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Part Four: On the Heath

He'd left her there on the lawn, tears spilling down her face. Staggered back a few steps, then turned and walked away, through the gate at the bottom of the garden that opened onto the dark expanse of the heath. As he walked, he drew in deep breaths of crisp autumn air, trying to come to grips with his anger, his confusion and the pain that felt like a knife slicing into his heart. He felt as though a bomb had gone off in his life, in their lives. She'd been assaulted – a terrible ordeal, surely, despite her attempt to make light of it – and had never seen fit to tell him. She'd taken him to task for not talking about Rosalind, or about the last war. And then she'd broken down at the mention of the name Richard – Katherine, a woman who seldom gave way to tears.

None of it made any sense.

A quarter of an hour of steady walking brought him to the edge of a pond, where he halted to try to sort out the triple blow he'd been dealt. First, Fletcher. The fact that she'd kept the incident from him hurt him deeply. Why had she never shared it? Did she not trust him enough? As a seasoned police officer he knew only too well, of course, that victims of this kind of attack were often reluctant to speak out. Such reticence was a major reason why rapists so often went unprosecuted. These women feared the shame of public censure and accusations that they had encouraged their attackers and were somehow at fault. But surely his wife must know him well enough to realise that he would never blame her … mustn't she?

Then there was her accusation about Rosalind. It was true that she had tried several times, early in their marriage, to draw him out about her, but he'd always felt it wiser as well as easier to leave the subject alone. What woman wants her husband to talk about his late wife, to invite comparisons in which she might be found wanting? Rosalind had been the wife of his youth, the woman who had taught him what it meant to love completely and without reserve, who had given him Andrew. She would always hold a special place in his heart, no matter how much he loved Katherine. What was to be gained, though, by telling her this? Wasn't it better to live in the present, not the past?

It had never occurred to him that his reticence might have inhibited her in talking about her own losses. Stephen, of course, he knew about; he'd always known how deeply his death had wounded her. It was something he had accepted, in part because he understood intuitively that her love for Stephen had shaped her character in much the same way that his for Rosalind had moulded him. He chewed his lip, frowning. Had he unwittingly denied her need to express this grief?

And then there was the final, inexplicable blow: Richard. A name he was sure he'd never heard from her before, but one that was distressing enough to Katherine that the mere mention had reduced her to tears. Another painful secret she had kept from him.

It was clear that she had loved this man, whoever he was; Foyle could only assume, must assume, that he was part of her past. It had been unreasonable, surely, to think of an affair. When had she ever given him the slightest reason to doubt her faithfulness? Nonetheless, he knew that anxiety over the mysterious Richard would eat away at him until he knew the full story.

He watched the moonlight reflect off the rippling surface of the pond, his anger ebbing now, feeling the first tinges of regret. If there was a lack of communication in his marriage, surely the fault didn't lie all on her side. He had discouraged her from sharing difficult memories, if only obliquely, by declining to confide his own. Katherine would never have pushed him, he knew; she was far too selfless by nature. Hadn't she spent the past four years always putting his needs and comforts – and Cecily's – before her own?

Likely she had remained silent about Fletcher's assault because she found it too traumatic to talk about. And when she had been forced to disclose it, had he offered her any sort of reassurance? Put his arms round her and comforted her, as a loving husband should? No, by God, he'd barked at her and interrogated her like a suspect under caution, then taken her to task. Nicely done, Foyle, he thought.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past midnight. High time he headed back to the Howards' to try to put things right with his wife.

When he entered the gate and crossed the back garden he could see lights still burning in the drawing room, though the rest of the house was dark. She must be asleep, he thought, easing open the French window. Charles, sitting alone reading Jane's Defence Review, took one look at him, waved him into a chair and poured him a whisky. Quite a generous one, too. He waited until Foyle had downed a few sips before asking, "Everything all right?"

"Yyyyyes. Just … needed some air."

Charles gave him a look that told him he wasn't buying it. Foyle wasn't surprised; they had, after all, been brothers-in-law for nearly thirty years. "Don't want to pry, Christopher, but your wife seemed rather upset. It wasn't Fletcher, by any chance?"

The detective didn't reply, but his mouth twisted into a scowl. It served as answer enough.

"Damn … I was afraid it was something like that. There were stories about him, during the war. About … other men's wives. He wasn't fit for sea duty for some reason, so he was based ashore for the duration. In ordnance, I think. Put a few marriages in jeopardy from what I heard, and wrecked his own. Dorothy doesn't know, or she wouldn't have asked him to make up the numbers. He didn't ... try anything tonight, did he?" Charles looked concerned.

"Nnnnno, don't think so. Seems she knew him years ago, in Plymouth." Foyle took another sip, savoring the rich, peaty taste. Laphroaig. Not Glenlivet, perhaps, but still the best single malt he'd tasted in quite a while.

"That's right, her first husband was Navy, wasn't he? What was his ship?"

"HMS Whirlwind."

"Of course. The Whirlwind. Summer of '40, wasn't it? Torpedoed off the Western Approaches. Lost half the crew, if memory serves. Dreadful business." Charles paused to sip his own drink, swirling the amber liquid. "So Fletcher made a nuisance of himself while her husband was at sea. Is that it?"

Foyle gave a brief, tight shake of his head. "Nnnnot exactly. After it went down, as it happens. Made … advances."

His brother-in-law looked aghast. "After … that's disgraceful! I'm surprised you didn't take a swing at him, Christopher."

"Would have, if I'd known. She never told me."

Charles' eyebrows went up. "Aaaah." He shot Foyle a commiserating look, one that said he now understood the tension between husband and wife. "Look, old man, I'm terribly sorry about all this. Dorothy had no idea about his … reputation, and to tell you the truth, I'd pretty much forgot myself. We never should have invited him."

"Nnnnot your fault. You couldn't have known. It was a long time ago." He paused. "Does Dorothy know?"

"No."

"Look, don't tell her, would you? Don't want her upset. Katherine would feel terrible. Best just … say nothing. Put it behind us." Foyle downed the last swallow of whisky and rose, feeling the warmth of the drink rippling through his veins, calming him. "Thanks for the nightcap, Charles. Splendid vintage, by the way. It's late. Better head up."

"Night, Christopher."