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Part Two: The Newcomer
Ten minutes passed before Dorothy Howard broke up the sporting discussion by announcing dinner. Excellent hostess that she was, she smoothly directed her dozen guests to their places according to protocol while her husband poured the wine. Christopher found himself seated three places down from his wife on the opposite side of the table with the stranger, Commander Fletcher, to her left.
In such lively and congenial company, the conversation flowed freely. Naval matters took centre stage at first, naturally, but the talk soon ranged over a variety of topics: the increasingly thorny relations with the Soviet Union, the housing shortage, the imminent nationalisation of the railways, the proposed new national health scheme. While most of the Tory-leaning Navy folk disapproved of the social innovations of Attlee's Labour government, a few guests supported the changes, leading to spirited debate.
They were well into the second course before Foyle became aware that his wife was uncharacteristically quiet. An intelligent and well-read woman, she usually enjoyed participating in discussions like these, but had not ventured any comments this evening. Glancing down the table he noticed that she looked strained, her earlier bloom nowhere in evidence. Her eyes were on her plate, pushing her food round with her fork, but she appeared to have eaten little.
His brow creased with concern. Was she feeling unwell, he wondered? She was normally outgoing in social situations, so to see her so withdrawn was unusual. As he watched the stranger, Commander Fletcher, directed a remark to her and she stiffened visibly, her face going taut. Even from where he was seated Christopher could see the curtness of her reply.
Foyle was nonplussed. Katherine was one of the warmest, most gracious people he'd ever known, with a special knack for drawing outsiders into a group and making them feel welcome. What on earth could have prompted this reaction? Had the man said something, done something to upset her?
As he continued to study his wife, eyes narrowed, she glanced down the table and caught his gaze. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at her, a mute query of "you all right?" She responded with a tiny smile and a discreet wave of her hand, clearly intended to reassure him, but his concern was not assuaged.
The enjoyment went out of the evening for Christopher after that. He contributed little to the general conversation, so intent was he on watching his wife's end of the table. He grew more convinced that Fletcher was the problem. Katherine responded pleasantly when anyone else addressed her, trying to smile and behave normally, but her husband had no trouble seeing through the deception. And whenever Fletcher spoke to her, as happened several times, she all but cringed and replied in monosyllables.
When he wasn't observing his wife, he studied Commander Fletcher. He seemed a milquetoast sort of chap – middle class by his speech, with a flat Midlands accent, but with relatively little to say for himself in this voluble company. A man distinguished neither by intelligence, education nor personality, Foyle judged, but seemingly inoffensive for all that. What on earth about him could have so unsettled her?
At the end of the meal Katherine rose to help Dorothy clear the table. As she moved quietly between dining room and kitchen, Christopher noticed Fletcher's eyes following her as well. He felt the first stirrings of annoyance. Eyes front, you pillock, he thought, watching the other man's gaze linger on Katherine's figure. That's my wife you're ogling.
When the gathering removed to the drawing room, Foyle hung back long enough to make sure that Fletcher preceded him, giving him no opportunity to approach Katherine. His protective instincts had been thoroughly roused. He didn't know what the man might have done to cause offence, but he was determined to allow him no opportunity to repeat it.
In the drawing room Foyle took a seat on a small chintz sofa a little removed from the rest from which he could discreetly observe the company. The party now divided itself naturally into groups of three or four, chatting pleasantly. Fletcher settled in with two of the men on the far side of the room, smoking, drinking neat vodka and lamenting the folly of decommissioning Navy ships in the face of mounting Soviet aggression. Foyle refused Charles' offer a drink, wanting to remain as sharp as possible, and drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa while waiting for his wife. When she and Dorothy emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later she came immediately to join him. "All right?" he murmured, studying her as she sat down beside him. The tension was still visible in the set of her shoulders, but she gave him a reassuring smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"Fine, darling." He raised his eyebrows to let her know he wasn't fooled, and she breathed "later" in a placating whisper close by his ear. She wished to avoid a scene, he realised. Very well. He'd get to the bottom of this once the party had ended. He rested an arm along the back of the sofa behind her in a protective gesture that he hoped wouldn't be lost on the other man.
"Christopher! Been meaning to ask, how is Andrew?" Charles had settled into a nearby armchair. Foyle let himself be drawn into genial conversation with his brother-in-law, hoping that the unpleasantness, whatever had been the cause, was behind them now. Fletcher was deep in conversation across the room and Katherine seemed more relaxed now that there was some distance between them. She steered the conversation to the Howards' three children, all grown and establishing families of their own, and the evening resumed its pleasant tone.
When the hands of the carriage clock on the mantel crept past eleven the party began to break up. In the jumble of farewells and helping ladies with their coats, Foyle sensed his wife tense again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fletcher approaching. "Excuse me, darling, I need some air," Katherine murmured, and before her husband could reply she had slipped round the crowd to the French windows that led out to the back terrace, neatly avoiding the commander. Foyle gave the other man a hard, searching glance with his brief handshake and kept his eyes on the brown tweed jacket until it passed into the entry hall.
Not five minutes later, though, having seen the last of the guests to the door, he spotted the brown tweed once again slipping out the French windows after his wife. He realised instantly what must have happened: Fletcher had ducked into the darkened dining room, waited until the coast was clear and then sneaked through the kitchen so he could catch her on her own. A fresh wave of annoyance set his pulse pounding. What was the man playing at?
Foyle was across the room in an instant. Rather than follow Fletcher outside, though, he positioned himself so he could see and hear what was happening on the terrace, peering round the thick velvet curtain through the half-open door. The Navy man's back was to him but Foyle could see him moving toward Katherine, who was clearly illuminated by the light spilling from the kitchen windows. "… been giving me the cold shoulder all evening," he was saying. "What's the matter with you?"
Katherine took two steps backward, raising a hand palm out to forestall his coming closer. "Don't, Rupert," she said sharply. "Just leave me alone."
"For God's sake, Katherine, why are you so touchy?"
"You know perfectly well why." Her voice, normally soft and melodious, was low and ragged, fiercer than Foyle had ever heard it. He cocked his head, straining to hear her over the wind rustling in the trees.
Fletcher's tone modulated from wheedling to incredulity. "You're not still holding a grudge, are you? After all these years? Bloody hell, it was nothing!"
"I'd hardly call it nothing ..." her words caught in her throat, choked off into something that sounded very close to a sob "… hadn't been gone a week! I trusted you, and you …"
"I what? Tried to be nice to you, that's all! Bit of comfort. Shoulder to cry on and all that. Just got a little carried away. Can't blame a chap."
Foyle's eyes went wide. So that was it. She'd know him before, sometime in the past, and he'd … got carried away? What did that mean?
Katherine let Fletcher's words hang in the air a moment. When she replied, her voice was icy with contempt. "I think I can, actually."
"Oh, don't be such a little prude! You know, a lot of women in your position appreciated a little attention. Didn't make all this bloody fuss."
She recoiled. "So that's how you spent your war? Making passes at widows? A fine way to serve King and country. You must be really proud of yourself!"
The air left Christopher's lungs in a silent gasp. Katherine's first husband Stephen had been a naval officer, lost at sea in the first year of the war. That must be the connection between them. So this worthless excuse for a man had made advances to her, after she'd been widowed? A wave of cold fury congealed the blood in his veins into ice.
"Oh, drop the holier-than-thou act!" Fletcher snapped, his patience clearly at an end. "You're no saint. I don't see you wearing black for Neville-West. Got married again quick enough, didn't you?"
"How dare you!"
"'Course, you went for an older chap this time. Probably doesn't make demands. Is that it?"
Foyle's fists clenched. In his younger years he wouldn't have hesitated to storm out and flatten this impertinent bit of scum with a single punch, but by his mid-fifties he was able, with some difficulty, to control his temper. Satisfying as the gesture would be, to make a scene right now would embarrass both his wife and his hosts. Neither deserved that. So he stood still, his back ramrod straight, his eyes glued to Fletcher's back. If he touches her, if he so much as lays a finger on her - well, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions then.
Katherine fell back another step with a gasp, nearly colliding with the low stone wall surrounding the terrace. "I am not discussing my marriage with you, Rupert," she shot back, her voice shaking with indignation. "Ever. Except …" she drew in another sharp breath. "A warning. You'd be well advised to tread lightly where Christopher is concerned. He doesn't suffer men like you gladly."
Fletcher snorted. "That old man?"
"You'd be surprised," she replied glacially. "I think you should go now."
Foyle took this as his cue. He stepped onto the terrace, his outrage written clearly on his face. Katherine's shoulders sagged in relief at the sight of him.
But her husband wasn't looking at her. His eyes were locked on Fletcher, who had spun round when he heard footfalls behind him. Foyle moved to within six feet of his quarry and silently stared him down, letting his anger blaze from his eyes until the other man cowered. Then he jerked his head in a silent gesture of dismissal. Obeying the unspoken command, the hapless man scuttled away into the garden and around the corner of the house, disappearing from sight.