Chapter One

Foyle had opened the windows to air his home in Hastings. It was the first time he had visit since returning from America. It was two weeks before Christmas 1947, and Foyle would be turning forty-eight years old this weekend. This would also be the first Christmas without a war in six years and where he was free of this new "cold" War.

Foyle smiled at the thought of finally resigning from public service, as he turned up the classical music on the wireless and continued to clean. He was looking forward to a quiet two weeks alone here in his home, and he hoped for a few mild days to perhaps cast his rod to find some trout.

Foyle knew that once Sam gave her notice in May, it was only a matter of time before his would follow. Christopher smiled at the thought of his former driver and friend.

He had called in on her in August, and she was very much pregnant. She smiled a lot, but he had a strange feeling she had not expected him to visit. He stayed only a short fifteen minutes, and she seemed relieved to have him depart. He put it down to hormones. Christopher had not revisited, though he had called her several times. She sounded utterly warm and welcomed him each call. The last time he called on her in September, he had talked with her father as Ian must have been visiting. Ian had said Sam was sleeping. Foyle had left a message with her father that he had resigned from the service. Sam was to get a hold of Andrew when the baby was to be christened. Christopher also conveyed to Ian that he was to be on a two-month assignment in France for a joint task with M5 and the International Criminal Police Commission. It had been a relatively easy assignment, and he had just finished.

Pausing Christopher wondered why Sam had not let Andrew know that the baby had been born. He knew that a christening did not always take place for even three or four months after the birth. But still, he would give Andrew a call and see if he had just forgotten to tell him.

A few hours later, having cleaned up and shutting all the windows, Christopher placed the poker against the fireplace holder and turned to the kitchen.

Foyle let the phone ring several times and just about gave up when he heard Andrew answer hello. He sounded as if he was running.

"Hello, Andrew," his son could hear the smile in his father's voice.

"Hello, Dad. Good to hear from you," Andrew returned, "Where are you calling from?"

"Good to hear your voice," Foyle returned, "I am back home in Hastings. Resigned for good, now."

"Wonderful, I assume you came by and missed me? I was sent up to Scotland for a few days and just now returned," Andrew responded.

"I did stop by," Foyle agreed, "Listen, Andrew, have you heard from Sam while I was away?"

"I called her a week after you left and she said she was to visit her Uncle, who was not well and would call when she returned," Andrew's voice faltered, "I am sure she must be back, but I have not called her."

"Well, I will give her a ring now and see how everything is, I am sure the Christening must be planned as well," Foyle hung up shortly after that and went to dial the Wainwrights.

Foyle hung up the handle on the phone scratching the side of his ear. Either Sam nor Adam had answered, and it was nearly eight in the evening. He would try them again in the morning. He would like to see how Sam was fairing. It had been almost six months since Foyle had seen her.

Over the next few days, he tried calling Sam to no avail. He rang at all different times when he finally decided to call her Uncle Aubrey. Foyle was relieved to have him answer.

"Hello, Reverend Stewart. Christopher Foyle here."

"Hello, Christopher, so good to hear from you. How have you been?" the reverend returned Foyle's greeting.

"I am fine. Thank you for asking," Christopher returned, "I hope you are well?"

"Yes, everything is fine," Aubrey informed him.

"I have been trying to speak with Samantha for the last few days, but no one seems to answer at the house. I wanted to know about the baby and the Christening."

"Oh she had a boy, named him after you, Christopher Ian Wainwright," Christopher smiled like an idiot as he listened to Aubrey, "I believe the Christening is to be sometime at the beginning of the year. Ian is to do the honours of course in Lyminster."

"Wull, that is good news," Christopher responded, "I will try to contact Sam and see what the exact date is. It was very good to speak with you."

"Yes, excellent Christopher, I must ring off, but I will see you at the Christening."

Foyle smiled and dialled Sam's number.

To his surprise, Foyle was quite relieved to hear Sam's voice. He had been apprehensive, and that gave him pause.

"Oh, Mr Foyle, how are you?" Sam Stewart stated.

"I am very well, Sam," Foyle could not keep the chuckle out of his voice on hearing a happy Sam, "I hear that congratulations are in order. Your Uncle told me you have a new son."

"That's correct, Sir," Sam stated, "He is a whopper, at nearly two months, he is already twenty-five pounds."

"When is the Christening, Sam?"

"Mr Foyle, I am just finally sending the invitations this evening. It will be in Lyminister on Sunday, January 4th." Sam responded.

"Wull, I will most certainly be there," Foyle accepted.

"I would love to speak more, but I think I hear Christopher waking up," Sam warned him.

"Of course, give Adam my regards, and I will see you both on the fourth."

There was a pause over the line, and he thought the line was cut off, then Sam replied, "We should talk."

Foyle could practically see her thinking across the wire. Her voice sounded soft with much hesitation, "What is the matter, Sam?"

There was another long pause; Sam sighed, "The baby is waking up. I will call you back."

The weekend passed, Foyle had fished, and Sam had not returned his call, at least not while he was at the house. It was the evening of December twenty-third; he was tempted to dial her back but thought better of it. She would call him back, and he would find out soon enough what was troubling her. He had heard it in her voice, and Foyle knew Sam well. Sam would call.

It was not an hour later that Foyle, having settled in with an early scotch, heard a knock on the door. He raised an eyebrow and moved to answer the door.

Foyle greeted Sam with a nodding smile of welcome. Sam had a few bags and the child she was holding. She had the baby in one arm, a bag strapped to her other shoulder and a suitcase she had places down beside her.

Without saying anything, Foyle relieved her of the shoulder bag and took up her holdall. Christopher guided her into the house placed her things on the side in the hallway, gentle removed his Godson from her arms and nodded to the kitchen, "You be mother and make us tea, while I will acquaint myself with my Godson, Sam."

Sam smiled at Foyle meeting his eyes with her own with evident affection shining in them, "Of course."

Sam lit the range and place the kettle on the flame. She turned back to see Christopher Foyle unwrapping her young son, counting each finger and then each toe. She stared committing this moment to memory. She sat next to the pair, and Foyle looked up and gave her smile that reaches his eyes, and Foyle said, "You and Adam do good work."

Sam smiled back sadly, "Yes, didn't we?"

Foyle could practically read her face, "What happened to Adam?"

Sam nodded and eyed Foyle knowingly, "He had a bad heart. He died in September."

"Sammm," Foyle reached out his free hand and squeezed hers. After a long pause, Foyle stated: "You knew in August."

Sam nodded affirmatively and sighed. Foyle's look admonished her.

"I did not know how to tell you. Adam wanted everything normal. He did not even tell his mother. Adam did not even want me to know," Sam turned her hand over and held Foyle's hand and covered it with her other, "Actually, I am still quite angry with him. I know it was what he wished, but it wasn't right. Especially, not telling his mother."

"Sam, I am so sorry," Christopher had rocked the baby to sleep as they spoke.

Sam closed her eyes, "Well, I have Christopher at least."

They both smiled at each other and then down at the baby.

"Naming him Christopher, your idea?" Foyle asked with a small grin.

"Well, I told Adam in August, and he did not argue," Sam sighed, "He wanted to know why and I told him that Christopher Foyle was the truest and the best of men."

Foyle gave her a modest gaze and questioning look, "Did you now?"

"What I meant was that Christopher Foyle was the only man never to have let me down," Sam replied shyly dropping her gaze down at their joined hands, "I couldn't say that to Adam though, could I?"

Foyle stared at Sam trying to read her face, but her facial expression became blank and she looked down at the baby.

When she finally looked at him, Foyle squeezed the hand she had not yet released and said, "Sam, get us the tea. Then you can take the baby, and I will see to Andrew's room for you and him."

"Really? Are you sure I was planning to go to the Stag."

"I won't hear of it, Sam. Plenty of room," Foyle instantly rejected her suggestion, and he patiently waited for her to release his hand. He was not altogether uncomfortable with her keeping his hand, but he would not be the one to let go. They had little to no physical contact in the last nine years, and he had consciously and meticulously avoided touching her while he had been her employer. They were firm friends now, and she had lost her husband, Foyle was not about to reject any gesture from her.

"Thank you," Sam conceded with a small smile,

"You will stay through Christmas," Foyle smiled back at her. His eyes confirmed it was not a request.

"I'll insist on cooking though," Sam wore a full grin with her statement.

Christopher Foyle sat in his chair the next afternoon while gazing at a sleeping Sam. She was warmly wrapped up in a coverlet with her legs along the settee. To his utter amazement, he had spent the day with Sam, and baby Christopher. The joy he felt seemed so very odd.

He knew he had a soft spot for Sam after that first day when she had knocked his suspect cold.

He knew he loved her after she had contracted anthrax. He had thought it was a deep love, not so much romantic, but it would have destroyed him if she had died. He had a mixture of healthy guilt and responsibility regarding the whole affair.

Then, as she confessed to him regarding her posing for the Sir Spencer-Jones, Foyle did not know what to think as he saw the drawing. But as Sam explain how she felt shabby, Foyle did not feel jealousy, or surprise, but a deep anger and an extreme possessiveness that shocked him. He verbally consoled her, but he wanted to embrace and reassure her that he would look after her. Foyle had felt a very sudden anger at the man that had made her feel ashamed and had coerced his Sam. He would not have thought anything of it had Sam indicated that it was what she wanted to do. The man was lucky to have already been murdered as Foyle felt the enormity that she was his Sam.

That was the day, Foyle realised that his friendship for Sam had grown into an unshakable love. He was in love with Sam Stewart, and it was impossible. Christopher would never tell her; it would have been selfish and quite ridiculous. He knew Sam cared about him as a friend, but she was a sensible, young, and beautiful woman; she would have no interest in a middle-aged man such as himself.

So, Foyle took this rare opportunity to stare at Samantha Stewart sleeping peacefully in his home. He had handed her the cover and told her to doze off as he would listen for young Christopher. Sam gratefully smiled at him.

Christopher had insisted that Sam stayed over Christmas and he would take them out shopping this afternoon. He would need additional supplies for meals, and he planned to make this a very special Christmas for the three of them. He was delighted to have them. If there were a way, Christopher would keep them here. He knew there was a minimal possibility of this occurring nonetheless he set his mind to ponder on ways and means.

Sometime later, Foyle heard the whines of young Christopher, and he shot out of his chair and ascended the stairs to lift the young boy from the crib. The crib had been Andrew's, and Foyle had fetched it from the attic the night before.

Carefully, he rocked the baby and settled him in his arms as he went back down to the kitchen. He knew the baby would be getting hungry but he did not want to awake Sam just yet, so he settled him onto his shoulder and walked the baby around the kitchen.

Thirty minutes later, Christopher looked up and saw Sam standing in the entryway of the kitchen watching him talking to a full awake baby. Not in baby tones, but in a man to man exchange.

Foyle winked at Sam and continued to address the boy, "You must at all cost be sure to eat as healthy as possible. Mum will stand for nothing short of a strong, tall boy as her helper."

Foyle continued with another full five minutes of advice such as taking up footballing very early, and that school was to be addressed studiously and with complete commitment. Baby Christopher was riveted with his voice, though he immediately screamed his head off at the sight of his mother.

Foyle gave the hungry young man to his mother, and she disappeared upstairs to feed him. Foyle busied himself with dishes and putting on the tea to avoid thinking about mother feeding her child. It didn't work all that well, and Foyle sat down and made a list of items he would need from the shops.

Sam was all for the outing, and he quickly bundled them up into the car and carefully drove down the lane to find the items on his list.

Foyle, Sam and the baby shopped, and Sam had handed over her ration book. Foyle winked at Sam as he said, "I caught several very nice trout a couple of days ago. So, we will have one for this evening."

"Jollly good," Sam returned with a smile.

Later in the afternoon, Sam started on peeling the carrots and potatoes as Christopher set about preparing the trout. The silence was as always amicable as they cooked their meal. Baby Christopher slept upstairs for his third nap of the day. Sam went to the sink where Foyle was washing his hands and leaning against the counter she touched his arm and stated, "This is very kind of you."

"A pleasure," Christopher returned. He gave her one of his small Foyle smiles and turned towards her sensing she had more to say./p

"I told my father and mother I was working and could not go to Lyminister over holidays," she briefly looking at Foyle. She looked down at his shoes with a pause Sam continued, "I am actually working Boxing day, but I just could not bring myself to spend three days with my sister and brothers. But especially my mother. It is horrible to feel this way, but I don't know... I just felt …. like that they all would pity me and insist I come back… Mother already suggested I live with them… after the funeral…."

Sam sighed and glanced up to see Foyle's reaction. He looked at her as always, kind and interested, and he replied waving a hand, "I do understand. Rosalind's mother came to visit for a little while when it was just Andrew and myself. She offered to stay and raise Andrew; I could not agree to it. Her mother was nearly seventy at the time."

Sam listened intently as Mr Foyle rarely spoke of personal experiences. With just his look he conveyed his complete understanding and sympathy without pity. Sam eyed him and dared to ask, "Were you very angry?"

"Hmmm... No, no never angry. I was at first utterly shocked and devastated. She was my world and more importantly Andrew's. I was utterly dismal as a replacement," Foyle paused brushing her arm with his hand, "Sam, I was mostly sad at what I had lost. Why are you so angry?"/p

"I waited through the whole war, and I married Adam. I avoided any real involvement with men for six years, and now I'm still a widow with a child. Mostly, I'm angry that I not only have myself to consider but baby Christopher as well, so it is double important I do this right. I refuse to go back to Lyminister."

Foyle waited as Sam bit her lip and eyed him directly, "I feel a complete failure, and I'm an adult woman of thirty-two with a child. Most of all, I'm angry that my family treat me as still a child."

Foyle tilted his head at her in sympathy, but he returned his attention to the fish. Sam wondered if he thought badly of her for confessing such thoughts. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her dress as she heard Christopher respond.

"You know Sam, unlike your family, I know you are quite capable at handling the direst of situations," Foyle lifted his eyes to capture her doubtful gaze, "Do any one of them know about you contracting anthrax or the three near misses with explosives?"

Sam did not reply and looked away. Foyle nodded and stated, "Rright. So you see, Samantha. I have a completely different view of you as a person. Think you can do just about anything you set your mind to."

That brought her head back up as Christopher gave her a typical silent and questioning look. Sam smiled, "So your saying, I'm beginning a bit … hmmm…. sensitive about my whole situation."

"Have evvery right to be," Foyle agreed, "Just… hmmm … go along... how you mean to continue, your family notwithstanding."

Sam grinned at both the advice and compliment. Foyle felt her place her hand on his forearm and squeeze, "Thank you. You're always so… right..."

Foyle grinned back at her, "That's enough from you."

He washed his hands, gently patted her arm to move her away from the hob and lit the fire. Foyle set about frying the fish, and Sam moved to place set the table.

Sam heard young Christopher crying and went to tend to him, and Foyle finished the fish and placed it in the cookery.

Foyle heard the phone and went to answer it.

"Hello Foyle, Peter Harrison."

Christopher went very still as he heard his old undercover contact at Scotland Yards on the line. He bit his lip and looked around to make sure that Sam was upstairs. He had not heard from Peter since the arrest of Lapbert in 1931. To all who knew Mr Charles Black, criminal and not criminal, had been told the fictional story that Black has escaped to eastern Europe with an international arrest warrant over his head.

"Peter," Christopher greeted with a very flat voice. Foyle wanted to place the handle on its cradle and pretend he had never picked up. Instead, Foyle put a hand against the wall and silently waited for Peter to continue.