Chapter 7
Foyle sat at the long dining table in the centre of the front room of the Vicarage, his back to the crackling fire. In front of him sat five sheets of paper, three filled with his neat printing, the other two beyond his left elbow. The small torn pages from the Captain's notebook lay face down on the table, a ceramic pepper pot acting as a paper weight.
"Not quite what you had in mind, is it?" Sam said from her chair beside the fire, her tone wistful.
"Hmmm?"
"When you agreed to visit" Sam clarified.
"Well," Foyle replied and turned in his seat to face her. "We've not much choice."
Sam hummed her agreement and lifted Katie until the small head rested on her shoulder.
"How are you feeling?" he asked her, his head tilted in question, an eyebrow raised.
"Oh, I'm fine" Sam replied and angled her neck so that her cheek rested in her daughter's auburn curls.
"You sure?"
"Yes" came the reply, although there was little conviction in it.
Iain stepped over and placed a small cup of tea onto the long table, the base of the saucer bumping against the note paper. Foyle smiled his thanks then turned his chair around, facing the small family seated around the wide hearth.
Andrew accepted the second cup, his eyes fixed on a rather pale looking Sam.
Isobelle's knitting needles clicked together with a rapid cadence as the thin recycled wool snaked its way across her knee. At her husband's wordless offer, she shook her head, sending the third cup of tea across the room to her daughter.
"Thank you, Daddy" Sam said, her words barely audible as she stifled a yawn.
"Here," Isobelle said, placing the half constructed matinee jacket in the space between her thigh and the arm of the chair. "I'll take Katie" she added and slowly stood, stretching her arms out towards her granddaughter. "You have your tea."
"Any ideas, Dad?" Andrew interjected, causing Foyle to flick his eyes towards his son.
"Ideas?" he replied, adjusting his grip on the handle of his tea cup.
"I bet you've worked it out already" Andrew added. He sent a glance to Sam, frowning as he watched her stare into the dancing flames, her fingers absently tapping the side of the saucer.
"Who shot the boy? You must have some idea."
"Nothing yet" Foyle answered, his face full of concern. He brought the cup to his lips and took a decent sip, the warm liquid hitting his stomach at an unexpected speed.
"I suspect there's quite a lot to consider" Isobelle remarked as she gently rocked Katie in her arms.
"Mmmm" Foyle hummed.
Foyle placed his own cup on the table behind him and reached over to grip the saucer of Sam's.
"Finished with this?" he asked her, his voice soft.
"Oh" she remarked and blinked a couple of times. "Yes. Thank you." Her words were followed by a genuine smile.
"The boiler" Iain suddenly blurted, as if the words had been trying to escape for some time and had finally found an open door. He rolled his wrist and inspected his timepiece. "We'll all want to freshen up before bed, I'm sure." He stood and took two quick steps towards the small table in the centre of the room. Pausing to give his daughter a gentle smile, he adjusted his glasses with an out-stretched index finger. He bent at the middle and grasped the tea tray, his long fingers curling around the woven wicker handles.
Isobelle stood and carried her grand daughter to the kitchen, quickening her pace to catch up to Iain whose longer legs gave him a distinct advantage.
Foyle took a deep breath and sat back against the timber rail of his chair.
"Croxton" he said and slowly crossed one leg over the other. Sam turned to look at him, her face showing her puzzlement.
"Trustworthy, you think?" he asked her as he laid his hands in his lap.
"Not by half" she answered, her eyes becoming wide. "There's certainly something he's hiding."
"Yes" he added, nodding.
Andrew sat forward in his chair, watching their banter like a spectator at a tennis match.
"Danny doesn't tell me much," she began, adjusting the now flat cushion behind her back.
"No, Sam" Andrew said, trying to add to the conversation. "He probably can't."
"I know" she told him and added a smile. Turning back to Foyle she said "but he doesn't have many good things to say about Croxton or Darlington." She rolled herself slightly, moving her weight from one side of her pelvis to the other. "He likes Walters, though. He says he's a good lad."
"What do you make of the missing jacket?" Foyle proposed, turning to look at her after a pause.
"That he'd tossed it away after he was sick on it?"
"Yeah."
"Well," Sam replied, desperately trying to plump up her cushion. "It was terribly cold out there. I don't think I'd have tossed away my jacket in a hurry, even if it had sick on it. I can't imagine that the smell of sick would have offended anyone. They're training to defend our country in a time of war, for goodness sake – the smell of sick would be the least of their concerns."
"Precisely" Foyle quietly said and rubbed his thumb along the neat seam of his trousers.
"And where did he put it?" Sam asked, almost to herself. "It's awfully strange."
"Like the door to the stables" Andrew said, bending over to re-tie his shoelace. "That was a bit odd, too."
"Stables?" Foyle asked, scratching the side of his head. "What stables?"
"The timber building beyond the birch trees" Andrew replied, looking from his father to Sam. "You didn't see? The door had been left open" he began, eager to dispel their blank looks. "The wind made it creak. That's why I noticed."
"You didn't mention it" Foyle said, rolling his eyes. Andrew gave him a brief look of smugness, suddenly a little too proud that he'd noticed something his father hadn't.
"Those old stables are a part of the church yard. Nobody uses them anymore. I don't think they'd even be safe, to be honest" Sam shared, searching her childhood memories.
"Well somebody had been in there. One of the doors was open."
"The wind?" Foyle asked, looking at Sam.
"A stiff breeze that only happened to open one of three doors, Dad?"
"Daddy might know something" Sam offered, sensing the tension between father and son. "Maybe one of the Wardens was using it for something." She yawned, taking a few seconds to regain her composure. "I can ask him, if you like,"
"That would be very helpful" Foyle replied, a hand on Sam's shoulder, "but not tonight." He stood and offered her his arm. She smiled bashfully, her pale skin turning a soft pink, but gratefully stood and wrapped her hand around his forearm.
"We've had a long day" Foyle declared and patted her fingers. "Thank you, as always, for your help. Much appreciated." He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, Sam."
"Goodnight, Christopher."
