Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle and Samantha Stewart/Wainwright jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended. A fan tribute.

UXB Chapter 3

They worked separately most of the morning, and when they did meet or speak, both maintained a strictly professional deportment.

Sam decided, after her inappropriate remark to Mr. Foyle about going to America ('stupid, stupid girl,' she berated herself) to continue her clandestine investigation, for her husband, into the Devizes land evaluator, George Gibson. With Charlotte's help, she'd found out where he was living after leaving Wiltshire and his telephone number. If he had been up to something before, Sam reasoned, chances were he was still in someone's pocket.

She was familiar with the process for ordering a wiretap, and thought it wouldn't be suspicious if she made the request in Mr. Foyle's name - well, as long as he didn't find out. But, if he did, surely he wouldn't object to her trying to help her husband!

And if she stayed out of his way as much as possible, Mr. Foyle wouldn't have to read the guilt in her face.

Towards midday, Foyle, convinced for the moment that they had to deal with her remark, sought her out and asked Sam if she had plans for lunch, but she told him she'd already accepted an invitation from Gloria and a few of the other girls. Which was true, except that she had invited herself to join them.

Foyle was glad of that; their company might cheer her more than his own restrained concern. The afternoon passed much the same as the morning, but at the end of the day Sam didn't stop in to his office to ask when he'd be leaving, and when Foyle looked for her in the research department, he found she'd already gone.

He stayed late in his office that evening, reading the files related to his next case. Charlotte stopped in to inform him of the appointment she'd arranged for him with Professor Van Haaren, whose true name was Karl Strasser.

On his way to his first meeting with the Nazi Officer, Foyle had wondered if he could face the man without being provoked to violence. In the university library, he had held his personal feelings in check, which was his own natural inclination as well as Meyerson's advice, and had got through the interview with only one unnecessary remark - that it would save a lot of trouble if the man threatening Strasser had used his gun, instead of leaving a bullet - and he had ended the meeting as quickly as he could.

The next morning he had been called to the German's hostel regarding another perceived threat - a sunflower left in his room. Foyle recognised at once that this would be the crucial clue in the case - it was too unusual. Then that afternoon someone had taken a shot, several shots, at Strasser, while Foyle had been with him on the street. A lone gunman, Foyle had only got a glimpse of him, and he'd had no inclination to try to pursue the man. Wished he'd been a better shot, in fact.

By all standards of justice Strasser should be standing before the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg, where the first War Crimes trials were underway. Instead, courtesy of the British Government, he had a new identity and a prestigious career as a university lecturer in Art History, while supplying his expertise on Soviet espionage.

Foyle could see that Miss Pierce would stop at nothing to protect this source of intelligence, and his knowledge of this was inexorably pushing him farther outside of the Service's fraternity, if, indeed, he had ever been in it.

And at the same time he was palpably aware that Sam was withdrawing from him; after two more days of only work-related contact - her taking her breaks with the other women and deliberately leaving at the end of the day without a word, Foyle was certain Sam was avoiding him. He figured he knew why - his sympathy and concern were a burden to her, not a help.

He had expected to lose their friendship to her complete preoccupation with a happy marriage, not the opposite. Painful to him as it was, he knew he must respect her decision, and leave her to sort out her own private matters.

But then he was called in to Meyerson's office, and questioned about a wiretap he'd apparently ordered to be placed on the telephone of a man he'd never heard of. He quickly put two and two together, and diverted further questions by naming a defunct Soviet spy ring, 'Red Five,' as a possible connection. Leaving Pierce and Meyerson puzzling over that, he headed straight to the Research Department to summon Sam to his office. She followed him meekly enough.

Feeling rather a fool for having entertained such romantic notions of self-sacrifice with regard to Sam, as he walked ahead of her in the corridor he considered that, though he'd had her complete loyalty during the War, now her loyalty lay, as it should, with her husband - to the point that she'd risk their working relationship, apparently, and perhaps even their friendship.

And he wondered - if he truly no longer had Sam on his side, to put his trust in, then where did that leave him? There'd be no absolutes, no foundation of any sort to ground him in this job - no law to rely on, no allies, no morality but his own - and even that was crumbling around the edges.

After ushering her into his office and closing the door behind her, Foyle crossed the room deliberatively, turned, and settled against the edge of his desk, hands in his trouser pockets,

"Just... refresh my memory about this wiretap I ordered, Sam."

With a furrowed brow and eyes focused on the floor she said quietly,
"I'm very sorry, sir. I know it was wrong, but I thought if I asked you, you'd refuse."

He raised his eyebrows, twisting his lips in near amusement, waiting for her to look at him. Ordinarily Foyle would have been very irritated by such a statement - it was the logic of a thirteen-year-old - but he knew Sam was..., well, not herself these days. He rubbed his temple with his fingertips,

"What's this all about then? Tell me from the beginning."

She explained what she was trying to do for her husband, and he could clearly see the good intentions underlying the desperately bad judgement. So he surprised her by suggesting that they drive to the address she had discovered for the land evaluator and try to interview him.

Once in the privacy of the car, however, he warned her of the seriousness of her breach of the law, and then admitted he now had to save his own skin to cover the lie he'd just told for her. Foyle was relieved to see her suitably chastened and apologetic.

But he still wished to help her, so they drove on through the outskirts of London, under pleasantly sunny skies, and found George Gibson in the back garden of his house. As they questioned him about the farmland he'd evaluated at double its pre-war value, it was obvious he had something to hide, and he soon warned them off his property; the wiretap, though quite illegal, would no doubt provide some information as to whether Adam's suspicions were justified.

They drove back to the city, Foyle in the passenger seat again, and as he listened to Sam chatter on animatedly about how this 'investigation' was going to help Adam, he felt increasingly exasperated with her. Finally he interrupted,

"Sam! D'you not remember what I said earlier? If Gibson - or more likely, his solicitor - questions the source of the phone call transcripts, this could all... blow up in your face - and Adam's. There could be very serious repercussions for both of you."

She replied instantly, confidently,
"Yes, I know that, but I'm willing to take the risk. Shouldn't a wife help her husband when he's faced with a difficulty -?"

Foyle shook his head in disbelief,
"You're not hearing me, Sam -. Look, in this job - you have far greater access to private information than the average citizen, and with it, a responsibility to -"

"But my responsibility is to my husband, first."

"Adam didn't ask you to do this."

"No, but I - I needed to find a way to... I wanted to help him!"

Foyle shut his eyes briefly, noting with dismay that the conversation was going round in circles. Though they were now in the city, not far from the office, he wanted to have this matter settled.

"Sam, pull the car over, please."

She glanced at him with some apprehension, and parked alongside the kerb. Overhead, dark clouds had moved in to block the late summer sun, and it had just begun to rain.

Foyle pushed his hat up on his brow, and spoke gently,
"Perfectly understandable that you want to help Adam in any way that you can. But you can't break the law."

She stared forwards out the windscreen, hands in her lap,
"It seems everyone we work with is breaking the law, every day. At least I'm trying to do some good."

"You don't know what the results of your actions will be, Sam - it may not turn out as you'd hope. Please, just... promise me you'll ask me, consult with me, next time you... need help with a problem. We're working together, aren't we?"

"Yes, but I'm trying -." Sam glanced out her side window. "I'm trying to -. I don't know how else to..." She fixed her gaze straight ahead again and lifted her chin,
"You see, when we worked together at the guest house, everything was fine - well, between us, I mean. When we stayed at Sevenoaks, we worked together, too. Now, he's completely absorbed in his own work and doesn't seem to need me at all, and I - I'm feeling rather..."

"Sam. It's a different sort of career. Look, ...I'm sure your mother is a very great help to your father in his work in the Church, however, an MP -."

She interrupted,
"Yes... I wasn't thinking of my parents." She said quietly, and glanced at him,
"I was thinking of you and me."

Foyle dropped his chin, bit the inside of his cheek.

"Wull. It's true we had a... very close working relationship. The War... forced, er - brought - people together in extraordinary ways... But, Sam, you were working for me; you drew a salary. You can't expect to be involved in Adam's career in the same way..."

"His work is so important to him - if I'm not a part of it, then where does that leave me?"

Foyle winced uncomfortably - he was beginning to feel this was a conversation she should have with her mother. He was also beginning to feel that the interior dimensions of the Austin were entirely too narrow.

"Well, S-sam..."

She held up a hand, palm towards him,
"No, I know. A happy home life - cooking, gardening, ch-children..." With an effort of will she brought her emotion under control, "What if it's not enough?" She spoke quickly, "Women contributed so much to the War effort, surely we can do as much in the Peace."

"I agree."

"You do?"
At last she looked at him, her eyes lit with gratitude at his understanding response.

Outside a sudden rain shower splattered the car with heavy drops that soon built to a torrent cascading down the glass. He had to raise his voice over the drumming on the roof and bonnet.

"Well, yes. Is... that what you want?"

She took in a long deep shuddering breath,
"I may not have as many options as I'd..." She couldn't finish, lip trembling.

"Sam. Have you talked this over with Adam?"

"I've hardly seen him! It's not something one brings up at the door as he's rushing out -." Tears coursed down her cheeks.

Foyle regretted he'd not taken the driver's seat for the return journey. Sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder with her, with no means of taking action to help the situation, he was increasingly disconcerted.

"Look... We can go straight to Westminster, Sam. You must talk to him. It's important."

"I've tried! I've gone there on m-my lunch break, I've gone - after work -. He's not been at his office, or the Minister's. No one c-could tell me where he was. And he comes home so late -."

Clearly she was in no state to drive now, and the rain continued battering against the car. She wept freely, head bowed, a hand over her eyes,
"I'm sorry, I- I'll be alright in a-."

Foyle dragged his fingers across his brow, moved by her distress. He overcame his hesitation, turned in the seat, reached across and drew her towards him to rest her head on his shoulder. Lightly stroking her back, he murmured soothing words, gazing upwards, waiting for her to calm.

But he was, just then, uncomfortably reminded of a similar moment from his past with another young woman - another married young woman - when he hadn't the self-control or maturity or the will to do the right thing. While it had been a completely different set of circumstances, the memory of holding her in his arms, like this, and what had followed, increased his apprehension now.

As Sam's gentle sobs diminished to a few hitching breaths, he felt her hand dip into his inside coat pocket and pull out the handkerchief she knew he kept there. She dried her face, but still rested on him, her forehead warm against his throat. With a last caress across her slender form, he said kindly,

"...I'll drive, Sam. Take you home, or Westminster, wherever you like."

And he applied the gentlest pressure on her shoulders to move her upright. But then her hand curled around the nape of his neck, sending a rush of pleasure through his heart, and as she drew back, tear-stained eyes nearly closed, suddenly her soft, warm lips were pressed to his, and - god forgive him - he kissed her back, his eyes falling shut under the combined spells of desire, love and longing, and for just a brief moment, he tasted the sweetness of his dear, forbidden girl, his Sam.

Foyle pulled away, stunned, turning his face aside, despite his overwhelming wish for more of her softness and the taste of her lips. Inside the shelter of the car, all outside sounds faded, and there was only his in-drawn breath, her gentle exhalation...

Then, thankfully, unlike that other young woman from a lifetime ago, Sam came to her senses, alarmed by what she'd done, what she'd inspired him to do, and withdrew the little distance against the driver's side door, speaking in a low rush of words,

"My god. That was wrong of me, sir. It will never happen again. I. -I'll go." And she fumbled for the door handle. He stopped her with a hand on her arm,

"Sam. I'll go."

He hardly knew how he'd got out of the car, but an instant later he was on the street walking away, pulling his hat down over his brow, the cold rain splattering on the pavement all around. He called himself every suitable epithet in the book, increasing his stride with each accusation. With no idea of where he was going, he only knew he had to put a significant distance between himself and Samantha as quickly as possible.

There was a great deafening thunderclap overhead, the driving rain turned to bullet-like hail, and he quickly fastened the buttons of his overcoat. But the water was running off his hat brim and his shoes were soaked as the roads were awash from the deluge.

Most sensible people had taken cover in doorways and inside the shops and cafés he passed. Eventually he found the door to the Coach and Horses and ducked inside.

tbc...

Historical Note: On July 26, 1946, London experienced a severe thunderstorm and hail, which produced 50 mm of rain in 35 minutes. (I've moved the date of the storm into late August, as it makes a dramatic accompaniment to the scene.) From London-weather dot eu.