Chapter 7
Foyle's POV
When the doctor had forced him to move and flex limbs that were benumbed with bruises and pain, Foyle understood just how badly he was hurt. He could tolerate the discomfort while motionless, but now, struggling out of his jacket and waistcoat, his body was wracked with chills, sweat dampened his brow and he feared he might pass out.
If he could just be still...!
The doctor was asking him questions. Foyle gave his name, but then recited his old rank and warrant number, tried again, but gave his army service number. He felt a sensation in his ears as though he were intermittently plunging under water. What was the man saying now? Something about serving as an Army surgeon... wounded where? Thrown over a packhorse …Foyle couldn't follow–-. Which war?
Then when the doctor peeled the stiff shirt fabric away from the congealed wound, he lost control and cried out. Someone shrieked; he was certain it wasn't himself. The next instant Sam was beside him; he blanched to see her hands pressing swabs against his bloodied, naked body, and asking for ...morphine?
Oh, god... The doctor's fearful instrument approached and his fingers gripped the arms of the chair until he thought he'd crack them off the oak frame, but he wouldn't show weakness in front of her...
Blackness flowed in from the edges of his vision, blotting out the dim room, the cruel metal piercing his flesh, and lastly the image of her sweet face stained with tears...
Foyle felt nothing, existed nowhere, for a long time; then a series of impressions began to play before his inner vision – a bright blue sky, a green place, a road. He was moving through the landscape in a car; he turned to the driver – Rosalind, smiling at him, looking content and lovely, as she was before her illness.
Next he was standing alone on the road; no, not alone – pulling the hand of a young Andrew, pleading with the boy to come away from the gate of an empty house.
Then a nearly full-grown Andrew faced him squarely, displeased, annoyed, turned his back and walked away.
The grinding, rising sound of a car bearing down on him – he saw it approach swiftly, deliberately – he could not make out a driver; the car struck him, and he was thrown to the roadside broken and bleeding.
Sitting at the bedside with her book, Sam heard the sudden change in his breathing and looked over in concern. His eyes under the lids moved rapidly, following some invisible scene – she knew he was dreaming and that it was not a pleasant one. Foyle gave a half-grunt, half-cry and groaned. She moved to the edge of the chair and leaned closer.
Rosalind again, looking on at the accident from a distance, her hands deep in the pockets of her favourite tweed coat, concerned yet... disengaged – she expected him to sort himself out, she could not help him. He lay on his back on the verge, distraught, unable to move, staring up at swaying tree branches.
As his muffled groan altered to a choking sob and a drawn-out moan of pain, Sam reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. But she decided against trying to wake him – without morphine his injuries would be agonizing – instead she smoothed his damp hair and gently stroked his brow. His groans faded and his breathing slowed and calmed. She heard one last sound, one name uttered with such profound, desperate longing – 'Ros...' After that he slept quietly for a long time.
A figure approached, silhouetted against the sun, and reached down to smooth his brow, take hold of his hand and help him onto his feet. They began walking together down the road. He looked back over his shoulder to Rosalind, reluctant to leave her. She smiled with acceptance as she watched him go. He turned to see who the person was, walking beside him...
Foyle's eyes flickered open to the lamp-lit image of his young driver reading in a chair. He thought he was at home and couldn't grasp the circumstances that had brought her to him. The image wavered, and then a bruised, bandaged hand – his own hand resting on the pillow – loomed in the forefront of his vision. He felt throbbing pain demanding his attention in every part of his body, and wondered how he had come to be struck down by a car – what car?
Then in an instant his mind cleared and he knew he was at the hotel in Birmingham, and recalled in a sickening rush the events of the past day – or night? He couldn't quite place things in order, and just now lacked the will to try.
He was still immersed in the confusion of the dream.
Rosalind had come to him in his sleep before – though he did not consider it a dream but rather a visit, a sign from her that she, or her spirit, still existed, was still connected to him. The first had been just three days after the service, when he thought he could not possibly carry on. She had appeared, sitting on the garden bench, wearing the frock he most liked to see her in, and she simply looked at him with calm and steady eyes, as if to say, 'I am well, I am in a good place; take comfort in knowing this.'
And he had. He had taken profound spiritual comfort from it and this had allowed him to pull himself together and function well – to meet his responsibilities as a father and in his work. Nearly three years later, when he had lost his way, allowed depression to overwhelm his dedication, she returned. Once again she merely gazed at him, but with a sad concern in her eyes, and he had understood that his grief must not reduce his life to less than she would hope for him, and for their son.
But this dream – he was uneasy; he didn't trust it.
He watched Sam, absorbed for the moment in a page of her book, saw the soft glow of her hair, the radiance of her face in the lamplight, and felt both disquieted and grateful for her presence. She glanced up, saw he was awake, smiled and softly said,
"There you are – I'm glad you're back with the living, sir."
Foyle lifted his head and the pain was manageable, then tried to shift his body and immediately regretted it. He passed his tongue over his dry lips, tasting the rusty tang of blood. His voice came out slurred and hoarse.
"Sorry. Should've gone out the back way."
Sam wasn't quite sure what he meant, but let the remark pass.
She held the water glass for him and when he had taken a sip, asked,
"What can I do for you, sir?"
"Jus' ...tell me the damage, so I know what t'expect."
She leaned forward in the chair and spoke in a calm, quiet voice,
"Two fractured ribs under the knife wound, a puncture wound to the back that also required suturing; rather bad lacerations to knees, temple, nose and hands; a couple of loosened teeth, a ruddy good shiner, and a broken bone in this finger –."
She slipped her right hand under his left where it rested on the sheet and indicated the index finger.
"– I'm not sure which bone, but it's been splinted and taped to the next finger for support."
She reached for the small bottle of whisky on the bedside table and held it where he could see it.
"You may be interested to know that the doctor says you can take as much of this as you want."
Foyle grunted.
"Where'd they find the doctor? Must've served in the bloody Crimea."
"Actually, the Second Afghan War, I believe."
"Unh. Best open the whisky, then."
Foyle pushed away the extra pillows and Sam stood to move them out of his way. He slid his feet out of the covers, held his left arm close against his side and slowly, cautiously pushed himself up with his right until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sweat shone on his brow and he felt nauseated from the effort, but the shot of neat whisky Sam gave him dissipated the worst of it.
While she crossed the room to the wardrobe, he looked down at his bandaged body and surreptitiously checked under the sheet to see that he was, thank god, not entirely naked. He passed a hand over his face and felt the trace of dried salt around his eyes – had he wept in his sleep? Christ.
His fingers moved protectively to cover the gold band on the chain around his neck.
Sam returned with his dressing gown and slippers and a faint blush on her cheeks that only served to increase his discomfort. He almost resented her presence for a moment, but knew he had only himself to blame. When he was decently covered Foyle eased his weight onto his feet, tested his legs and stood nearly upright. Sam hovered close by, willing to help but hesitant to overstep personal boundaries.
Breathing hard, he looked up at her sheepishly,
"Thankfully I've no pressing engagements today. Er, what day is it? – And what time is it?"
"It's still Tuesday, sir; just turned four, or I should say, sixteen hundred hours."
"Is that desk clerk on duty today, the young man with the, er... ?"
"Kenneth? Yes, he is. Shall I ask him to come up?"
"Kenneth, is it? Yes, please do."
With the young man's assistance, Foyle made his way to the lavatory, relieved his most urgent need without fainting, and struggled into pyjamas. He decided to forego both a glance in the mirror and shaving, but McKay offered to send for a barber when wanted.
The unavoidable intimacy of the circumstances brought them to converse about the inconvenience of various injuries, and Foyle learned that the man had served on HMS Cossack during the Altmark incident in Norway in 1940, and lost his arm in the boarding skirmish. They traded stories of bayonet combat while creeping slowly back to the room.
"...So my war lasted just over a year, and now I'm home wondering if this," he raised the stump of his arm, "is part of some high plan of the Almighty's, or just a rather bad joke."
"Bit of both, I'd suppose. Can I offer you a whisky?"
"I'm off duty at six. May I come back for it, sir?"
"Of course. I'll look forward to it; and, er, I think my driver here would be glad of a break, wouldn't you, Sam?" he remarked as they entered the room.
"Oh, I don't mind, sir." She answered from her position by the window.
"This young lady's devotion to duty has been commendable, if I may say. Above and beyond the call."
Foyle saw the man's admiring gaze and commented,
"Expect she'll be requesting a transfer shortly, to something less troublesome. Bomb Disposal, perhaps." He lowered himself into the chair at the hearth with a grimace.
McKay smiled,
"Until six, then, sir. Miss Stewart."
McKay departed and Sam fixed a whisky and water and set it on the small table by his chair.
"Do you have an appetite, sir? I can have something sent up."
Foyle shook his head,
"Thanks, but no. You must eat, Sam"
"I'll go down at six."
She sat on the sofa and with a quiet serious manner addressed her boss.
"Sir, can I ask –, can I discuss something with you?"
As usual she did not wait for his answer.
"The doctor suggested that you might have deliberately confronted those three men; that you did it to gain information – about them and about who they work for."
Foyle had reached out for the glass of whisky; his hand froze midway. Then he took up the glass and gazed at her frankly.
"Oh?"
"At first I thought it was an extraordinary idea; but I've been thinking and . . . well, I don't think you'd be careless. I think you would have anticipated the possibility of one of them learning you'd been called in, and alerting others of your arrival."
"You think I put myself at risk needlessly?"
"I can't say that. I don't know what information you might have gained. But – well, did you expect it?"
He swirled the liquor around in the glass.
"When I spotted the men I was not surprised. That's really all I can claim. I'm not clairvoyant, Sam."
"No, but – could you have avoided them? Or did you learn something important enough to justify – this?" she gestured towards him.
Foyle's face darkened and he paused before answering.
"Look, Sam – my job here is to investigate a homicide connected to alleged corruption within this police force. Every member and each one of their associates is a suspect – and a potential threat. Now, certainly it would be far more convenient if the people involved simply handed me their calling cards and offered to show me what they've been up to –,"
Sam bridled at his apparent sarcasm.
"– But what they did last night – to send out a welcoming party, in effect – is of tremendous value. This... inconvenience is not something that can be calculated or justified. The...'enemy,' for lack of another word, chose to make the first move and reveal themselves in this way; I'm here to engage the enemy."
"'Inconvenience?' What if they'd killed you, sir?"
"Then someone else would be sent to investigate." Foyle downed half the whisky in the glass.
"But they didn't. Which suggests several different hypotheses that I'll keep in mind as the investigation continues. All right?"
There was an impatient edge to his voice.
"It just seems reckless, that's all." She insisted stubbornly.
"It's dangerous work at times; you know that."
"Well, I –."
She stopped herself from finishing the remark; they stared at each other for a moment, until Foyle looked away, muttering,
"We wouldn't be having this discussion if you were a man."
Sam rose to her feet, affronted, and replied, evenly at first, but with rising temper,
"No, I'm sure we wouldn't, sir. Because if I were a man you'd have taken me along last night, and instead of three against one it would've been three against two, and perhaps you'd have some of them in custody!"
Foyle stared up at her incredulously.
"Are you scolding me, Sam?"
"No. Of course not, sir."
She sat down again, a little chastened.
"There is a reason I'm working on my own. I don't have to explain it to you. And I don't need my driver's approval on the methods I use in any investigation I undertake."
"No, sir."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"With respect, sir... since you mention it. It's true that a male driver would not express concern for your safety: men tend not to talk about such things. But I don't think that it's unprofessional for me, as a female driver, to express it."
He considered her words briefly, but he did not consider the effect his impatient reply would have upon her.
"It's not that it's unprofessional – it's unnecessary."
As soon as the words were spoken he saw he'd made a serious error. Sam seemed visibly to shatter; her eyes shone with sudden tears as she said quietly,
"I see. I won't trouble you any further, sir. Excuse me."
She crossed the room swiftly, and though he tried to call her back, she closed the door behind herself.
Foyle ran his fingers across his brow in exasperation and swallowed the remaining whisky. He stared at the bandages over his knuckles and it occurred to him that he didn't know whether it was the doctor or Sam herself who had applied them. He cursed under his breath and, despite the anticipation of reawakened pain, with difficulty got to his feet.
Outside her door he steadied his laboured breathing, composed himself and knocked. But the sound was muffled by the bandages and he wasn't sure if she would hear. He called her name once, twice. A slight noise from inside the room gave him hope that she would listen to him.
The door opened and she stood back to allow him in. It confused him to see that her eyes were dry – somehow this was more ominous than the girlish sobbing he'd expected.
"Sam, I want to apologise –."
"It's unnecessary." She folded her arms across her body.
"No, it is, I've –."
"It's unnecessary, sir." She stared down at her feet.
"Sam..." He moved closer to her, "Please..."
She refused to look at him; he laid a bandaged hand on her arm.
"It's unnecessary." She turned her face away.
Foyle held her by the shoulders and spoke across the top of her head.
"I'm sorry. I hadn't meant to hurt you."
"You haven't hurt me. It's just unpleasant to watch you hurt yourself, that's all."
Her words stunned him – what on earth did she mean, 'hurt himself?'
She answered his unspoken question,
"No, I don't mean physically; I don't mean the - the fight – although I'm sure it's connected in some way. I mean, inside. It's as if you can't allow anyone to be concerned for you, to be close to you ever again; as if you feel you don't deserve some closeness, some - happiness–."
"I don't- want- to be happy." The words were torn out of him before he knew he was saying them. He stared searchingly at the ceiling.
"I don't want –." His voice faltered.
"...To forget her? You don't have to forget her – no one who cares for you would expect that."
She unfolded her arms and cautiously, lightly embraced him.
"But ...Andrew believes... she wouldn't want you to be unhappy and alone; she loved you too much."
With the last words her tears spilled over and she rested her cheek against his shoulder.
Foyle struggled for composure, shutting his eyes tight. They stood together for some time until he took in a long breath, pulled away gently and went to the door.
He paused with his back to her, his fingers on the handle, and said quietly,
"Thank-you, Sam."
He seemed to hesitate; she took one step towards him – he opened the door and walked out.
Later she heard the desk clerk go to his room and a fragment of their conversation before the door shut. She was glad to know he had Kenneth McKay's company for a little while, as her own presence seemed to have become problematic.
Sam mulled over his words and the disquieting events of the past twenty-four hours and she recalled a conversation she had once had with her father.
It had concerned one of his parishioners, a man of sterling reputation who had inexplicably gotten into some minor trouble with the law, and to whom her father had spent many days giving counsel. Without breaking a confidence, her father had explained to her the nature of the thoughts and feelings that had led to the strange and uncharacteristic actions.
After sitting unhappily through a meal in the dining room she arranged with the cook to secure a mug of hot soup for later in the evening, and carried it up to his room around eight o'clock.
She found him seated in the wing-back chair, now placed again beside its mate in front of the hearth. She was encouraged to see that he had shaved, and that he was reading the book she had left on the bedside table earlier.
"I've brought you a little soup, sir. Oh, I see you've found my book. What do you think of it?"
"Remarkable; I'm... impressed with your choice of reading matter."
"Well, one tries to improve oneself. Here, sir." She tasted the soup and held out the mug handle-first,
"I think this is just the right temperature."
Foyle stared at her, somewhat nonplussed, until she complained,
"It is hot, sir."
He took the mug and warmed his hands around it while she made a show of shaking out her scalded fingers.
Foyle peered at the soup and then tried a tentative sip.
Retreating behind the other wing chair, Sam leaned her forearms along the back and asked in an earnest tone,
"What are you going to do next, sir?"
"... I've been told to drink this soup." And he suited the action to the word.
Sam blinked and then noticed the two glasses flanking the now empty whisky bottle on the small table.
"Ah. Well. No need to think about the case just yet; plenty of time tomorrow – or... the next day."
"Mmh, the case – will you bring me my jacket, please, Sam?"
She fetched it for him and again stood behind the chair. Foyle searched through the pockets, then frowned,
"Did you find... er... a card, a postcard?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
She picked up the torn card on the writing desk and handed it to him, saying casually,
"It was in your sock, sir."
Foyle kept his head down, avoiding her eyes,
"Right. Erm, good: my briefcase."
"Sir?"
"This is my 'baggage claim ticket.'"
"Is it?" She began to wonder whether he was more affected by the whisky or by his injuries.
"Yes. This and a five-pound note will get my briefcase back from a very helpful shopkeeper in Calthorpe Road. I didn't want it to fall into the hands of the, er, gentlemen I met last night."
The words he'd spoken when he first regained consciousness now made sense.
"You could have gone out the back way." She repeated it as a statement and not a question.
He looked up at her.
"Y-yes. I didn't. M-may have been a... tactical error."
Sam accepted that this was the closest thing to an admission of fault that he would make over the incident.
In the quiet of the room they became aware of a distant sound – the far off whine of an Air Raid siren winding up, the percussive thud of bombs landing, and the staccato response of ack-ack guns.
Sam bit her lip as she looked at her boss; he was in no condition to make a run for the shelter.
"It sounds very far away." She said hopefully.
"It does." He deliberated for a moment, listening.
"You'd best bring my boots and overcoat. Yours as well. And the gas masks."
They sat in the two chairs at the hearth, waiting, as prepared as they could be for a sudden and unwelcome foray down to the basement or under the stairs.
"What's that other sound, sir – the deeper sort of 'pom-pom' sound?"
"That's the Bofors guns at Castle Bromwich. Where the Spitfires are built."
"Oh."
"Longbridge, to the south-west, produces Lancasters and Hurricanes. The B.S.A. works are to the south of us, making armaments. The Kynoch works – chemicals and ammunition – are to the east. Fisher and Ludlow's bomb and shell-casing works are to the north; Nuffield's in Washwood Heath produces tanks... There are close on half a million people here directly employed in the war effort."
Sam stared at him with deepening concern as he listed off so many prime targets for the Luftwaffe bombers. She responded with the first word that came to mind.
"Blimey."
Foyle raised an eyebrow, but then a slow, ironic grin spread across his features. He nodded his head and repeated,
"Blimey."
Eventually Sam picked up the book as a distraction from the tension, and read out a passage that she particularly liked. He asked her to continue, and laid his head against the chair back, listening to her voice and the thudding noises in the distance. She glanced up occasionally and saw he had closed his eyes, however when she reached the end of the chapter he looked at her and smiled gently.
"Would you mind reading a little further?"
She turned the page and read on, until at last the worrisome outside noises ceased.
When she finished the chapter, he said quietly to her,
"That was very pleasant, Sam, under the circumstances – better than another whisky. It hasn't tired you?"
"No, sir, not at all."
"Good. Well, until the Hun do decide to force us out to shelter, good-night, Sam."
He made no move to rise from his chair.
"Can I help–?"
"No."
"You... you won't sleep there, will you, sir?"
"Good-night, Sam."
TBC...