When Darkness Falls

Chapter 8

"Now just….steady on with that thing, hmmm?" Foyle chided, watching Sam slide one of Rosalind's old knitting needles between the cast on her lower left leg and the skin beneath. "You'll end up doing yourself an injury."

"Oh but it itches, Sir!" Sam groaned, her eyes almost closing with relief. "You have no idea."

Milner, sitting beside her on the old but still comfortable two-seater Chesterfield, smiled and put out his hand, an expectant look in his eye. Sam grumbled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, but passed him the long needle anyway.

"Here you are," Foyle said, handing her a cheese and lettuce sandwich, with considerably more lettuce than cheese but with deliberately thicker slices of national loaf. "Have something to eat...take your mind off." If there was anything that could take Sam's mind off any hardship, it was definitely food.

Smiling, Foyle slid over a small padded foot stool with the toe of his shoe. He gave one crisp nod to the stool then stepped away. She, of course, obeyed, gently placing her heel onto the cushion.

"Thank you, Sir" she quietly mumbled around a mouthful, a hand covering her lips.

Sam had spent almost two weeks in hospital, grumbling constantly about wanting to be useful and not being allowed to even fetch her own dressing gown, but he was glad that, for once, someone else had been charged with looking after her. Grimshaw had rarely left her side during her stay, seeing fit to fuss her within an inch of death (so she'd claimed), for as long as Matron would allow.

The injury to her head, although it looked gruesome, turned out to be quite superficial – it didn't even need stitching. Her leg, however, had required some minor surgery to correct the mismatched alignment of bones and a few more weeks of care were needed before she was back on her feet – literally.

Being on her own and struggling to manage with crutches and two flights of stairs was simply out of the question for Foyle so he'd offered her the back room at his house, extending the invitation to her mother every Tuesday and Wednesday when she came down on the train to visit. A kindness that had not gone unnoticed by Sam's father who had written two letters, each gushing with gratitude, the second accompanied by a small box of Mrs Stewart's home made fudge (most of which Sam had eaten).

"Now, Sir" Sam pleaded, turning her body so that she could see him as he moved around the small sitting room. "You did promise..."

"I promised?" he teased, raising his eye brows, "What did I promise, Miss Stewart?"

"That you would tell me how you and Milner solved the case, Sir." She took another bite of her sandwich and Milner poured out three cups of tea from the tray in front of him, his amusement barely hidden.

"Well,..." Foyle muttered, slowly sitting himself down in his chair beside the fire. "Where would you have me start….?"

The previous fortnight...

When it was obvious that Sam would not be doing any driving for the foreseeable future, in fact for quite some time according to the doctor that Foyle had spoken to the evening before, Reid quickly appointed one of his new Constables, George Browne, to take up the slack. Surprised by the gesture but terribly grateful that his investigation would not be hampered, Foyle called the strapping young lad into his office and asked him to drive him, and Milner, to an address in Ninfield, just two miles out of Catsfield.

"Just here will be fine, thank you, Browne" Foyle said as they slowly rounded a bend in the road.

The Constable pulled over, bringing the car to a stop on a wide verge, the wheels slipping a little in the soft mud.

"I'm not sure Mrs Carseldine will be home, Sir" Milner said as they both made their way over to the small brick bungalow, the entrance set back off the street and partly concealed by two tall pine trees.

"Well," Foyle reasoned, walking slowly up the path to the house, "I don't think that Mr Patterson has much ….need for her any more, Milner so I'm thinking that she may have gained a little extra spare time."

Foyle knocked loudly on the front door then stepped back to take in the scene. It was an old house, the crumbling wooden frames and dusty windows in dire need of attention, but, curiously, the door's attractive brass fittings were brand new - like shiny new baubles on last year's Christmas tree.

"Mr Foyle" Doris Carseldine said, her eyes wide.

"Good morning, Mrs Carseldine" he replied and touched the brim of his hat. "I'm, uh, sorry about your brother-in-law."

"Yes, ….yes. Thank you" Mrs Carseldine mumbled, obviously confused and perhaps even a little surprised that not one but two police detectives should be calling on her more than a week after her brother-in-law's death.

"Not working today?" Foyle asked her, a tilt to his head.

"No. Mr Patterson has given me some time to …..recover."

As she stepped back to open the door a little further, her feet kicked a large kerosene lantern, the base of which was covered in a thick muddy crust.

"Been doing some night work, Mrs Carseldine?" Foyle asked her, pointing to the lantern.

"I'm a widow, Mr Foyle. If there's a job needs doing, I have to do it myself. No good waiting for a man to show up."

"I see" Foyle replied. "Of course."

Mrs Carseldine bent to pick up the lantern, the short sleeve of her house dress slipping up her arm as she reached. Four small, fingertip sized bruises suddenly became visible on her upper arm, a larger fifth one near her armpit.

"Are they bruises, Mrs Carseldine?" Foyle asked, softening his voice.

"Oh," she replied, pulling ineffectually on the sleeve of her dress. "I've been ….clumsy ….not sleeping well….since my brother-in-law's death. It was all quite a shock to me."

"Are you in any danger, Mrs Carseldine?" Milner asked her, his brow furrowed. "Do you need help?"

"No, no, no" she replied, pasting on a smile. Her hand went to her arm, rubbing briskly as if trying to erase the purplish skin. "Nothing to worry about."

Behind her, on the small wooden table, sat a biscuit tin, it's lid laying back against a vase of dying Chrysanthemums. Hanging over the edge of the tin was one crumpled and dirty bank note. A handful of coins lay scattered on the tabletop beside it.

"Mum!" came the call from behind Milner. They all turned towards the sound.

A tall, slightly framed boy of no more than sixteen trotted up the front path. His clothes, obviously purchased before his last growth spurt, clung tightly to his body. His jacket, thin from use, barely touched his waist and his shoes, visible below the too-small trousers, were caked in the same brick dust that Foyle himself had had to brush off his own shoes - the reddish brown colour an exact match.

"I had another look but I just couldn't ….." he began but was cut short by his mother's swift interruption.

"This is my boy, Teddy" Mrs Carseldine announced in much too loud a voice, her eyes glaring at the boy. "Come and meet these nice detectives" she said to him, a pinch to his arm making him jump.

"Teddy" Foyle repeated, nodding to the lad. "Short for Edward?"

"Yes, Sir."

Mrs Carseldine shifted her stance and turned to face Foyle. "If there was nothing else, Mr Foyle..." she began, reaching for her door. "I really must start on my boy's lunch. He's a growing lad" she announced, a nervous laugh adding to her peculiar behaviour.

"No, nothing for now," Foyle told her, pivoting on his toe, "but, uh, we might need to speak to you again, Mrs Carseldine."

"I can't….imagine why, Mr Foyle. Surely Roger's death isn't suspicious...the Germans killed him."

"No it's not …..suspicious," Foyle said, stopping his movement, "but I'd still like to ask you a few more questions about the theft from the railyards. I can see that you're busy at the moment, Mrs Carseldine, so….we'll call another time."

"Good day, Mrs Carseldine" Milner added as both of them walked back along the path.

Before they'd reached the small gate, though, Mrs Carseldine's shrill voice was calling after them.

"Mr Foyle?" she wheezed as she caught up to them, a heavy cardigan hastily draped around her shoulders. "Roger had a small book….it was very special to him, and to us. You haven't come across it have you? I'd….I'd really like to have it back….for the family."

Foyle reached into his pocket and pulled out the small grey covered ledger. "This it?" he asked, holding it firmly in his palm.

"That's the one. Yes" she replied, a relieved smile on her face. She reached out swiftly with her hand.

"I'm afraid I can't let you have it just yet, Mrs Carseldine. It's evidence but as soon as we're finished with it, I'll return it."

"Of course" she grumbled, disappointment etched onto her face as her eyes followed the book's every movement.

As Foyle and Milner returned to the car, a red faced Browne slid quickly off the bonnet of the Wolseley and scrubbed out a cigarette with his boot,.

"You, um ... ready?" Foyle asked the flustered Constable, rolling his eyes at the now grey dust that covered his rear.

"Yesss, Sir" Browne stuttered. He quickly saluted and hurried around to his door, the crimson flush still visible in his cheeks.

From the back seat Milner opened the map that Sam had made her pencil markings on. The top edge rested lightly on the back of Foyle's seat, his fingers stopping it from being flicked closed.

"If we head back down that way, Sir" Milner stated, nodding back over his shoulder, "we should meet Carter road about five miles in."

"Right" Foyle said and looked over to the Constable in the seat next to him. "Can you read a map? Know where you're going?" The need to ask such questions hadn't arisen in quite some time and the sudden necessity made Foyle feel low.

The young man swallowed slowly and the red flush on his cheeks deepened even further.

"Not very well, Sir" he admitted, a wobble in his voice.

"Just head back down the way we came, Constable" Milner commanded as he rolled up the map. "I'll let you know when to turn."

Foyle shrugged his mouth up to one side and chewed the side of his mouth in frustration.

After a mainly quiet journey, Milner taking over the task of directing the Constable, to save what was left of Foyle's amiable disposition, they arrived at a bridge. Foyle exited the car and walked slowly over to the rather flimsy looking construction. The end points barely fitted against the crumbling bank and the middle sagged. No side rails existed and the timber slats seemed to be spaced far too far apart.

"Don't know if I'd be happy to drive a full lorry over this, Sir" Milner quipped, walking to stand beside his boss. His head tilted to take in the angle.

"No." Foyle reached out and traced his finger over the markings on the tall pylons.

"These are all government property, Sir. The broad arrow" Milner said, rather unnecessarily, and made his way swiftly down the crumbling loamy soil towards the rapidly moving water below. His feet slipped and he groaned, screwing up his face. With a hand braced against the steep embankment, he looked up at the underside of the timber palings.

"These have the same marking, Sir...all of them."

Foyle reached out a hand and helped him back up the bank, adding a second hand onto his elbow for stability.

"I'd be willing to bet this is the timber that Sam found in the back of the lorry, Sir" Milner surmised before he'd even reached the top of the bank.

"Mmm" Foyle hummed.

Looking back at the Wolseley, Foyle asked "you think our fearless companion will manage to get us to the other side?"

"Sam would" Milner whispered and chuckled all the way back to the car.

"Over that thing!?" Browne asked, pointing to the obviously homespun construction in front of them, his throat seeming to constrict around his words. "It's not much wider than the car, Sir. We'll all end up in the drink!"

"Listen" Foyle suddenly remarked. He leaned in closer to the Constable, feigning a conspiracy. "My usual driver would have had us up and over that bridge in exactly eight seconds…...no," he added, pausing to add emphasis to his next word, "SHE would have begged to have been given the chance to do it in six….but, you make up your own mind, Constable." Having baited his hook, Foyle now sat back in his seat and adjusted his hat.

Browne leaned forward and turned the key, puffing out a quick breath as the engine rumbled to life.

Soon the wheels bumped and thumped against the gaps in the slats, causing them all to hold on tightly, and Browne let out a squeak. Foyle rolled his eyes.

"Almost there" Milner said quietly. "Keep going".

The engine suddenly roared as Browne nervously accelerated over the last few feet, bringing a quick end to a harrowing journey.

Once the tyres has found solid ground, the car came to a screeching halt, forcing them all to jerk forward. Before anyone could even say a word, Browne reached a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case.

"Sorry, Sir" he mumbled, and brought a lit cigarette to his lips, the bright orange tip moving between quivering fingers. The cabin soon filled with smoke and Browne rested his head back against the seat.

"You think we could, uh..." Foyle asked, pointing through the front windscreen.

"Oh...yes, Sir" Browne replied. He coughed as the car puttered forward.