Chapter 9

In the grounds of the hotel, Sam sat behind the wheel of the Wolseley as the daylight faded, looking over the notes she had added to Mr. Foyle's list. There were not as many as she would have hoped. Four hours of finding her way through the city, driving from address to address, politely asking strangers for information they had little interest in - or were downright suspicious of - giving to her. She had used all her tact and diplomatic skills, only invoking the name of the Chief Constable as a last resort, but the whole endeavour had rapidly deteriorated into an exercise in frustration.

Why on earth would anyone want to do this for a living?

Of course, it would have been easier if she could simply have said she was a police officer and, to some extent, compel them to answer.

But what was the value of these odd little details, anyway? How could these seemingly trivial observations add up to solid evidence that would help him to solve the case?

Clearly this was all he had to go on, under the circumstances.

If only Milner had been here, they might together have been able to pursue the investigation on Mr. Foyle's behalf in the thorough manner and up to the usual high standards of the DCS.

Still, she wished she could have done more, brought him more than the little she had managed to find out. Shaking her head sadly, she pushed open the car door, climbed out wearily, and walked with downcast eyes through the entrance.

"Miss Stewart!"
Kenneth McKay smiled and came forward to speak with her, switching to a mock confidential tone,

"Have you been out on Official Police Business? A successful sortie, I hope –? Oh dear."

McKay's manner abruptly changed to one of deep concern as Sam's eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

"Sam...? Come with me; come into my office. I'll get you a cup of tea."

"No, I must go up, I should..."

"Let me see you to your room, then. What's this all about?"

McKay signalled the maid to bring tea and led Sam upstairs with a protective arm around her shoulders. As they passed Foyle's door she was apologising for her breakdown in a voice punctuated by teary gasps.

Inside, Sam paced around the room, sniffling and speaking in hiccoughs as her crying jag subsided,

"There's such dreadful devastation out there, and the people just keep on – they pick themselves up in the rubble of their bombed houses and they go back to work!

"I tried to get the information, but there were so many obstacles...

"It's just that this all seems so – I mean, I spoke to a man in Hockley who was carrying on in his jeweller's shop; it was the only shop left standing in the entire street. He wore a black mourning band, and I was meant to ask him if he remembered making a cufflink, or if he could tell me who had made it. I just wish I understood how this could possibly be of any importance!"

Just then the maid brought the tea and Sam went to stand at the window to regain her composure. When the girl had gone McKay spoke to her sympathetically,

"Surely he will explain it to you, Sam?"

Settling onto the sofa, Sam dried her eyes with her handkerchief.

"He never says, when he's in the middle of an investigation. He keeps all the facts to himself – he knows what's important and what isn't, and he asks the questions..." She dropped her hands in her lap and shook her head doubtfully,

"But in this case... a cuff-link? A ring? If these are the only clues... Why should he send me out to bother these poor people over such trifles?"

"It sounds as if you've lost confidence in your Mr. Foyle."

"No, I... I just feel there's a problem at the moment – he's really not himself. Oh, I shouldn't be telling you this – I've spoken out of turn."

At the side table he fixed her tea and handed over the cup.

"Mum's the word, Sam. Don't worry."

"It's very kind of you, Kenneth. I'm foolish to fall apart like this."

"Not at all. You've had a trying time of it."

He hesitated a moment, then asked,

"Tell me, is Mr. Foyle married?"

Sam slowly raised her eyes to him, reluctant to share her boss's private history.

"N-no, a widower."

"Oh, I see."

"Why do you ask?"

"Been on his own very long?"

"Well, his wife died ten years ago. It's ten years ago this month, actually."

McKay thought for a moment before asking,
"Do you think there could be a connection? With all this?"

"I have wondered... You see, his son once said to me that his father keeps everything in separate boxes, and – well, I wondered..."

"Perhaps... one or two of those boxes have broken open?"

Sam turned away, discomfited. After a moment she lifted her chin and said resolutely,

"Well, I hope he's able to sort things out soon – this investigation can't begin properly until–-."

A quiet knock at the door brought a sudden feeling of guilty self-consciousness and she looked at McKay worriedly. She crossed the room and answered through the unopened door; it was Mr. Foyle.

"Sam? Is everything alright?"

"Y-yes. Yes, sir."

"Sure?"

"Yes. I'll be there in–- I'll just be five minutes."

Foyle heard her response and stood a moment at the closed door. He knew McKay was with her – he had no difficulty with that; he was a trustworthy young man. What concerned him was his certainty that she had been weeping when she passed his door.

He returned to his room, gazed out the window at the fading light on the autumn foliage of the hotel grounds, and analysed his reaction to the incident. Foremost was his immediate concern as to what had upset her, but he could not ignore the persistent question in his mind – Why had she not come to him in her distress?

Instead she had accepted the comfort and support of a man she had met only three days ago.
More than that: why should he have such a strong feeling of disappointment?

With a short rap on the door Sam came into the room and he saw the evidence of her recent emotion – red-rimmed eyes and a tenderness of expression around the mouth that could easily dissolve into weeping with little provocation.

Nevertheless, she flashed a small brave smile and took a seat on the sofa at his invitation; he sat beside her in order to look over the papers in her hands. As she spoke she indicated each note with an index finger, but kept her head down, only glancing up as she concluded each point. Foyle watched her with a concerned sympathy, meeting her eye each time she looked at him.

"...I couldn't get to this office at all. The whole area was blocked off. A barrage balloon was down; the cable was strung across the road, lying over the trolley bus wires and the roofs of the buildings. An RAF lorry was there and the men were hauling the cable in with a drum winch. But it looked as if it would take them a long time – trying to do as little damage as possible, I suppose."

"Right. Well, couldn't be helped, Sam."

"I could try again tomorrow, if you like."

"No, no. That's not nec- , it's alright."

"I'm afraid this office just isn't there anymore, sir. Completely bombed; I couldn't find anyone to tell me where it had relocated."

"Oh. I'm sorry – I should have expected that."

"This office is currently removing their records to an underground facility and can't assist with enquiries until next month. And ...at this office, the person I should speak with has taken leave – she just received word her husband was killed at Alam Halfa."

She paused to steady her voice, her chin trembling.

"The rest is all the information I was able to confirm. You can transfer the notes straight into your report."

She passed the paper to him as if she were glad to be done with it; he took it from her hand, waited for her to look up, but she did not. Foyle read through the neatly handwritten entries she had made below each of his block-printed items.

"You've done very well, Sam. Sorry you had to contend with so many difficulties..."

She only nodded and made a little throat-clearing noise.

"Sam..." Foyle scratched his head distractedly, "I'm sorry, I have to ask. Why... didn't you come to me? If you were upset...?"

"Well, ...not very professional, sir. It was nothing, just frustration, really."

"That's perfectly understandable."

"Still..." She shifted uncomfortably.

"Sam, you don't have to – I mean, don't feel you have to keep–. Erm..."

Words failed him; he shook his head slightly, searching for a way to say what he meant. Sam sat impassively with her hands clasped together on her lap.

Foyle studied her profile a moment, and then put his hand over hers.
"Well, I'm sorry..."

It was a calculated move: he knew he had never touched her before like this; in fact he was sure he had never touched her at all – ...except in that moment just before the bomb landed on The Bell pub; oh, and on the journey here when she had been unwell and he had taken her arm; and yesterday evening when he had apologised for his thoughtless remark – But otherwise, never; not when her billet had been destroyed, certainly not when she had stayed several days at his house, not when they had seen Andrew off together as he left for Debden, not even as she lay recovering from illness in hospital.

His calculation extended only so far as to try to elicit a reaction – some data that he might ponder over later – he didn't understand the reason for her coolness towards him; in fact, he wasn't exactly sure what he was apologising for.

"I'm quite all right now, sir. It was just – it was nothing."

She ignored his hand completely, so he removed it, continuing to watch her with a troubled expression.

"If you don't mind, sir, I'm rather tired and –."

"Sam. Come down to the dining room. You must be hungry."

"Er, certainly, yes. I'll just, erm, freshen up first." She looked at him sideways.

Entering the dining room, Foyle felt the eyes of other guests upon him. He smoothed the back of his hair as he took his seat at the table for two, assuming they were merely curious to see a stranger amongst them. During dinner he and Sam managed to sustain enough conversation not to feel awkward, but Foyle was quite aware that she was making an effort at it.

Over a cup of tea he mentioned,
"I've spoken with Chief Constable James, and asked him to meet with me here tomorrow morning, rather than the Bishopsgate office. We'll know better how to proceed after I make my initial report."

"Right. Well, that shouldn't take long." She said lightly.

Foyle, taken aback, stared at her, his cup raised over the saucer.
"Pardon?"

"Your report – it shouldn't take very long."

He set down the cup carefully and tilted his head.
"Why do you say that, Sam?"

"Well, under the circumstances... and you've not been able to get out to make proper enquiries, conduct interviews..."

"Proper enquiries. I see. Do you think I'd waste the man's time, Sam?"

"No, sir, it's just – I'm sure you'll have better success when you are able to get out."

Foyle knew by the earnest way she looked at him that she was serious. In fact, she was offering to commiserate with him – perhaps she was pitying him.

He quelled a sudden rush of anger – an inappropriate response to his young subordinate – but he was astonished that she should so underestimate him.

What did she think he'd been writing all day? Did she not understand the importance of the information she'd collected for him?

Foyle planted an elbow on the table and stroked his mouth with his hand, deciding whether or not to say anything in response, but then he felt the welt of the cut over his lip, remembered the lacerations on his brow, the yellowing purplish bruises on his jaw and around his eye. He looked down, now uncomfortably aware of how he must appear, and still angry at Sam's remark.

He folded his napkin and tossed it onto the table.
"I'm going upstairs. Are you ready?" He asked curtly.

"Er... I'll just finish my..." She looked up at him, surprised.

"Fine. Be in my office–." He shut his eyes in annoyance at his mistake,

"Please be in my rooms at nine in the morning."

He rose and walked out, hearing a meek and bewildered 'Yes, sir,' behind him.

Alone in his sitting room Foyle stood at the hearth looking sombrely into the orange-red flames of the coal fire. He acknowledged that he was, in fact, hurt by her words, hurt and also disappointed in himself – had he really lost her confidence?

Glancing up he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece and glared at the face that bore the bruises and fading cuts of the beating.

Christ, no wonder she had doubts about his competence...

What was the saying? – 'No man is a hero to his valet.' But she was not his valet, she was not merely his driver either – she had become a colleague, part of his team, and if he had lost her respect... then he didn't deserve to command.

He slapped his hand decisively on the mantel.
No, she simply didn't understand. She did not have all the facts.

And it was now vitally important to him that she attend the meeting with the Chief Constable in the morning.

TBC...