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Part Five: A Woman Alone

Watching Katherine make her way up the dark pavement with her burden, Foyle felt a sudden urge to help. Perhaps he ought to see her safely inside. A woman alone …

"Look, Sam," he said quickly, "You should get home too. It's been a long day. I'll walk from here; it's not far. See you Monday. Enjoy your weekend." He got quickly out of the car, giving his startled driver time for no more than a hasty "Goodnight, sir," before he closed the door.

When he joined her in the blackout darkness at the door Katherine was fumbling awkwardly in her handbag for her key. "Let me help," he offered softly, gesturing to the sleeping form.

After shooting him a startled glance, Katherine allowed him to lift the limp weight from her arms. The child sighed and murmured something unintelligible before slipping her arms up around his neck and nestling her head on his shoulder. As he held the small warm body and breathed in her delicate, little-girl scent, he found himself thinking nostalgically of how he used to carry Andrew like this when he was small.

The blackout curtains hadn't been drawn, so the little flat was flooded with moonlight. Katherine led him into the adjoining bedroom where she quickly turned down one of the beds. He lowered Cecily gently onto it and her mother slipped off her shoes, placed a rag doll in her arms and pulled up the covers. She bent to kiss the sleeping child before following him from the room.

She closed the bedroom door behind them silently. Foyle expected her to draw the blackout curtains and turn on a light, but she didn't. Instead, she leaned back against the door and pressed her hands to her face. It wasn't until he heard the first hitching breaths that he realised she was crying.

Hardly surprising, he thought. She'd kept her composure during the entire ordeal; it was only to be expected that she would break down now it was over. Foyle was naturally reticent with overt displays of emotion, but his years with the police had taught him how to deal with tearful women. Wordlessly he took her gently by the elbow and steered her to the sofa. Then he closed the drapes, lit a lamp and sat down to wait for her tears to subside.

It didn't take long. When she lifted her head, he proffered his handkerchief. "Better?" he asked softly.

She mopped her face. "Yes, thank you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go to pieces like that."

"Quite understandable."

"It's just … Cecily is all the family I have now. I don't know what I would have done if anything had happened to her. She's … she's my reason for getting up in the morning. Sometimes, I think, my only reason for living."

Foyle felt an unexpected stirring of empathy. Her words were an exact echo of how he'd felt about Andrew after Rosalind's death. Andrew had been thirteen. He cleared his throat a little uncomfortably. "Well, she's safely home now. No harm came to her."

"Please tell me where you found her!"

"In Croydon, south of London. Perkins left her there with an elderly woman, his aunt in fact. He told her that Cecily needed someone to care for her while her mother was in hospital. She had no idea that she'd been kidnapped."

"And this old woman … she treated her well?"

"As far as I can tell. She appeared to be all right when we found her, except for being worried about you. Perkins told her that you had been taken ill and that he was going to take her to visit you in hospital. That's how he lured her away."

"Did she seem frightened?"

"Not at all. She was playing with a litter of kittens when we arrived. Seemed to be quite taken with them."

"Kittens?" To his surprise, she gave a short, rueful chuckle. "I'm surprised you got her to come with you!" At his quizzical look she explained, "She adores kittens. She's been after me for months to let her have one." She gave her head a little shake, as though to brush the subject from her mind. "I'm sorry, Mr Foyle. You've been so kind. Where are my manners? Would you care for a cup of tea?" Without waiting for an answer she rose, but almost immediately reeled and caught hold of the arm of the sofa for support.

"You all right?" he asked with concern, rising too. She had gone very pale.

"Yes, yes … just a little dizzy. It's been a long day."

His eyes narrowed. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

"Ummm … I'm not sure. Yesterday, I think." She pressed a hand to her brow.

He looked at her sternly. "Really, you won't be of any use to Cecily if you're fainting away. Or me, for that matter. I still have some questions I need to ask you." Abandoning his plans for an imminent departure, he added firmly, "I think you should go splash some cold water on your face while I get you something to eat."

Without giving her a chance to protest he went over to the kitchen. She stared after him in surprise before retreating to the bedroom, too drained to protest.

When she emerged a short time later she looked much improved. Her face, now clean of make-up, was faintly pink from the cold water and she had unpinned her hair and brushed it down in loose dark waves. Joining Foyle, who was beating eggs a bowl, she filled the kettle and set it on the cooker. Then she lifted two plates from the dresser.

"You will join me, of course?" she asked, following his glance. "I insist. Unless … is your family expecting you home for dinner?"

Foyle cleared his throat. "No, I live alone."

Her eyes flicked to his face in silent recognition that he must have suffered a loss similar to her own. But she merely said, "Well, it's settled, then," and began slicing bread for toast.

Foyle felt he should decline, but he had a distinct feeling that she would refuse to eat anything unless he agreed. And the smell of food was reminding him that it was long past his usual dinner time.

They sat down to the simple meal together, both trying to mask their shyness at this unexpected ending to the day. Foyle wasn't quite sure how he'd wound up here; he normally made it a rule not to accept even a cup of tea from the people he encountered through his work, preferring to keep things on a professional basis. Even coming back to her flat tonight, he admitted to himself, was uncharacteristic of him. But he did need to speak to her some more about the case, preferably out of the child's hearing, and she had obviously needed help …

Katherine's voice broke in on his thoughts. "This is very good, Mr Foyle."

His mouth twisted in a wry half-smile. "Rather wish my son had heard you say that," he heard himself reply. "He's never very complimentary about my cooking."

"Oh? Is he away at school?"

"What? Oh, no. In the Forces."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-three."

Her eyebrows rose. "Twenty-three, and he's complaining about your cooking? I do believe I'd point him toward the kitchen and tell him to fend for himself."

"Well, I've tried that, y'know, but then I have to eat his cooking."

She smiled for the first time. "Lesser of two evils?"

"Rather," he replied awkwardly, trying not to stare. He was astonished at how the gentle smile transformed her face, giving her eyes a warm sparkle. Why, she's lovely, he thought. He found himself wondering about her. What had brought her to England? How long had she been living here? And why hadn't she gone back to America after she was widowed? He couldn't think of any way to ask her that wouldn't sound intrusive, though, so he said nothing.

When they had finished Katherine cleared away their plates and brought the teapot to the table. "Thank you very much, Mr Foyle," she said softly, pouring them each a cup. "Well beyond the call of duty, I'm sure. I must admit I don't usually care to be bossed about in such a high-handed fashion, but you were right, I did need to eat. I feel much better. Now what was it you wanted to ask me?"

He dragged his mind back to the case. "What was your husband's profession, Mrs Neville-West?"

She looked surprised. "Stephen? He was an historian. A medievalist."

That explained the books he'd noticed. "Lecturer?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"He wasn't tenured anywhere. He taught at universities all over Britain."

Foyle nodded. This still didn't tell him what he wanted to know, but how to phrase the question in a manner that wouldn't offend her? "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but do either you or your husband come from a wealthy family?"

She looked distinctly taken aback. "Why?"

"I'm trying to work out why Perkins chose your daughter rather than any other child in the school."

"Oh, I see." She sipped her tea. "I've been asking myself the same question all day, Mr Foyle. Unfortunately I have no answer for you. Stephen and I can best be described as … well, as a pair of tweedy academics. I'm no heiress, believe me, and while his family is comfortable, I wouldn't describe them as wealthy."

"I see."

"Unless…" she set her cup back in its saucer.

"Unless?"

"Could he have assumed we were well-off because of our name? The double-barrel, I mean. It does sound, well, rather …"

Foyle's thoughts had been taking the same track. "Rather posh?"

She nodded. "Exactly. And it's downright aristocratic, in fact, if you trace the family tree back far enough. Stephen's great-grandfather was a viscount – or was it his great-great-grandfather? I never can remember. Anyway, Stephen was the third son in his family, his father was a second son, his grandfather a fourth son – the connection is extremely remote, I promise you. Stephen used to say that he had a gentleman's name but not a gentleman's income." She took another sip of tea before she continued.

"But I can't think what could have made Perkins believe that we have that kind of money stashed away, no matter how many hyphens in our surname. I mean, it's only the local primary, after all."

"But weren't you going to the b– " Foyle began, then caught himself.

"Going where?"

Foyle cursed himself for speaking thoughtlessly, but he couldn't think of a tactful way to avoid finishing his sentence. "To the bank?"

"The bank?" Katherine looked confused.

"This morning. You said you were going to get the money."

She looked at him silently for a long moment. Then she set her cup down again and reached for her handbag. Wordlessly she removed a small black velvet cube, opened the lid and set it down in front of him. A large emerald ring sparkled up at him. Then she brought out a second jeweller's box, this one an oblong of white leather containing a single strand of pearls.

"My engagement ring," she said quietly. "It belonged to my husband's grandmother. And my father gave me the pearls when I graduated from college. I don't have any idea what they're worth, but I assume this town has a pawnshop."

Foyle didn't know quite what to say. The ring was stunning, he noted detachedly, the glittering stone at least two carats. His glance shifted to her hands resting on the table. They were practical hands, he thought incongruously, small yet capable-looking, bare of nail varnish and slightly dry about the knuckles. He could imagine them washing dishes or knitting, but he couldn't picture them wearing that showy ring.

He gave his himself a mental shake to try to throw off his bemusement. He had always had an unusually keen eye for detail, but he wasn't sure why his thoughts were wandering in such unlikely directions tonight. He cleared his throat. "I see. Well, I'm … er … glad you didn't have to part with them."

"Well, their value to me is sentimental, of course." Reaching for the teapot, Katherine refilled their cups and passed him the milk jug. "And since we're being candid, may I ask where you got that envelope of money you gave me?"

He was glad to answer, since it moved them away from an uncomfortable topic. "Several years ago I arrested a man who was printing five-pound notes in his garden shed. We seized a large supply as evidence and held onto some in the station safe. It's come in handy on a few occasions, like today."

Her eyebrows had gone up. "Counterfeit? Very clever. But what would you have done if he'd gotten away with it?"

"We weren't going to let that happen. But even if it had, he wouldn't have been too difficult to trace. The ink on those notes runs when it gets wet."

"Oh? Then when he went into the canal …"

"Yyyyes." He gave her a wry smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" She looked torn between amusement and chagrin.

"Don't worry, we have more. And it was worth it, watching him topple in. Quite a shove you gave him. How did you manage it? He's twice your size."

"Hit 'em low, Mr Foyle."

"I'm sorry?"

She laughed, a delightfully smooth, melodious tinkle. "My father was a huge football fan – American football, that is, which is a bit like rugby. Lots of tackling. Anyway, Dad coached a boys' team in our town and he used to say that the way to take down a bigger fellow was to 'hit 'em low, hit 'em hard'." She mimicked her father's gravelly tones, her soft voice slipping into a Southern drawl. "If you'd asked me yesterday I would have sworn I didn't remember that, but I guess it was lodged in my brain somewhere. When Perkins brushed me off all I could think was that I couldn't let him get away. I don't even remember pushing him – just the splash."

"Well, wasn't necessary. We had enough men nearby that he wouldn't have got away. And I can't in good conscience tell you I approve – if you'd failed to knock him in, he might have hurt you. But the expression on his face when we fished him out was priceless."

"I still can't believe I did it, to tell you the truth."

"Well, I'll question him further tomorrow morning. He'll be charged with kidnapping, and since he's already given us a partial confession I hope to get more out of him. I'll certainly ask him why he chose your daughter, but it's helpful to me to have the facts beforehand. Thank you for being so frank. I'm sorry I had to pry."

"That's quite all right. I'm so grateful to have her home … nothing else matters next to that."

"One thing more. I gave Cecily the impression that the whole incident was due to a misunderstanding on Perkins' part. She doesn't realise she was kidnapped and it might be better if she didn't find out. It's up to you, of course, but I thought it might be less …"

"Less frightening ? I'm sure you're right. She's had enough upheaval in her life already without ... That's very thoughtful of you, Mr Foyle, thank you."

"Not at all. If we get a full confession from Perkins, she shouldn't have to give evidence in court. But it will be necessary for me to find out from her exactly what happened. When do you think she might be ready for me to speak with her?"

"Oh, I should think tomorrow would probably be all right. I imagine you want to talk to her while it's still fresh in her mind."

"Yes, that would be best. Why don't I ring you in the morning, then, and see how she's doing?"

"That sounds fine."

Rising from the table, Foyle put on his hat and coat. At the door, she extended her hand. Her fingers felt warm and soft in his. "Thank you again, Mr Foyle," she said in that quiet, melodious voice.

He nodded curtly, a bit embarrassed in the face of her repeated expressions of gratitude. "I'm glad everything turned out all right. Try to get some rest. Good night."

"Good night."