Chapter 4

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer, Spoilers, and Warning

Foyle had not formulated a solid plan beyond ensuring Sam and Christina's safety. It had been an incredibly long and, though he would only admit it to himself, emotionally exhausting day. He was back in London and returning to his hotel when he noticed a man, who greatly resembled Adam; enter a pub around the corner from his hotel. Foyle stopped and followed the man's path into the nearby establishment. After entering, he scanned the dimly lit room and confirmed it was in fact Wainwright he had seen enter. Not wishing to draw undo attention to himself by leaving right after entering; Foyle took the few remaining steps to the bar and ordered a beer. His order delivered, he took one small sip. Before he could place the mug back on the bar Adam launched his first verbal attack. Foyle had not uttered a word to Adam or made eye contact with the younger man. Steadfast to his position at the bar he did not approach the younger man, nor did he respond when Wainwright attempted to verbally engage him. Foyle shifted his stance so as to turn his back fully to Adam. He held a posture that indicated the verbal barbs being tossed about had no significance for him. However, he listened keenly for any indication the younger man was moving closer. Additionally, he kept watch from the corner of his eye, in the mirror behind the bar; looking for movement in the open space directly behind him.

After several minutes of non-stop verbal assaults, Adam closed most of the distance between them. When Foyle refused to turn or acknowledge him, Adam lunged forward and clipped him with an elbow just below his shoulder blade, "My god, man! You had your chance! She married me! Leave my wife alone!" Wainwright spat vehemently; alcohol greatly distorting his pronouncements.

Having seen the approaching attack, in the mirror, Foyle had twisted his upper body away, just as Adam made contact, so the resulting impact was little more than a glancing blow.

Foyle had learned long ago arguing with alcohol did as much good as standing on the shore commanding the tide not to ebb or flow. He turned on one heel to leave, appearing to completely ignore the younger man's strike. Adam hurled himself at Foyle's retreating figure, but misjudged the distance and only managed to brush his hands along the older man's trousers as he crashed to the floor at the threshold of the door. Incensed, Adam lunged again in the split second Foyle hesitated to look over his shoulder at the momentarily prostrate form behind him. Wrapping his arms firmly about the knees within reach when he pitched upward, Adam dropped them both to the ground. Foyle scrambled to remove himself from the younger man's reach when Adam attempted to adjust his hold. In his harried motion to free himself Foyle inadvertently knocked Adam in the chin with the side of one of his knees. Wainwright began to yell protests of being, 'kicked in the face' as he made yet another attempt to gain purchase of Foyle's person. A couple of patrons of the pub stepped in as Adam began to swing wildly at Foyle. The younger man's frantic kinetic explosion of activity; flailing all four limbs in the direction of Foyle, caused the two patrons several false starts in their attempts to subdue the younger man. His turbulent uncontrolled movements still managed to connect a few blows to Foyle; who was still scrambling, in a half prone position, trying to extract himself from his attacker's grasp. The final blow attempted by Adam, came with the added force of impact from both the patrons who were trying to thwart such advances. The two Good Samaritans jumped at Adam just as he swung at Foyle. The younger man's punch missed the mark completely. Foyle would likely have come away unscathed, were it not for the driving force of the shoulder of one of the men and an elbow of the other. The pair fell atop Adam crushing the three of them, at top speed and combined weight, into Foyle; pinning him to the ground. In the chaos, of tangled flailing limbs, Foyle received the shoulder, full force into his nose and the elbow squarely in his chest; knocking the air out of him. Additionally, his two would be rescuers had managed, while disentangling themselves, to completely subdue him, effectively freeing Adam to run away. 'Run away', was a generous way to phrase the staggering, pitching gait the heavily inebriated man effected in his effort to flee. Foyle was not certain exactly what had transpired; between the blow to his chest that so thoroughly winded him, the vague noises of indistinguishable shouting, a constable's whistle blowing and the distant sound of a siren he had become rather disoriented. His next truly conscious actions were grasping at two proffered hands and bracing his feet in order to stand upright. A third man was shoving a handkerchief toward his face. While attempting to draw ever deeper breaths, he managed to ask why the handkerchief, only to have the answer before anyone else spoke. His words had caused bursts of tiny blood drops to erupt and spray outward from his face as the unmistakably pungent iron infused stickiness seeped into his mouth. Foyle accepted the handkerchief, pressed it firmly to his nose, pinched tightly, and tilted his head back as far as he dared. The clamor of voices were a mix of people expressing sympathy and encouraging him to seek some form of retribution; legal or otherwise, against such a 'shifty' and 'unwarranted' attack. It suddenly occurred to him that the sounds he was hearing, as evidenced by the distorted words, were greatly altered by the pressure that was building with the pulsing throb in his ears. Just as this realization came into full bloom, Foyle found his visual focus start to blur and his general sense of balance begin fail him. There was an increased warmth and pressure about his midsection and on other random places about his torso, then nothing. In the ensuing, albeit brief, blackness he heard a multitude of solicitous voices inquiring as to his safety, wellbeing, and state of consciousness. He opened his eyes to find himself seated on the ground in a less then dignified posture in front of the pub, head tilted over the open space between his knees; blood dripping in large random drops onto the walkway between his splayed legs. He moved his hand and found he still clutched the handkerchief from before. With a deliberate and controlled movement, he returned the nearly saturated cloth to his nose and resumed pinching in order to quell the flow of blood. It wasn't the first time it had been broken and it apparently was not going to readily stop bleeding any time soon. Holding pressure on his nose, while increasingly painful, was mandatory. Foyle closed his eyes against the pain as his mind began firing one random thought after another. He first pondered the warm pressure he had felt before he blacked out and deduced the people around him had reached and braced his descent to the ground below. That mystery satisfied, he idly wondered what time it was. It wasn't that he was concerned with the actual time in as much as he wondered how much longer he would need to continue to pinch his nose. The pain was horrible and the fingers gripping his nose were growing sore too. The noises that where once fused into a cacophony of mostly indiscernible sounds had become fewer and generally more focused and direct. Someone had taken charge of the situation, giving directions, asking questions, and generally bringing order to the chaos. A few moments later, Foyle heard a man repeatedly asking, 'Sir?' It wasn't until someone touched his arm that he realized the disembodied voice was addressing him.

Questions asked and answered; name, residence, occupation, did he know his attacker, had he known the man prior to that evening, what cause was he aware of for such behavior, was that the only time the man had attacked him, had he been following the man, had he done anything to provoke the attack?

Before long the constable reached, "What was the meaning of the man's statement, 'Leave my wife alone!'?"

At that point, Foyle had had enough, he had the distinct feeling he was being treated like a suspect and he didn't feel up to playing nice anymore. He wanted to get his nose packed, get cleaned up, and try to get some sleep. It had been a long, emotionally exhausting day that had just culminated in having his nose broken; again! He was done, more than ready for the day to be over.

Foyle glared at the young constable and nearly hissed, "Ask him what he meant. He said it!"

The look he leveled on the youthful face before him was meant to warn the young man off; cause him to ease away and give Foyle some space. When the young man continued to return his gaze, Foyle could read the wavering uncertainty and struggle within the young constable to maintain his composure.

With a deep breath and a discernible shift in his posture the constable stated dispassionately, "Yes, he did say it, sir. But, I can't ask him what he meant, because he's dead."

Foyle's turn to ease away; his body rolled further in on itself for a moment, as the words resonated through his mind. The impact of the constable's statement began to register, Foyle took a few deep breaths, as deep as his bruised lungs and battered nose would allow and sat up as straight as he could manage in his present position. He looked back to the constable, made unwavering eye contact, and offered a sincere apology, "That was uncalled for. I had no right to impede you in your duty. I'm sorry."

Caught completely unaware, the younger man merely nodded his acceptance.

Foyle, while truly contrite, saw the opportunity to gain information instead of imparting it, and refused to let the opportunity pass. "Constable, I said before that I recently resigned from Home Office. But, before that I was DCS Foyle of the Hastings Constabulary."

He watched his rank and identification register on the constable's face.

With utter ease, Foyle's voice assumed a tone he had employed hundreds of times over the years to illicit immediate and complete answers to his questions, "How is it Mr. Wainwright is dead?"

"He apparently bolted from the scuffle here and ran straight into the path of a taxi that was just rounding the corner, sir."

Foyle couldn't help but stare at the young man before him. He simply could not fully comprehend what he was hearing.

The constable misinterpreted the stare as a request for further information. With a hint of trepidation he explained, "The taxi was not going in excess of speed, sir. What happened was ... Well, it wasn't so much that the car hit him, sir. It's that it ran over him."

Foyle was well and truly stunned, but the deeply ingrained detective in him rose to the forefront of his thinking and kept his features schooled; revealing nothing, "Ran him over? How? If it wasn't 'going in excess'."

"Well, the car hit him and knocked him down, but somehow, either the way he fell or the driver swerving after the impact, caused the car to roll over his body. Twice."

Foyle was nearly incredulous, "Twice?!"

The constable looked as though he were the one guilty of running someone over. "Yes, sir! Uhm, you see, sir both the front and then the rear tires on the passenger side rolled over, uhm, Mr. Wainwright before the driver stopped completely."

"I see." It occurred to Foyle that he had so completely taken control of the conversation with the constable that the young man was now looking intently at him awaiting his next statement. He made a quick check of his nose and opted to change tack, "Uh, Constable ?"

"Rothswelt, sir."

"Right. Constable Rothswelt, I am going to need to see the MO or go to hospital."

"Sir?"

With a small shrug of apology he explained, "It appears my nose may have been broken tonight. The bleeding doesn't want to stop on its own."

"Oh! Of course! Yes, sir, right away." He quickly matched his actions to his words and started pulling Foyle to his feet.

Rothswelt called out a few orders to another couple of constables who were a bit further down the block. Within a matter of minutes he had Foyle loaded into the waiting ambulance, assuring him he needn't worry as another ambulance had been summoned to take the body away once it was released. Foyle requested Rothswelt contact his boss and ask that the senior officer meet him at hospital. Once more he was given the younger man's assurance that he would attend to the request immediately.

Within the span of two hours, Foyle had seen a doctor and had his nose packed, met with DCS Benchley and explained the situation with Adam; including his being an MP, his erratic behavior, heavy drinking, marital discord and witnessed physicality against his wife. Benchley had already been aware of Adam's previous issues of public intoxication and a instance in which a neighbor had called in a disturbance. By the end of the conversation Benchley had essentially said Adam's death would likely go down as a tragic, unfortunate accident; thus severing everyone to the best possible measure. MP saves face, family gets compensation, taxi driver, the two Good Samaritans, and Foyle all absolved of any responsibility for Adam's own reckless actions. The exact words and phrasing were lost to Foyle; who just wanted the least amount of pain and notoriety as possible for Sam. He still couldn't believe Adam was dead; it was, as with any young life lost, such a terrible waste.

In the meantime Sam had come down stairs and found Uncle Aubrey fixing a pot of tea. They had a long talk and when she found some of it too difficult in the moment to explain, she retrieved Christopher's letter and gave it to him to read. That allowed him a bit more insight into Sam's situation and served to reinforce his own, long held, beliefs regarding the affection between the two.

Additionally, it afforded Sam the chance to get her emotions under control in order to tell her beloved uncle the most painful parts of her story. She confirmed Foyle's earlier statement that Adam had become physically abusive. Sam insisted it had consisted of one and only one slap. He had struck her across the face when she had insisted on driving them home one evening after he had, yet again, had too much to drink. She had had nowhere to go at the time, but had decided no matter the consequences she was going to leave Adam, as soon as she could put everything in motion, and she wasn't going back to him unless he quit drinking. Sam explained how she was starting to make her plans when Christopher's letter arrived.

Foyle's call came just as the two were bidding each other a good night and Uncle Aubrey had observed it was more appropriate for them to have said good morning. Foyle told Aubrey and then Sam about Adam's death and very briefly what DCS Benchley explained would likely happen. He told her he was going to remain in London another day or two to see if it was all going to go as Benchley had indicated. He didn't tell her he was going to ensure that it did by calling in favors from the Home Office and securing the cooperation of Adam's bosses. There was nothing unjust in Benchley's proposed resolution to the sad state of affairs and no reason for it to come to a close any other way.