Bones in High Places Read Online Free

voice.
    ‘I thought your phone was up the spout,’ I said.
    ‘Well, it’s better now,’ she said briskly, ‘some little man came to fix it and he actually got it right. Now Francis, I have a lot of preparations to make and need your full attention. I hope you are listening.’ I assured her I was hanging on every word.
    ‘Oh yes? That’ll be the day! Now look here, what about the travel arrangements? I assume that we shan’t be expected to cripple ourselves stuffed into your Singer. Presumably Nicholas will bring that old Citroën of his. Can’t say I like the look of it, always reminds me of the sort of thing the SS used to favour in the war. Still, at least it’s bigger than your rabbit hutch.’
    I was stung by that, having particular affection for my battered but trusty roadster. However, I assured her we would indeed be travelling in Ingaza’s car, and that since Eric had elected not to come there should be plenty of room.
    ‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ she said, echoing my own thoughts, ‘he makes such a noise on the telephone! Doubtless he is the soul of charm and wit, but I don’t wish to be deafened before my time.’
    Primrose had only recently become acquainted with Eric – or rather his disembodied voice at the end of Ingaza’s phone line. Indeed, she had only recently become acquainted with Ingaza, to my considerable disquiet having allowed herself to be bamboozled into joining forces with him in a project of joint benefit and dubious good: namely supplying the Ontario art market with fake eighteenth-century pastorals. At the time I had objected strongly and warned her of the dangers of such an undertaking, especially with someone like Nicholas. But my words had fallen on deaf ears and I was gently reminded by both of them that, being a murderer, I wasn’t exactly in the best position to give advice on such matters. Which of course was true – but it did not stop me worrying, nor for that matter feeling distinct pangs of moral unease. Old habits and values die hard, and it went against the grain to see my sister in collusion with someone as tortuous as Ingaza.
    Was perhaps Primrose herself crooked? No – that’s the irony. In many ways she is a model of propriety. Her student days at the Courtauld had, admittedly, been wildly wayward, but she possesses an inherent sense of justice and fair play and is a stalwart, if bossy, ally in times of crisis. She is, however, incorrigibly mercenary; and I think it is this, coupled with an acute pride in her artistic ability, that made her susceptible to Ingaza’s overtures. The painting of those fakes was a challenge to her ingenuity, and the thrill of a financial coup a draw she could not resist. Fundamentally honest, she had, I think, persuaded herself that the whole venture was simply a test of artistic endeavour and entrepreneurial skill. In this of course she was pandered to and encouraged by Ingaza … However, it is not my intention to ruminate upon Primrose and her moral ambiguities. I write simply to record as best I can how the three of us (four if you count the impossible Henri) fared on that questionable trip to Berceau-Lamont and La Folie de Fotherington.
     
    * See Bone Idle

The Cat’s Memoir
     
     
    All I can say is that if the vicar and his sister assumed they could swan off to France without my being involved, then they could certainly think again! I am a cat of agile brain and probing curiosity and had no intention of being left behind by F.O. while he embarked on so questionable an enterprise with the Type from Brighton. Admittedly, when Bouncer and I first sniffed it in the wind I had thought the plan was bound to abort, being too absurd to get further than F.O.’s atlas. Indeed, I expressed that opinion to the dog. Bouncer, however, seemed less certain, saying that his bones told him otherwise – his exact words being, ‘You just see, the bugger will go and we’ll be left.’ Naturally I never pay attention to his wretched