There seems to be fewer and fewer Foyle stories being posted. I do hope that everyone has not gone away entirely.

The Foyles, all three of them, enjoyed their evening together; Sam and Christopher were sorry to see Andrew leave the next day. Driving back from the train station, Sam sighed deeply, a sure sign to Christopher that something was bothering her.

"Alright love?" He asked.

"Yes," she sighed again. "It's just that as much as I enjoyed having Andrew, it was such a whirlwind visit. He was suddenly here and then almost as suddenly, he was gone. And I know you like having him down from town."

"I do. But he really should have given you adequate warning. Definitely a requirement after the twins arrive. You'll be far too busy with them and won't be able to accommodate him so easily."

"But I do want him to always feel like he is welcome," Sam protested.

"Certainly. But with some warning in the future, at least ringing us before he leaves London." The couple arrived back at Steep Land satisfied with their agreement about Andrew's visits. "I'll let him know in my next letter," Christopher told Sam as they climbed the steps to the door.

"Alright," Sam said, "But be sure that he understands that it isn't that we don't want him here, ever."

"Of course, my darling."

Christopher made sure Sam rested the rest of the day, giving her time to recover from the boisterous pleasure that his was his son.

That evening, after dinner had been consumed and the kitchen dealt with, Christopher and Sam settled into the chairs by the hearth. "Christopher, what were you and Andrew talking about yesterday when I was having a lie down?"

The corner of Christopher's mouth dipped slightly as he thought back to the conversation. "Not much really; erm…. Andrew thought your idea of me writing mysteries had merit."

Perking up in her chair, Sam leaned slightly toward him. "He did? What did he say?"

"Wull, said there might be interest, seemed to believe that people would be interested to know about things happening here during the war."

"So, will you try it?"

"Don't know yet. Andrew has a friend in publishing. Thought he'd ask this friend about the notion, er…. How it might work. Andrew suggested a ghost writer after I said anything I write will be as dry as a police report."

"A ghost writer?" Sam whispered as she considered the idea. "Yes, that might be perfect, someone who could embellish things a bit, spice it up."

Christopher blinked. "Thought of a few cases that might be spicy enough on their own."

"Oh?" Sam looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "And just which would that be?"

"Erm, well…. there was that one where the German killed the farmer; you remember, you worked a day with the land girls."

"Yes, the one with that horrible Ricks woman," Sam huffed.

"Oh, she wasn't so bad," Christopher replied, his lips quirking downwards as he watched for Sam's reaction.

"She was awful! Don't you remember how nasty she was to you? Always making comments about men, disparaging ones."

"Yes, wull…. She'd been hurt. She'd been married and apparently, he was a lout. Lost her son at Dunkirk too."

"Oh. Well, I am sorry about her son," Sam said mournfully. But then her head bobbed up. "You certainly got to know a lot about her."

"Yes, we talked, a bit. Her note when she departed gave hope to the notion that perhaps she was looking a little more kindly on most men."

Sam tilted her head as she stared across at her husband. "You did that, made her see men differently. You put up with her rude remarks and listened and made her see that all men are not like her husband."

"P'haps. But underneath it all, I think she hoped not all men were like him. I think she was looking for someone to knock that chip off her shoulder and help her mend."

"Oh Christopher, you always pretended to be so aloof, detached from all the human foibles we encountered. And yet, you've always been right there, ready to come to the rescue if needed. It's one of the things I love most about you. You're a very quiet knight in shining armor."

"Don't know that I'm all that shining, or that I am a knight. But in police work, there has to be some amount of armor, Sam. Else, an officer would drown in the sorrow of it."

"Yes, I see your point about the armor. But you'll always be my knight."

Christopher smiled, obviously chuffed. "Wull, as things are going, I'll even be a bit shiny before long," he said as he ran his fingers over the top of his head.

Sam grinned. "As long as you keep those curls at the back; I do love running my fingers through them," she teased.

"I shall endeavor to keep them then. After all, promised to keep you happy."

"Oh, you keep me very happy," Sam answered in a throaty voice. "In fact, let's go up and you can make me very happy tonight."

Christopher Foyle was a very intelligent man; he knew what was on offer. And being a good husband, he quickly moved to follow his wife's request and keep her happy.

Andrew rang at the end of the week. "Dad, I talked with my friend. He thinks that you writing mysteries set during the war is brilliant. Instead of writing a book, he suggested publishing your stories as serials in one of those mystery magazines. His publisher owns one, Great Detective Mysteries, that is looking for new writers. Gerry, my friend, offered to put you in contact."

"Oh wull…. That's erm, really? " a bemused Christopher muttered.

"Yes Dad, really. Gerry said for you to put something together and send it along. Doesn't have to be the whole story, just an introduction of sorts, so they can get a feel for what your story might be like. Maybe a synopsis of your case with a first chapter?"

"Right, erm…. Just in my own writing?"

"They'll look at it and see if a ghost writer is needed, Gerry said. If they have to pay a ghost writer it will affect your payments. But Gerry said that if the story does well, it should keep a decent bit in your purse."

"Wull, that's good to hear. W…when would this introduction need to be sent, how soon?"

"Sooner the better, Dad. That way they can be working on it with you; you'll have an editor to work with. Then when one of their current stories ends, they can put yours in." Andrew paused and then asked, "do have a story in mind? One of your cases?"

"Actually, thought of two or three that might be interesting enough. Sam thought one was an excellent choice."

"Oh? What happened?"

"Farmer was killed; made to look like suicide. As it happened, there'd been German bombers over the area that night and one was shot down. It was actually one of the Germans that killed the farmer. But there is more to the story, much more."

"Right. Sounds good. Oh, and Gerry said anything you can add that's got a personal touch, make it …. well, more personal for the readers."

"Right, I think this one has enough for your friend Gerry."

"Well alright then, sounds as if you have a direction."

"Ummm, Andrew?"

"Dad?"

"You really think this is a good idea?"

"Look Dad, I know you are economical with your words, but this isn't the time to be. But yes, I think you probably have quite a few cases that can be dressed up and rearranged to keep from revealing too much of what really happened which would be fantastic. And people are hungry for something to take their minds away from the continuing rationing and all. And they want to be reminded of why we went through all that, so I think you starting with the German story is good."

"Alright. I'll begin tomorrow then. Thank you, Andrew."

"Glad I can help. About time I begin to repay all the times you've helped me."

"No repayment needed, son. It's what fathers do. I hope someday you find out for yourself."

"Yes, well…. not too soon."

"Nope. Must find the right girl first. But one day perhaps."

"Righto. Well, I'll ring off now. I'm meeting up with some friends at a new pub that's opening."

"Enjoy your evening, son."

"Thanks Dad."

Sam walked through just as Christopher placed the receiver back in the cradle, his mind on the conversation. "Who rang?"

"Mmmm? Oh, that was Andrew. Spoke with his friend. Seems there might be some interest in my cases becoming stories. His friend suggested one of those mystery magazines, to do a story as a serial."

"Oh, that sounds lovely. Not quite as intimidating as writing a whole book."

"P'haps," he replied distracted. "I'll need to send something along soon, Andrew said; a summary with a first chapter, he said."

"That shouldn't be too difficult. You've already been thinking about it," she said as she settled into what had become her chair. Patting her rounded tummy, she spoke softly. "Your father is going to be a famous mystery writer. What do you two think of that, hmmm?"

Christopher couldn't help the smile that slowly crept into his features. "Don't know about famous, Sam. I'll be content if it earns enough to feed everyone."

Sam looked up at him, her eyes glistening. "But I do know. Your work in the war did matter, Christopher. I know you always thought you could be doing something more important, but while Andrew and the others were off fighting the Germans, you keep us all safe here at home, my darling. And people need to remember that side of things too. Not all the heroes flew in aeroplanes or went to France. Some worked quietly here at home."

"I know a commissioner or two who would scoff at the notion I was quiet. But … point taken." He gazed across at her marveling at how fortunate he was to have her as his champion.