Courtney-Briggs appeared. He knocked briskly at the door, came in without waiting for an invitation, and said curtly: “I can give you a quarter of an hour now, Dalgliesh, if it’s convenient.” His tone assumed that it would be. Dalgliesh assented and indicated the chair. The surgeon looked across at Sergeant Masterson sitting impassively with his notebook at the ready, hesitated, then turned the chair so that its back was to the Sergeant. Then he seated himself and slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket. The cigarette case he drew out was of finely tooled gold and so slim that it hardly looked functional. He offered a cigarette to Dalgliesh but not to Masterson and seemed neither surprised nor particularly interested at the Superintendent’s refusal. He lit his own. The hands cupped around the lighter were large, square-fingered; not the sensitive hands of a functional surgeon, but strong carpenter’s hands, beautifully cared for. Dalgliesh, overtly busy with his papers, observed the man.
What do You think about Shroud For A Nightingale (1971)?
