Chapter 10

August 1945

Sam woke curled into her husband's broad back and she rolled away slightly for a moment, wondering what had woken her. She raised her head to look at the crib, no, not Connie… She saw a soft band of light in the window, edged with pink. Dawn.

Looking back down at Christopher she felt even more worried after hearing he had been dreaming about his soldiering days. If it wasn't enough that he was anxious about James, there were his memories plaguing him. She sighed to herself, wishing she could ease her love's troubles. She'd give anything to see the creases in his forehead disappear; to see the light that twinkled in his eyes return. This made her feel slightly selfish, but she was worried, and the day that something could finally be done to help James was here. She only hoped the young man would not fight it — that he would accept Foyle's help and recognise the genuine nature of his offer.

It wouldn't be easy. Sam half wished she could march down to the prison and give the young man a piece of her mind, but this was between James and Foyle. That Foyle was so anxious about it only proved he cared, and Sam felt she couldn't really fault him for that. She hated to see him so preoccupied though, and even now in sleep he was frowning, one eyebrow twitching. She put her lips against his shoulder, the fingers of one hand brushing across the soft hairs there gently.

Moving her lips down along his shoulders, tracing the moles and spots of age like one might points on a map, she reached the base of his neck. Burying her nose in the soft curls, now grey, she breathed in heavily, a pleasant shiver cascading through her. She wanted to help him, and thought briefly, well…perhaps I still can…

With her tongue diving past the curls, tickling the soft skin of the back of his neck, she snuffled in his thinning, yet curly hair. It was flecked with grey, and she rather liked the way it sprang up in tufts when disturbed. Her warm breath was at his ear now, and she slipped her tongue inside, teeth catching his lobe softly.

His breathing changed and she felt him stiffen with surprise at being woken in such a way.

"Hullo…" she murmured throatily, fluttering her eyes at him.

He gave her a crooked smile, eyes not quite open yet. "Hullo..."

With a heavy sigh through his nose he turned towards her, nuzzling against her in the spot he loved between her shoulder and neck. It was a place reserved just for him and he revelled in it. Sam began a slow and tender exploration of his unshaven face, the stubble tickling her. He moved his chin, and the stubble rasped, causing her to utter a small, but pleasurable, "oh!"

His breathing changed again and suddenly his eyes were open. Slipping a warm leg between hers, he nudged his way closer and she pressed her hands to his back, encouraging him. Foyle kissed her then, long and languidly, still waking up and enjoying the unhurried feel of her against him. Sam suspected she smelled of milk, and probably even sweat from the previous day, but did not feel self-conscious; he in turn smelled musky and warm, and it quickened her pulse. She loved his smell; loved that she smelled of him after their endeavours. She was his, and that too gave her a thrill. To be enveloped by him was to feel at peace.

Distracted by these thoughts, Sam was brought back to the present by Foyle's tongue, which was doing delightful things. Throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed herself closer, shivering with delight as she felt his desire against her. Slipping one leg around his waist as they lay facing one another, she nudged him with her nose. He took the hint and slid home slowly, drawing a low moan from her. Foyle grinned and took a deep breath, moving gently and without haste. Like this they were wrapped up in one another, arms and legs entwined, skin becoming pleasantly warm where it met with the other's.

Two can play at this game, Sam thought as he continued to move leisurely, smiling broadly. She contracted her inner muscles with intent, and his breath caught and he pitched forwards, teeth sinking into her shoulder carefully, stifling the cry he had in his throat. The entire length of their bodies were pressed together and Sam felt his heartbeat reverberating in his chest.

She knew he had patience though, and she let him grasp her to him, inching his way deeper until she too buried her face in his neck. She gave a soft mewl and he suddenly turned over onto his back, bringing her with him so that she was on top of him. Sinking into him further as she rose above him, Sam gave a low gasp. He gripped her arms as she moved against him and closed his eyes. They needed no words, the soft touches speaking volumes of their own.

Sam gasped again as quietly as she could, nearly gritting her teeth, fingers digging into his shoulders. Her eyes were wide and Foyle opened his, grinning at her unexpected surprise. He moved beneath her with a few measured movements and she collapsed onto him, biting her lip hard. Her hair covered his face and he nuzzled his way towards her lips through her soft tresses, clutching at her hips tightly and keeping her there with him. He breathed out sharply through his nose and then he too relaxed, his grip on her becoming limp.

He really is magnificent...Snuggling into his shoulder, Sam sighed and Foyle gave a small chuckle, pushing her hair to one side.

"Good morning, darling wife."

"Not yet…" she murmured sleepily, and in each other's arms they fell back to sleep, having missed the dawning of early morning entirely.

The young man was standing by the window in his customary spot when Foyle was brought in to the visiting cell. In the light of morning streaming through the bars, Foyle thought he looked dreadful. James Devereaux turned to him, and he smiled softly.

"Why do you keep agreeing to see me?" Foyle asked curiously.

Devereaux, face blank and unrelenting replied, "To find out why you keep coming back…presumably this time it is to say goodbye."

"Oh, far from it." Foyle advanced into the room with slow steps, hands behind his back. "But I do think it was time we were honest with each other." He thought of Sam's words the night before, and felt grateful for his wife's sound advice.

"Certainly time you were honest with me."

Foyle gave him a look. "Has, er, Agnes been to see you?"

Devereaux's eyebrow shot up in surprise, "How do you know about her?"

Breathing deeply, Foyle said quickly, "Because I know about you. Jack."

The young man blinked a few times and Foyle could see his mind racing.

"Has she been?"

"No."

"Do you know why?"

Devereaux shook his head.

Biting his lip, Foyle sat down at the table. "I know what you're doing." He swallowed hard and continued, "Not sure why you are doing it, but it's a tragedy you haven't been able to see the consequences."

Devereaux blinked again, the vein in his neck pulsing steadily.

"And I think it's time you stopped. Because she's dead."

"How?" he asked, eyes wide.

"She was strangled. At an address in Brighton… at, er, an address you'd be familiar with, I think."

Devereaux looked down, slumping against the wall underneath the barred window.

"And you know who did it."

Looking up, the men met each other's eyes, holding the gaze. It seemed then to Foyle that the young man gave in; something in his eyes showed that the fight was over.

He came to sit down at the table, which to Foyle was a small triumph in itself.

"How long had you know Agnes?" he began, placing his hands on the table.

"I knew her when we were children; we used to play together on the estate."

"And you wrote to her later from Germany — she passed on your coded letters to the Intelligence Services. The letters you signed 'Jack'."

Devereaux stared at his own hands, picking at his thumb nail, not looking at Foyle.

"How do you know all this?"

"So you don't deny it?"

Devereaux shook his head. "No," he breathed.

"Why, er, Jack?"

The young man's mouth lifted in a small smile, "My mother used to call me Jack. It was the name of a character in my favourite storybooks as a boy. Jack Harkaway."

Foyle returned a soft smile. "And was Agnes a part of your group?"

He shook his head again, "No, she was just the messenger." Looking up and taking a breath, Devereaux outlined how the coded letter system had worked. It seemed fairly straightforward to Foyle and he nodded quietly.

"Anyone else in the British Free Corp know you were doing this?"

"Yes, there was. He'd worked it all out for himself, I didn't even have to say anything…"

"Jack Stanford."

Devereaux's eyebrows shot up again, and he looked impressed as he nodded.

Foyle took another deep breath, gesturing with his hand towards the other man, "And why was it so very important for your father to be at the trial when you had refused to see or even speak to him before it?"

Devereaux looked down again, lips pressing themselves into a hard line. Foyle nodded to himself, here is the point we always come back to…what has his father done to warrant such a reaction each time?

"Why would he believe you wanted to punish him?"

"Because it's true. He needs to be."

Foyle narrowed his eyes, studying the man across the table from him carefully. He was clearly troubled, and Foyle chewed his lip before saying, "Punished? Because of your mother?"

Devereaux looked up swiftly. There seemed true fear in his eyes, and Foyle felt his stomach clench. Be honest, tell him the truth, you must tell him now…

"I knew her."

He took a breath and went on, "I was injured in the first war, not very badly, but I was young…alone…frightened. She was a volunteer nurse."

The young man's eyes widened, brimming with tears, and he stared at Foyle in disbelief.

"Your mother was … beautiful," Foyle paused, hearing his heart beating loudly in his ears. He added very quietly, "I knew her."

An unbidden image of Caroline laughing in his arms came to him. They had been so euphoric during those first days together; they had made such plans for life…Foyle's eyes misted over, the blue there bright behind a sheen of unshed tears.

"She…she was married to my father at the time…"

"Yes."

Devereaux continued to stare at Foyle, looking both bewildered and stunned.

"I can tell you that she was desperately unhappy with the life she was leading…and that she was happiest when he was away."

Foyle bit his lip, "But she chose to…um, pursue that life for the sake of the child she was carrying."

"Me." Tears rolled freely down his face.

Foyle twitched his lips into the merest hint of a smile and blinked. Yes.

The young man turned away, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. He stood and went back to the window, putting some distance between them.

Foyle chewed his cheek for a moment before saying softly, "I read about the accident…just awful. I was very upset to hear that she'd died."

"It wasn't an accident," Devereaux said sharply, turning to look over his shoulder at Foyle.

The force of his words seemed to echo around the barred room and Foyle felt his heart sink. His eyes went wide as he watched the young man's face turn from red to white. The look there was devastating.

"They had a terrible argument…something about Simon, my old piano teacher. She was threatening to leave him…to tell everyone what sort of man he was…she'd had enough." Devereaux closed his eyes tightly, tears continuing to stream down his cheeks silently. "He…he went after her…I was in… in the hide…"

The young man's voice had become tight with emotion and he was barely able to whisper the last word. Foyle bit down hard on his lip, a feeling of utter horror resonating through him. Oh God…Caroline…

He put his hand up to his face, rubbing his forehead. Why…oh why did you go back to him…poor James…I'm so sorry…so very sorry I wasn't there for you both….

Foyle's face was stricken, and the young man looked at him carefully, seeking his eyes. What he read there seemed to give him some sort of hope and reassurance…Here was a man who had known his mother, respected her, remembered her. A man who had gone out of his way to help him, her son.

Devereaux rubbed his face, drying it with his sleeve's cuff. "What will happen to me now?" He gave Foyle a watery smile: one that however finally reached his eyes.

Foyle stood, clearing his throat and smiling weakly back, feeling almost winded. "Well, you'll be released, I'd say. May take a day or two. And if there is anything I can do to help…"

Devereaux nodded, saying warmly, "You've done so much already."

He came forwards, holding out his hand. The two men shook hands, exchanging a glance as they did so.

"Thank you, sir."

"Call me Christopher."

The young man smiled and nodded. Foyle turned and let himself be led out of the cells. He loosened his tie as he walked, his throat feeling constricted. His hands were shaking. Once outside he leaned against the bonnet of his car, breathing heavily. He had hoped this meeting with James would bring relief; that it would be an end to this whole affair.

Foyle now realised that was not the case. He ran his hand over his face once before jamming his hat on his head and squaring his shoulders. Going across the road to a telephone box, Foyle chewed his cheek grimly. Milner's got one more arrest to make before the day is through….