L'Aimant

Summary:

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

The guests gather for Foyle and Sam's wedding reception at The Royal Victoria, Hastings.

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Notes:

Merivale, Sam's bohemian landlady, belongs to dancesabove, (who fixes mine as well as writing her own – thank you dances).

...

Pex were, and still are, a UK brand of children's hosiery..

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

To everyone's delight, they emerged from the building to find the mist had burned away, yielding finally to the delicate persistence of the winter sun.

In the back seat of the Wolseley, Foyle drew his bride into his arms and kissed her with lingering intensity. "You brought the sun out, Darling," he began, but in the middle of the kiss, his police antennae picked up interference. "Eyes on the road, Brooke," Foyle admonished placidly.

At which point, as Brookie cheerfully changed up a gear, the young sergeant could've given The Cheshire Cat a run for its money in any national grinning competition.

Chapter 15

Saturday, 16th December 1944, 12:30 p.m.

Much as the elegance and distinction of the Royal Victoria Hotel, Hastings (more accurately, St Leonards-on-Sea) shone like a beacon in its celebrated history, the austerity of wartime had nevertheless left the establishment feeling the pinch. It was therefore with some relief that DCS Foyle's booking for a wedding luncheon had been received one week before, and members of the hotel staff were now bustling around to make things ready for the modest-sized contingent expected shortly after noon.

When the bride and groom arrived in convoy from the Registry, two taxis bringing up the rear, those guests not asked to attend the ceremony across town earlier in the day were already gathered in (or near) the first-floor private dining room adjacent to the Sea Terrace Restaurant. Florrie was craning her neck over an impressive balustrade into the stairwell below, looking eagerly for Brooke; and Sam's Uncle Aubrey had taken Merivale aside to discuss the merits of a lusty home-made greengage wine over common-or-garden rose-petal—Meri was proposing they exchange samples at the earliest opportunity. Sam's two friends from the MTC, Beryl Lang and Betty Pilkington (known collectively to Samantha as The B's), were in a sulk about the dearth of unattached young men attending the "do", and were already making plans to escape to the lounge bar as soon as decently they could.

"I'm going to snag myself a businessman," said Beryl.

"I wouldn't get your hopes up high," warned Betty. "The other week, I went out with a chap that travels for Pex socks, but there was such a belly on him, I'll wager it's been years since he's even seen his feet—and those were flat into the bargain. Still," she sighed, nibbling in frustration on a varnished fingernail, "he had nice eyes. And lots of useful samples—I was getting low on ankle-socks. The larger children's sizes fit my dainty feet."

"Isn't life wonderful?" groaned Beryl. "Christmas coming up. No food, no fuel, no stockings, and no decent-looking single men."

The grand sweep of the marble staircase, dominated by its imposing twenty-foot gilt mirror, fed Sam's excitement as she climbed the stairs ahead of Christopher. She turned to share her rush of pleasure with her husband, "This is quite something isn't it? I've never been upstairs in here before. So different from simply turning up for tea or a quick snifter!"

Foyle met her glowing expression with a smile. The Royal V was no great novelty to him, police business having brought him here on numerous occasions, but, as so very often these days, he felt Samantha's enthusiasm bolstering his own. He trotted up the intervening stairs to draw level with her, and placed an arm around her waist, tilting his head to appraise his wife with open admiration.

Samantha's eager face brought back to him that one occasion in The Crescent Hotel tea-lounge when she'd earned his professional regard, nonchalantly gleaning valuable information from a nervous waitress. He'd leaned back in his chair, hands folded in his lap, and smiled indulgently as she claimed, then snaffled, the last lemon curd sandwich as her reward. I didn't even realise I loved her then, he thought. But watching her devour those sandwiches brought such a flood of warmth, how could I have been so obtuse? She had no inkling I was studying her—far too intent on lemon curd to notice. A crooked smile played round Foyle's mouth. He drifted into a brief fantasy of leaning forwards across the tea-table and capturing the last trace of lemon curd direct from his young driver's lips. Would she have fled…? or kissed me back? How far we've come...

Sam met his eyes and giggled. "Do you recall the time I made a shameless play at charming you over tea once in a hotel lounge? The Crescent, wasn't it? It was such a coup to make you smile the way you did."

Dear God, she's read my mind again. He halted their ascent and brought her hand up to his lips. "My sweet girl, had I realised the way your mind—um—worked inside hotels, we'd have made our way here a darn sight sooner. So, by all means,"—he paused to kiss her properly—"let's see what delights this elegant establishment has in store for us today."

The consensus among the gathered guests was warmly approving of the meal. Indeed, the hotel had even managed to produce a very imposing "wedding cake"—in reality, a three-tier hollow cardboard cake-shaped case, "iced" with plaster and delicately painted with what resembled sugar flowers. But though the lifting of the case to reveal the rather smaller, plainer offering underneath caused just a little mirth among the guests, the cake itself was perfectly tasty.

Prior to the meal, Milner and Aubrey had taken turns at employing Paul's box Brownie camera, and staged some cheerful wedding pictures in the hotel foyer and upstairs in the private dining room.

Both Iain Stewart and Hugh Reid made speeches following the luncheon. Iain's, as to be expected, was a paean to his daughter, but also made specific mention of his son-in-law—a decent man who commands both her respect and adoration. It was well-received, not least by Samantha, who leant across to kiss her husband tenderly the moment that her father mentioned him by name.

Hugh Reid's affair turned out to be a prize performance, albeit narrowly salvaged from a shaky start. Elaine had vetted her husband's manuscript the evening before, and as Hugh rose to read it out to the assembled party, holding his flimsy written notes aloft, sunlight which was streaming in from the window behind him shone through the paper, revealing large tracts of text that had obviously been scored-through with thick black lines. Brooke and Florrie snickered audibly, but Elaine continued smiling down upon the tablecloth, serenely satisfied that her husband was about to serve up the expurgated version of his speech.

Reaching the final paragraph of what had been a fairly uninspiring ramble, and just short of total capitulation to the controlling instincts of his spouse, Hugh got second wind and made a last-ditch break for freedom. Folding away his censored script, he shoved one hand, statesmanlike, into the side-pocket of his trousers and launched like Livingstone into uncharted territory.

"Now, I'm not saying that this pair here hit if off as soon as they clapped eyes on each other," he told his audience, "but something definitely worked its way under Christopher's skin the day Samantha walked into the station. He had this half-stunned look about him, and a definite…well… a fidget, as if someone had laced his clothes with itching powder." (snorts and snickers from the audience).

"For a day or two after Samantha joined us, and judging purely from the constipated look on Christopher's face, I thought he'd probably been landed with a tricky case he couldn't handle, or even that the Westminster leg of our outfit might have stuck a finger in his pie—he definitely doesn't like that when it happens!" (guffaws from the police contingent, including Sam).

"Turns out somebody had made a big hole in his pie-crust—but it wasn't the Top Brass." (hearty haw-haws from the guests).

"Now—those of you who know Christopher, know him to be a calm, resourceful sort of man," (hums and nods of agreement) "but Samantha's arrival was just about the biggest shake-up in his working-life I've ever witnessed. At the time, I didn't understand quite why, and put it down to the effects of an invasion by the monstrous regiment of women," (he boomed that last bit in Churchillian mode—chuckles from the male contingent; ladies' eyes raised coolly to the ceiling).

"But that's not really Christopher's style. Because he's a sophisticated chap, isn't he? If he sees convention stretched or even broken-with, he'll judge a situation on its merits and his own terms—this is not a man to toe the party line. Oh yes—Samantha shook him up all right. But not because she's a woman"— Hugh paused with an impish show of gallantry and bowed to the bride—"though she is one, by George, and a very…very lovely one at that..."

Sam's colour climbed a dozen shades under her husband's appreciative beam as Hugh continued. "No. Samantha shook him up because she's…" (here, Hugh assumed a confidential tone) "actually, she's Christopher in a skirt." (baritone guffaws, soprano giggles threatening to derail the speech) "No! Please!" Hugh raised a hand to calm the crowd. "No. Don't misunderstand me. I know Christopher very well from working closely with him all these years, and Sergeant Milner has been kind enough to share his fond impressions of Samantha. And yes, they're different in many ways—only one of them looks fetching in a skirt, for starters…" (more mirth from the assembled party) "but I can tell you this: they both believe in fairness, and in duty; both of them will all but burst a valve to do their bit—however constrained they might feel by their positions, or their circumstances."

Foyle frowned modestly at Hugh's gracious nod to his thwarted career-ambitions in Intelligence. Sam reflected ruefully on the hard time she had had breaking away from her background and forging an independent path in life.

Hugh returned to his train of thought, and fixed his audience, indicating Foyle and Sam with outstretched hand. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I look at this couple, and I see a clever, quiet, deliberative man, knocked for six by the vivacity and gusto of a serious, diligent young woman, who has looked beyond the grizzled surface—though that 'surface' isn't bad, but frankly, old man—heh!—you're not my type—" (more grunts and giggles from the audience; a patient, sardonic look from Foyle) "Thank you. As I was saying… she looks beyond the surface, and sees qualities of character so arresting" (groans from the assembly) "Thanks again. So arresting that she promptly puts down roots and looks no further. And so, Ladies and Gentlemen…" He rose, and raised his glass. "I give you: Mr and Mrs Foyle—Christopher and Samantha!" The others rose to join him in the toast, and murmurs of "Christopher and Samantha" echoed round the room.

As Hugh resumed his seat to enthusiastic applause from the assembled company, he cocked an eyebrow at Elaine and preened, "You see? My public loves me, unedited, thank you."

"Your public," retorted Elaine, "would not have loved the joke about the tart and the stirrup pump. Nor the anecdote involving the barrage balloon and the YWCA washing-line hung with women's knickers. Or, for that matter, your recipe for ration-beating rat risotto. However," she paused, and placed her hand on his, "for the rest of your amazing speech… I love you, never mind your public."

"Really?" Hugh was bucked, and started grinning like an idiot.

"Mmm. Really," reassured Elaine. "You did extremely well."

"You know," Hugh's face took on a pained expression. "My instep is still very sore from where you ground your heel into it this morning."

"Rub it for you later," said Elaine. "Provided you don't blot your copybook and reoffend before we leave."

In due course, Brooke was detailed to take Meri home. He had already dropped off the Stewarts' suitcases at The Royal Victoria, as well as two pre-packed overnight bags for the newlyweds—all four of them were staying overnight at the hotel after the celebrations. Sam's Uncle Aubrey, who had kindly offered to step in at Lyminster the next day and take the Sunday services for Iain, had already left to get the train.

After dropping Meri off—"Hasn't it been a lovely party, Sergeant? Such witty company! So many nice new friends!"—Brooke's duties for the day were done, and he would be free to spend the evening with his lady.

Unsurprisingly, Florrie had jumped at the chance of riding in the Wolseley and seemed to be having a jolly old time in the rear seat with Merivale, calling Brookie "James" and telling him not to spare the horses (and similar quips so old they'd grown a beard). Brooke had borne it all patiently, counting the minutes to being off-duty and alone in charge of a powerful vehicle with his girl beside him in the front seat—or, if he was lucky, in the back seat, provided they could find a quiet spot along a lane.

'Florrie in a motor car away from civilisation' was a new and dangerous phenomenon. "Ooh Ian, have a feel of these nice leather seats!" Now it was just the two of them, she ran her hand caressingly over the upholstery next to her thighs, regarding him shyly from under her eyelashes. "You've been looking so smart all day in your uniform."

"You reckon, Flo?" he sniffed, smoothing his jacket proudly.

"Mmm. But you must be dying to loosen your collar a bit. So did you see the actual ceremony?" chattered Florrie, nonchalant enough to make a bit of harmless conversation as a preamble.

"No I was outside, uh, dealing with"—Brooke cleared his throat importantly—"vehicular transportation for the wedding party."

"Coo. Well anyhow, I 'ope the wedding went off better than my cousin Ada's."

"Oh?" Brooke shot her an inquisitive look. "What happened to your cousin, then?"

"They turned up at the Registry Office on the day, all in a tizz, and with me brother Vic in tow as witness—you've met our Vic?"

Brooke had. "Yeah, Vic— 'e wrestles for the Navy, when he isn't sinking Jerries, right?"

"That's right. So anyhow, they walk into the office all done up in suits and flowers, and Ada in 'er wedding 'at. The bloke behind the desk looks at 'em down 'is nose, and sez, all posh: 'Saah, this is the Water Board. The Registrar is hup a floor and second on your left.' 'Is that so?' sez our Vic. 'Well, seein' as they're 'ere now, you can cut their ruddy water off instead.' Our Vic was in a right old crabby mood that day—he'd just found out our Ada was expecting."

Brooke rubbed his nose and totted up the implications of the tale. "Yeah. Well. Um. Flo? P'raps we should go back now—catch the early show at the pictures, eh?"

Back at The Royal Victoria, the wedding party had dispersed. Hugh and Elaine had left for home, sharing a taxi with the Milners, and The B's had buzzed off to the bar. This left the Stewarts and the freshly-minted Foyles relaxing in the hotel lounge over cups of tea.

"Your friend Mr Reid is quite an original act, Christopher," observed Sam's mother.

"I'd say he has the makings of a most persuasive preacher," added Iain.

"Provided that his jokes are filtered through Elaine," smirked Foyle. "Otherwise, he's bound to lose the ladies in his congregation pretty quickly."

"What did we miss?" asked Geraldine.

"Don't ask. Hugh is one of the sharpest men I know, and possibly the cleverest move he ever made was marrying Elaine." Foyle paused to contemplate his own intelligent selection of a partner, and squeezed Samantha's hand.

"You know, I'm rather tired." Sam yawned pointedly, stroking Christopher's sleeve.

"Are you, my love?" Foyle turned a doting look upon her. "I think then, we should be thanking your parents for all their help, and making our way upstairs."

Iain consulted his watch. It was half past five. He cleared his throat and turned to Geraldine. "It has been a long day, hasn't it, my dear? Shall we go up as well, and have a short rest before dinner?"

"A little quiet time wouldn't go amiss, Darling," smiled Geraldine. "Now Samantha, your father and I will be dining in the Sea Terrace around eight. I don't expect that we shall see you there, but breakfast together tomorrow before we leave for Lyminster would be nice. Not that I'm insisting. Only if you think you'd like to… Christopher?"

Sam gave Christopher a 'that's all right with me' smile, so he nodded and accepted the invitation. "We'd be pleased to, Geraldine. Now, if you'll excuse us, we'll be taking a little quiet time of our own…."

Sam bent to kiss her mother. "Mummy," she whispered, "have a jolly good look at me before I leave, because tomorrow, the old Samantha will be back again. I'm glad I'm not a movie star—they have to do this glamour every day, and it's exhausting."

Geraldine looked up at her. "I know exactly how you feel, my sweet, but dread the day when you no longer shake yourself and make the effort. That's when you know the end is nigh."

Iain looked down at his wife and daughter, whispering together in a huddle, and placed a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "I don't need to tell you, Christopher, that the future will be interesting. But I'm happy you'll be able to help Samantha deal with motherhood, having raised one child already."

"If I know Sam, she'll teach me more than I can her," observed Foyle wryly. "And as for bringing up children, there are lessons from the first time I have yet to learn." One should never be complacent, or imagine that the job of parent is complete, he thought guardedly, mindful of Andrew's letter in the pocket of his dressing gown.

Geraldine watched the newlyweds walk upstairs arm in arm. "Good," she whispered to her husband. "Samantha has a point about this glamour. My shoes are killing me, my stockings itch, my underwear is chafing, my head aches, and I want a nap."

Iain put a hand under his wife's elbow to help her up from her seat. "I detect a prayer somewhere inside that litany of complaints. Perhaps if you rephrase it on the way upstairs, the Good Lord will indulge you…?"

"O Lord, deliver me from scratchy stockings.." mumbled Geraldine, inaudibly.

Sam gaped at the luxurious bedroom suite. A bed of generous proportions—a divan, no less. She thought that she could probably lie sideways on it and still have to point her feet to reach the edge. Tentatively, she perched on the side of the mattress and bounced experimentally. Lovely, bouncy springs.

"Christopher, can we have one of these at home?"

"Mmmmaybe, if we knock the bedroom wall out and, um, let the bed-base overhang the staircase. Otherwise, I'd say we'd better stick with what we've got. For now, at least."

"Come and feel the bounce in this divan." She bobbed a little more enthusiastically, and loosened several curls, which fell across her forehead.

Foyle reached and pushed them back in place, letting his hand drift to her shoulder. "You'll spoil your lovely hairstyle with this bouncing."

"Oh, I hope so. My head aches from wearing my hair up all day." Sam shook the curls back down, and set about dislodging others with her fingers. Then she started to unpin the lot, beginning with the silk gardenia spray. "A souvenir," she pressed the flowers into Christopher's hands. He sniffed the flowers experimentally. And, sure enough: L'Aimant. The fragrance had been next to him all day, and now he leaned across to sink his nose into Samantha's hair. Her aroma was intense and sensual.

Christopher stroked Sam's shoulders, trailing kisses down her forehead and nose to meet her lips, now parted in anticipation.

"Mrs Foyle," he teased, "I sense a certain wantonness, unseemly in a married woman. Your husband certainly would not approve."

"He'll never know," she breathed, "unless you tell him."

"Not likely to do that, am I? He'd murder me in a fit of jealousy. Then who'd be left to catch the criminal?" Christopher pushed her gently back onto the mattress, leaning to recline at her side. Sam burrowed into him for kisses. There was unhurried tenderness there—a leisurely, sweet enjoyment of a now-familiar feast. His hand strayed down over her olive green dress, lingering on her barely swollen belly.

"I went to the public library," breathed Sam into his ear. "You're meant to count the weeks from even before we… well, in any case, it's nearly eight weeks. You won't see much difference here…" she stroked his hand upon her belly. "But here…" she dragged it up to rest upon her breast, "Some soreness. Even the seams on my, um, underclothes are chafing—it can be jolly uncomfortable if I twist in a certain way."

"One quick solution to that particular problem would be… removal of the thing that chafes… " Foyle kissed down into the vee of her neckline, and fumbled with the pea-shaped fabric-covered buttons there.

"Darling, those are decorative," Sam told him patiently. "There's a zip at the side."

"Mmm? Show me." He propped himself up on one elbow, and Sam raised her left arm back above her head to reveal the fastening. "Oh, I see." He leaned across her, and eased the zip down all the way from armpit to hip. "Clever. But now you have to stand to take it off, unless"—he smiled—"I skin you like a rabbit as you're lying there."

Sam chuckled. "Mother always used to say to me when I was small, and she was undressing me for bed: 'skin a rabbit, Sam!', and I would reach my arms up—up above my head, and everything came off in one, leaving me in my cotton vest and knickers."

Foyle quirked a grin. "Sounds very efficient to me. Except you're lying down now, so you might have to… wriggle… to help things along."

Indeed it took a fair amount of wriggling—some of it exaggerated for effect—to get Sam's dress and petticoat up over her head and away. Once the top layers were peeled off, Foyle's attention settled on Sam's chafing underwear: an intricately tailored fashion item, certainly not designed for comfort. He grimaced and then tutted. "Considering all the seams on this, no wonder it's uncomfortable to wear, in your condition. Come on, arch up a bit, it's coming off…"

He reached around under her back and grappled with the hooks. Five or six at least. "Like getting into Fort Knox, Sam… um… hold on… fine. I've got it." Foyle drew the straps off her shoulders and removed the brassiere. He frowned. The tender flesh beneath was not a pretty sight. Angry-looking marks like weals—no broken skin, thank goodness—across the underside of her breasts below the darkened areolas she'd developed in more recent weeks.

He blinked, and looked aside in veiled exasperation. "You've tolerated this all day? For what?"

"Um. Uplift and separation, I suppose," she said, and realised she sounded just a little sheepish. Christopher's face turned grim. He pushed himself up, climbing off the bed, and made for the telephone that stood on a table by the window. Dialling a number, he spoke quietly into the phone. Then he returned to Sam and sat on the edge of the bed, next to her still-supine form. "There'll be a bathrobe somewhere," he said. "I'll get it for you. In a moment, they'll be bringing ice."

"Christopher!" Sam objected, "I really don't think I want ice on my… "

Foyle cut her off in an uncharacteristic show of annoyance. "Samantha, you look very sore to me. You've suffered all day for a stupid fashion. I have sent for ice. In ice-bags. Two of them, to be precise. The ice will soothe the soreness." He picked the discarded brassiere irritably off the bed and ran his fingers round the insides of the cups. "To be fair, it doesn't feel that rough inside. Suppose it's just—the state of you," he mused. "I'll get that robe."

Sam sat up on her elbows and observed her husband wryly. Here she was, a new bride, in déshabillé—which, in her case, meant French knickers, suspender-belt, stockings and absolutely nothing else—and her husband, sweet, worried man that he was, instead of pressing his passionate attentions, was lecturing her on the unsuitability of her underwear, and ordering ice-packs for her bosoms. From room service, no less.

In her mind's eye, Sam was offering all of this as evidence in a committal hearing. Shortly, the men in white coats would be along to drag her ailing husband off for treatment in a benevolent, secure facility.

Sam snapped back to reality. Christopher had returned, and was holding open the promised bathrobe. "Put this on, Sweetheart—just for the time being. I shan't be inviting anyone into the room, but just in case… please, Samantha." His brows were raised, his expression insistent. Sam didn't argue.

They sat quietly together on the bed and waited for a knock. When it came, less than five minutes later, Foyle rose to answer the door, then returned towards the bed a moment later carrying two bulbous, pleated, mop-shaped ice-bags on a tray.

Sam looked sceptically from the ice-bags to her husband and back again. "I don't know…" she said.

"Trust me."

"I've heard that before."

"Just lie back and open up your robe." Foyle stood over her, brandishing an ice-pack in each hand.

Meanwhile, on a different floor of the hotel, the Stewarts were confronting problems of an eerily similar nature.

Geraldine, in her customary no-nonsense way, had hurriedly shed every stitch of clothing as soon as the door to their room had closed behind them. Iain watched with a mixture of amusement and then growing interest. But Geraldine was in what she called an "itchy" mood, which meant that she had insufficient patience or attention-span to deal with her husband's reactions to her.

Having blissfully peeled off her brassiere—close comparison would have revealed it to be a very similar design to Sam's—she was still uncomfortable in the terry-cotton hotel robe she'd donned to cover herself, and set about plunging her hands underneath the wrap-over sides to keep the material from rubbing on her abnormally tender bosoms.

"Oh hang it, Iain, this is torture! I've a good mind to just leave the lot off and walk round naked."

Iain studied her for a moment, then decided action was a safer option than speech. He quietly disappeared into the en suite bathroom and soaked two face-flannels in cold water. Then he wrung them out tightly and brought them across to Geraldine.

"Try these, they might help a little," he smiled at her kindly. "Here, let me… just lie back…" Iain steered his wife onto the bed and she leant back, eyes closed, weary with it all.

"Oh, very well, if you must," Geraldine told him irritably. "Just, if you don't mind… no sudden moves." Her dark eyes opened a crack and met her husband's gentle grey-blue. Sudden moves, she reflected, were no longer the three-to-four times weekly occurrence that they once had been, but neither were they all that rare. And hotels had a tendency to provoke her husband to suddenness, in her experience.

Still, there was such a soft entreaty in his eyes as he pulled apart her robe and laid the damp cloths gently on her, that all her irritation melted. Geraldine placed her hand over his. "Iain, come and lie here by me. Hold my hand. I'm sorry that I snapped."

Needing no further invitation, Iain Stewart bent to loosen his shoelaces and kicked off his shoes. Then he climbed onto the bed next to Geraldine, closed his eyes and lowered his head onto her shoulder, feeling blindly for her hand.

"No sudden moves," he reassured her, pressing a soft smile into her terry robe.

"Nothing sudden," she answered, sinking comfortably into slumber. "For an hour or so, at least."

"An hour. Or so."

Iain yawned, relaxing against his wife. As he often did before drifting off to sleep, he prayed.

Dear Father,

Grant Samantha happiness and peace in her married life, as I have been fortunate to enjoy in mine.

Protect her growing child and give Christopher the gift of strength

—he hesitated in his prayer—

the gift of energy, Lord, to love and support her in the months and years to come, through married life and motherhood, and—if you see fit to spare him long enough—through menopause.

Amen.

****** TBC ******

More Author's Notes:

Hugh Reid. There was a surprise. Once he stood up, he wouldn't shut up. I thought I owed him his moment though. He had so much promise in the few episodes of Foyle's War where he appeared—Michael Simkins made such a good job of him. And then…where did he go? Yet another of Foyle's confidants lost to us.

...

Geraldine, if I were you, I'd change my doctor, Dear. Not a huge choice of quacks in Lyminster though, I imagine. Still, when push comes to shove, there's always Arundel just up the road. Or Littlehampton in the other direction. Get a second opinion

More soon.

GiuC