II.
The day began with cold sheets of rain bucketing down. Foyle stood on the doorstep of the little house Sam shared with the old lady, knocking loudly. He glanced up at the sky and realized the rain was not going to stop anytime soon. He looked back at the car and saw Brookie huddled inside. He knocked again. When no one answered, he began to worry. He bit his lip and looked around at the ground…maybe there was a key?
He turned the knob, just in case, but the door wouldn't budge. Sliding his hand under a potted plant, he felt around for a key – nothing. Then he tried above the door frame, still nothing. Foyle took a few steps back and looked up at the house. It looked very cold and dark.
He walked quickly through the rain to the car and opened the door. He told Brookie the problem and said, "I'm going to try the back door." Foyle went round the back and picked his way across the muddy garden. The back door was stiff, but after a good shove, Foyle tumbled into the dark kitchen. Heedless of his wet shoes, he went through to the lounge, calling out, "Hello, is anybody here?" When no one answered he felt a moment of fear. He ran up the stairs and burst unceremoniously into Sam's room.
Foyle's heart seemed to stop and he felt cold all over. He realized a moment later he had forgotten to breath. Sam had turned over at the sound of her door opening and revealed a face caked with dry blood. Her eyes stared back, hollow and unseeing. She looked confused at first, still drowsy with sleep, but then realized it was Foyle. "Sam!" he said urgently, "what on earth has happened?"
"I'm fine," she said weakly, "it just looks bad, I expect, Sir." Her voice was so quiet that Foyle had to come closer. He could see the gash on her forehead now. She saw his gaze and put a hand up to it.
"I fell and knocked my head against the chest of drawers in the night," Sam said. She looked up at him warily, hoping he wouldn't give her one of his looks. She was surprised, instead to see a strange look on his face, he looked pained and relieved and angry all at the same time. It was, however, the blatant sadness that took her by surprise.
"Where," said Foyle in a measured tone, "is your landlady?" He had that "I'm about to have words with someone" look now – the relief replaced by annoyance.
Sam sat up slightly, "I don't know, Sir," she paused, "the only reason I can think of is that her daughter has gone into labor and she went to be with her. There is bound to be a note on the table downstairs."
"I see." Foyle pursed his lips. He looked at Sam carefully, noticing how pale she was. Coming closer still, he sat on the edge of the bed and stretched out his hand. Sam blinked in surprise when she felt his hand cup her cheek and saw his eyes looking intently at her face. She swallowed, wincing, as her throat was still dry and sore. "Does it hurt?" Foyle asked softly, scrutinizing the gash on her forehead. Sam would have preferred to just shake her head, as she didn't trust her voice, but Foyle was holding it firmly. Sam blushed, "Not too much, Sir." She found herself watching his eyes and his lips twitching in assessment of her wound. He caught her eye and in that moment they each realized something. Foyle sat back, letting go hurriedly, "Why don't we get it clean, um, and then we can see if it needs to be stitched up."
He rose and moved to the side to let her get up. Sam stood, but put out a hand, feeling wobbly and weak. Foyle put his arm around her shoulders, took her hand and guided her to the bathroom across the landing. As he eased her down onto a chair next the sink, he felt her breast graze his arm and his stomach gave an unpleasant jolt, leaving him slightly breathless.
Clearing his throat, Foyle stood, catching sight of himself in the mirror. He realized he was soaking wet, drops of rain sliding off the brim of his hat. "Can I leave you to, uh, clean it?" Foyle asked, feeling awkward again. "I'm just going to see if I can find the note and I'll make you a cup of tea."
Sam smiled gratefully at him and nodded, "I'll be fine, Sir."
He wanted to ask why she hadn't called someone, made her neighbors come over; anything but suffering a night alone and miserable – but seeing how weak she was, he understood. Foyle swore at himself as he went downstairs, really worried about what might have happened to her, as well as how it would affect her recovery. He found the note, like Sam said, on the table in the hall.
"Sam," – it said in scrawling handwriting– "Betty has gone into labor. Going over to Brighton to be with her. I may be there all weekend, so look after yourself and feed Harry if you would. See you soon, Mrs. Moore."
Resisting the urge to crumple the note in annoyance, and wondering who the hell Harry was, Foyle went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "I should have stayed here until I knew someone could be with her," Foyle thought, chastising himself. Closing the back door suddenly reminded him of Brookie. He went through the front entrance and saw the sergeant looking anxiously up at the house. "I was just about to come find you, Sir," he shouted through the open window of the Wolseley, "everything alright?"
Foyle, getting drenched again, leaned down and poked his head in. "The landlady is away, so she's been here on her own all night." He left out the part about finding Sam with blood on her face. Foyle chewed his lip, "I'm going to try and find someone to be with her. Maybe one of her friends can come over."
Brookie nodded slowly, "But won't most of her friends be at work?"
Foyle groaned slightly and looked away, "Yes, of course." He looked back at Brookie, "Maybe one of the nurses from the hospital… or," he faltered, realizing that they would be too busy at the hospital just recently inundated with wounded soldiers.
Brookie said cautiously, "What Miss Stewart needs is a friend, not just to look after her, but to keep her spirits up."
Foyle looked at him sharply. The detective, for all his skills at solving cases, was slow to see what would fix this problem.
Brookie went on, nervously now, "Sergeant Milner, or I, or…you, Sir, would be the best for her, at least for today." He paused, looking at Foyle, awaiting his reaction.
Foyle frowned, but then saw the sense in this – all Sam's friends would be at their jobs by now, and probably couldn't get the day off on such short notice. He took a deep breath and looked back at the house. It looked cold and forlorn in the rain of the morning, and Foyle thought to himself once again, "One step at a time." He pushed his sopping hat up on his forehead and looked back at Brookie.
"I'll stay with Sam today, Sergeant. If there are any issues at the station, you know where to find me."
Brookie's face spilt into one of his cheeky grins, an added measure of relief and perception showing in his eyes. Foyle nodded at him, smiling slightly, and walked back into the house. And his face, although tense and grim, was set with that same determined look of the previous evening.
TBC…