A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [4]
“Thank you, Detective Constable Summers.”
As Summers led Maisie along a labyrinth of corridors and up stairs, she considered informing her guide that she knew the route to MacFarlane’s fiefdom as if it were the back of her hand, so, given the heat of the day, there was no need to meander the hallways in an effort to confuse her sense of direction. Fortunately, they were soon standing outside a door bearing MacFarlane’s name. Summers knocked and was met with bellowing. “The bloody door’s open!” He blushed when he looked at Maisie, who shook her head and observed, “Ah, he’s in a good mood. Lovely.” She reached past the detective constable, pushed against the door, and walked into MacFarlane’s office.
“Miss Dobbs. A pleasure.” He held out his hand to indicate that she should be seated on one of three armchairs clustered around a low table alongside the window.
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Detective Chief Superintendent.” She looked around the room. “I see you’ve made some changes here.”
“A little more comfort for visiting dignitaries.”
“And I’m a dignitary?” Maisie hung her shoulder bag across the back of the chair as she sat down. She had found that it helped to appear relaxed in all communications with MacFarlane, who was given to flying off the handle at times, and whose wit could be cutting. He was a tall man, and upon first meeting him, Maisie thought he had the frame of a docker. In his mid-fifties now, the detective chief superintendent kept his thinning hair short and made no attempt to cover the scar where a stray bullet had caught him in the war. Apparently he had raised a fist to the enemy and sworn at them over the parapet for daring to put a hole in his tam-o’-shanter.
“You’re dignified enough, Miss Dobbs.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.” She took a number of plain index cards and a red pencil from her document case as he opened the door and yelled into the corridor. “A pot of tea wouldn’t go amiss in here, or has the tea boat gone down in high tide on the bloody Thames?”
Maisie pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Despite herself, she liked MacFarlane, and she knew he had regard for her—and she rather hoped he might have plans to ask her to work with the Branch again. Such a role was not for the fainthearted, but there was an edge to it that challenged her. And she liked the idea of a new challenge. When she thought about it, her life had softened in the past couple of months, and she realized, while listening to MacFarlane bellow along the corridor, that she needed a sharp edge or two to keep her on her toes. Soft didn’t suit her.
“There, that’s put a firework under a few rumps. Can’t abide that afternoon lull—shake them up a bit, that’s what I say.” MacFarlane came back into the room and shut the door behind him before taking a seat opposite Maisie. He said nothing for a moment, and simply looked at her, as if taking her measure. She looked him in the eye without flinching, and without breaking the silence.
“You miss the old boy?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I miss Maurice very much indeed.”
“Hard shoes to fill in anyone’s book.” He paused. “I remember when the man who brought me into the force passed on. Like losing a father it was.” He sighed. “I started off on the beat in Glasgow, you know. I don’t mind admitting I’d been a bit of a tearaway before joining the force; it was a man by the name of Calum Guthrie who sorted me out and set me on the right path. I wept like a wee bairn when he died.” A knock at the door interrupted MacFarlane’s reminiscence, and a young policeman entered with a tray. As he set the tray on the table, Maisie noted the fact that it was set for three.
“Ah, so someone’s joining us. How delightful.”
MacFarlane nodded and glanced at the wooden schoolhouse clock above the door. “Any minute now. And as delightful as they come.”
“So we’ve only a moment or two to chat before he or she gets here.”
“He. And he’ll be here on the dot of three—you were early.”
“I’ll pour.” Maisie