Chapter 8
By the time Foyle woke the next morning, the harsh wind had eased, thankfully, but through the open window beside his bed he saw dark clouds still lingering, ominous. He pushed the heavy curtain back as far as it would go, flooding the small space with light.
Andrew's bed, tucked into the opposite corner of the room they shared, was empty. It had been made, Foyle happily saw, although the finished product probably wouldn't have passed inspection. His uniform hung from the back of the door, the wooden clothes hanger wedged in behind an angled nail.
The jug on the shared dresser, its matching bowl upturned, held ample warm water for a wash and a shave. The damp towel and a well used toothbrush leaning against the rim of a glass told him that his son had beaten him to the task.
After washing and dressing he took a moment to neaten the contents of his suitcase, replacing his belongings one at a time. Despite his care, the parcel that he'd slipped between folded shirts, neatly wrapped in shiny brown paper with pale twine holding the corners in place, suddenly slipped out of its nest and clunked against the bottom of the case. He scrunched up one eye, stifling a curse and gingerly lifted the package by one of its corners. Thankfully, it remained intact. To keep it safe he slipped it into the top drawer of the dresser, the warped timber squeaking as his palm pushed on the handle. With one finger, he stroked the workmanship on the corner of the drawer, silently grateful for the sanctuary it provided.
Foyle heard Sam before he saw her; her head bowed, her arms buried deep in the engine of her father's borrowed car.
When finally she did rise, he couldn't help but smile. Beneath the edges of her faded red scarf, rolled tightly and wrapped around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes, were smears of engine grease – swirls of blue black.
"Morning, Sam" Foyle said, running a hand over the curls at the nape of his neck. He placed his hat onto his head and took a step towards the car.
"Good morning, Christopher" she replied. A curl broke free of its containment which made her grumble, audibly.
"Problem?" he enquired, although he pointed to the upturned bonnet. "Is it going to…?"
"Oh it'll be fine" Sam replied, answering the unspoken question. She wiped her hands slowly onto an old rag, carefully inspecting each finger as it emerged. "So long as I treat the clutch with dignity, all will be well." She smiled and patted the framework around the door.
Foyle frowned. He knew well enough that he was more than capable of driving himself and Andrew's help, albeit reluctant and somewhat superficial, would suffice. Her job, the most important one she would ever do, was here at home taking care of her daughter – he knew it too well - but the gleam in her eye, the sparkle that emerged at the mere mention of her driving him around the country-side on a murder investigation, gave him sufficient reason to reconsider.
He looked up, seeking her face. The tip of his tongue touched his top lip and his eyebrows begged the question. "You ummm..."
Smiling, she pulled at the scarf, releasing it from its task. "You know me, Sir" she declared with confidence. "I can be ship-shape in just a few minutes."
She turned on her heel and strode off towards the vicarage door, the spring in her step obvious.
"Sam!" he called, his tone making her stop and turn back. She cocked her head. "You might want to um," he suggested and wiped a finger along his own cheek bones, mirroring the smudges on her face.
"Oh" she replied and giggled. Her bottom lip slipped in behind her teeth as she turned around. "I'll just be a jiffy."
"Take your time" he called after her.
Andrew lumbered over to where Foyle stood. His easy fitting clothes, an outfit Foyle hadn't seen him wear in over a year, gave him an air of gentle confidence – a release of restrictions. In his hands was an old biscuit tin, the lid jammed on tightly.
Foyle nodded towards his son's hands and raised an eyebrow.
"Isobelle" he simply said, although his voice was low in volume. "Something to keep us going." Andrew looked around before whispering "I haven't actually looked in it yet, to be honest. Not sure I want to."
"Well, very kind of her." Foyle opened the back door of the car and gestured towards the bench seat. "I'm sure Sam will be very grateful for them."
Andrew chuckled, the smile lines on his face adding to his new relaxed outlook. Foyle smiled.
The large axe came down with a thud, cleaving the timber log in two. One half rolled off the block and came to rest in a pile of leaves, the other half found itself under the sturdy hand of Stuart Walters.
"Mr Foyle" he declared, barely looking up from his task. The axe once again did its job well, expertly splitting the timber.
"Good morning" Foyle replied.
Andrew and Sam stood a pace and a half behind their senior investigator, the old cottage to their left, the somewhat overgrown garden to their right.
Walters bent to pick up the split timber.
"I've been expecting you" he declared, standing up to his full height.
"You have?"
"Not every day you see a boy murdered in the church grounds."
"No."
Sam shuffled her feet on the path, her shoes making a scraping noise on the compacted earth beneath.
"Comino," Foyle began, as he watched the young man stack the wet timber under the wide eaves to dry out. "Knew him well?"
"Not particularly" Walters replied, stopping to brush a bug off his shirt sleeve. "He kept to himself mostly." He picked up the axe once more and slid a hand down the smooth handle. "He got along better with Thompson. Quite chummy."
More split logs hit the ground, the damp leaves beneath cushioning their fall.
"That why Thompson was so upset? They were close?"
"I imagine so" Walters said and wedged the blade of the axe into the side of the chopping block." It made an unsettling hollow sound.
Both Foyle and Walters stood in the unremarkable garden, the one tree casting a small shadow over the ground. The morning sun made the damp ground glisten although there was little warmth in it and the grey sky to the west taunted them.
Walters folded his arms across his chest and bent one knee. Foyle held his ground, his arms by his side, one hand in a pocket.
"You, um, didn't seem to have much time for the younger lads" Foyle enquired, his words making a cloud of white. "Croxton and, um …."
"Bloody Darlington!" he almost shouted. As soon as the words left his mouth, however, he turned pale and swallowed. "Sorry Mrs Grimshaw" he offered, his voice low and gravelly.
"Oh don't worry" Sam interjected, taking a step towards the pair. "And please call me - "
but before she could end her sentence, foyle's hand – palm out and fingers pointed as if he was in the process of halting a lorry – brought her words to an abrupt stop. His eyes left no room for misinterpretation.
Foyle turned back to Walters and continued. "Happen to see Croxton's missing Jacket?"
"The one he said he was sick on?"
"Mmmm."
Andrew sidled up to his father, catching his attention with wide eyes. He nodded back to where Sam stood, her arms tightly crossed her eyes rimmed in red.
Foyle closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and drew in a deep breath. The retained air in his lungs burned in protest but he refused to let it out. He placed a hand over his chest and took a moment to feel the lub-dub of his heart galloping away inside. He nodded before releasing the breath.
Andrew's brow furrowed. He turned and followed Sam back out of the broken garden gate, letting the over grown branch beside brush against his coat.
Walters made a grunt of acknowledgement, following the pair with his eyes then drew his attention back to the task at hand. "I never smelt any sick. My sister's little 'un had the flu a few weeks ago. Sick as a dog he was. You don't forget that smell in a hurry."
"You don't believe him?"
"I didn't say that" Walters blurted and raised a cautionary finger at Foyle.
Foyle's lips twitched uneasily. "What ARE you saying?"
Walters picked up the axe once more, as if the absence of a tool in his hands made him jittery. He looked at the tall pile of logs, temporarily frozen in thought. "There was blood" he suddenly admitted. "I know that for sure."
"Blood? Where? On the jacket?" Foyle tensed but didn't move.
"Both sleeves."
The log was placed upright on the block, its uneven face making it wobble.
"I saw Darlington stuff it into his pack."
"I see."
"And that nonsense," Walters said, huffing out the words as he brought the axe down, "about still having their rounds." The downward blow missed and a chip of damp wood flew to the side while the mostly intact log toppled. "There was a whole wooden crate of rounds in the Captain's Command Tent. We could have all helped ourselves and no one would have even noticed."
On the second attempt, the log was almost decimated. A good third was now reduced to a spintery dust and what remained opened itself for inspection in the middle of the block – one clean split.
"Did you?" Foyle asked, his body as still as a statue.
"Huuhhh?"
"Did you help yourself?"
"No" the large man replied, his voice small as he bent to pick up another log. "And that's all I have to say."
