When Darkness Falls
Chapter 1
Set after A war of Nerves. Sam and Andrew, caught out snogging on the tarmac, are now a couple.
As usual, Andrew is a very infrequent letter writer.
Foyle was tired – the kind of tiredness that seeps into your very bones and makes them feel like lead. A three-day assignment in Hooe, solving two murders and bringing a prominent MP to justice for fraud, had taken its toll and his middle-aged body was not coping terribly well. Sam, on the other hand, bounded up the stairs behind him, the clip of her leather-soled shoes echoing in his small entry way. At her insistence, she had carried his second small case – his larger one sat at his feet.
A yawn temporarily took over his ability to speak but he nodded as she bent to place the faded brown case beside its larger twin.
"There you are, Sir" she said, buoyantly, as she straightened up again. The chilled air, somewhat unexpected at this time of the year, had given her cheeks a rosy glow which only added to her youthful exuberance.
"Thank you, Sam" he replied as he placed his hat onto the second hook of the rack and smoothed down his hair.
"Are you sure I can have the rest of the day off, Sir?" she asked, her head tilted in question. "There must be something I can do…." She twisted her wrist and looked at her watch.
"You've done more than enough, Sam… and Thank you." He shrugged slowly out of his coat, the narrow cuffs catching on his silver cufflinks.
"But it's only half past three, Sir" she complained, her lips pursing. "I wouldn't know what to do with myself."
He smiled, certain that Samantha Stewart was the only young person he knew who didn't appreciate an early finish.
"I'm sure you'll think of something, Sam" he said, his voice croaky.
"Perhaps I could write to Andrew" she suddenly blurted, a smile gracing her face. "Although," she added as the smile faded, "he already owes me two letters, so perhaps that wouldn't be such a good idea. I'd hate to put any pressure on him…."
"well, …..I'm sure he'd appreciate a letter from you, Sam. I don't think you've anything to worry about."
"I wouldn't say I was worried, Sir" Sam mumbled, watching her own feet as she slowly made her way down his steps "Just that it's been an awfully long time since he's written…." She reached for the cast iron railing, using the grip as a pivot point so that she could turn herself around. "Have YOU received a letter from him, Sir?"
He shrugged his mouth from one side of his face to the other and drew in a deep breath.
"Noooo…..I haven't, Sam."
"I expect he's busy….." she added, in much the same tone as her boss.
Christopher Foyle frowned, sensing the disappointment in her voice.
He stepped towards her and gripped the edge of his door, holding it back in case a gust of wind blew it closed. She clasped her still gloved hands together creaking the leather around her fingers.
"Should I take the car back to the station, Sir?" she asked, turning her head as her feet hit the bottom step.
"Only if you don't mind making your own way back to your billet, Sam. It's been a long few days." As if to illustrate his point, he ran his hand down his face, pulling the skin of his cheeks taught. "Really don't mind if you keep the car at, uh, your billet for the night."
She nodded and smiled although it was, at best, he thought, purely for his benefit.
"Usual time tomorrow, Sir?"
"Yes…..thank you, Sam."
She set off towards the car, clinking the keys in her hand as she walked.
It was just a touch after five when Foyle poured a drink and lowered himself into his chair beside the fire place. He turned to look at the empty space, the coals from the last fire he'd lit, four days before, still sitting on the edge of the grate, goading him into action. He groaned. Placing his tumbler on the table beside him, he rose and saw to the fire. He grasped half a dozen medium sized pieces of wood, drawing in a rapid breath when one gave him the gift of a fine splinter just beside the nail of his index finger.
"Damn!" he muttered, tossing the culprit onto the top of his hastily made pyramid. He quickly pulled out the splinter and drew the injured finger up to his lips. A lit match, held against the loosely scrunched balls of newspaper, soon did its job and the inner walls of the fireplace glowed with a soft orange light.
The dancing flames, paired with the calming effects of a finger of Whiskey (the last of his Glen Livet), were making his eyelids heavy. He breathed deeply and seriously considered just cutting himself a slice of bread for dinner, changing into his pyjamas then heading off to bed early – the thought of sleeping in a bed whose springs he didn't have to dodge made him glad that he was finally home. Although he had never liked drawn out assignments that took him away from Hastings (and away from his own bed) this one wasn't quite as awful as he'd feared. At least he'd had Sam as a meal companion, someone to chat to as they ate, to discuss the case (as much as he could in public bearing in mind that, if they were eating together, it had to be in the open). She had proven to be a welcome addition, both as a navigator in a village he hadn't been to in many years, and as a friend.
He smiled to himself as he walked slowly into his kitchen, remembering the stories she'd told him during their long drives. One in particular, about her childhood exploits in the Vicarage, had made them both laugh heartily. While he was sure that she'd changed some of the details, her blushing cheeks giving her away, he was, much to his surprise, happy to hear her musings. And, of course, it was the perfect opportunity for her to fill him in on what his son was up to.
Standing in the small doorway of his larder, he scanned the shelves. Not much on offer. The bread, last used three days ago, was, as he had predicted, quite stale and would need to be toasted. On a saucer and covered by a cloth that was once damp he found what remained of his cheese. A quick sniff made him wrinkle his nose but, if he removed the outside pieces, there'd be enough to cover two slices of toast. It took more time than usual to cut it. He had to focus quite heavily on keeping the knife well away from his fingers.
Just as he pulled the toasted pieces of bread up off the oven tray he heard the front door rattle. Placing the toast on the small wooden board, he walked towards his entry way.
"Sam?" he called, inwardly hopeful that the someone at his door might be her. "Did you find something useful to do after all?" He smirked as he reached for the handle.
Two things happened before his hand actually touched the brass fitting: a high pitched whistle sounded and he spotted a dirty and crumpled envelope on the corner of the mat at his feet.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, cursing his tired mind.
His slight disappointment was soon erased though when he noticed the handwriting on the front of the long-travelled letter. "Andrew!" he said, his exclamation breathy. He quickly bent and picked up the letter. His thumb caressed the back flap, itching to open it but he detoured and collected his scant dinner from the kitchen before carrying it all back over to his chair by the now well settled fire.
Not waiting to fetch his letter opener, a rather lovely ivory handled one Rosalind had given to him, he tore at the thin paper with the tip of his finger.
Dear Dad
Sorry I haven't written in a while but things are mad around here at the moment.
Foyle rolled his eyes, acknowledging the familiar pattern of correspondence between himself and his son. Two or three letters from him meant possibly one from Andrew, and that was only if he was lucky. Taking another bite of toast, the letter still held aloft in his free hand, he read on.
As you know, Dad, I can't tell you much (someone with a black pen would just scrap it out anyway) but I'm alright. Training's not as exciting as flying and I'm getting a bit frustrated but I've met some wonderful chaps. Would you believe that some of the Poles and Czechs have flown more sorties than I have….and one of them's just 21? Hard to imagine the pure hell that some of them have been through.
Foyle closed his eyes and put down his toast, knocking the plate and making it rattle as it wobbled on the small table under the lamp.
Covering his mouth with one hand he flicked the paper between the thumb and index finger of the other. He eased himself back into the chair and lifted the letter higher so he could see the last couple of paragraphs.
Thanks for passing on my letter to Uncle Charles. I've plenty of paper but precious few envelopes…..and stamps are even rarer.
One of the chaps has a birthday next week so we're all going out to a dance. It'll be good to see some pretty girls. One of the local lads has lined me up with a girl named Bethany…..
Foyle frowned and blinked a couple of times. What?…. What about Sam? he silently asked the paper, pouting his lips in disappointment. Isn't she supposed to be your best girl? At least I'm sure that's what SHE thinks. He tilted his head and gave his scalp a scratch. Putting the paper down on the table beside his plate, he stood and walked over to pour himself another drink. The letter remained on the small side table, despite the fact that he still hadn't finished reading.
Was he being unreasonable by expecting his son to abstain from any and all opportunities for a bit of happiness just because he'd started a relationship with his driver? It was, after all, just a dance, and he'd earned his right to have a bit of fun. He paced between the fireplace and the book shelves, turning the small glass tumbler around in his fingers. Exhaling heavily through his nose, he returned to the table that held his whiskey decanter and placed the glass noisily back onto the tray. Although he hadn't quite figured out what his son was up to, he had made one decision: he would not be telling Sam about this latest letter, no matter how many times she asked him – even if she begged.
