Chapter 5
The telephone receiver made a hollow clunk as Foyle replaced it onto its cradle, the force somewhat excessive. He groaned under his breath.
Isobelle Stewart squeezed out a small cloth, the warm water running over her pale knuckles. She cupped the frightened young solder's chin in her left hand and wiped his face with slow deliberate strokes. She hummed quietly and soothed his fears.
"Not working, Christopher?" she asked, still cupping the boy's chin.
"Afraid not."
"The storm" Iain mumbled, his eyes on the firearm that still wore the rust-red coloured
finger prints. "It's never been a very reliable line, I'm afraid."
"Sam" Andrew pleaded, his voice just a little too loud. "Let ME go." He touched her upper arm, catching her attention. A fierce looking frown, though, made him release his grip and his hand returned to his pocket. "Some lunatic is still out there, Sam" he said, his voice showing his anxiety. "And he's obviously taking pot shots are our boys. If you think I'm going to let you put yourself at risk..."
"I'm going to go and find my husband" she said, a stoic tone in her words. She strode over towards the coat rack while her fingers fastened the buttons on her thickest and warmest cardigan.
Foyle chewed on the corner of his lip in concentration but said nothing. He watched as his former driver took her coat off the rack and slipped one arm through the sleeve. He'd seen that determined look on her face many times before.
"Sam, please" Andrew offered, the corners of his eyes creasing.
"Andrew" she said and held up her palm, silencing him. "As I said…."
"Private" Foyle suddenly said, his authoritarian voice making everyone pay attention.
"Yes, Sir" the soldier replied, his now clean face turned towards Foyle.
"Where might I find your commanding officer?" Foyle asked. While the boy composed himself in preparation of and answer, Foyle lifted his coat from the peg and gave it a shake.
"His command post," the boy said, turning, "is in the tent about ten yards this side of the river."
Foyle turned to Sam and gave her a look that said 'you up for this?'. She tucked her lower lip behind her teeth and nodded once.
"Dad?!" Andrew pleaded, his hand on his father's elbow.
"Get your coat" Foyle simply said while wrapping the woollen scarf around his chest.
"But.." Andrew said, his eyes darting between Sam and his father.
Foyle gave his son a sideways glance.
"Right" Andrew replied and slipped his own coat on.
The young private, now more composed, ran back to fetch his weapon – apparently, a charge of dereliction of duty was simply not on his agenda – and fell in line behind Sam, Foyle and Andrew.
As they all filed out through the wide door and into the cold night, Foyle put a hand on the young lad's shoulder. "You lead the way" he said.
"Yes, Sir."
The four of them walked slowly away from the vicarage, the young private wrapping his free arm around his torso like a child trying to keep himself warm. Andrew's toe clipped a small rock at the edge of the ancient path, despite the presence of a full moon, and he mumbled a curse under his breath. If either Sam or his father heard, neither said anything. The young soldier, eager to deliver his catch, raised a hand and pointed to an absurdly large grey canvas tent about sixty yards ahead of them.
About halfway between where they were and the tent, Foyle could see a small gathering of men, the hems of their coats all flapping against their legs in the stiff breeze. At their feet a long sheet of canvas, obviously stripped from a disused part of the tent, covered something quite long.
"Sam" Foyle said, his voice soft. "You might want to.." He touched her elbow, making her stop, and caught her eye. In the soft light of the full moon he was able to see her face and noted how the muscles under her jaw tensed at his words.
"Mr Foyle," she replied, reverting to her past, "you're going to ask me to not go any further, aren't you?"
"Well, I ..."
Sam tensed and straightened her coat, her hands pulling on the waist band. She swallowed hard.
"Why don't you and I wait here, Sam?" Andrew suggested, his hand on her shoulder. "Let Dad go and sort this one."
"No" she answered although her body shook like a leaf which, Foyle knew, had absolutely nothing to do with the cold.
The young private strode off, obviously caught up in his own thoughts. He left the trio behind and, holding his weapon close against his body, made his way back to his group.
Sam stood, her feet shoulder width apart, her chin parallel to the ground.
"Have you ever known me to shirk my responsibilities, Sir?" she asked, not meeting his eyes.
"Sam" Foyle gave, his head dipped in concession. "No, but this has nothing to do with ….. responsibilities."
"Sam," Andrew interjected, his voice unnecessarily loud. "What if that's Danny under there?" he asked, his hand vaguely pointing to the canvas covered lump some distance ahead of them.
"Andrew!" Foyle interrupted, eager to put a stopper in where his son's words were heading.
"We don't want you to see that! For God's sake, girl, see sense."
Foyle groaned and rocked his head back and forth.
From the side, beyond the cover of a tall hedge, Foyle heard movement – a clumsy kind of running, like that of a drunkard. The tops of the thin trees, already set in motion by the wind, whipped back and forth manically. An owl hooted in disbelief as it flew away from the commotion, clearly unimpressed by the disruption.
"Ugghh" came the groan from the darkness within the hedge, a clear display of frustration at it's own ineptitude. The last wisps of leaves suddenly parted and out tumbled a mountain of a man, his arms still thrashing at the foliage.
"Danny!" Sam called, her voice cracking with relief. She ran past Foyle, almost knocking him down.
"Darling" he replied, his arms out wide to receive her. "What are you doing here?" He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. "It's too dangerous" he said, although his words were clearly aimed at Foyle. He planted a quick kiss on her temple. "A man's been shot" Danny added, his face buried deep in his wife's hair.
"Yes" Foyle replied, stepping aside to make room as Sam was lowered back to the ground. "We know."
Sam used the backs of her hands and wiped rapidly at her eyes. "We thought.." she stammered, "it was you."
"Oh sweetheart!" Danny conceded. He wrapped a hand around her shoulders and fished his handkerchief out of his pocket. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I worried you."
"Then who," Sam asked, her thumb wiping at her nose, "was shot?"
"Comino" he replied, shaking out his handkerchief. "Jason Comino. He was only sixteen. One of the other lads saw him dead, all sprawled out across the path, and ran off into the copse." Danny pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. "Found him curled up like a hedgehog, scared out of his wits. Poor lad."
"That's what you were doing in the trees?" Andrew asked, looking beyond the big man to the hedge behind.
"Mmmm..." Danny replied with a nod. "Then I heard voices."
Not for the first time, Foyle conceded that the cost of this war, just like the last, would be much greater and further reaching than anyone realised. How much could they expect these young lads to take?
"Comino.." Foyle pondered out loud. "Italian heritage?" He flicked his head up and caught Danny's attention.
Danny shook his head in uncertainty. "Can't say for sure."
"You think someone shot a boy because his name sounds Italian?" Andrew asked, his voice telegraphing his disbelief.
"Well," Foyle replied, turning to look at his son. "It's possible, yes but, um, best keep that particular theory to yourself, for now."
"Yes," Sam added, regaining her composure, "we don't want to tip off the shooter, do we?"
Foyle looked sideways at Sam. She stood up tall and brushed a piece of thread from the sleeve of her coat. "It's possible he's still here and if he knows that we're on to him, it'll hinder our investigation."
"Um, Sam" Foyle began, but his answer to her unexpected words was cut short when footsteps could be heard on the path ahead.
"That your Commanding Officer?" Foyle asked, nodding his head towards the officious looking man striding confidently towards them.
"Yes" Danny replied, gently stroking Sam's back.
Foyle took a moment to wrap the woollen scarf a little tighter around his neck and pressed the lapels of his heavy coat in on each other to keep in the warmth. He coughed into a balled fist pressed hastily against his lips.
"Captain Southerby-Jones" Danny told them, although it was clear that Andrew's attention was taken by the sight of his father hunched over and pressing a hand into his breastbone.
"Right" Foyle replied, drawing in a deep breath. "I might have a word."
