When Darkness Falls
Chapter 5
Sam and Foyle arrived at the Royal Oak Hotel at just after half past eleven, the journey taking a little longer than normal. The reduced flexibility in Sam's knees had necessitated a slower speed and on more than one occasion, she'd missed a gear.
She parked the Wolseley in a side street, a broad evergreen tree on the corner casting a shadow over the car. Switching off the engine, she turned to him and said "here we are, Sir. Sorry about the rough ride."
"Not at all" he replied. "Knees still sore?"
"Only when I bend them, Sir" she said with a smile.
They walked slowly, side-by-side, along the narrow strip of grass beside the road, her gloveless hands swinging happily at her sides; his hands secured firmly in his pockets. They passed the small post office, its bright red 'open' sign still displayed in the window, despite it being after the advertised closing time. He saw Sam tug on the sleeves of the borrowed coat and adjust the belt around her waist. Rosalind was certainly not as tall as Sam, perhaps not as broad across the shoulders either but, it appeared, she was somewhat thicker around the middle. The belt, drawn in much tighter than he had ever remembered seeing it, evidenced the effects of rationing – something that his Rosalind had never had to cope with, thank God. Unlike modern young women, Rosalind was mild in manner and temperament and generally accepted life's graces and hardships with a gentleness of spirit (although as the daughter of a Baron, her conception of what constituted a hardship was often very different to his). If there was a blessing to be gained from losing his wife in her youth, it was that he'd never have to see her struggle or do without.
Sam had left her cap on the back seat of the car, begging to be excused of convention, and the full-length, non-regulation coat covered all evidence of a uniform underneath. To an outsider, it would appear as though they were just friends, meeting for lunch during a break...or perhaps a father taking his daughter out for a special treat. A daughter, he mused, glancing sideways at the familiar wavy blonde hair, the uncomfortably chilled air making her curls dance. Well perhaps at one time he could have hoped to have had Sam as a more permanent addition to his family, even as a daughter-in-law but, the way his son was behaving, that might be in serious jeopardy. He would have to, he conceded, work on the premise of friendship – something that he sincerely hoped they already shared.
"Hope you're not too thirsty" a deep voice called, the accent rough with vowels that rolled in his throat. A young man, of about twenty, stepped out from beside the pub. He had hair the colour of ground nutmeg with a bushy full beard to match. Foyle's head tipped back, taking in the full height of the man, the physique reminding him of the chestnut draught horse that used to bring the milk when he was a boy. Sam let out an almost inaudible squeak and the freckles across her cheeks turned a rich auburn.
In his arms the young man carried a crate of empty glass bottles, his tensed biceps muscles pushing against the cotton sleeves of his shirt. "Mr Carseldine won't open until right on the dot, I'm afraid. Won't cop a fine..or worse." He juggled the weight in his arms, the empty bottles clanking noisily. When he reached them he gave a swift nod, appearing content that he'd made the rules more than clear.
It was an old building, public access on ground level and scant accommodation above. The mismatching building materials and historic ad hoc additions spoke of its long history as well as its ability to come back from adversity.
Fully laden, the lad turned and pushed the pub door open with his rear end, the heel of his boot acting as a door stop.
"Did you say Carseldine? Is that the landlord's name?" Foyle asked, reaching over and helping the young man to keep the door from swinging shut.
"It is" he replied with a grunt of effort. "...although he's not here at the moment. I'm just the hired help." His height, coupled with the wide load he was carrying, made entering difficult. Turning sideways, he passed through the unusually narrow doorway and placed the crate on a table just inside.
"Gonna be a cold one, today" the young man announced as he made his way back down the alley beside the pub. He pulled a small towel from over his shoulder and gave his hands a wipe.
"Mmm. Seems like it" Foyle replied. He and Sam followed although both had to pick up their pace to match the unfathomably long strides, their three barely matching his one.
They soon approached a side entry to the pub, a storeroom in the basement level, that appeared to hold empty glass bottles of every colour shape and size imaginable.
"Umm….What's that building?" Sam asked him, pointing further down the lane to what appeared to be a small hastily built brick shed, the walls leaning inwards, its roof made from mismatching sheets of corrugated iron.
"Don't know what goes on in there..." he admitted, shaking his head. "None of my business, anyhow." He groaned as he dragged out another heavy crate, this one slightly larger than the first.
While Foyle engaged the young man, Sam walked a little closer to the shed and peered into the slightly open door. After checking over her shoulder and getting a non-verbal approval from her boss, she moved closer still and looked into the only window. After a minute or two she returned and gave Foyle a quick nod.
"Listen we, uh," Foyle announced to the young man, who had just begun to straighten up, his heavy burden braced against his broad chest, "we might go for a stroll and come back when you're open."
"Righty-ho" he replied and walked briskly away, the clanging noise getting softer the further he went.
"Come on" Foyle said, his hand on Sam's back, urging her forward. "I need to make a telephone call."
"That could be tricky, Sir. I didn't see any public boxes" Sam replied, frowning.
"No, neither did I but I'm hoping that the post office is still open." He flicked his head around, ensuring their conversation was indeed a private one. "What was in the out-house?" he asked her, his voice quiet, his hand still resting on the small of her back.
"I couldn't see very much, Sir..." she told him quickly, "it was quite dark...but I did spot a rather large coil of copper."
"Ah, Well done, Sam."
The door to the post office creaked as Foyle pushed it open.
"Good morning" he said to the woman behind the counter who, by the look on her face, was quite unused to strangers. "My name's Foyle. I'm a policeman" he slipped a hand into his pocket and quickly pulled out his warrant card, holding it up to validate his claim.
"Oh" the woman gasped. "You're lucky I'm still here, Mr Foyle. I was just about to lock the door and go home."
"Well, I'm very pleased that you didn't. Mind if I use your telephone?" he asked her, flashing her a sweet smile.
"No...not at all" she replied and lifted the heavy contraption off the desk behind her and placed it noisily on the front counter.
"Thank you."
Foyle placed a call through to the station, dialling the number that would give him a direct line to Milner's desk.
"I've been able to gain a little information on Doris Carseldine, Sir" Milner told him over the crackles in the line. "It appears that she's a widow, Sir, twice over. Her second husband, Roger Carseldine, died a few years ago, but her first husband was a man named Arnold Flaxton. They had a son named Theodore...he'd be about sixteen by now."
"Right. Well done" Foyle said, keeping his comments deliberately discrete.
Turning so that his conversation could not be easily overheard, he asked Milner to dig a little deeper. "The chap who owns the Royal Oak Hotel here in the village is named Carseldine, too. Not what I'd call a common name. See what you can find."
After ending his call Foyle returned the telephone to the post mistress, thanking her as he lifted the heavy set over the counter. He offered to compensate her for the expense but she waved it away, telling him that she considered it an act of civil duty to help a policeman. She blushed, her cheeks turning a deep crimson.
Just as soon as the heavy door closed behind them, the red sign was flicked around to read closed and the room became suddenly dark.
"It seems that our Mrs Carseldine was once Mrs Flaxton" Foyle whispered to Sam, deliberately emphasising the names, as they walked back towards the pub, their distance from both the post office and the pub making their conversation unlikely to be overheard by anyone in either building.
"Ohhh" she replied, turning to him with a wide-eyed look.
"Mmmm" he hummed in reply, keeping his voice low. "And she has a son …. named Theodore." He let the edges of his lips curl into a smile.
Sam stopped suddenly and turned towards him, her action causing him to stop walking, too.
"I wonder if this young man goes by the name of Teddy, Sir?"
"More than possible, Sam" he said, watching her eyebrows rise.
For the next few moments, Sam was quiet, unusually so, and the periodic twitches in her face as she stared at her feet told him that she was thinking. He remained silent, too, secure in the knowledge that if she needed his help, she'd ask.
After a little while, she looked up. He knew she'd finish her mental cogitations by the contented look on her face and the smile that graced her lips.
"We should, uh, get some lunch, don't you think? You hungry?" he asked her.
"Starving, Sir" she announced, and led the way back to the pub.
The same young man whom they'd met before greeted the two of them with a smile as they entered the Royal Oak. He was standing behind the bar, wiping up a spill with a small white cloth. A lean, sinewy man of about sixty walked behind him, a small grey note book open in his hand. He barked something to the younger man, not looking up from the page, then bent and opened a cupboard to his left. The young barman left his post and headed out through a back door, mumbling something as he went.
There was a large fireplace at the back of the dining area but, despite the impressive size of the bright yellow flames coming from it, the air inside was still uncomfortably chilled. They both left their coats firmly buttoned.
"What would you like, Sam?" Foyle asked, nodding towards a long thin chalk board attached to the wall beside the bar. It listed the day's menu – a choice of three options, none of which he found particularly appetising. "My treat."
"Thank you, Sir. That's very kind of you. The shepherd's pie sounds nice" she suggested while rubbing her hands up and down her arms.
"Alright" he said, placing his hat on the bar. "Why don't you go and warm up by the fire."
Foyle waited patiently, his attention fixed on the landlord and his most recent guest. Carseldine and Trevor Flaxton were having a heated discussion over the back end of the bar, neither of them, apparently, saw him. Flaxton raised his voice, thumping the bar with his fist, as he spoke. Carseldine, however, quickly raised a hand and gripped the younger man's shirt front in his fist, the speed of his reaction defying his age. With his other hand, he pointed out an entry in his ledger and leaned in to speak directly to Flaxton's ear. Flaxton grunted, the animal-like noise seeming to come from the pit of his stomach. As soon as Carseldine's fingers released him, he stomped out through a side door and Carseldine yelled a curse.
The barman returned, a crisply clean apron tied around his waist. Foyle smiled.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I get for you and your beautiful daughter?" he asked, reaching for the broken glass that had found a new life as a pencil holder.
"Uh, oh...Miss Stewart isn't my daughter…." Foyle mumbled, giving a quick glance over his shoulder to see if the barman's words had been over heard. He was reassured by the sight of Sam absent-mindedly picking at the stitching on her skirt's hem. She'd since removed Rosalind's coat, draping it over the chair beside her, her uniform now on display. "She's my ….. driver. I'm a policeman."
Foyle's correction brought a deep red glow to the man's cheeks.
"Sorry" he muttered, looking over at Sam then flicking his eyes back to Foyle "….I thought that...well, …. this morning you…."
"We'll both have the shepherd's pie, please" Foyle said, trying to ease the man's embarrassment and bring the awkwardness to an end before Sam cottoned on to the subject of their conversation.
While the barman busied himself writing down the order, Foyle dipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out some coins.
Before he could even place the money on the counter, though, a horrifying noise filled the air. A high pitched whistle, like a sudden draught passing through a crack in a window. It rapidly got louder and soon it was all he could hear. He dropped the coins from his hand, letting them hit the floor at his feet, and took off towards where Sam was standing. Her clearly frightened face, ashen in hue, was the second last thing he remembered. The last thing, however, was his own voice belting out "Get down!" Then everything went black.