The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(85)
John’s eyes went to the windows of Maggie’s flat.
Sarah saw his look. “She’ll come around,” she promised. “She just needs a little time.” She linked her arm through John’s. “Come on, I know someone who can give us a ride.”
Mr. Burns drove them to town, where John checked into a room at Arisaig Inn. After he’d gone up to the room, washed, shaved, and changed his shirt, he met Sarah downstairs at the inn’s dining room.
It was small and modest, and a delicious smell of fried fish emanated from the kitchen. A number of older local men lined the bar, nursing beers. They eyed Sarah, still a beauty despite her recent illness, with unabashed curiosity. She placed their order at the bar, two bowls of cullen skink—a creamy smoked-fish stew—a plate of chips, and one pint and one half-pint of beer.
Sarah was used to men—and women—staring at her. When she was done, she sat down at one of the tables and listened to the news broadcast on the wireless over the bar, as a group played darts, showing off for her. “Turn it off!” growled a man in the corner, pulling out an accordion. The man sitting next to him had a fiddle, and another a small drum. Without introduction, they began to play, and the man with the accordion began to sing:
Duncan Gray cam’ here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
As John entered, Sarah looked up at him and smiled. “This song could be written about you two.”
John sat down next to her. “I’ll have you know I’m on an official mission from the Prime Minister, not here to pitch woo.”
The dim light glinted off the rag marks left on the wooden table as the barkeep brought their cullen skink and beer.
“Winnie said there will always be fish.” John pushed at it with his spoon. “Although he never specified what sort of fish.”
Sarah took a spoonful, and then delicately removed a bone from her mouth, placing it on the plate. “It’s not Sunday roast at The Pompadour, but it’ll do.”
At the table next to them, an older man was taking out his false teeth. “Lost ’em at Yprees,” he explained to Sarah. “I’m your Prince Charming—invite me to tea!”
He was obviously a regular. “Come on, Prince Charming, Cook has some hot soup for you,” said the barkeep, and the man trotted off to the kitchen, teeth in hand.
“Well, I do feel a bit better,” John said.
“You look a great deal better, kitten. Cheers,” Sarah said as they clinked glasses. “Like Lazarus, you have risen from the dead.”
His eyes darkened. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Of course. I won’t mention it again. But if you ever do want to talk—”
“I won’t.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what brings you to Arisaig. And please don’t say the lovely beaches, because it’s a wee bit nippy for swimming.” She raised one eyebrow. “I’m guessing it has to do with a certain red-haired secretary?”
“It’s official business, actually.”
“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” Sarah said, sprinkling vinegar on her chips.
“It’s true. David sent me.”
“David sent you? I thought he worked for you?”
“Not anymore. He was promoted while I was convalescing in Berlin. You’d think I would have been promoted—the fallen RAF hero. But no … Apparently, being dead does nothing for one’s career.”
Sarah snorted.
“And I must say, David took great satisfaction in sending me—ordering me—on this little mission. As they say, power corrupts—and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
“I can see David enjoying his new influence.” Sarah touched a napkin to her lips. “But even if it’s official, you must have a fair amount of—how shall I phrase it—unfinished business to discuss with our mutual friend.”
“I’m afraid that’s top secret as well.”
“She’s only told me bits and pieces, but, really, John—I think you behaved like an arse.”
John choked on a swallow of beer. “I—”
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Johnny? Since, in another lifetime, we used to step out, I know certain things about you, and what you’re like as a beau. And you, my dear, have flaws.”
“Really,” he said, mopping up vinegar with a chip.
“Really,” she said. “For example, you and the fireplace poker.”