Chapter 4
In the morning she felt fit and ready for anything; she dressed quickly, tidied her room and waited. At eight she ventured out into the hallway, paused outside his room to listen, and tapped on the door. There was no response, no sound from within. For a few minutes she loitered about, expecting to see him emerge from the bathroom, then made her way downstairs to the dining room. He wasn't there, so she stopped at the front desk. The same clerk from yesterday greeted her pleasantly.
"Excuse me, Mr. McKay, but have you seen Mr. Foyle this morning?"
"I haven't, Miss Stewart."
"He doesn't answer at his room. I don't suppose the night clerk is about? Or any staff who might have seen him return last evening?"
"No, Miss. Is he, perhaps, a rather heavy sleeper? I could enter his room if you think he's simply not awake."
Sam frowned at the idea; she didn't know if he was a heavy sleeper – somehow she doubted it; more likely a very light sleeper, with one eye open. However, she was at a loss as to what else she could do, so she agreed to the plan.
Outside his door again, she waited while the clerk knocked softly, then quite loudly. There was some muffled noise from within and they stared at each other in mild surprise. The clerk leaned towards the door and called out,
"Mr. Foyle, sir? Is everything all right?" The low groan they heard in response was not reassuring. "Mr. Foyle, sir, may I enter?"
The clerk gave Sam a questioning look and she nodded. He tried the door and found it was unlocked, so pushed it open and they stepped into the room.
At first she could see nothing – the heavy drapes and blackout cloth were in place and no lamps were lit. Sam went through the open door to the bedroom, saw the bed was undisturbed and returned to the sitting room. As McKay pulled open the blackout curtain she spied his overcoat crumpled on the floor and crossed to pick it up.
Then she found him, in one of the wing-back chairs facing the cold hearth, slumped with one knee drawn up. Puzzled, Sam approached cautiously, unsure of what to make of the circumstances. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the dark-stained towel he clutched to his side, the rips at his trouser knees, and finally the bloodied face and the swelling bruise around his eye.
She gasped in shock and turned to the younger man,
"Please fetch a doctor immediately!"
McKay took one look round the edge of the chair, then obeyed her command and rushed out of the room.
Sam knelt down and peered at her boss gravely, quite certain that the cause of his battered condition was more sinister than an accident with a bus. She laid her hand on his arm.
"Sir! What's happened, sir?"
Foyle's eyes flickered open.
"Sam?" his voice was weak and indistinct. "Should've woken you – didn't want to frighten you."
He coughed and winced in pain.
"Coming back from meeting James. Three men. A warning – could've killed me – didn't."
He coughed again and stifled a groan. Sam quickly fetched water from the bedside nightstand and held the glass to his lips. She saw his burst knuckles and guessed that he had fought hard against his attackers. After slipping the loosened necktie from his collar, she unfastened his top shirt buttons with trembling fingers.
"Have – have you been shot, sir? There's a lot of blood."
She reached for the soaked towel but he pushed her hand down gently and held it still. His touch was ice-cold.
"Uhn-no . . . a knife – not deep. Just …to warn me off."
"Off the case?"
He nodded but Sam saw his eyes roll upward and close. A jolt of fear seized her heart; she put her hand on his face and was relieved when he instantly opened his eyes.
From the corridor came the sound of approaching footsteps. The clerk returned with the manager, followed by a maid carrying a basin of hot water. The manager spoke as he entered the room,
"The doctor is coming, Miss Stewart."
He caught sight of Foyle, stiffened, and added,
"Perhaps we should summon an ambulance –?"
Foyle lifted his hand to wave away the suggestion.
"Looks worse than it is." he croaked hoarsely.
Sam got to her feet, hoping to do something active,
"Sir, shall I see the Chief Constable? Let him know what's happened?"
He frowned before answering her.
"Not yet, Sam. Wait."
The doctor arrived, an elderly, sharp-eyed medico with fierce eyebrows, and they were all, save the maid with the basin of hot water, sent out of the room. Sam had taken several determined turns up and down the corridor when there was an anguished cry from Foyle, a shriek from the young maid and a stentorian shout from the doctor. The ashen-faced girl was ejected, and the doctor's voice called out for 'the smart young thing' to come in.
She entered to the sight of bloody shreds of shirt, waistcoat and toweling thrown about the floor. The reek of carbolic acid, alcohol and iodine filled the room. A tall lamp was trained on the patient, illuminating a ghastly, jagged cut oozing fresh blood across Mr. Foyle's bare and bruised torso. Perspiration gleamed on his brow, now nearly as white as the maid's, he was breathing hard, and he seemed on the point of fainting.
"Here, girl, take these swabs!" the doctor barked in a short command.
"He's been stuck like a pig, poor blighter. Must get him stitched before he's drained." And he pulled out a horrible curved needle and proceeded to thread it.
Sam knelt next to the doctor and pressed the swabs against the wound, glanced up, and expressed aloud the alarm that was writ plain on the patient's features,
"Doctor, isn't there anything you could give him? Morphine or –?"
"No, no, none to spare – he'll pass out on the first prick – won't feel a thing after that."
However, it was the third pass of the needle that finally defeated him. Sam had had to turn away, tears stinging her eyes; his stoically suppressed agony was too much for her. Now his features were slack in unconsciousness.
Seated on a low ottoman, the doctor worked on the wound and directed her to clean away the crusted blood on Foyle's face and hands. When his temper was not provoked he was evidently an affable, communicative sort and he commented on the signs of his patient's personal history.
"Saw action in the Great War, eh? Look at this old puncture scar under the pectoral: bayonet – hand-to-hand combat! These scattered pockmarks across the deltoid: shrapnel. And here, this livid ridge has all the hallmarks of field hospital surgery. Still, all in all he's in damned good training, not soft like you'd expect in a civilian – gave the roughs a creditable fight, I'll wager." He chuckled softly to himself, perhaps imagining the scene.
As she carefully washed the blood from Foyle's lacerated knuckles, Sam followed the doctor's anatomical briefing with mixed discomfiture and curiosity.
"He has two fractured ribs – kicked when he was down, I fear. Nothing for it but to bind them tight, and we can't do that until this knife wound heals, so he'll have to lie still. There, that should hold it!" the doctor proclaimed, snipping the last suture and laying the instruments on the table.
"What new damage have you found there?"
Her ministrations had uncovered the cut over his lip and the swollen nose, but the doctor found the teeth were merely loosened, the nose unbroken. The left eye was undamaged under the puffy, deep violet lid. He pulled a magnifying glass from his breast pocket and peered through it as he inspected the facial injuries.
"The hand that did this wore a ring – you see the identical half-moon abrasion here and here?"
Sam looked and nodded in agreement, and as the doctor turned to retrieve another instrument, she paused to study the delicate gold ring that hung on a chain around Foyle's neck. She realised instantly that it was his late wife's wedding band, saw a trace of the elegant lettering of an inscription, and felt a deeper pang of sympathy that he should wear this reminder of his enduring loss.
The maid returned timorously with another basin of steaming water, fresh cloths and bandages; she cast a reverent, respectful glance at her replacement and crept out.
Sam stooped to remove the scratched and scuffed boots and found his socks crusted with the blood that had run down his legs from lacerations on his knees. As she pulled off the right sock a scrap of card landed on the floor – the torn half of a picture postcard, showing 'The Forge Mill' of – somewhere. Sam studied the card with some perplexity before laying it aside.
She was awkwardly attempting to reach up and under the trouser-leg to wash away the blood when the doctor remarked,
"That's not the way to do it, girl. Get his trousers off."
Her mouth fell open in disbelief.
"No – I couldn't possibly! There must be someone else –."
She hurried to the door to look out into the deserted corridor, but returned with a mortified expression, resigned to the fact that there really was no one else.
"Come, come, now, don't be missish; he'll know nothing of it."
The doctor eyed her appraisingly.
"What's that uniform you've got on? Not a WAC?"
"No, Doctor, MTC – Mechanised Transport Corps. I'm his driver."
The old man nodded approvingly.
"Bloody good thing – can't imagine why women don't do more useful work."
He muttered as an afterthought as he turned back to his work,
"Damn sight pleasanter to look at, too,"
Sam moved behind him to the other side of the chair and knelt down on the carpet to focus on working the fly buttons out of the buttonholes, diligently disregarding the garment itself. She unfastened the bloodstained braces and set them to one side.
"Now, what else have we to deal with? Let's make a full examination."
He raised Foyle's inert body while she, with averted eyes, tugged the trousers down and pulled them off his legs.
"A police detective, is he? Based where?" the doctor asked as he went over the limbs expertly.
"Hastings, sir."
She began folding the trousers in an efficient, careful manner, but then realised they were beyond repair. She gathered up the scattered remnants of his other clothing, and noticed a strong, unexpected odour – cigarette smoke. She thought perhaps Chief James must be a heavy smoker, but a bulge in the jacket pocket turned up matches and an open packet of cigarettes. Foyle didn't smoke.
Sam puzzled over this additional oddity, and then found in his overcoat pockets a folding knife with its tip broken off, the luminous armband, and a torch with a cracked lens and the paper shading gone – not the torch he had left with. His briefcase was nowhere to be seen. She placed the collection of loose items on the writing desk and the clothing in a neat bundle by the hearth.
"Those clothes are evidence, by the way; don't clean them or dispose of them," the doctor remarked parenthetically.
"Hastings? An outsider, then! Only one reason to call in an outsider: corruption in the force! He should have anticipated this. Perhaps he did, come to think of it – wanted to see whom he was up against. Best way to draw them out, you know."
Sam gave him an incredulous look,
"Beg your pardon, Doctor, but I really don't think Mr. Foyle would have allowed himself to be attacked, if he had anticipated it – he'll be laid up for weeks."
She regarded the unconscious man with a troubled expression as a worrying doubt crept into her mind.
"Ah, but now they'll make an error, rush their plot forward. You mark my words. 'Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.' Dryden, you know."
With tweezers he plucked a shard of glass that had been embedded in the right knee and placed it in the tray she held out for him. Five more shards were removed from the knees and shins before the scrapes could be bathed and bandaged.
As Sam looked closely at the fragments she couldn't help imagining the events of the attack. Three men, he had said. They must have cornered him in some vile alley, knocked him down, kicked him with heavy boots, judging from the marks. Fists had pummeled his body and battered –. No, it was too horrible to think about. She forced her attention back to the evidence in front of her eyes, and said unsteadily,
"These pieces are not all alike – I mean, there are different colours of glass. That could be a clue."
"Wood slivers!" The doctor announced, ignoring her remark and holding up what his tweezers had just extracted from Foyle's temple.
"A wooden fence? Or a shipping palette, perhaps?"
"Do you often work with the police, Doctor?"
"Rarely now, but in my day I assisted them frequently. I worked most often with a private detective. Why do you ask?"
"It's just that you certainly know what to look for – evidence, details."
"I had excellent training, of an informal sort." He smiled to himself as if at a private joke.
"There is no evidence of a blow to the skull. Clearly they did not wish to render him unconscious – they meant to intimidate him. But you see here: no defensive bruises on the underside of the forearms – he never raised his arms to ward off a blow."
"They might have pinned them behind –." She swallowed hard, and couldn't finish the thought.
"No, no: look at his hands. By the state of these fists I would venture to say he is a man who does not intimidate easily."
"I believe you're right there, sir."
"Now, Miss, come round to the front and take his weight while I push him forward – I want to see his back."
Sam did as ordered, but was disconcerted to find herself in a position requiring that she kneel and put her arms around Mr. Foyle's naked shoulders, his head lolling heavily on hers. His breathing was ragged in her ear. As the examination continued, she drew in the mingled scent of his sweat, blood and soap; she felt the rough, intimate scratch of his beard on her neck – and she prayed that he would not wake at that precise moment.
The doctor's exclamations told her that he had found something to make this exercise worthwhile, and he presented to her eyes a roughly triangular metal fragment – the broken tip of the knife.
"There now, thank god it was not two inches to the left."
Now she understood why he'd been twisted in such an awkward position in the chair.
"Oh, the knife itself was in his overcoat pocket, Doctor. You'll find it on the writing desk."
"Jolly good – may be fingerprints on it. All in all an interesting collection that may lead us to the scene of the attack, wouldn't you agree?" the doctor asked, clinking the tweezers into the tray with the other fragments.
"Well . . . yes, sir, but I'm sure Mr. Foyle will easily tell us where the attack occurred when he is able." She said across the awkwardly heavy body.
The doctor regarded her with an air of disappointment.
"That is not the point, young miss. Use the evidence before you; observe, deduce! Take every opportunity to exercise the faculties god has given you. This can only serve to aid you in your work."
Sam did not point out to him that she was merely the detective's driver, though it pleased her to be thought of as a junior detective herself. As if reading her thoughts, the doctor added,
"He wouldn't have you along if you weren't some real use to him in his work, you know. He must recognise some natural aptitude in you. Unless ... er…?"
She coloured,
"No, sir! Nothing of the sort!"
His weight really was becoming intolerable now.
"Ah. Good."
The doctor cleaned the wound on the back and, as he closed it with sutures, the patient flinched and his hands convulsively gripped the nearest support – which was the leather uniform belt around Sam's waist. Foyle's deep, helpless groan brought a further uncomfortable blush to her cheeks and she avoided the doctor's glance.
At last they eased the limp form back against the chair and both worked on bandaging the various remaining lacerations.
"We had best lay him out on the bed – this is not a suitable position for his injuries, nor for proper rest. Ah, you see there? The chair has wheels on the rear legs."
After Sam had folded down the bedclothes they manoeuvred the chair across the floor and into the bedroom. She was surprised that, between them, they were able to lift the inert body from the seat up onto the mattress. This elderly physician was stronger than she would have given him credit for. Together they rolled Foyle carefully and slowly onto his right side and supported his upper arm and leg with additional pillows to ease the strain on his rib-cage. Sam pulled up the bedding to cover him, and watched over him a moment.
The doctor cleaned and gathered up his instruments, then returned to speak to her.
"You will nurse him, then? Good. I shall call round in the afternoon. Meanwhile," he produced a whisky bottle from his medical bag, "when he wakes let him have as much of this as he wants. It can't hurt and may do him some good. Until then, good day to you, Miss -?"
"Stewart, sir. Thank-you for coming, er, Doctor -?"
"John Watson. At your service."
He saw her reaction to the name, but merely took up his hat, bowed his head with old-fashioned courtesy, and left the room.
She stared after him, amazed and intrigued.
A slight noise, a change in the rhythm of his breathing, brought her attention back to the man on the bed. She could hardly believe that this was Mr. Foyle, her capable, confident superior; she had never seen him so vulnerable. How could he have let this happen? And what was she to do now? She was not to contact Cecil James; she knew no one in the city. She might contact Milner – but what could he do? He was needed in Hastings. Andrew was unavailable. She could do nothing but wait until Foyle could give her his instructions himself.
With a sigh of frustration Sam took the chair at the bedside, rested her chin in her hand and stared forlornly at the back of the unconscious detective. A painful tightness constricted her throat, but she impatiently shook off the urge to weep.
TBC...