L'Aimant – Chapter 36
Summary:
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
Chapter 36: Foyle goes some way towards winding things up in London.
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:
Arthur Whitehall, novelist, 'tortured soul', bosom pal of Noël Coward (yeah, right), and long-standing friend of Christopher Foyle, belongs to dancesabove. He appears in her story The Crash.
…
The Lost Weekend is a 1944 novel by Charles R Jackson which tells of a would-be writer's descent into alcoholic oblivion. [A common problem. I blame the invention of screw-top wine: even when you're pie-eyed, you can still manage to get another bottle open...]
In 1945 it was made into a film starring Ray Milland.
...
Marguerite Patten CBE (b. 1915) is a food writer and broadcaster with a background in home economics, and has the distinction of being the first chef to appear on BBC television. During the war, she was attached to the Ministry of Food, and shared her ideas and recipes for making rations stretch, on a radio programme called The Kitchen Front.
Mrs Patten is still going strong. MAKE HER A DAME, I say!
...
Oh, and a gong also for dancesabove who tweaked this into shape and made a lovely addition.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
"Rubbish," he grinned. "You're as light as a feather. Bones like a chicken..." and then proceeded to demonstrate the fact by rising from the chair with Sam still in his arms. "See?"
"Still no idea how you do that," she puzzled with a pretty furrow to her brow, as he whirled her round to prove the point.
"Digging trenches and hefting wounded men off the battlefield tends to build strength in the upper body," he explained mildly, giving her a playful toss.
"Yes, but that was nearly thirty years ago."
Foyle shrugged. "Andrew and I used to arm-wrestle on the kitchen table when he was a youth. He usually lost. Plus," he nodded backwards in the direction of the garden, "holes for Anderson shelters don't dig themselves. And three old ladies in the street with no help..."
Sam looked down at him adoringly. "My hero. All the time that I was driving you that first year, you were coming home and digging shelters in old ladies' gardens."
He grinned. "No other outlets for my energies back then. Kept me out of mischief."
"More's the pity, since it meant I had to wait all this time to catch your eye."
"Oh, you caught my eye, all right." The merriment in his expression turned a little sombre as he added, "Just took my courage four-and-a-half years to catch up."
Chapter 36
Monday, 22nd January 1945
Monday morning, and Foyle reflected ruefully that 'The Lost Weekend' was no longer just the title of a seedy novel, nor a term exclusive to extended binges of the alcoholic kind. Every part of him (bar one) was prey to stiffness, but in one good sense at least, a pile of demons had been laid to rest, for he and Sam had well and truly 'caught up' with each other. And done so to the point where Sam, draped munching on a piece of toast against the breakfast table, embodied relaxation in the nicest way. Despite her woollen dressing gown, for all the world she cut the figure of an oriental odalisque whose status had just risen to the sultan's favourite.
Foyle smiled, and bent to kiss her pillow-roughened hair. "You're going to be late for work, my love."
Indeed, when he squired Sam through the front door with a lingering farewell kiss, it tugged upon his heart to see her pupils still dilated—a trait he'd once seen in an opium addict suffering withdrawal. Happily, her uniform appeared to act like scaffolding, and compensate for any vestiges of languor from the 'lost weekend'.
In odd moments over the last two days when his full attention hadn't been diverted—and he was not complaining, mind—Foyle had pondered over what to do about Anne Messinger. There was no question but that Sir Giles' demise had been the tragic outcome of a calamitous mix-up. The test results awaiting him in London would almost certainly support that theory. But he had no doubt whatsoever in his mind that Lady Messinger was no Lucretia Borgia. Armed with that certainty, his way ahead seemed clear.
Anselm arrived at half past twelve to whisk Foyle back to Whitehall, where, sure enough, the documents piled in his in-tray confirmed that all the jars despatched for testing had shown positive for aconite. Except, of course, the rheumatism ointment, which would have done a creditable job of perking up a roast beef sandwich.
Foyle twisted in his swivel-chair so that his gaze fell naturally over the Victoria Embankment and out across the busy river. His library research of the previous week had alerted him already to one known case in which horseradish root and aconite were inadvertently confused, with deadly consequences to the perpetrator. If anything, the case he'd read about was neat, with no one left behind to blame. But how much worse, then, was this tragic circumstance, where the victim was connected to the agent of his death by bonds of love.
He leant back in his chair and placed a finger to his temple. There could be no question of Lady Messinger learning the facts, for they would certainly be the death of her. Foyle picked up the phone and put a call in to Miss Pierce's secretary, only to be told that Pierce was out of London, and therefore unavailable for consultation until Wednesday.
He spent the vast remainder of the afternoon assembling supporting documentation for his report, which, once submitted, would constitute the closure of the investigation and mark the termination of his temporary secondment to the SOE.
Pleased with his own progress, he was in an expansive mood that evening when he wandered into Alice Howard's kitchen.
"You put Charles to shame," smiled Alice as he stood beside her, sleeves rolled to his elbows, helping with the washing up.
"This?" his look was one of affable surprise, the sudsy bubbles on his forearms popping as he lifted dishes from the sink onto the draining board. "I do this all the time at home. Sam found me already housetrained. All those years of looking after Andrew. We're a different breed of male, the Foyles." He winked at Alice. "Georgie has a treat in store when she discovers Andrew knows his way around a kitchen."
"Samantha is a lucky woman. As was Rosalind. I'm glad you're happy, Christopher." Alice caught him by his shoulders while he was helpless, with his hands still plunged into the dishwater, and kissed him soundly on the brow. And she was tall enough to do it.
"Alice!" he squirmed under her attentions, "Behave yourself."
"Oh, tush!" she admonished, "Charles knows I adore you. I have permission."
Christopher rolled his eyes and glanced up at her with mock annoyance. "Whose?"
Afterwards he made his way along to Charles's study to alert him—well, actually, to needle him—about the impending loss of Georgie. Ever mindful of the manner in which Charles had manoeuvred him into this assignment in the first place, Christopher had absolutely no compunction about breaking the inconvenient news.
"Charles," he announced brightly, sticking his head around the door, "just to let you know, I expect to be finished here in the next couple of days."
"Ah?" Commander Howard peeled off his spectacles and looked up from the document box that stood open on his desk. "Going to tell me whodunnit, old man?"
Christopher tilted his head and tsk-tsked. "You know better than that, Charles."
Howard shrugged, replaced his spectacles, and dropped his chin to focus on his papers. "Just thought I'd ask. But if you're playing coy..."
"Um. Simply here to remind you, really..."
Charles looked up smartly. "Oh?"
Christopher couldn't resist a bob of the knees. "Mmh. Remind you... that you, um, lose your driver at the end of the week?" He beamed annoyingly—a rare enough expression in a man like Foyle, and all the more infuriating because of it.
Charles frowned irritably. "Drat. Yes. Forgotten that. Already losing her for the day, tomorrow. Off to visit my snotty-nosed nephew in ruddy Epping."
Foyle raised an approving eyebrow. "You gave her the day off, then? Decent of you."
"Well, it's back-to-back meetings at The Citadel till Thursday. No skin off my nose. But as to what I shall do next week..."
"Perhaps they'll give you Anselm. I shan't be using him."
Charles snorted. "Not likely, old man. You got the special treatment there. Your Mr A will have a backlog of throats to cut as soon as he's shut of you."
Foyle's mouth twitched. "Over-dramatising, aren't you?"
Charles levelled him a knowing look. "Am I?"
"Rrright." Foyle scratched his ear sceptically. "Just as well I've been travelling in the back seat, then. In case he got the itch..."
"Please yourself." Charles shrugged at the dismissal. "You'll be putting Georgina up at Steep Lane?"
"Seems the best idea. Accommodation's at a premium, and she is, after all, Andrew's fiancée. Mmmight even be family before we know it. Andrew's habit is to tell me precisely... nothing. Either of his whereabouts or plans."
Charles rose, walked round the desk, and clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder. "Best of British luck, old man. You're going to have an interesting time with two young women in the house. Like a ruddy pasha in a harem."
Foyle grimaced. "Hardly. More likely will have to be getting used to the idea of becoming an 'interesting specimen' in my own home."
"You wish you'd stayed single?" Charles' brows contracted in a momentary flash of concern.
Stayed single? The image slid into his mind of Sam on Bonfire Night, provocative and pinioned beneath him on the hearthrug. Christopher could hear himself pleading with her: Help me not to do this, hmm? And she'd responded, steely-eyed...
"Not on your nelly!" The contented smile that spread across Christopher's face dispelled Charles momentary worries beyond argument.
Tuesday, 23rd January 1945
Next morning, Foyle applied himself assiduously to the task of typing up his report.
Deliberately eschewing secretarial assistance, he sat over the typewriter until well after lunch, his French cuffs pulled back from the threat of ink-stains by a pair of gold-finished sleeve garters. Finally, around half-past-two, and having gone without a break all morning, he wound the final sheet from the roller and stacked it with the others, before slotting the sheaf of pages inside a foolscap manila document wallet and labelling it 'Eyes Only Hilda Pierce'.
The carbon copy, he folded carefully and slid it into an envelope, which he addressed and sealed, before stowing it in his inside jacket pocket. Next he set light to the carbon paper in the open fireplace; then he donned hat and coat, and exited his office with the manila wallet clutched purposefully in his fingers.
Along the corridor, he handed the walleted document to Miss Pierce's secretary, and walked out of the building into the welcome crisp air of a London winter afternoon. Turning up his collar, he parked his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and made for the Embankment, where he planned to stretch his legs and think. After a brief moment's indecision, he directed his steps north and east along the river, past Victoria Embankment gardens and under WaterlooBridge.
Bizarrely, Foyle was unconflicted by the course of action he'd determined upon in the Messinger affair. Having suffered the personal cost to his career of a truth suppressed, he now felt fully justified in seeking a suppression on Anne Messinger's account. It was one that he felt morally invested in obtaining. Would the Department feel compelled to go through legal channels? It was hard to say. On the one hand, there was the view that the truth would make the Service into a laughing-stock; on the other, Sir Giles' prominence meant that questions would be asked outside the Department's sphere of influence, and whatever answers were then offered would have to give a satisfactory impression. Therefore, authorisation to cover up the cause of death would need to come from the very highest level. Undoubtedly, the only viable route up the chain of command to achieve that aim was through Hilda Pierce, and it was hard to know which way she might elect to jump on this. On the other hand... did matters really need to leave Miss Pierce's control?
Looking up, for he had paid little attention to anything but the pavement underneath his feet as he had strolled, Foyle realised that he had walked as far as BlackfriarsBridge. To his left stood the giant, curved frontage of Unilever House. He craned his neck to take in the imposing colonnade along the upper floors and the striking sculpture of man and horse at one end of the building. Impressive though it was, he would have been more appreciative of a pillar box, given the letter burning a hole in his pocket.
He retraced his steps back west, then south until he reached WestminsterBridge. Exasperatingly, there wasn't one pillar box in evidence. Foyle gazed across the river at the intricate Edwardian baroque façade of County Hall and mused that its convoluted architecture could easily pass as a metaphor for Hilda Pierce's Machiavellian mind. He really didn't relish playing the sort of games her job entailed, but there was one way he'd be sure he got his own way in this matter: he wouldn't balk at reminding Hilda that she owed him one.
Turning, he strolled back south along Embankment towards the Palace of Westminster, sunk in thought, his eyes fixed on his shoes, his hat pulled down against the low-angled afternoon sunlight coming from his right.
"Christopher Foyle!" a woman's sonorous voice pulled him from his paces, and his head twisted sharply right, toward a large plane tree, beneath which was set an artist's easel and a stool, and a figure muffled in a long fur-collared topcoat. It was hard to make the figure out because the sun was in his eyes, but if the accoutrements of a painter were insufficient clues, the trademark fingerless gloves, from the account related by Samantha, gave away their wearer.
Foyle's earnest features broke into an easy smile. He tipped his hat. "Dame Laura! Charmed to see you."
"Likewise, my dear fellow. What brings you up to London this time?"
"A series of unfortunate events... annnd a staff car," he smiled, apologetic for his lack of candour.
"Ah. Forbidden to tell me. On pain of detention in The Tower?"
He winced. "Prretty much. But loss of pension is a more likely outcome. How are you keeping? How's Harold?"
Laura braced a thumb against her brush and held it up to take a measurement. "When he left the flat this morning, he was en route for the British Library, mumbling some nonsense about Anaïs Nin's journals..." Her eye caught Foyle's raised eyebrow. "No—don't ask. I long ago learned not to. How long will you be staying, Christopher?"
"Expect to be back in Hastings by the end of this week."
"Ah. A few days more, then. May we feed you? Thursday evening? I have a little something that I promised to Samantha."
Foyle rocked on his heels. "Well, that would be extremely kind. Let me make a note of your address." He reached inside his overcoat and jacket for a pen, and withdrew a narrow jotter from the same pocket that contained the envelope.
"16, Langford Place," dictated Laura, craning her neck over his notepad. "Come up on the Bakerloo. We have a nice new station in St John's Wood. But be prepared to climb over the odd person camping on the platform. Rather quieter these days, I am pleased to say, but all humanity has been there on and off through the bombings. And habits of the Blitz die hard."
His lips turned down, enjoying her wry joke. "Wwouldn't be London otherwise. What's your subject?" he indicated the canvas on her easel, not presuming to approach and view the work-in-progress until he was invited.
Laura squinted, weighing her response. "Call it... a flight of fancy," she began.
Though Laura's stock-in-trade was realism, her soul occasionally fell prey to visions. In this case, she would call it a reaction to the war, which drained the colour out of everything. She beckoned him to stand beside her.
"You'll see that my imagination's tinged with mischief."
Laura flicked a casual wrist across at County Hall. "Face to face with that monstrosity, it amuses me to put the building in its place—debunk its arrogance. Laugh, if you will, but in my mind's eye, this is what I see..."
Foyle eyed the grandiose sweeping crescent of blanched arches and colonnades depicted on the canvas, and identified in them the strong lines of the building opposite; its ponderous south wing and the recently completed mirror-image attached to its north flank. Dame Laura had, in her rendition, faded County Hall to grey, beneath a heavy-clouded twilit sky. By contrast, hard adjacent to the block of nuanced grey façade, the eye was drawn towards a gaudy blaze of colour. For there in showy splendour stood the artist's vision of a fairground, with a looming giant of a Ferris wheel—far bigger, even, than the one that Foyle had seen in pictures of the Prater. The otherwise imposing bastion of County Hall stood dwarfed and overwhelmed, not only by the big wheel's towering height, but also by the pulsing, rich kaleidoscope of lights upon it and around it. The image was a daring fantasy of cheery affluence and merriment, portending better times, he felt, than these.
"Tell me what you think," she pressed him.
"Fairground attractions? Just across the river from the gloomy corridors of power? I should, um, think," he made a soft, considered moue, "that it'll be a while before it happens in reality. But I can readily appreciate the sentiment behind it."
"Something for your children, Christopher, perhaps?"
He smiled. "Mmaybe. Or more likely still, for theirs."
They parted, and Foyle strolled on past Big Ben towards St James's Park, where, finally, he dropped his letter in a pillar box in Birdcage Walk, and walked off grumbling inwardly about the paucity of postal opportunities in such a busy section of the capital.
Wednesday, 24th January 1945
Hilda Pierce was poised at her office window with her back to Foyle. Hard shafts of morning light shone through the tall glass panes and turned her figure to a stark black silhouette. She turned now, and her mournful profile swung around, connecting with Foyle's steady gaze.
"Your report made tragic reading, Mr Foyle. Are you fully confident in your conclusions?"
"Yes." There was no merit in an ornamental answer. Everything was there in black-and-white.
He settled back into his chair and crossed his legs. "No questions, then?"
"Concerning this case?" she weighed the question nonchalantly. "None."
Foyle's brows knitted in suspicion. His engagement was for one investigation only. What was Pierce implying? He hauled the errant conversation back into his court. "Well, in that case, I have one for you."
Hilda smiled with all the friendly welcome of a tiger. "By all means, ask it."
An eyebrow lifted, but his gaze beneath it was unblinking. "Knowing the truth as you now do... wwwill you feel compelled to make this a police matter?"
Miss Pierce considered her nails. "My personal preference would be... not. But the matter may be out of my hands. There are those whose purpose would be served by a transparent cause of death, with blame attributable."
"But you're not one of those."
"I am not. My view is that a falsified medical report would suffice. The purpose of engaging you was to determine agency of death, and hence identify intent or malice aimed at damaging the Service. You have satisfied me now that neither situation is the case."
Foyle chewed his lower lip. "Then bury this report with Messinger. His wife would not survive the truth."
"As I have said, Mr Foyle, the decision may not rest with me. I am required to submit this report, unedited, to Major General Gubbins."
"Don't submit it. Pearson works for you?"
"He does."
"In that case, order him to strike 'asphyxia' from the record. A death certificate showing simply myocardial infarction should serve its purpose. No one will be the wiser."
"Lady Messinger might question the unnecessary delay in delivering her husband's body to her. Her housekeeper..."
"Is loyal to Lady Messinger. She gives nothing away. As for Anne Messinger herself, we rub along extremely well. She trusts me."
Hilda regarded him, then glanced across towards the window. After a moment, she asked, "Do you have a second copy in your possession, Mr Foyle?"
"Of?" Foyle's face was innocence incarnate.
"This report." Hilda's bony finger stopped just short of skewering the sheaf of papers on her desk.
"I don't." The man's expression was unwavering.
"No carbon copy?"
"Nup."
Pierce eyed him sceptically. "Because if you did, and that copy were ever to come to light, rendering my own position vulnerable—"
"Miss Pierce, I've fallen on my own sword once at your request for SOE, and that makes you the unofficial keeper of my reputation. Nothing to gain by ruining yours. Bluntly put," he levelled her a look that hovered between expectation and distaste, "I'm here to collect a debt."
Hilda's eyes slid sideways. "Join me in a glass of whisky, Mr Foyle? To celebrate the closure of the case?" She wandered to the tray behind her desk, then poured two generous single malts and offered one to her companion.
Not to be diverted, Foyle gave an irritable blink, and his tone was hard. "Your assurance that the facts surrounding Sir Giles' death will go no further?"
Hilda's lips curled up into a narrow, feline smile. "You have it."
"Thhhank you." Foyle put up a hand to accept the proffered glass.
"The less attention drawn to this matter now, the better," Hilda continued. "The body will be released to the Hastings undertaker tomorrow."
She smirked and swirled the whisky round the bottom of her glass. "I'll put a call through as soon as you leave this office. He's been on ice so long, I'd hate him to be... brittle for the journey."
Foyle ignored the black joke, and squinted thoughtfully. "Which firm?"
"Undertaker?" Hilda sauntered over to a steel cabinet and fetched a file out of the top drawer, leafings through it quickly. "Lady Messinger has requested Arthur Towner be instructed."
"I know Towner," Foyle sipped his drink. "I'll have a word. He'll speak to Lady Anne, and I'll visit her on Friday afternoon." He paused, then added pointedly, "After I've told AC Parkins to expect me back on duty by next Monday."
Hilda perched herself against the desk, and took the measure of him with a penetrating look.
"If I may say so, Mr Foyle, you have... what I would term a forensic mind. By which I mean one that prioritises depth over breadth. Whilst... not ignoring breadth, of course." She looked into her tumbler briefly, before re-fixing her gaze on him. "I think you know I'm eager to have you in the Service permanently. Will you consider joining?"
His chin tilted in recognition then dismissal of the compliment. The tight smile from her interlocutor alerted Hilda that there was no chance that Foyle shared her eagerness. But he was, as ever, a master of the chivalrous refusal.
"Well, uncommonly generous of you to say so, but I choose to stay in Hastings."
"May I ask why?"
He struggled momentarily with the honesty of his reasons. A finger rose to rub his upper lip. "I'm going to be a father for a second time. Late summer, early autumn."
If Pierce's eyes widened, it was so minutely as to be imperceptible, for a lifetime of professional survival in a man's world had taught her how to guard herself.
"So as you can imagine," Foyle continued, "my priorities have changed somewhat since our paths first crossed."
"Have they, Mr Foyle?" Hilda's glance was artful. "You fffish more than you did?"
She let her eyelids droop, as if to throw him off the scent of her subtle insolence, but still she caught the sudden upjerk of his head as he tried to gauge the purpose of the rank impertinence.
t didn't take him long to reach the right conclusion.
"So that low angle of attack is the best you can come up with?" he countered evenly. "You think guilt over domestic happiness will prick my conscience into entertaining your proposition?"
"Perhaps... not." Hilda gravitated to the window, where she stood and followed with her eyes the river traffic up and down the Thames.
"Mr Foyle. It will not have escaped your notice that this war is drawing to a close. The play is in its last act, so to speak."
"Seems likely," he conceded, tersely.
"However, other conflicts will undoubtedly develop in the aftermath of this one. I cannot promise that we shall not ask to borrow you again at some point in the future."
Foyle's lip curled on the verge of an ungentlemanly sneer. He checked himself, and settled for a momentary pursing of the lips. "Aaand I would agree to that because...?"
Hilda turned. The smile she wore this time was one that chilled him with its confidence. "Because we share an irresistible compulsion to serve our country, Mr Foyle. Irresistible."
Foyle took a long swig at his single malt and scowled. His words were clipped. "Don't bank on it."
"Oh, come on, Foyle," her eyes flashed sidelong at him. "All that fffishing can't be good for you at your age. Refill?"
...
That evening, in the privacy of Charles's study, Foyle dialled the number of his novelist friend, Arthur Whitehall, and duly steeled himself to fight a different battle for a word in edgeways.
"Arthur? Christopher. How the devil are y...?... Oh, kicking my heels in London for a few days... Um. Westminster. To be precise, that stretch of thoroughfare they named after you," he supplied affably. "Terribly dull and colourless, of course. Bears absolutely no resemblance to its namesake. Listen, I, um, need a favour. You'll be getting a letter through the post in the next day or so..."
Foyle listened patiently to the interruption. "A letter from me, Arthur... Well, that's what I was about to explain... Well, you'll know because it's hand-addressed. You'll recognise my writing... Quite."
"When it arrives, just stick it in your safe, will you? Unopened... No, it's not a billet doux... No, it isn't cash... No, not my will, for Christ's sake, man..." He pinched between his brows. "Well, nnn... yyy... Look, Arthur, can't play twenty questions over this. Can you just do as I...? Thank you. Might need to reclaim it from you one of the days... Till then, would you just... forget you've got it...?"
Having spoken his piece, Foyle now held his breath to await Arthur's answer, exhaling finally when he heard the one that he was hoping for. "Appreciate it, Arthur... Yes, we're well... She's blooming... Mmm?... What that means, Arthur, is you're going to be an honorary uncle."
Foyle grinned and held the earpiece several inches from his ear until his friend eventually calmed down. "Well," he chuckled soundlessly at Arthur's last remark, "Bing Crosby has a lot to answer for, but a bit unfair to pin this one on him..."
He crossed his ankles, relaxing now against the edge of Charles's desk. "Me? Counting my blessings, as you can imagine..."
Thursday 25th January 1945
On Thursday afternoon, and having telephoned AC Parkins with the news that he would be back in post after the weekend, Foyle packed his few belongings from the Whitehall office into a cardboard banker's box with die-cut handles, and asked one of the secretaries to summon Anselm to collect it.
Next he made a call to Charles at Admiralty Citadel. "Let Georgina go tomorrow morning. I'm being driven back to Hastings. She might as well have a lift down with me as take the train."
Charles' laconic resistance was more mischief than genuine irritation. "Oh? I thought I had her till the very end of the week. Anything else, in a small way?"
"Nup. Pretty much it. I'll be out to dinner with Harold and Dame Laura this evening. Catch you and Alice when I get in."
Foyle's early evening call to Sam was met with great relief that soon evolved into elaborate culinary promises of Spam surprise. "Never say die," was Sam's cheerful comment on her plans to cook for all three of them; but hot on the heels of the proposed menu came a list of small domestic worries, culminating with her fretting over the need to clear things out of Andrew's room in preparation for Georgina occupying it.
Foyle sensed pre-house-guest nerves were setting in, and felt a pang of guilt for having wasted the previous weekend on self-indulgence, instead of readying Andrew's room to welcome their new guest. He and Sam had been far too wrapped up in each other to give the matter necessary attention. Well they could kiss goodbye to interludes like that for the foreseeable future, but in the meantime...
"Look," he told her mildly, "Couldn't give a fig what's for dinner. Don't cook. Don't clean. Don't fuss."
"But Georgie..."
"But Georgie what?" he whispered into the receiver with restrained exasperation. "We'll all go out to eat. Andrew's room? Perfectly presentable for guests. Leave his stuff for his fiancée to sort out. Going to have to learn to live with Andrew's rubbish soon enough. She might as well start now."
He was rewarded with a long sigh of acceptance from the Hastings end. "You're right, I know. Just anxious for things to be Bristol fashion. And all that."
"Sam? Start as we mean to go on. The household is for all of us to look after. You're not the only one on duty. Hmm?" he closed his eyes and smiled at her compulsion to put order into things, so winningly undermined by the tendency to small disasters.
"I'm never going to be Marguerite Patten," Sam complained, "but I do want to make things, well, smooth for all of us at home." She paused, then added only half-jokingly, "Mainly so that you'll think I'm a woman wonder, and be glad you married me."
Foyle frowned at that. So the little discussion they'd had under the stairs at Charles's house over New Year was back to haunt them from a different angle.
"Married you," he told her firmly. "Not Marguerite Patten. Not your cooking, remember?"
"Just as well. The cooking's not worth tuppence," supplied Sam, darkly.
"Mmarriage is priceless though," he grinned invisibly down the phone. "You're a natural in other ways."
If only he'd seen Samantha duck her head delightedly with a broad and beautiful smile. But he could hear how her voice brightened as she said, "Flatterer. Where are we going to eat?"
Soon afterwards, Foyle's own dinner plans saw him board a northbound train at Embankment. He alighted at St John's Wood, and ten minutes later, walked up the driveway of a large pale-stuccoed mansion, and rang the bell of 16, Langford Place.
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
Unilever House, 100, Victoria Embankment is a neoclassical, art deco style riverside office block, built by Lord Leverhulme in 1929 as the headquarters of his soap company Lever Brothers, later renamed Unilever.
It is now the headquarters of Royal Mail.
...
"16, Langford Place. Come up on the Bakerloo. We have a nice new station in St John's Wood..."
Tube-hopping Londoners, don't shoot me for inaccuracy. Bakerloo Line is correct for this era. The St John's Wood area used to be served by Lord's and Marlborough Road stations on the Metropolitan Line. Then, in 1939, they opened St John's Wood station on the Bakerloo line. Now St John's Wood is served by the Jubilee Line.
Blue Plaque spotters, don't shoot me, either. The Knights' house in Langford Place began as number 9, but was renumbered to 16 while the Knights were still living there.
…
A word in for nocturnefauré's "Where to, Sir?" in the M-rated section. Rosalind Foyle's dates in canon, and Andrew's quoted age of 22 in 1940 make it hard to see Foyle as anything other than a cradle-snatcher in his relationship with Rosalind. Chapter 7 makes a brave attempt to exonerate him. Why not nip across and see what you think?
…
More soon.
GiuC