L'Aimant – Chapter 29
Summary:
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
Chapter 29: Sam and Foyle come to a decision. Foyle acts on the outcome.
Disclaimer:
The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.
Author's Notes:
DuckIsland is a peninsula at the eastern end of St James's ParkLake, London.
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This chapter refers to events described in The French Drop (S3E1). Sir Giles Messinger's son, code name Facteur, was killed on a mission to France, due to negligence on the part of SOE's Director of Ops, James Wintringham.
Some lines of dialogue from the episode are also quoted.
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Reference is also made to Bad Blood (S4E2), in which Samantha battles for her life after contracting anthrax as a result of secret biological warfare testing.
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dancesabove not only ironed out the creases as usual, but also added lovely touches and improvements of her own. Now that's what I call a beta. xx
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
Suddenly Charles dipped his head and looked up at Sam with an expression reminiscent of a music hall comedian's "dawning idea". She returned his gaze expectantly, a small bemused smile forming on her lips.
"Sam! How would you feel about lending Alice a hand? You have a telephone in Hastings. You could work from home there. Wouldn't be full time. Perhaps three days a week?"
Sam's face lit up, her voice taking on the slightly higher pitch that typified her when enthused or agitated. "That sounds just the kind of thing I'd be good at! I get on well with people. Could you speak to her, Charles?"
Commander Howard's smile was one of genuine relief. "I'll ask her to telephone you. I'm sure something can be arranged. And quickly." Quicker the better, he thought to himself.
Approaching footsteps sounded in the corridor.
"Christopher! Are we off to feed the ducks?" Sam rose from her chair and beamed at her returning husband.
Sheepishly, Christopher produced the empty paper bag from his pocket and cocked an eyebrow at Commander Howard. "Charles and I, um, fed them, I'm afraid. But if you'd care to take a turn with me around the lake, there's something I'm anxious to discuss with you before we drive back home…?"
Chapter 29
Wednesday afternoon, 10th January 1945
Christopher Foyle squired his young wife across Horse Guards Road into St James's Park. She wore her greatcoat and a grey wool scarf recently knitted by her mother, so the stroll outdoors, though bracing, was no hardship in the chill.
There, in the low-angled sunlight of the crisp January afternoon, he led her to a quiet bench beneath a bare-branched sycamore.
Installed there on the wooden seat, Christopher invisibly slid his arm behind her back and drew her up against him.
"Sweetheart," he began, "we need to..."
"Alter things?" she finished for him, turning to inspect his face. "Something's going on with you and Charles. It's not just Andrew, is it? Something else... important. And... you want to do it on your own."
Foyle lowered his eyes. "I wouldn't say I want, exactly. What I want is not to be involved at all, but sadly I don't feel I can just walk away from this. And if I were to, well, include you, I'd be grossly negligent in my duty to your safety."
Sam looked into her lap. "Are you going to tell me what this is about, or is it all hush-hush?"
He grimaced, rocking his head from side to side. "Well, the latter, I'm afraid. For now, at least, until I get a better feel for what's involved, there isn't anything that I can tell you."
Quietly, she swallowed down her disappointment. "Right. I see."
Foyle went on, carefully gauging her reaction as he spoke, "I, um... nnnot entirely clear for now, but I imagine I might have to be away... a few nights to begin with, then the odd night here and there."
"Then you'll need a driver." Sam began to look hurt.
He winced. "Yup. But. It's up to them to find me one."
"Have you said you'll do it?" her tone was haughty, suddenly. Annoyed.
"Nnnup," he answered truthfully, lowering his chin and sending her a cautious sidelong glance. "I said I'd have to ask my wife."
Sam blushed, at once embarrassed at her show of mood. "Did you really, Christopher?" She bit her lip.
"I did." His eyes crinkled as he found the confidence to tease her. "It's important they should know I'm not my own boss any more."
Sam dug him in the ribs, then firmed her mouth to stem a smile. "It isn't funny."
"Isn't it?" He sucked in both his cheeks and made a playfully long face.
There was no choice for Sam but to avert her gaze, lest she give in to laughter. He really was too much.
Foyle squeezed her to his side. "Come on, Sam."
"Is the work dangerous?" she asked him finally, turning to capture his eyes.
His mouth twisted in a non-commital moue. "MmmmDon't intend on courting danger."
"That isn't what I asked." Sam recognised avoidance tactics when she heard them. From all those times she'd overheard him questioning a suspect, she had learned.
He fidgeted beside her, tensing out an answer. "Don't know, to be honest. There might be... certain risks."
He sighed. Pushed out his lower lip. "Look, Sam. If I don't do it, amateurs might have to. And if there's more behind the... situation than there seems to be, it might—just might—adversely impact on the outcome of the war."
Sam stared across the lake. How was she meant to counter that? She knew that if she pleaded 'I don't want to be a widow with a baby', itwould make him reconsider in an instant. But that would have been a low, unworthy blow.
Instead she took a deep breath, let it slowly out, then launched into a seeming change of subject.
"Christopher, you know we spoke about my staying on as your driver until March? I don't believe that's such a good idea any more. I think I should go now, and find myself some other work to do until the baby's born. Charles has said there might be something I can do for Alice and her refugees."
She shifted round to face her husband, giving him that intensely anxious-to-please look with her rounded dark eyes. "Would you mind awfully if I resigned?"
Relief flowed through him, starting with a slow blink, creeping down his features. His wife was granting him the space to do his duty, and he recognised that it must be costing her dear. A sad smile played around his mouth, and in that instant, he felt humbled at the fortitude and practicality of this lovely girl he'd married.
Foyle scanned the park, and, satisfied that they were unobserved, he gathered Sam against him, gently lowering her upper body sideways, so she lay across his lap.
Sam lay there, passive, shoulders cradled in his left arm, gazing up into his eyes. "I think it's fair to say," he murmured, pulling off a glove to trace his thumb across her cheek, "I'll be bereft without you, but I mustn't be so selfish as to keep you to myself."
Only the inhabitants of DuckIsland witnessed the ensuing kiss. The sun shone low behind the couple now embracing on the bench and cast a lengthy shadow out across the lake. It was both a sad farewell to a treasured working partnership, and a passionate hello to a new order between spouses.
Christopher looked up from the embrace and sighed. "Some business to conduct, before we leave Town. Might mean us staying overnight with Charles. If that's all right with you."
"That's perfectly all right, Darling. I need to speak to Alice, anyway. And if you need the Wolseley tomorrow, I'll make my own way back to Hastings, not to worry."
"Over my dead body. More than enough vehicles in Whitehall to ferry me around on official business. When you go, you drive home in the car and let Milner use it till the end of the month, or till I sort this out. Whichever comes sooner."
Thursday morning, 11th January, 1945
"Mr Foyle. Good of you to come." Hilda Pierce walked round her desk to shake him by the hand, then dropped her chin and fixed him with a warm and steady gaze that hinted at apology.
Foyle managed a sardonic grin. "Before you ask, Miss Pierce, I didn't do it."
Hilda recalled the deadpan humour from her previous encounters with this man. Though her eyes rolled in appreciation of the quip, her lips tensed to forestall what would have been a wholly inappropriate show of mirth.
"Never even crossed my mind," she said, and gestured to the easy chair to one side of her desk. "Won't you have a seat?"
"Thank you, I will." Foyle settled with his hat propped on his lap, then cocked his head in query. "You, um, hauled in Wintringham for questioning yet?"
The mention of her former boss's name left Hilda Pierce unruffled. "Ah, yes. Colonel Wintringham." Her thin lips made a smirk. "Mr Foyle, what does one do with a loose cannon?" She gestured to a bottle on the tray behind her. "A spot of single malt to oil your wheels?"
Foyle's eyes lit up. "Most welcome. A loose cannon? You—er—either lash it down, or ditch it through the gunwale?"
"Precisely so." Pierce flipped two crystal tumblers right-side-up and poured a generous whisky into each.
"No love lost between him and the victim, my impression," persisted Foyle.
Hilda shot him a brief, cool-headed, glance from the corner of her eye. "And no wonder, Mr Foyle. From the outset, Sir Giles regarded SOE as a gaggle of resource-squandering amateurs. But, to my great relief, we have survived both his opinion, and now him."
Foyle scratched his ear and quirked a smile. "You didn't kill him, did you?"
Pierce raised an admonishing eyebrow as she handed Foyle one of the tumblers. Dangling the other from her fingertips, she sashayed behind her desk to take a seat. "James Wintringham, though arrogant and impervious to his own shortcomings, relished the game too much to murder his detractors, Mr Foyle. James always did like facing down a challenge. That was part of his attraction to the job."
Foyle stuck out his bottom lip and weighed up that opinion. "Did Messinger have him removed from post?"
She shook her head. "Sir Giles had considerable 'paw', but even he, for all his incandescent bluster, couldn't trump the steadfast patronage of Mr Churchill. No."
"Then how did Wintringham come to be ejected?"
"Very simple. Tediously so, in fact. Section heads were tasked with the submission of in-depth reports. My own were always very frank. And I imagine other heads of sections, similarly so." She shrugged. "I told you, Mr Foyle, that Wintringham would not survive the war in-post. He wouldn't—or he couldn't- stop himself from rushing into operations ill-prepared. As a modus operandi—you'll recall this from your close involvement with Facteur—it was both dangerous and questionable."
Pierce paused and sipped her malt. "What changed, though, was the leadership. In August '43 we gained a new director, Major General Gubbins. And copies of the section heads' reports were asked to be directed straight to him. Thereafter, Wintringham was on borrowed time. He lasted all of ten months under the new regime."
"And, um, where is he now?"
"In Washington. Procuring raw materials." Miss Pierce's face finally betrayed a crooked smile. "I warned him, Mr Foyle. And often. Believe me, if I had a pound"—she raised her grey eyes to the ceiling—"for every time I've heard the words 'advice rejected' from his lips, I should be rich beyond my wildest dreams. For all his faults, however, Wintringham is not upon the list of suspects."
Foyle leaned back, cradling his tumbler. "I gather then, you feel that I could be of help?"
"Indeed. Presumably Commander Howard has outlined something of the dilemma that now faces us?"
Foyle gave a nod, and Miss Pierce continued, "The body is on ice, and we have photographic evidence of the scene of the crime, as well as a full medical report. The sooner you can start on this, the better."
"I'll need this brief secondment countersigned by my superior. The man you want is AC Parkins."
Pierce waved her hand. "A formality. I'll send the paperwork across to him forthwith." Brief secondment? Hilda raised a metaphorical eyebrow. I think I'd like to keep him. Will he stay?
"I'll also need another driver, and a car. For the duration. I will not use my wife for this." Foyle squinted at his lap.
Ah yes. The wife. Unlikely that he'll stay, then. Hilda's voice grew soft. "Quite so. My warmest wishes to you both, by the way."
Foyle raised his head to meet Miss Pierce's calmly blinking gaze. "You're very kind."
A hint of mischief crept into her smile. "You might wish to regard this new assignment as a valedictory 'thank you' to Sir Giles."
He stretched his eyes in bafflement. "I hardly see..."
"Oh, come along now, Mr Foyle." Miss Pierce's eyes danced. "Were it not for Messinger's solicitous attention, you would have spent the last four years in Liverpool—with no need whatsoever of a driver." She raised her glass, saluting him. "My compliments to Mrs Foyle."
Foyle stood in the cavernous reception of the Whitehall building, taking leave of Sam, who had come to collect him from his meeting with Miss Pierce at the prearranged time.
"As I thought, I'll need to stay," he told her, a little tiredly. "Tonight I'll very likely be at Charles's, but after that, not sure. Take the car back to the station and report to Hugh. Tell Milner that I'll telephone him at the station tomorrow. And tonight, you and I will speak by phone. All right, Sweetheart?"
She held a case filled with the personal essentials she'd procured from the shops while her husband was being briefed. Sam handed the bag over to him, then looked down at her shoes.
"I, em. God bless, my darling. Try not to be away too long."
Leaning across then, she pecked him lightly on the cheek, conscious of wringing her hands as she did so. The imposing foyer of a government building in Whitehall was hardly the place for prolonged and passionate goodbyes. As it was, the stern-looking official manning the reception desk was sending them disapproving looks over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
Out of the corner of his eye, Foyle caught sight of this impingement on his private farewell, and bristled. He did not want Sam upset by such a perfunctory parting, and so, turning his back on the glowering pin-striped functionary, he lowered the case to the mosaic tile floor, then took her face between both hands and kissed her, long and deep.
The official cleared his throat.
Foyle pointedly ignored him. Looking steadily into Sam's eyes, he spoke with careful emphasis, "I. shall. be. home. soon. Drive carefully. I'll see you to the car."
Placing a hand at the small of her back, he ushered her ahead of him through the revolving doors that gave onto the street, turning as he did so to send the official a nonchalant, disinterested look.
Foyle watched grimly as the Wolseley pulled out from the kerb, then followed its progress with his eyes until it disappeared around the corner. Then he turned up the collar of his overcoat and strode along Whitehall, case in hand, in the direction of Victoria Embankment and police headquarters.
Mulling over Miss Pierce's sense of irony as he strolled, his memory alighted on the conversation he and Sam had shared in 1941 when she first made it clear she knew he was contemplating a move to work in naval intelligence. (And how had she known? He never had got round to asking her.)
She'd wanted to go with him, even then:
"You're not really planning to leave?"
"Where did you get that from?"
"You can't leave the Force, Sir. I mean, what would I do without you?"
Now Foyle's lips tipped with amusement as he recalled the plaintiveness of her tone. How young she was…
He'd told her she would easily find another job.
"It wouldn't be the same," she had asserted. Then she'd added, all breathless excitement, "You could take me with you; make me an honorary Wren!"
Ha. What would her parents have made of that one? It had not really occurred to him, all those years ago, to regard Samantha as a young woman he might court; that had come later. What if he had needed an assistant of some kind, and she had indeed been with him beyond Hastings these four years or so? Would their relationship have developed in quite the same way if they'd not been in a car together all the time?
But she'd liked him enough to feel that earnest about not working with him any more; and that affection, as it matured, had turned into something he couldn't begin to imagine being without, now.
The old bastard had done him a favour.
That afternoon Foyle entered AC Parkins' office in the expectation of a disharmonious encounter. Their previous meeting prior to his wedding had not ended cordially, and there was every reason to suppose this session would be no less difficult to field.
He was incredulous, then, to find the Assistant Commissioner's wrinkled countenance wreathed in sycophantic smiles.
"Ah, Foyle. Splendid. Welcome." Parkins rose to greet him. "How is your charming wife?"
'The girl', thought Foyle, is doing very well without your unctuous regard. He nodded curtly. "Thriving, thank you. My business here concerns..."
"Indeed! Indeed!" Parkins hand moved down to rest on a manila folder bearing an 'Eyes Only' label. Opening it, he drew out an official-looking form and short handwritten letter on headed bond stationery, embossed with the Department's logo. "The paperwork for your, uh, secondment arrived in the last hour. I have just been perusing it."
Foyle's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I trust the document's in order? If you'd oblige with your signature, I'll return the counterfoil to the relevant department myself when I leave." Which cannot happen soon enough.
"Quite. Quite. Take the weight off, man." The freshly-minted 'jovial' Parkins seemed determined to prolong the interview, and steered Foyle now towards a comfortable pair of armchairs across the room. "Glass of something, whilst I sort this out for you?"
The needle on Foyle's wariness dial climbed from amber to red. Already feeling mellow from the whisky he'd enjoyed in Pierce's office, he was not ready to relinquish full command of his wits. Particularly not in Parkins' company. He mused, though, that the wheels of power in Whitehall seemed to run on rails of alcohol. No wonder decent whisky was so bloody hard to find in Hastings.
"No, I'll pass, if you don't mind." He perched carefully on the edge of the soft-cushioned seat, and set his hat down on an adjacent stool.
To his disquiet, Parkins stayed, and joined him in the other chair, rather than completing business at his bureau.
"Now, then." Parkins leaned forward, elbows on knees, his hands open in expansive camaraderie. "This secondment, Foyle. Temporary, I hope?" Parkins' tone oozed charm.
"That's my understanding, yes," Foyle answered guardedly. "Temporary and part-time. Until this, um, investigation's brought to a conclusion."
"Good. Capital. Because we wouldn't want to lose you to the darker side of things," Parkins gave a conspiratorial laugh that was no more than a breathy close-mouthed snorting noise emerging through his nostrils.
"No thoughts of any permanent move, for now," Foyle answered cautiously. "Why? There anything I should know?"
Parkins demeanour switched suddenly from jovial to exaggeratedly grave. "News reached me yesterday of the death of DCS Fielding. Seems... he, uh, took his own life."
Foyle's eyes grew bright with shock, then cloudy. David Fielding, his counterpart further west along the coast at Hythe, was eight years his senior, and a former companion in arms from the Great War. Their last dealings had been back in '42, around the time when Sam contracted anthrax, and things between them had kicked off in a fairly prickly manner. But, with differences settled, they had parted on good terms. Over a friendly pint of farewell, Fielding had confided his jaded view of the job, his lingering lung problems, and his plans to retire.
Apparently, the man had gone against his own better judgement and stuck it out another two years—and that decision, Foyle assumed, had proved the death of him.
Back then, with his young driver teetering on the brink of death in hospital, Foyle had felt keen empathy for the weight of Fielding's problems. The man's disillusionment had struck him as a tad too close to home for comfort, and the thought now crystallised in his mind, that, had his working life not been lifted from the doldrums by his association with Samantha, he might well have finished in a slough of despond. Akin to the one that had tipped his colleague over the edge.
A sudden wave of ire welled up in Foyle, and he regarded Parkins now, appalled, retorting in clipped tones. "Hardly a matter for levity, I would've thought."
The commissioner recoiled. "Heavens, man! You don't imagine I would laugh at suicide? I was referring to your move to... special duties."
Still smarting from the news of Fielding's loss, Foyle's response dripped disdain. "Yess. Well. Seems to me your main concern is for the loss of manpower, not the man. So a bit more respect around the loss of Fielding wouldn't go amiss."
Parkins, perhaps for the first time now, assessed the character of the man sitting opposite him. He pursed his lips, then leant back, folding his hands calmly in his lap.
"You and I got off on the wrong foot, Foyle," he offered quietly. "But I have a job to do here, and it isn't easy. There are days when I fancy there's a conspiracy afoot to confound my best efforts to keep things ticking over. Two other men have held this job and lost it in the past four years. Perhaps the most difficult aspect of my position is, I do not have the time to get to know my men. And for that reason, I may... tend to misjudge or... underestimate them. Even, sadly on occasion, regard them as statistics."
"Fielding was a good copper," Foyle supplied, gruffly, rubbing at his brow.
"I'm sure he was. I did not mean to imply... disregard for his contribution."
Foyle was silent, and Parkins regarded him intently with a question in his gaze.
"Are you... happy to be undertaking this assignment, Foyle?"
"Less than happy, but more than willing. I believe it is the right thing to do."
"I see. Then I shall, of course, authorise the temporary transfer."
"Thank you." Foyle added a respectful nod.
"Now then," continued Parkins, "I sincerely hope that, on completion, you will resume your post. I should not want to lose you. Is there anything that I can do for you, at all?"
"My, um," Foyle considered for a moment. "My wife will be resigning the service at the end of this month. Sooner than expected. I shall need another driver when I return to Hastings."
Parkins shifted uncomfortably. "I should like to oblige you, but... resources being what they are. I shall do my best, of course."
Foyle nodded thoughtfully; then an idea formed in his head. "Oh, um. I may know where to get one. Informally. All you would need to do is countersign the transfer, when the time comes."
Parkins stood. "And I'll be pleased to do so." He nodded at the file now open on his desk. "So now. The business of the day."
That evening at the Howards' flat, with dinner over, Foyle planted a kiss on Alice's cheek and rose from the table.
"Lovely meal, Alice. I should telephone Samantha before turning in."
Charles stood. "It's in my study. You can talk in private. Come with me and I'll show you where." They made their way there and Charles ushered his brother-in-law in.
"Let you get on with it, old chap," he said, and made to leave, but something in Foyle's face stopped him. "What is it, Christopher?"
Foyle sighed. "Charles, you're Rosalind's brother. You're family, and I both like and respect you. But don't imagine that I don't know I've been 'managed' into this assignment."
Charles winced. "Yes. Well. Sorry, old chap. Had to be done."
Foyle stretched his shoulders. "Well, you got your wish. But you'll also be losing your driver when I finish this investigation." His twinkling eyes let fly a tiny dart. "C'est la guerre."
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
A word of praise for Michael Jayston's AC Parkins. Mr Jayston portrayed a man whose job demanded that he tread a delicate line, and he showed the character's dilemmas well in every crag and wrinkle of his mournful face.
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More soon.
GiuC
