Chapter 11

At the Chief Constable's departure, Foyle paused after closing the door, hesitant to address whatever unfinished business remained between himself and his driver. He pulled out the packet of cigarettes, lit one and inhaled the smoke deeply before turning round.

"M-may I have one of those, sir?" Sam asked with a hopeful, collegial air.

But he slipped the pack into his jacket pocket, walked over to the writing desk, and answered casually,

"Certainly not; bad for your health."

She gazed after him, a little crestfallen.

"Well, that's that. We got through it."

He loosened his tie and unfastened his collar button, shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the chair,

"Suppose I may as well pack these away."

He tidied the papers into their files,

"Would you mind bringing my briefcase, Sam?"

She picked up his case on the floor under the other window, then stood thinking.

When he became aware of her preoccupied silence, Foyle tossed the files onto the desk again and propped an elbow on the top of the chair-back. He tilted his head and looked at her with an expression of mild exasperation, until she turned and he saw her face.

She was evidently wrestling with an inner dilemma, the telltale crease between her eyebrows, and he knew from past experience that he'd best keep an eye on her until she sorted herself out – she had a tendency to forget her surroundings.

He watched her approach slowly, head bent, brow still furrowed. As she came to stand close in front of him, Foyle put out the cigarette and straightened up.

Sam held the case in front of her like a shield.

"Mr. Foyle, I... I owe you an apology. I'm afraid I've made assumptions about you – about the way you conducted this case, and, well – I was completely wrong, obviously."

She glanced up, tearful and repentant.

"I'm sorry, sir. I should have known – I should have understood – that you knew what you were doing."

Foyle took the briefcase from her and set it on the desk, answering quietly,

"Well, Sam, your assumptions... weren't without some grounding in fact."

She looked at him, surprised, as he continued,

"If an apology is needed, it's accepted, but..."

"Sir?"

He gave her a fleeting smile and rubbed his temple self-consciously.

"I... should've gone out the back way."

Sam laid her hand on his arm and Foyle looked down at it.

"But... there's rather more to it than that, isn't there, sir?"

"...Suppose there is. Not certain I could put a name to it."

He covered her hand briefly with his, then shifted back a step, but she held him with a gentle pressure on his forearm.

Sam chose her words carefully, only glancing up when she found the courage,

"M-my father says that... when one loses someone... one may feel a tremendous sense of guilt, along with everything else, and... that the feeling returns from time to time, unexpectedly... My father says when a good person feels this sense of guilt, they may seek punishment of some sort – through self-denial or..."

"Recklessness?"

"Yes."

He turned away, lips compressed in a straight line, re-sorted the files on the desk, and asked quietly,

"Irrational, is it?"

"No, sir, it's just ...human."

She saw him bow his head and shut his eyes.

Seeing his discomfort, Sam moved away and found a task to busy herself with; she gathered up his damaged clothing from the hearth and began folding it neatly at one end of the sofa.

Foyle sensed her move off, and stared down at the papers. He knew that her words – or rather the words of her father – were true; he felt their truth in his heart. He had felt guilt, for so many reasons – the renewed guilt and pain of losing Rosalind that he'd experienced while watching over Sam at the hospital; guilt over this wish to escape from Hastings before the anniversary date... His hand instinctively went up to rest over the knot of his tie, his fingers traced the small circle of gold that lay beneath his shirt... And guilt over these other feelings he could no longer deny – a kind of weariness with grief, and a longing for some... brightness, some... happiness. Yes.

He looked over at Sam, watched her valiantly try to restore some small order to the chaos he had brought into his life, and considered the effect all this must have had upon her.

He knew now how much he valued her loyalty, her faith in him, and her regard, and despite the disconcerting circumstances, he had been moved by her kindness, by the genuine care and concern she had shown for him.

And it seemed to him now that, for these three or four days they had spent together, his conversation had entirely consisted of either apologising to her for his actions, or thanking her for hers.

With a decisive gesture he cleared all the files off the table and thrust them into the briefcase, closed it and locked it.

He pushed his hands deep in his trouser pockets, walked round the desk and crossed the floor to stand beside her; she was examining his overcoat - the damage done to the fabric.

Sam turned, a little surprised to find him so near.

"Er – it may be possible to salvage this."

He nodded, gazing at the torn cloth, and bit the inside of his cheek. She held up the coat as she folded it and, shaking her head regretfully, pronounced,

"We'll just have to 'Make do and mend,' sir."

Suddenly struck by a thought, she bent to lay the overcoat down carefully and, rising, dared to meet his eyes. With a tone of gentle urging she said quietly,

"'Make do and mend.'"

Foyle went quite still, and they regarded one another for a moment, until an affectionate smile softened the lines of worry from his eyes.

"I will, Sam. I promise."

Pleased at his sincerity, and a little self-conscious at his regard, she blushed,

"Jolly good, sir."

The End.