The Pale Rider
Part: 4
Rating: T
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?
Beta: Captn Becky
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.
Scene 4
Christopher sat in the front seat with a letter in hand. It was one of the few times his son, Andrew, had actually written him. It both bothered and relieved him that his son was doing fine. At least, well it seemed as if the air raids had stopped. It had been some time since the last one, and sometimes he felt almost as if he didn't need to pull the blackout curtains in place at night.
"Is that from Andrew?"
He frowned. The last letter she had received from his son was what Major Kiefer called a "Dear Jane" letter. Of all the things, to call it off by letter, he thought, was the worst thing his son could have done. Yet at the same time he felt an odd sort of relief that she was free once again. He mentally shook himself. "Yes."
She nodded as she changed the gears. "Oh."
He put the letter in his lap. "Sam, I still think he should have apologized to you in person."
"No, no, no. Don't worry about it. I knew early on that it wouldn't work out." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye before bringing her full attention back to the road. "He's all flash and no substance."
How true. It still bothered him that he flirted, or maybe flitted was a better term, from one girl to the next.
"Where is he? Or can he even tell you?"
Christopher looked at the stamp on the envelope. "No word. Either he's in the same place or it's probably something he can't talk about." He looked over just in time to see her nodding.
"I'm just glad he's doing well, sir."
Trust Sam to think of everyone else first. Christopher let a smile slide across his face before it disappeared. Just as they were pulling into the outskirts of Bexhill, he placed the letter back in its envelope and slid it into his inner suit pocket. The trip back to Hastings, he assumed, would give him time to think about how he would answer the letter, that is if he knew where to send it.
While their arrival at the local police station was without fanfare, he had anticipated that they would be waiting for him. Sam pulled the Wolseley up to the front of the building this time, assuming that it would be easier. "Stay here." Christopher nodded to her as he climbed out of the car and climbed the steps that led to the front entrance.
People were in the common area, but it wasn't completely crowded. Christopher stopped to look at the wall that was covered in local wanted posters. A single green flier that seemingly had nothing to do with the police stood out in stark contrast to the sea of drab grey wanted posters. He approached the wall, curious as to what this one said. Freedom is in peril, defend it with all your might. It was either a new propaganda poster or one he hadn't seen before. Then again, he might not have noticed it because of how busy he'd been lately.
"Mr. Foyle?"
Christopher turned around to see who called him. The man who approached was in full uniform. "Yes?" He easily recognized the man as the superintendent from his insignia on the man's collar.
"Sir. We've been waiting for you."
"Good." Christopher pointed over his shoulder towards the front door. "I'm out front."
"Sir, we'll come around and you can follow us to Miss Woollenhouse's home."
Bexhill wasn't all that large; actually, it was smaller than Hastings. They soon found themselves approaching of one of the homes in the older part of the town.
As they stood in front of the building, the police cars began lining the street. Across the lane, they could see the curtains twitch. Whomever it was, Christopher knew they'd have things to gossip about. The super searched around the potted plants beside the door for a possible key. Most people kept them there, which was something the police knew about as well. Finding what he was looking for, the uniformed officer unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The front hall was cluttered with various items one would find in a home. Turning into the lounge they stopped abruptly, making it difficult for the officers following to avoid running into them. The room was bare, not just empty, of furnishings, but stripped bare. It was as if no one lived there, yet the front hall gave the appearance that there was a resident.
"Did Miss Woollenhouse receive letters here?" Christopher took his hat off and turned around, taking in every aspect of the room.
"I don't know, sir. I'll have to question the postman about that."
"Do that." Christopher wandered deeper into the house, wondering if there would be anything of value. Why, he kept asking himself. Finding the stairs, he went up to the second floor, hoping there would be at least something of note.
The only piece of furniture in the house was a bed. There wasn't even a wardrobe.
"Sir?"
Christopher looked up from the bed and towards the opening of the door to the room. Sam was standing in the hall. "Yes?"
"This is just a front, isn't it?"
He frowned. "It would seem so."
She came in and sat on the bed. It made a crinkling sound. "What is that?" she asked as she stood up.
"I'm not sure. Get the super, would you Sam?" Christopher's full attention was on the bed now. The sound brought back vague memories of when he was a young child, yet that was straw, and not a paper sound. He knelt down and felt the cover, then stooped lower to look under at the springs.
"Mr. Foyle?"
Christopher turned his attention back to the door. "Yes," he pushed himself to his feet. "I believe there's something within the mattress."
"Let me do that, sir." The constable pulled out a pocket knife and opened it up. Leaning over he pressed down on the cover until he heard the crinkling sound. With movements as careful as a surgeon, he cut a slit in the cover wide enough to slide his hand in it. It didn't take long, and he pulled out what looked like several pieces of folded paper. He opened it and furrowed his brow. "What?"
"Let me see that," Christopher held his hand out. What he found written was not what he was expecting. It was some sort of code and he had no idea how to break it.
TBC...
