost friend. Met her in India. Before my time.'
    'Ah, yes. That was ages ago. Before life began or started to end, whichever way you look at it.
    He might be genuine. Nothing to suggest he's a journalist in