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Chapter Text

February 1941

Mr Foyle comes striding out of his office with all haste, so much so she barely sees the too-tense, to still face as he passes her. But she sees it.

“Sam” He says, without turning his head.

She follows him out to the Car.

“Digby Manor.” he says once in, in the same tight tone he'd used for her name.

She drives without question, clamping her lips shut on them. Not now.

Mr Foyle is out of the car before she is properly stopped in front of the Manor. She follows him with her gaze as he all but runs into the house, far from his usual calm self. Something is not right. She watches the doorway, its shape so dark against the stone even in the dull winter light. A thin figure appears in the light, pauses, then pelts across the drive towards her.

“Sam, you're here,Thank goodness”

“Greville, wha-.” She stutters “What are you doing here?”

He looks at her then, and seems to freeze for a moment, only his eyes moving as they dart about her face “You don't know?”

“Know what?” She says carefully, pushing back the idea creeping bit by bit into her mind, the only one that fits all of this

“Andrew... He was Up last night. He got hit. He got back but the plane was burning - the damn slide on the canopy was stuck...” A rictus of fury appears on Greville's normally gentle face as he snarls, “I'm going to kill Drake for this.”

“Oh” it slips out through a sudden numbness. Andrew “How badly hurt is he?”

Greville's face softens, softens too far “Bad enough Sam. They wouldn't tell me much, they mentioned his eyes...” He glances back at the house “He's calling out.”

Greville rests a hand on her shoulder for a second, then strides across to a motorbike,- Andrew's motorbike- she now realises in some dim and very distant corner of her mind, which is standing on the gravel drive. She hears it chutter away behind her, as she looks at the great arch and door of the house. And Mr Foyle's in there. Andrew's always been so careful that they never let it slip, that the two of them are walking out, seeing each other. Separate boxes. Always separate boxes. Hold to your duty and your post, Driver Stewart. Hold. She wants nothing more than to do the opposite.

Foyle strides into the hall, it's shocking dark against even the weak light of the winter day outside, blinking his eyes clear on the move. He spots the bright contrast of white veil and dark blue uniform, strides towards the nurse.

“Can I help you Sir?”

“You've Andrew Foyle here, a patient.” If they've brought him here it's not good, oh God let him not be very badly hurt.

“Yes.”

“How badly hurt is he? The base wouldn't tell me over the phone.”

She nods, taking in the information that he is next of kin smoothly, her face kind but calm.

“Can I see him?” I need to see him.

“Come with me, Mr Foyle.” She leads him through a room converted to a ward, then another. She pauses, turns to face him “You should be prepared Mr Foyle. He is very badly burned - his hands and his face. His eyes are bandaged for the moment.”

It's like a bullet punched into his body, the same stunning kick, the pain following after the shock,

“Will he live?” Don't let me lose my son, not so young, not so close to the anniversary of losing Rose, not my Andrew.

“He should.” The Matron allows a little more uncertainty into her eyes “His sight is a less certain matter.”

He nods, finds himself setting his jaw slightly, steeling himself. The Matron eases a door open. Beyond is a room with bath tubs, and in the nearest one of those, Andrew. Oh Andrew.

“Andrew, it's only me.” He says, already crossing the room, as Andrew starts to turn his head towards the noise of the door. He drops down next to the bath,

“Dad... Hurts”, Andrew's voice is small and thin, plaintive as when he was a poorly child

“I know...” He reaches out, gently resting his hand into Andrew's hair, “I know...” He presses a kiss into his son's dark hair, trying to keep away from the red rawness of the skin on the neck. “I'm here.” Andrew nestles and leans his head into his coated chest as best he can, as he had as a small boy, when ill, or carried to bed. “I'm here Andrew...” he whispers.

I can't tell you it will be alright... I only wish I could.

He's allowed to stay for the duration of the saline treatment, and then see Andrew wheeled safely back to his room by one of the nurses. It's a converted bedroom on a long corridor rather than in one of the large wards. Once his son is lying down heavily in the bead, settled as best he can be Christopher reaches out to bush the dark hair, feather lightly

"Sleep now Andrew..." He breathes the words, soft and soothing. Then he gently edges away to where the doctor hovers at the door.

He makes sure the door is well shut behind them before he looks to Jamieson.

The doctor reads his eyes, gives a slight nod. "I've seen worse come here Mr Foyle, with any luck he shouldn't need very major graft work, but his hands will never be quite the same - barring a miracle of course.” The doctor sighs a little “As to his eyes, I wouldn’t like to say just now, Mr Foyle, it's very early days, very early days."

He appreciates the fact, that the doctor is at least somewhat honest in his words, although of course they always offer the better prognosis, unless it is the blackest of all. Jamieson carries on walking down the stairs, curving through into another ward-room.

“Mr Foyle, I was going to invite you and yours to our little get up tomorrow evening ,but under the circumstances...” Jamieson trails off with a sigh, his eyes both accepting and sad, his posture softer than Foyle has seen it before. But then this time, they were not just police and Head of the Hospital but doctor and next-of-kin

“No... I think I'd like to come.”

Jamieson 's face shows a flash of surprise, but then he smiles broadly “well in that case, bring your second, bring anyone you'd like along as well. That pretty young driver of yours would only do the men good.” On Sam's behalf he should take offence at that, but something in Jamieson's eyes suggests no malice or underhand “I'll see if they can.”

Not as if I can actually keep a professional distance now - I'll have to hand the whole lot of trouble over to Milner, it's only correct. And I need something to tell me there's still spark beyond the injuries... no not to tell, any well meaning person could tell me, I need to know, I need to see with my own eyes, properly.

It is only when, by her watch and the house clock, that Sam has waited half an hour - forty minutes -three quarters - then an entire hour in the chill with no reappearance of Mr Foyle that she dares leave the side of the car,cross the drive and step into the house. The hallway is a soft flow of activity, nurses in their uniforms walking briskly to and frown, some patients walking, others being pushed in chairs. She tucks herself to the edge of the room, trying to get her bearings, then picks a doorway and ducks through it.

“Well, if it isn’t the copper-haired copper- ” The pilot she'd met before, only yesterday how is it just yesterday - Bridges, she remembers his name, was looks up as she walks into what had probably once been a great Hall, perhaps the dining room. He's fiddling with a gramophone, while another patient watches on.

“I’m not quite a copper, I just drive one.” She scans her eyes over the hall, none of these people in the beds look to be Andrew, not up the left side row of beds, not down the right.

“And now come to help wit the investigations in these most be-bothered of halls. he stops speaking, the gramophone now playing softly and looks at her keenly, gently, coming forwards. “No, that’s not it at all is it, Miss?”

Sam gives up looking, shakes her head in answer “Do you know where Andrew Foyle is, please, which room he’s in, which ward?”

“Foyle... don’t know that name,” Bridges turns to another occupied bed a few along. “Ben, you’ve heard of an Andrew Foyle?”

The man laying on the bed shifts a little, “Not heard that name, except the copper that's been coming he's a Foyle I think... Might be the new lad they just brought in?”

It's said more as a passing thought, but Sam springs on it, “Yes.”

The sympathy is clear in Bridges' eyes as he turns back to her. “He’ll be in the special wards until they’ve- ah - patched him up Miss,” he gestured to his face with his burned fingers, “The Doctor's a good bodger at all sorts. The best.”

She nearly chokes at the phrasing, but you have to laugh or you cry i suppose, at least they're alive.

Bridges continued speaking, “Special wards don’t get visitors, not just out of the blue. Even family as a rule.” His burned face twitches into a kind smile “I'll take you there , - we're not supposed to but you know, but we guinea-pigs get used to finding our way around here.” He studies her for a moment, “I'‘m guessing he’s something special to you.”

She can only nod, muted,as Bridges walked past her, back to the door, and glanced back at her.

She walks at his heels through the weave of corridors and stairs which made up any great house,

Bridges doesn't chatter, except to tell her the turnings, almost as if he's teaching her the route, as they dodge nurses Then he stops, gestures up the corridor they've just popped out into,

“Here we are.” His eyes are so gentle it hurts even more, “Sorry I can't tell you exactly where he is.”

“Thank you.” she manages

“Mr Bridges, what are you doing up here, you should either be in bed or helping with the preparations for the performance shouldn't you?” A blue uniformed and white wimpled figure bears down on them along the corridor. Sam finds herself taking half a step back.

But Bridges didn't falter, beaming at her “Ah, Matron, I knew you wouldn't manage without seeing me regularly.”

The Matron frowns at him “That's as may be Mr Bridges, back you go Sir.” She'd squared her shoulders to him “And you know that visitors aren't to be up here except on special circumstances.”

“Aye Matron- this young lady came looking to find the new boy, I only helped her get up here.” Bridges turns and starts to walk away, a nods of his head Sam can only take for encouragement

Matron meanwhile has turned eyes, that though softer, brooked no nonsense on her.

“These patients need rest to heal Miss.”

“Please, I'm his – “ what am I to Andrew, really? “We're-” the words stick again, even though this phrase should be easier. There's a block in her throat, which all the swallowing in the world won't move. “Please -” she tries again, but gets no further.

The firmness on the face shifts to a softness, a sympathy which hurts.

“Just for a moment or two then.” The matron steps back, and Sam follows her along the hallways until the matron pushes open one of the doors.

White hospital blinds, the pale blue-green of the walls, the almost incongruous presence of gilded paintings from normal life of course it would have been stripped just requisitioned as it was

She slips around the standing blind and there he is, lying on his back. What little of his face she can see is raw, sour-red in places, a startling contrast of the white bandage around his face and covering his eyes, hands bandaged to mittens resting on the blankets.

She steps closer, speaking softly “Andrew, Andrew it’s Sam.”

He stirs, and there's a grunt, “Naff off, can’t you.”

“Andrew really,I came to see how you were - Greville told me what happened.”

Another grunt is her only answer, and he turns his head away from her.

“You’ve been in the wars.” She makes her voice stay light as she speaks. Important to not worry a patient, it will only give more strain

“I’m cooked - half done at least -pity the fire didn’t finish the job really.” The flat bluntness of his voice speaking the words is a slap

“Andrew - don’t say things like that.” Please don't.

“It's my life, i an say what i like can’t I?” he retorts “What's left of a life - Hands crock,” he lifts them lets them drop on the coverlet, face twisting in pain as he does so. “ - Probably blind.” his voice is sour, “So now you’ve done your duty visit, you can shove off.”

Oh, that's low “No, Andrew, I’m not going to 'naff off', or anything else you care to call it.” Stop trying to shock me and drive me out. She finds herself standing very straight

“Ha,” he barks a black laugh, “You dutiful vicar's daughter, making her little visits, cosseting over her charity cases and feeling so good about doing it.”

She keeps her breath, just. And the words find her tongue even through the sting of what he's said “Andrew – how can you say that?”

He ignores her, his voice rising, “Well, I'll not be one of your charity cases, so just go! Get out, find someone else. Go on, get!”

He hears her go, the too quick click of her shoe on the corridor floor not running, but a sharp march. She was gone in haste. And then there's more steady step of the Matron,

“Well that was very stupid of you Foyle, exceptionally stupid of you. Making a young lady cry like that, and she came to make you feel better.” Her voice is tart and blunt. Like WingCo, or his father's

“I don’t need to be cosseted or petted.” he retorts

“No, maybe not - but there’ no need to be so rude over it, no matter how much pain you’re in.” her voice actually seems to soften, “Especially not to such a nice young lady.”

“A nosy, tactless vicarage raised do-goodey.” She'd do better with anyone else. Just leave me.

The blanket jerks up around him , the thump thump of her plumping the pillows takes a particularly hard note, “I suggest you be quiet Mr Foyle- or I might just quiet you myself.”

Sam Foyle thinks vaguely must have picked up his mood, for there is no chatter or questions on the drive back to the station, just an uneasy silence, until he breaks it, “The Head Doctor at the Manor has invited us all to their performance tomorrow night, bit of a variety thing they're getting up apparently. He particularly wants you along.”

Yes Sir.” she says quite neutrally, her eyes studiously not leaving the road in front of her.

Back at the Station, he finds himself in his office alone, slips out into the corridor and goes to Milner's doorway, “Milner, a word.”

The sergeant rises from his desk at once, and follows him back to the office, shutting the door behind both of them and standing easily on that side of the desk. Foyle faces him, makes himself stay standing. Although he wants to shake. His collar is too tight again, although surely it had been fine moments ago, he finds himself rubbing at the inside of it, trying to ease the tightness

“This Digby Manor case, you'll have to take charge of it... I can't.”

Milner simply nods, his eyes understanding .

Conflict of interest for one, and I just can't, half my mind would be on Andrew the whole time

“Right Sir.” then “Have you any particular ideas I should follow up on?”

A kindness, really Milner, I'm sure you know all this.

“Well, carry on making sure the housekeeper's story holds up, and if it does, back to the usual suspects.”

“Grudges, Access, Anyone seen where they shouldn't be...” Milner reels it off, then adds thoughtfully “In a well run place like that anyone out of place should stand out a mile, even if they are busy.”

mm “That's about it.”

Milner seems about to go back ot his work, but pauses, “Sir, if it isn't impertinent... How is Andrew?”

It was impertinent, perhaps, but really it is just one man asking after another, one man he reminds himself, has seen the damage war does and come through it.

He keeps his voice even, pushing back the fresh memories of Andrew in such pain, pain I can't protect him from “We have to wait and see.”

Milner dips his head a little, but there's even more understanding in the sargeant's eyes, before the he slips back out, and Foyle finds he's left alone with only Milner's retreating uneven steps down the corridor. He lets his head slip into his hands, sits there in the near silence. He's alive, he repeats silently to himself, Andrew's alive and he's in good hands, and he's alive. It could have been very much worse.

 Somehow, Sam finds, the day carries on - and on and on. Mr Foyle doesn't go out again. barely leaves his office in fact. In the afternoon, Milner does go back to Digby Manor, disappearing inside through the front door. She stays outside, contemplates reading the paper as she waits, but the thought of the ‘Fallen officers' columns, or articles on the RAF missions, I couldn't bear that now. And yet, anything to not just look  up at the wall of stone and windows. Is one of those Andrew's?- she hadn’t been bothered by the matter of which way the windows faced at the time.

I could slip in and try and see him again, he might be in a better frame of mind by now, but she can’t make herself step forwards. Milner probably wouldn’t drop her in it, if he found her gone. But then again he’d probably ask questions, questions I don’t want to have to answer and he’d probably have to tell Mr Foyle once he worked it out.

Milner is certainly looking at her a little more as they drive quietly back to the station, and she tries to chatter as normal for the rest of the drive. The station, when they get back, is just normal she sets the car to rights by rote and then once she’s inside makes tea for everyone in the office, as much for something to do through the daze in her head. Keep busy, keep going.

Mr Foyle leaves early, saying 'he’ll walk home, and she can go '- Milner confirms it. She’s selfishly glad that she doesn’t have to be in close company, even for a few minutes. He's distracted, of course, but distracted enough to not notice her starting to cry, probably not She isn’t quite sure that she would keep herself together, left alone with him.

It’s a relief to see the bright red door on the hilly street, bring her bike around and tie it up, then go inside. She manages to get in, shed her coat ad slip inside and upstairs without any of her fellow lodgers, or worse the landlady, shuts her door, leaning back on it for a long heartbeat. Then she habitually slips off her uniform jacket and finally curls up on the bed. The tightness in her chest building since Greville had run over to her on the Digby Manor drive, rising higher and higher in her throat, finally gives way, and she cries, pressing the covers to her mouth to muffle it. The walls here aren’t thin, but they aren’t entirely too thick to be heard through either.

Andrew’s turn away from her, the “naff off”, worst of all ‘dutiful vicar's daughter', 'cosseting charity cases.'

She wants it to be the pain or the morphine talking, but the words had been so strong, and so many of them, all in the same direction. He'd been that cutting before once, at the disastrous Tea Mr Foyle instigated - of course he'd been in pain and shock then, but he'd never struck so viciously.

A knocking on the door.

“Miss Stewart, a visitor for you.” It's the Landlady's voice

She sits up quickly, rubbing the tears off “Who is it?”

“A Miss Bolton…”

And just as quickly comes a voice she knows, “It's me Sam - Anne.”

She pushes herself off the bed and opened the door a little, Anne slips in and shuts it, her eyes not leaving Sam.

“Greville came at lunch break and told me what happened,” Her eyes were full of compassion, a hand reaching out and taking Sam’s own “Sam.. I'm so sorry.” then “Have you seen him?”

“Briefly:” more tears prick and she quickly  rubs them off her lids. Crying alone is one thing, blubbering in company another, “there’s quite a lo of bandages, his hands hi face.

Anne gives a little gasp, partly in sympathy, partly plain shock

“Sam.” Sam hears her repeat, it just sounds bleak, although from the gentle squeeze of her hand it appears to be meat as comfort. More softly, Anne says “He’s very lucky to have you.”

The slap of Andrew’s words stings again.

He doesn't want me, he told me to go - charity case… He's Not one. Maybe there had been a little bit of that at the start, the disastrous Tea outing. But seeing Gone with the Wind wasn't to salve his conscience- it would have been more effective to say 'No' and teach him a lesson about amends in that case. Nothing since then was charity kindness.

Distantly she's aware Anne is talking softly, ”... brave I'm not sure I would be.”

She can’t imagine Anne ever turning her back on Greville, they were so enraptured in each other's company, so very sweet together.

“Imaginings can be worse than reality.” Not much worse, in some cases - she dreads to think of the original state of jolly Bridges - but reality can, should, be boldly faced up to. Phantoms of the mind are much harder, they slip and creep so- but they should be faced too. She can hear the bracing tone of her father, and one of the uncles, repeating that at some point or other

Anne slips an arm around her, giving her a one-armed squeeze for a moment. “I have to go, or I'll miss my dinner.”

She nods acknowledgement, “Must be nearly time for mine too.”

Anne nods, her face soft, eyes big and sad, “Chin up -isn't that what they're always saying?” It's said with an ironic tone against the pluckiness they're enjoined towards

Sam juts her chin up exaggeratedly in answer, and Anne smiles just a little as she rises from the bed. She gives Sam's hand a final squeeze and quietly lets herself back out onto the landing, leaving Sam in the quiet of her room, she glances up at the clock in the light of the lamp. Not quite dinner time yet, long enough to be changed out of her uniform properly. She glances in the small mirror, and sure enough, her eyes show the evidence of tears.

None of her fellow lodgers, or thank goodness the landlady, comment on the red rims to her eyes when she sits down to dinner, Beth keeping up a string of chatter about her day at the hospital, she can chip in with the odd comment and smile, and no-one seems to really notice that it's less than usual. No awkward questions to answer or avoid, just one of the rough hot-pots the landlady is really quite good at, for all they are mostly vegetable now. Still it's a relief to not be on washing or drying duty today, that's when you can't avoid conversations, when everyone has slipped off and it's just the two of you there. She slips back up to her room, curls up and tries to sleep.

The house is too empty, too quiet. It's too clear that, however much part of him hopes it, Andrew won't just come striding through the front door on a sleep-out pass from the Station. He'd stopped at the Post Office on the way home and sent a telegram to Charles.

ANDREW HURT. BAD BURNS. CRASH LANDING. IN GOOD HANDS. MORE FOLLOWS.

That last felt like a sop to his conscience, more than anything practical. There isn't really much more he can tell Charles, he still doesn't know exactly what happened to Andrew, and it's too early to know what the burns will mean for Andrew. The shock of the injuries could still kill him.

He shakes his head hard to dislodge the thought, chase it off. Then finds he's walked out to the hall and pulled on his coat from the stand. He can't stay here on his own. He slips out of the front door into the darkness of the winter and the blackout, and turns up the hill, flicking on the torch with it's muffled beam, more a softening of the darkness than actual light..

The torch might be poor, but he'd be able to find Rosalind's grave in the pitch dark. He looks down at the carven words, at the bundle of flowers he'd laid there so few days before. He reaches out and curves his hand over the top of the stone, gripping it.

I wish you were here Rose, right now. I wouldn't wish this pain on anyone- and yet to have someone to share it with, someone who understood in the same way. Hugh Reid was gone in a re-posting, and his girls were too young really, for him to truly understand. Carlo would have, but Carlo is dead, killed in that senseless, vicious attack.

He leans into the stone, casting his thoughts upwards Look out for our boy, Rose, please- please don't let him join you, if there is a choice about it.

He walks down to the station the following morning, the cold wind up the hill a sharp brace on his face and his nerves. There's an unease when he gets there, River's sad expression over the office desk, even though the Sergeant tries to be normal with his “Morning Sir.”

He hangs up his coat and settles behind his desk. The notes which had been there are no more, already handed over to Milner. He goes to the cabinet and pulls out one of the files at random, bringing it to the desk. Racketeering again, he can't even find the energy to be surprised as he flips through the folder trying to acquaint himself with the particulars of this case.

It's a relief when there's a tap on the door, and Milner puts his head around

“Sir, we're going up to Digby Manor Estate, for questions. If you'd like a lift...”

“Thank you Milner.”

He tucks himself in the back seat of the Wolseley, senses as much as sees Milner's double take at this, before the Sergeant slips himself into the front passenger seat next to Sam. Not on duty in this regard, but a good use of fuel, and a kindness to run me that far, when it's personal reasons.

The Wolseley draws up to a cottage which had probably been the gatekeeper's a little white fence at the border and white gables edges

He looks up, through the bare branches he can just see bits of the crenellation and roof of the Manor in the distance.

“Sam could run you to the house Sir, then come back for me, once I'm done” Milner suggests behind him.

He shakes his head quickly, “I'd rather walk.”

Milner dips his chin a little, and turns towards the house.

He tucks his coat a little tightly against the mist, and begins to walk. It's  a mile and a half, roughly reckoned from that estate house to the Manor, a route which by a track leads him up towards the side then curving to the front door. At a turn he can just spot pale figures up on a terrace, which can only be a few men taking an airing close to the shelter of the house. Much like Netley. He clamps down on the thought, and the echoes that come with it.

Sam finds she's glad when Mr Foyle sets off alone towards the big house rather than accepting the offer of a lift. If I’m all the way down here, there's no practical way to be up there, and be tempted to sneak in, Mr Foyle or no Mr Foyle. Perhaps Andrew will be feeling better, and be more reasonable when I see him next.

It still smarts, the words he flung at her.

And I can't even ask if he's doing alright, not really, that would be sticking my nose in, exactly as he claimed. Besides, Mr Foyle would get wind of it, and I'd be reposted before you said Jack Robinson. No, I'm better off down here, waiting for Milner. And yet somehow that doesn't really ease the worry, the ache in her chest.

Foyle cuts around the side of the house, skimming the edge of the gardens and then out onto the drive, and into the internal shadows of the house. One of the nurses, a Ward sister by her uniform, approaches him, in the hall “Sir?”

“I'm Mr Foyle, I've come to visit my son, Andrew.” She accepts that nods and turns into the house, he follows.

“He may be rather dopey,” she drops her voice a little more, ”the pain was very bad this morning. So he many not be awake, or make much sense if he is.”

He nods “I understand, I won't tire him.”

She leads him quickly upstairs, onto the corridor, before pausing, “Are your hands clean?”

He considers them, “Probably not clean enough”

She directs to a bathroom, and only when he has washed his hands does she lead him along to Andrew's room, tap courteously on the door and slip inside,. He waits, listening

“Mr Foyle, you have a visitor,”

A soft noise from Andrew rising to blurred but still recognisable words “...Do-gooder?”

“No, it's your father” the nurse says, brisk and no nonsense.

It tickles a memory, as the men out at the back of the house had. Netley, in the last war.

She puts her head out of the door, he takes it as his permit to enter. Andrew is in pyjamas this time, laying down on the bed, turning a little towards the door, then stopping sharply, a tension running through his body.

He settles quickly onto the chair closest o the bed, “It's just me, Andrew,”

His son seems to soften a little a little but a bandaged hand tries to move in his direction, and then another hiss of reaction to it. He reaches out rests his hand on the pyjama covered arm nearest, enough to cause a weight, not to hurt, Andrew relaxes properly, mumbling something that sounds more comfortable. Up close, with more consideration, the edges of the burns are stark and angry against the other skin and the white of the bandages. He studies them for a moment, then allows himself to look away, at the whole of Andrew rather than the damage. He's in a good place here.

Talk to him, for me it was nurse's voices that drove the pain away, in the field and then later on. What to talk to him about? Could have grabbed a book on the way out, poorly Andrew had often wanted a story, well that was something for another da y. “A lot of people at the station have heard, they send you their best wishes - and I've sent Uncle Charles a telegram so at some point you might get some other visitors in time? Duties allowing of course.”

Andrew sighs heavily, his face twists a bit, a reaction to the words, or a stir of pain,

Foyle can't quite tell, but takes a guess. “Only when you're ready Andrew, only when you're ready... In time,” he soothes. Give your body, yourself, time to heal. He can't quite stop himself looking at the bandages over his son's eyes, just for a second. No, we'll deal with that- whatever it is - when it comes, And Not Before, He scolds himself, focusing back on Andrew and not on the bandages.

Andrew mumbles, sounding more sleepy this time.

Andrew is fast asleep when a nurse first puts her head in through the door, then comes in properly and moves towards the bed. Taking that as a nudge to leave Christopher stands up, lifting his hand off Andrew's arm, then touches his fingers to his son's hair.

As he weaves down the stairs back to the main hall, there are flurries of activity bobbing in and out of rooms. Following a flurry to the door one one of the wards he spots a flash of someone up a ladder, of all things, and the ripple of a string of bunting being pulled upwards.

Of course, the show tonight.

Outside Sam has brought the car up the drive anyway and he tucks himself in the back again, which Milner seems to accept more easily this time. They drive back in quiet, but eventually it's Sam who breaks it,

“What time shall I collect you Sir, and you, Mr Milner?”

The variety is worthy of a good music hall, as fine in it's way as anything he's seen on the boards. Alright that might be being a bit generous, but it feels accurate in the circumstances. The scenes are whole hearted and honestly acted,.cheeking the senior officer to his face. Well why not, these are men who have looked death full in the face, seen it look back at them, and live yet, there's not much the top brass can do to them. They still have their spark, and from the chuckles of those crammed into the room in beds around the hall-ward so do at least some of their fellows. Andrew isn't here of course, too newly injured to be allowed down into the main ward still protected. And for now it would probably rub his son up the wrong way. He's in too much pain, too freshly, and worn too thin by the time he'd had before that... But in time .

Amidst the laughter, Milner glances along the row to Sam. She wasn't laughing- not really, there was a polite, formally polite sort of smile, but stiff, her face still and careful , and she is sat almost too straight. Sam hasn't been right for a couple of days, quiet, subdued – ever since Andrew was injured. That might only be a respect for Mr Foyle's state of mind, but she hadn't cheered up even when Mr Foyle was well out of sight and hearing,Sam who was normally trying to find the brighter points in most things.

Perhaps... It was plausible certainly, the two had met, he knew that and they were much of an age. Sam was always reticent about her private life, family excepted. He'd never get it out of Sam, and wouldn't be fair to ask her point blank in the station or it would be back to Mr Foyle, too many of the men are gossips

He turns back to the display, as another of the men, and of all people, the Matron - dressed in a great gold gown - step up and begin to sing a jaunty song.

“ I'll agree to Hirohito without Japan
I just can't imagine

What the world would be like without you”

When he glances at Sam again, her face is no longer so composed, something on her cheek sparkles in the light.

Oh Sam...

He shifts his gaze along, Mr Foyle is chuckling at the antics, although there is a shadow to his eye, no surprise at all, with everything as it is. But the man he doesn't seem to have noticed Sam's reaction. And further along, an empty seat. Who had been sitting there? He thought, drawing the image of the row earlier, Ah, Doctor Wren.

He turns back to the singing,

“A rainbow that's insane for it has no blue
Imagine it, I'd try if I could
I could see the trees but without the wood
I simply can't imagine
What the world would be like without you.”

There's a flourish on the keyboard, and the two performers bow, to each other then to them in general, he joins in the applause, a few of the men behind are even shouting, “Bravo.”

He glances at Sam, her cheeks are apparently dry, but her clapping is only perfunctory, no real heart to it, not like the rest of the room with their clapping and even cheering from some.

Putting on a brave, normal face for the world. When no doubt she'd rather be anywhere else in the world than here.

The next morning, while he's trying to concentrate on 'Daily Instructions' there's a sharp double knock knock on his door, then Milner puts his head round it face serious, “Sir something's just come in, a suspicious death on the Digby Estate.”

Foyle looks up at him, what did I say about Digby Manor.

“Not at the Manor proper.” Milner hastens to add, reading the look, “But it is someone we had an interest in for it all - Gordon Drake. He's an erk at the Airfield but he lived on the estate - he had form for menaces, did eighteen months.”

He considers, It is bit close to ground but not technically the manor case, unless of course Drake had been behind it all in the first place,

“I've already rung the field and spoken to the Wing Commander of Drake's unit, he says it's our turf and our case, unless it comes to proof that another military man did it, then it will go to the Military police.”

“Right, then we’d better go over…” They always said keeping us too busy to dwell on darkness was the best cure.

Milner gives a sharp nod and ducks out again.

Drake is very decidedly, almost classically, dead. Sprawled on the grass outside his garden fence, the bicycle tumbled onto its side nearby, one shoe almost off his foot. Now what would cause that, a struggle maybe? “Who found him?”

Milner looks over him slightly, towards the house “His wife, Sir, she’s inside.”

“Upset?.” Perhaps I should get Sam in on this, she's good at calming a crisis.

“Not really,” Milner lowers his voice, “When I was there yesterday, she had bruises,” His finger rises to his cheek, his lip, Said she 'fell'.

But really this Drake has been knocking her about. Demanding with menaces,and then turning it on his wife, or perhaps the other way around timewise. Nasty piece of work. He looks down at the body, and has to firmly suppress his distaste.

Of course, that gives her a motive. “Could it have been her?”

“Could have been,” Milner looks back at the body, eyes shifting between it and the water pump “There is something strange Sir, medical examiner says it looks like he drowned.”

“Drowned?” But whoever it was pulled him back out the water and left him away from the pump.

Drake's wife, widow now, sits in one of the armchairs in her parlour, her face slightly turned to shield the bruises from them, even though they have already seen them.

“No I'm not sorry he's dead” Then she looks straight up at them, eyes oddly unfrightened, but checking their reactions, “That's a wicked thing to say, isn't it?”

A sharp red mark high on her cheekbone, more marks down closer to her mouth. Nasty.

“You didn't get those injuries in a fall, did you?” He asks carefully, less a question, more a conformation.

She drops her head looking away for a moment, but she does answer him “I said that, it wasn't true. He was a bully.” Her lip turns bitterly upwards, “all smiles when I first met him, But that's when I still had money. My dad had left me with some.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill your husband?”

He lets Milner take the lead, now and it's phrased well, evenly, no leading. He skims over the room, small, a suited to a cottage and busy with things, but not silly knick-knacks. There's one photograph, on the table nearest to Mrs Drake. Not her husband, but somehow familiar.

There's no irony in her voice when she answers Milner, surprisingly, it's as flat and calm as the rest her speech -yet that gives it irony of its own “No one, apart from half the husbands in Hastings. And maybe you should talk to Sir Michael.”

That catches his ears, drawing his attention away from the photograph, “Oh?”

“Gordon was always getting money from him. A tenner here, a fiver there. And we got this house for nothing.”

Traditional for estate staff of course, but Drake was hardly that,“You came here when he was posted at the field?”

She nods, “Yes, in September, They needed more mechanics, and he is good at that.- when he can be bothered about it.” She adds the last bit in a black tone

There's no warmth in the room suddenly, as if he's been tipped into freezing water. Was Andrew one of yours, Mr Drake? Was there some problem with the plane? He reins himself in, No, don't go looking for blame, more likely it was just horribly bad luck. Andrew's would have run out at some point.

Distantly Milner is asking if Mrs Drake if she has anyone who can be with her,

“I'll telephone Pip.” she says immediately

“Pip?” Milner clarifies for both their benefits

“My brother, Pip. He's... in London. I haven't seen him for a while, but maybe he'll come down.”

Sam has been dragging herself along all morning, since the shrill rattling of the alarm. The night had brought only restless sleep, haunted by the songs and piano of the night before. Mr Foyle had seemed to enjoy it, at any rate he had seemed a bit brighter on the drive back to Hastings. It wasn't bad, it was actually quite fun, even nearly raucous in places - except every sentiment had poked too deep, right at the fresh injury.

She's kept quiet, and Mr Foyle seemed inclined to the same, even though the station didn't, full of chatter, gossip, and then the murmurs of a series conversation around it all Constables marching to Milner, and Milner striding up to Mr Foyle's

It's the Digby Estate again, but not the big house, only the Gatehouse again. The ME is there this time already, crouching over a body sprawled on the verge grass. Milner and Mr Foyle get out, and approach the body. All she picks up at a quick glance is the familiar smokey RAF blue, and the crumpled forage cap on the ground, the marker of of Aircraft-man or NCO. Not an officer- not a pilot.

She only gets out herself, to stand by the car, when Mr Foyle and Milner go up towards the white gabled house. One of the Constables picks up the man's bicycle laying on the grass and rests it gently on the garden fence. Mostly they speak low, but her ears prick up ...Drake, slippery one from what I remember, he went in for an erk after he was released."

Drake- that was the name Greville had all but spat, and Andrew has mentioned him occasionally in recent times; never in a good way, all muttered and growled. An erk who would be involved of the mantince of the plane- a stuck hood, that's what Greville had said. It feels as if she's swallowed ice, and she feels slightly sick. Greville had been furious. But, sweet gentle, and physically slight Greville. He doesn't have that kind of temper. She could imagine Andrew, if the situations were reversed, being ready to scrap with someone he thought was at fault in hot blood, but not Greville. And to kill? No

She tries not to watch as Drake's body is lifted onto a stretcher and taken to the police Maria - to think of anything else instead It's a relief to see Milner and Mr Foyle appear in the porch and walk towards her, deep in conversation

“I don't think, she killed him Sir.” Milner offers “Though she'd have good enough reason, Milner flicks a glance back to the house, and Sam only catches “- he do that?”

“I don't think she did either.” Mr Foyle's voice is even softer, and his eyes have that inward look they get when he's concentrating mulling facts. He pauses and glances back at the water-trough, face pinching in a frown.

She gives it a few moments, then speaks, “The station Sir?”

He turns quickly, “No, Sir Michael's cottage.” .

It's quite a fine building as it goes Foyle thinks, although clearly an estate house, perhaps it belonged to one of the senior staff in it's day. But it would be a comedown from the Manor. It's Sir Michael himself who answers the door to his knock, and then leads him into the sitting room, raftered

“You've heard, Sir Michael, about Gordon Drake?”

“Yes.” The older man sighs heavily, with his whole body “His wife can keep up at the Gate-cottage of course, for as long as she likes.”

“Well m I'll pass that on to her, unless you'd rather yourself.” He makes a polite smile, and really it is good of the man.

“No Mr Foyle I'll go down.” He thinks he hears Sirt Michael murmur something about 'pass the time.' as well

“You knew Drake, before?

“I told your man, the other one.” Sir Michael says with a shift of his hand as he sits down on a wingback chair “His father, Martin Drake was my batman in the last war. eighteen years old then, he was. Kept with me until I was wounded.”

“That was at Messines, with the 11^th Kent Fusiliers?”

“Yes.” Sir Michael says curtly, but then seems to settle “Got a bullet in the leg. Drake helped me. Got me out of there. Out of the bloody trench.” The words are even, slightly flat, but Sir Michael's eyes seem natural and honest enough, slightly distant

“And.. where is he now, Martin Drake?” Foyle asks quickly, as much to offer an escape from any memories.

“Died in a car accident a few years back. When his son turned up here, needing somewhere to live, gave them the cottage on a cheap rent, the least I could do.”

A cheap rent, but not free, he notes “And nothing else?”

Sir Michael's eyes sharpen, harden “What do you mean by that?”

He shifts his eyes away, apparently looking over the room for moment, but keeping an eye on Sir Michael “Well Mrs Drake suggested, Sir Michael, that her husband had been getting amounts of money from you, quite considerable amounts of money- five pounds in some cases.”

Sir Michael's face is very still, giving nothing away in answer,“If he was short of money, what does it matter if I gave him some, or he missed the rent here or there?- that's probably what she meant.”

He nods as if he accepted the words as given, but yet, there was something behind Sir Michael's eyes and that slight overweight of information in the answer.

“Thank you Sir Michael,” he dips his head “I'll see myself out.”

He lets the factors weigh in his mind as he walks back out. Would Sir Michael be able? He was an older man, and there was the leg against it, but in a passion, if he was being blackmailed or extorted - it wasn't that bad a wound, the man walked quite well. But it's quite a distance to go and get back none the less. Have to check up on an alibi, he wasn't at the party.

The Wolseley is only just pulling up nearby as he walks onto the road. “Where did you go?”

Sam pops her head out, of the driver's window “Milner went up to the House Sir, to see Doctor Wrenn, he'd noticed him missing from the party last night. He said he'd speak to Jamieson as well while he was there.”

“Right.” Well, saves me from trying not to cross the line, on this case .although, didn't Wrenn treat Milner after Norway? Oh, I'll deal with that if it comes to it, lets see what comes of the questions.

But Rivers greets them as soon as they walk in to the station, hurrying up the corridor towards him, “Excuse me, sir. There's a warden, Peter Preston, I think you know him.”

Preston.. ah, one of the ARP here, “Mm”

“:He'd like to have a word with you, sir. He says it's urgent.” Rivers steps a little closer “Word seems to have got around, about the death.”

Ah well, too much to hope we'd keep it quiet for a while, because it was out of town “Thank you Rivers.”

Preston is sat on the chair opposite his desk, hands shifting uneasily on his lap

“Mr Preston.” Foyle says as he closes the door, then hangs up his coat, “Sergeant Rivers says you'd like to see me?

“Preston jumps to his feet “Yes Sir, it's about Gordon Drake.”

Well Christopher, a voice says in his mind, you wanted something to keep you busy, and stop you worrying about Andrew every moment, here it is.

Milner is in the main office when the phone trills in the mid-afternoon. Rivers picks it up, listens for a moment, then turns and passes it over to him.

“Mr Milner” Doctor Wren's voice is rushed and harried on the other end “There's been a major theft, medicines, from the locked supply.”

“We'll be over as soon as we can.”

Wren lets out a slight sigh “Thank you.” The line cuts off

He sets the phone down on the cradle, turns and with haste but not a rush, out the office and down the corridor, knocking ad then entering Mr Foyle's room.

“Sir.” Mr Foyle has already looked up at his hasty entrance, but his commander's eyes shift in seconds to one of concentration and concern. “I know you said Digby Manor was my case now, but there's been a serious medical theft up there, I want your assistance.”

Mr Foyle pauses for a long moment then stands up, and strides for his coat on the coat stand. “Very well.”

When they get to Digby Manor, they're taken by an orderly down in the ground floor warren of corridors, the old servants section. It's a room lined with shelves and cabinets, where Jamieson and the matron stand together faced by a worn thin-faced man RAF uniform, whom, Milner decides, can only be Group Captain Smythe - of accident and ridicule. One of the cabinets is wide open, shelves bare.

“How much and what exactly is gone?” he asks, Wrenn quite rightly hadn't been specific on the phone.

“Most of our stock” Jamieson turns back from the empty cabinet “Half a dozen bottles, large ones, and four bags of diamorphine hydrochloride, about this size” He gestures, sizing a large packet then a sizeable jar that might carry a pint or more.

“Has it occurred to any of you to keep the pharmacy locked?” Group Capitan Smythe says in a rather sarcastic way

It was locked, door and cabinet both.” Jamieson retorts, the looks back at the cabinet, speaking more to himself, “I'll have to get on to Uxbridge and Cranwell, get the word out, if any of the the hospitals can spare us some, with what London's up against - Matron we'll have to trim back anyone and everyone we can to stretch what's left in the emergency store.”

Mr Foyle speaks up suddenly, “I'll see you get a police escort for it, once you're over the county border.”

“Thank you Mr Foyle,” but Jamieson's eyes had already moved away, very quietly ruminating into thin air, and partly to the matron about various matters. Milner takes in the room, gently rests his hand to try the window out into the courtyard, it doesn't budge.

Smythe huffs off, speaking about things being 'a complete mess',

It's only the matron who pauses and looks at them both, “Mrs Roecastle was right outside and she didn't see anything.”

And all that, bottles and heavy bags, would not have been the sort of thing you could just sneak out of the house, even through back ways, there are too many people about in this house, whether they all should be in their places or not, they'd notice, especially if it was repeat trips.

Milner comes out of the house, and there's definitely a strain and a shadow in his eyes.

“What's happened?” Something has, we've dropped everything to come out immediately

He pauses, seems to weigh something for a moment, then brings his head close, lowers his voice “There's been a theft, all the hospital's morphine.”

All - oh no. Her breath catches, she can't imagine how much pain the pilots, - Andrew - could be in from their injuries, but to not have the morphine for it. She swallows, finds she's not looking at Milner but up at the house windows. She looks to Milner, notes the softness in his eyes, the understanding. He knows.

“Is there anything we can do?” Her voice wavers, drat. As if he needs the confirmation

Milner's voice is steady, softly confident by contrast “I think the Doctor has it in hand as best he can, probably better not to interfere. They'll get what they needed somehow, and as quickly as they can.”

She swallows and nods as he might expect Andrew... surely there must be something I can do to help. Something...

Digby Manor looks rather gothic in the remaining half glow of twilight as Sam rides up to it, the walls looming upwards as she dismounts, tucks the bike out of the way to the side, and slips up to the big wood door. She has to knock, it's firmly closed against the night.

When it does open a crack, It's the matron's head which pops round. “Miss Stewart- it's late.”

“Matron” She holds up her satchel “I brought a book, I hoped I could help you by reading to the men, offer some distraction this evening, for those who need it.” Especially Andrew.

She can tell from the knowing look in the Matron's eye that the older woman sees straight through her generalisation. She steps back, pulling the door open enough for entry, “Come in, that's very kind of you.”

The matron leads her soft-footed up the stairs and corridors, straight to Andrew's door, resting a hand on the wood, and giving her a little nod. Good luck “Thank you for doing this Miss. It's more than that one deserves.”

She goes in. The room is half lit by a lamp on one of the bedside tables. Andrew shifts a little as she moves in the room “Who's that? Matron?”

“No it's me. I've come to read to you.”

“Oh Shove off Sam.” Andrew grumbles, his shoulders stiff suddenly.

She's ready for it this time, “I certainly won't, I thought it might help.” She draws up a stool next to the bed and sits down, “You can listen or not listen as you will, but I'm going to read.” She eases open the board and fabric binding of the old book, her fingers shifted through the old thick paper of the pages, until she finds the one she wanted. She settles her eyes onto the print, herself a bit further back, an iota more comfortable in the chair, and cleared her throat slightly,

“Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters....”

Foyle waits five minutes, then nearly ten, in the morning before quick-walking the distance down to the town. The Wolseley is still in the yard when he gets there and when he goes in to the waiting room, there's no sound of a female voice, or a flash of auburn hair and khaki uniform on the other side of the desk

“Where's Sam?”

The constable on duty looks about then shakes his head, “Afraid I don't know Sir”

Not like her to be absent “You've rung her lodgings?”

“Yes Sir, she went out in the evening on her bike, with the message that she would be probably be back very late or in early morning, and that they weren't to wake up on her account and she'd try not to wake them. She said she had something to do. Landlady said she isn't back yet.”

Hmm, hope she's alright, come to think of it, she has been very quiet these few days. “Constable, if anyone's going out to Digby Manor?” With no Sam, we'll have to make do... I hope Andrew was alright last night.

“Yes sir, Mr Milner was just asking,” the Constable nods, “We could leave in ten minutes,” he shrugs sheepishly “I've got to find the distributor first I'm afraid.”

“Try the biscuit tin right on the top shelf, if you haven't already James,” Milner says as he comes up behind the man as he makes the suggestion.

The sergeant doesn't seem too perturbed by Sam's absence. Indeed his eyes are bright.

“Got something?” He raises an eyebrow at Milner

Milner nods, “Yes Sir, I rather think I have, on that cupboard matter, and hopefully everything else except Drake.”

'That cupboard matter' I was supposed to be helping with, and instead I spent the afternoon wresting with escorts for medicine – and completely abandoning professional distance.

Milner asks for himself and a constable to be dropped at Sir Michael's cottage and then for James to come back there, after running up to the main house. A kindness, when I could walk it.

“Mr Foyle.” The matron greets him in the hall of the Manor with a familiar nod, a slight, forma,l smile on her face

“How's Andrew?”

“Quite as well as can be expected, on the upper end of things, you might say.”

“May I see him?”

There is a flicker in her eyes, something like wariness, but her voice is perfectly calm and normal when she answers, “Of course."

She leads him at a quick pace up the already familiar stairs to the familiar corridor. A door which seems in the right place to be Andrew's is slightly ajar already

The matron pauses a little up the corridor from Andrew's door “Please don't be hard on her, she's been a great motivator all night, we've been rotating the men onto the corridor when they couldn't sleep, and it's helped a great deal.”

That, he thinks, is a non-sequitur if ever there was one

But the matron moves on, and it is Andrew's door set ajar. She eases it open further with her arm, and he slips past her, dimly aware she doesn't immediately leave. He takes in the scene in front of hgim Andrew is slightly sat up in bed, well propped on pillows. Tipped forwards onto his son's stomach and lower chest, fast asleep, auburn hair tumbling down over the covers, is Sam.

“Don't wake her Dad.” Andrew breathes softly, turning his bandaged head in Foyle's direction “She's been reading to me all night, until she had no voice, or story left-” He hears rather than sees the smile in his son's voice “-helped quite a bit actually.”

He follows the line of Andrew's arm to where the bandaged hand is resting gently across Sam's shoulders, just curving to bush her cheek. As he watches the fingers move in a little, tightening the grip, protectively. Ah.

“And how long has this been - going on?”

Andrew looks up in his direction again, “Since Autumn. I took her to the cinema to make up for everything, his son's lips twist a bit, “Things went on from there.”

Well, that explains quite a lot, come to think of it, not least Andrew's general more than usual caginess as to who he was out with over the recent months. It had been Sam's lipstick on his cheek that night,

“Don't be hard on her Dad, I got her to not to tell you about even though she felt she ought to.”

Sam shifts a very little, then seems to wake up enough and realise he's there. She rocks back to sit bolt upright on the stool, nearly toppling off in doing so.

"Oh. Sir!" Her hands fly up to her hair trying to pull the loose strands back into their roll, and only making it worse, "I didn't mean--- that is, I can explain, and ah..."

He raises his hand slightly, "Sam"

"I never meant-” she falls silent, almost choking on the words.

"Andrew has already explained it was he who insisted you kept matters" - he moves his eyes between the two of them, is gratified to see Sam glancing back at Andrew, looking very guilty and hangdog.- "from me."

"Yessir." Sam speaks so quickly she blurs the words.

"There's a constable outside with the car, tell him i have instructed him to take you home. Have a couple of hours proper sleep, and then report to the station- and if I'm still here, then you'll rejoin me" He looks at her, an arched eyebrow and she nods slowly

"I have my bike, sir."

"And how many hours sleep have you had?"

She bows her head in cowed recognition, not answering, drooping.

"Go home, sleep a bit and come back ready for work, I'm sure the nurses will keep your bike for you, they seem to have taken a shine to you.” or even see it makes it's way into town if you asked.

Sam stands, and walks quickly, but smartly to the room door.

"Sam “Andrew says, shifting his hands on the bed-covers, "The book."

With a slight huff Sam turns back and scoops up the clothbound volume, holding it close to her chest, then hastens out of the room. Foyle watches her go, until the door clicks shut behind her and, he notes, a still waiting Matron. That's Sam really, she makes everyone love her without even trying, just by herself.

He looks back at Andrew, “Which book was it?”

“I think it was Jane Eyre, although she didn't start at the beginning.”

“Ri-ght.” Apt, very apt indeed Sam, but will he take the message? “Do I take it she was the 'do-gooder' you were so sour about a few days ago, even under all that morphine.”

“Yes” Andrew says slowly. Even in spite of the bandages hiding his face, Andrew's drooped posture is one of guilt and contrition.

“Please tell me you didn't say that to her face, Andrew?”

Andrew dips his head “Uh-, not in exactly those words.”

But there was too much emphasis on 'exactly' for his liking. Foyle lets his breath whoosh out “Andrew...” He glances back at the door Sam left through, then sits down on the stool by the bed next to his son. You're very lucky she's a determined character, my boy, many would have not come back after an insult like that, and they'd be in the right. “What am I going to do with you?”

Andrew humphs something that might be laugh, the first laugh he's heard from his son for, how long?, “Well you won't have to worry about me being shot down by Germans again.”

“There's that.” It's black humour, but humour at last

“Ah Mr Foyle”, Jamieson approaches him when he's on the way down the stairs “Good to see you, excellent timing.” The doctor falls in to step with him “We were thinking of trying Andrew's bandages off today, see how his eyes are doing.”

Moment of truth, There's a chill prickle on his back, up his neck

“Could you wait until this afternoon, Doctor? I think there's someone else who should be there for it, besides me.”

Jamieson smiles warmly “That pretty red-head who sat up with him last night?” His eyes are amused but shrewd “Your driver, isn't she?”

“Mmm” And we just won't get in to that complication

“Well, he's a luck one your son, whatever the cause it takes a core of steel for a young lady, even a wife to stand up to everything that has happened, and will continue to happen.” Jamieson suddenly puts his hand up to his face and forehead “Oh! I shouldn't say that to you of course, forgive my plain Scotch speaking.”

“Well it's entirely true Doctor. I take no offence.” Can't take offence at the truth really. And it's too true, look at Milner and his wife, and there were many likewise after the last war. Sometimes it happened quickly sometimes more slowly, but Andrew and Sam are over the first hurdle and probably a few more at least.

“Early afternoon will be just as suitable, Mr Foyle.” Jamieson says easily “Now, I must be on again.” He watched the doctor stride away, short legs making a quick pace without ever actually running.

Foyle didn't hasten his own pace, letting his feet carry him easily along the corridor and down, out into the gardens of the house.

Andrew and Sam. He let his mind consider the idea as he weaves through the planted hedges.

Sam was too good for his son when Andrew was in a black grump, that was true, but there was that same lightness of character, mischief of a sort in both of them generally, and it was only the war which had put his son in that black hole,

Andrew has always got himself into trouble by not-thinking before he acts, but mostly meaning well in the action, look at what he unearthed at the other station, and the way they reacted to it all. But the other girls... Andrew's other girls have always been more transient.

When he knew he'd be getting Sam in to trouble he tried to take most of the blame, and that little hand shift on her neck as she slept, shifting himself between his father and Sam, such a small thing, drawing her close. A if they've been walking out since just after the Tea debacle, that's four months, close on five, It won't have been easy for them, especially Sam keeping it behind my back thatway,

He twists thorough the low hedge-knot paths. I didn't know Rose that long, before I married her, although I knew she was the one for me. Oh it's technically prejudicial, yes what with Sam driving me, but if it doesn't harm either of them...

Let them be happy if they can- we need some happiness in this bleak winter. He feels his shoulders heave with a sigh. And who knows what this afternoon may bring, joy or yet more tribulations.

“Oh, Mr Foyle I didn't realise anyone else would be out here.”

He raises his head at the voice, and finds Sir Michael is just up the path.

“It's a good place for thinking.”, The older man says. Sir Michael's eyes are tired, slightly dazed as he shakes his head to himself, finally looking directly at Foyle. “You know your Sergeant has arrested Mrs Roecastle?”

“I didn't.”

Sir Michael nods, “It was her.” he waves his stick back at the house “All of that sabotage, and the theft of the medicine, it was Mrs Roecastle.” his head droops suddenly looking old, his eyes watering “She said- she said she did it to help me, that she wanted me to have the Manor back, not have it under requisition.” Sir Michael shakes his head sharply “ She did it out of loyalty, in some way.” He looks between Foyle and the house, “As if I mind! Those young men, hurt fighting for their country, our country, how could I mind. Especially someone like me.”

Someone like you..? He doesn't say it aloud, but as Sir michael goes to walk, he gestures for Foyle to walk with him.

Sir Michael speaks slowly as he walks, “I'll admit, Mr Foyle, I wasn't honest with you, when you came after Drake's death.” another little shake of the head “That money wasn't given out of the goodness of my heart, it was blackmail money.”

Thought it might be, he keeps step with Sir Michael's unevent tread.

“Drake knew, you see, about this.” Sir Michael tapped his lame leg with his stick “It was a bullet wound, but it was self-inflicted.” His brown eyes rise to Foyle's pleading for understanding “I couldn't stand it anymore, the gas, the shells, the death, so I shot myself in the leg to get out of there. Drake saw. He carried me to the field hospital. And as far as I knew, he never told anyone.” Sir Michael sighs heavily “But he wrote about it to his son. When Gordon Drake turned up here, and showed me the letter, I paid.” Sir Michael's eyes seize back on him from whatever distance they had been in “But I didn't kill him, Mr Foyle- nor did Mrs Roecastle, whatever other crimes she committed, she was sat with me, listening to the radio that night.”

Why would a man lie on one point, when he has told so much truth?

Sir Michael looks up at the house “'The Few' they call them- yet there are so many of them. All so brave... I wasn't brave.” His eyes are far away as he carries on “I might have saved my life back in that trench, Mr Foyle but I left my self-respect there, in the mud.” He nods, decidedly, “Far better these brave young men have it.”

What could he say to that? That the old war had indeed been terrible, that everyone had a breaking point? He doesn't say anything, and slowly Sir Michael turns and begins to walk towards the garden wall, probably back towards his cottage. But then the man pauses, and turns to look at him.

“I hope you find the man who did for Gordon Drake, Mr Foyle, even if he probably did deserve it.”

I have to agree with you on that point, Sir Michael, He watches the tweed back move away.

Drake had been a slippery, selfish, deceitful creature. His wife, and possibly the world, are better off without him. But I am a police officer, and if the law isn't upheld, as I've said again and again through this war, then what is everyone fighting for? For what, then, has Andrew been injured? Piece of work or not, someone deliberately killed Gordon Drake, and they should be brought to justice.

A clock strikes somewhere, the chimes hard, 10 am. The chill is creeping under his coat again. He turn his eyes back up to the house. He could, should, wait for the constable to come back and pack him up,go back to the station and work on who killed Drake, as Sir Michael had asked him. And yet Andrew? Andrew is in good hands here, we won't know about his sight until later, and nothing I can do would help that. as he curves back around the house the breeze carries a purring engine as one of the Police cars runs up the long drive. It's Constable James driving, and this time Foyle does slip into the front passenger seat.

“Sam back safely?”

The young man nods, “I took her right to her billet Sir, she was nodding off again after a little while.”

“Thank you.” Sam, willingly keeping herself up all night to keep Andrew company against the dark and pain. An Andrew who had not been the kindest to her, but Sam who has wilfully ignored that or seen around it.

News can't have really got around when they get back, James isn't so much of a gossip, but there's a brighter air in the station, a lift in Rivers' step as he's hailed across the desk.

“Sir, the ARP Reports from last night, you didn't get a chance to sign them earlier.”

No, he hadn't, even in that lag between going out this morning.

He looks down the offered document, all the marks of a peaceful night near the station. then - something tickles, something half heard. He runs his fingers under the typed name at the top. “Peter Preston - have we got his papers, references, next of kin?”.

“Of course sir be a sad state of affairs if we didn't keep tabs on who we’ve got here.” Rivers nods with a general smile,“I'll bring them along to your office.”

Heading down the corridor he puts his head in at Milner's door, “Did you find the culprit?

Milner lifts his head from his work, and his eyes are bright and sharp as he nods, “It was Mrs Roecastle, the housekeeper, she was on the roof, and took the medicines. She was trying to scare the RAF out, or make it impossible for them to stay, and break the requisition of the house that way.”

And, Foyle thinks she'd apparently alibied herself, with the medicines at least, if I remember what they said yesterday.

“Sir Michael was furious at her.” Milner continues, his face thoughtful, “I think that was the worst thing for her, not us arresting her. When he started speaking, she tried to defend herself, but really she just crumpled.”

'Loyalty makes people do strange things indeed', “Well done.”

Milner's lip turns in a small smile

He almost goes, then looks back to his loyal sergeant “Did you know about Sam and Andrew, their walking out together?”

Milner pauses before he answers, his mouth shifting “'Know' might be putting too finer point on it, Sir – but I realised it in the past few days.”

He confines himself to a nod, Mmm- did better than me then.

He's settled at his desk before Rivers nudges open the door, a folder in his hands,

“Those files you wanted Sir.”

“Thank you.” He flips open the buff cover, reading with a practised eye

Surname; Preston

Other Names; Peter Ian

On past Date of Birth, Place of Birth,

And there it is, Next-of-kin, Mrs Beryl Drake

Relationship; Sister

Address of Next-of-Kin:

It isn't the Digby Manor Gatehouse, but- he glances around at the map of Hastings on one wall - There. Not far at all from Fawcett Road and the garage on it, where Gordon Drake had worked before prison and the RAF. He looks at the photo clipped to the documents, Preston's already familiar facelooks up at him. But I've seen that face somewhere else as well,

A specially kept photo of a man, the only one around in a parlour, close to its owner. So alike it could almost be the same man.

Peter Ian Preston. Initials P. I. P.

Preston who also knew that Drake wasn't faithful to his sister, had all but caught him playing around on the side, Preston, who may or may not originally have known Drake was beating his sister, but would have if he'd seen her in the last few days. 'Pip' who wouldn't need to come down from London, a week's worth of ARP patrol reports said he was already here. 'Pip' whom his sister and immediately thought of when asked for someone to help her in extremis, whether he was in London or not.

He closes the folder and picks it up, carries it down the hall to Milner's office, the Sergeant looks up as he enters and puts the folder on the desk.

“Have a look at this would you?”

Milner skims down the document and Foyle, knows the exact moment he reads the lines and makes the connection, his eyes flick and there's a ripple across his calm face.

Milner looks to him, “Shall we bring him in, Sir?“

He shakes his head a little "No, I think he'll come to us if we go quietly. I'll leave word with Rivers that I'd like to see him before he goes on shift tonight. If you can wait as well, we'll see him together.”

Milner nods, although there is a shadow of doubt in his eyes at the idea, “Right.”

Perhaps it's warranted worry, but I don't think he'll run, his sister's here for one thing.

The morning drags along in a morass of dry paperwork; a very very long Daily Instructions to read and understand, Reports to check and officially initial, and reports on other more minor crimes to consider, should they be a puzzle piece for anything bigger. So often it's been silly little details, little slips which have led to an arrest. But it is dull, and the clock seems to move at half-speed.

Tap tap, He almost misses the little noise, it's so soft on the other side of the door.

“Come in.”

The door opens and Sam walks in. She looks far more generally awake than she had this morning, but her head is down and her steps are small. As she closes the door

“Reporting for Duty, Sir.” she states, then drops her gaze.

“Sam” -she doesn't look up at her name “Do stop looking so hangdog.”

She looks up, for a heartbeat at least, and then begins to address the floor “I know I shouldn't have become involved with Andrew Sir, I did try not to – I completely understand if you want me to go back to the MTC, and have a different driver.” She shifts to a proper Attention stance as she finishes, except for her lowered head.

“Sam- you're not in trouble..”

Her gaze shoots up, her eyes big and perplexed

“At least not with me,” he continues, “You are quite right that it is officially, a prejudicial relationship, and probably you should be sent back. But I won't, because frankly you're a damn good local driver, far too perceptive for your own good, and I need that - I haven't got time to get used to someone new, or for them to get used to me. So you're staying.” He watches Sam's face brighten a little as he speaks, settles back in his chair, taking a breath “Besides, If I let you go, Andrew will never forgive me, or himself frankly, for it and that won't do anybody the slightest bit of good.”

Sam's lip twitches at that, and she bites to suppress it, managing a formal, “Thank you, Sir.” She throws the smartest, crispest salute.

Sam it's I who should be thanking you for caring for my boy He dips his chin in return, returns his hands to the paperwork, “Now, if you wouldn't mind getting the Wolseley running, we've somewhere to be.”

There's a moment of silence, then Sam's feet click sharply on the floor, and rush away down the corridor. Dear girl.

The drive to Digby is silent between them. He watches, Sam's hands too tight on the wheel, her nibbling at the inside of her cheek, face pale with more than tiredness. I'm probably little better.

She doesn't let it affect her driving, drawing the car neatly up on the driveway, directly opposite the front door. He opens his door a little, and after a long moment, she does the same. Sam follows him closely into the house.

The matron greets them as they come close to the main war door. “Mr Foyle, Miss Stewart.” A nod for him, a warmer smile for Sam “Doctor Jamieson is just finishing his general round, then he will be with Andrew -if you'd like to come up.

He follows her politely up the stairs. At the very beginning of the long corridor Sam stops and crouches, pulling at her shoelaces.

“I don't want him to hear me coming,” she says very softly in answer to his look, as she slips of first one shoe, then the other, and lifts them up by the inside walls as she stands “I can walk very quietly in stockings.”

She can indeed, as they carry on down the hall he's hard pressed to hear her footfalls over the beat of Matrons shoes.

Andrew's door, closed. Matron swings it open, revealing a white dressed nurse fiddling with the blinds, and Doctor Jamieson standing nearby. The doctor looks over towards them

“Ah, Matron, Mr Foyle.” and Matron quickly puts her finger to her lips, shaking her head. Dr Jamieson nods, claps his hands and moves briskly towards Andrew on the bed, bending over to look at the bandages which are still wrapped around Andrew's head

“Right, lets have these off and see what we've got, shall we?”

Andrew shifts a little on the bed, then settles. Jamieson bends over him, little scissors barely visible in his hand, snipping at the bandage., then gently flicking back the covering edge, so gently, wriggling the rest out from under Andrew's head.

Please, Please God, let my boy be alright. In his left ear, Sam's breathing is racing quick, tense yet very muffled, he wouldn't be surprised if she has her hand over her mouth. Jamieson leans down and slowly lifts one covering pad and gauze away with fine tweezers, then the other. Andrew's dark eyes appear into view as he blinks, surrounded by very pale but in pale undamaged skin. Please.

Andrew turns his head a little in their direction, pausing for a second. “'lo Dad...” he says quietly, then, more clearly, a little puzzled “'lo Sam.”

“Hello yourself.” Sam says from over his shoulder, sounding entirely together,

More than I could manage, right now. His throat is too tight for words, bruised even as his heart settles back into his chest. Greeting me could be a fake, but Andrew couldn't know Sam would be here. On the other side of Andrew's bed, he finds the warm, grinning smile of Dr Jamieson, who nods his head several times quickly. It's good, it's true. His collar is pinching again, digging into his throat.

Andrew moves a hand on the bed-covers, reaching towards them, or more probably towards Sam, “Afraid I've been rather a prig again.”

“Yes-” Sam's voice squeaks now, and there's a catch in her breathing “You have, very much so.” He hears her swallow.

His son smiles softly, twisting his hand palm up, “Sorry?”

He takes a pointed step to the side, and Sam finally, finally starts to move towards Andrew, crossing to the bedside crouching down and slipping her hand in his. “Forgiven.” She says softly, then tilts her head slightly, “This time.”

He finds the choke in his throat giving way to a sharp splutter of laughter, one which makes his eyes sting. He steps forwards, and Sam goes to rise, to move away, stopped only by Andrew's -and it must be paining him – firm grip on her hand. He reaches out and grips Andrew's nearest pyjama covered shoulder gently. His son tips his head towards the arm, resting against it with his cheek ,lifting his dark eyes, -his undamaged eyes, Rose's eyes- to glance up at him.

Somewhere in the time which passes, he comes to the awareness that the Doctor and Matron, and even the white robed nurse have slipped out of the room, leaving them alone in a trio. No doubt at least one will be back to send himself and Sam off when they're deemed to have stayed too long, but for now they're gone

The white strips of bandage on Andrew's hands, the rawness of his chin are a reminder that there is more to come, this won't be an easy stroll along the shore. But Andrew is alive, and has his sight still.

And just right now, that's enough. It's more than enough.

Chapter Text

A clock strikes somewhere, the chimes hard, 10 am. The chill is creeping under his coat again. He turn his eyes back up to the house. He could, should, wait for the constable to come back and pack him up,go back to the station and work on who killed Drake, as Sir Michael had asked him

But will I, the seeking of distraction aside, actually manage anything today? With Andrew's sight hanging close in the balance, and everything that means?

He walks up towards the house, curving around towards the terrace for a moment, but no, it was too cold and damp at the moment, no nurse would have their patients out in this. He swings back on the side paths, back to the drive and in the familiar front door. One of the nurses looks about at his footsteps, but then nods to him, recognition dawning in her eyes. This time he walks to one of the larger wards, the one which had been rearranged for the concert, come to think of it. A few men are in bed, more around the central tables, or perched reading.

“Hello, copper.” one of the men greets him, “More trouble going on? It wasn't me, whatever it was.” Even through the burns, lesser than some Foyle had seen, the man grins and opens his eyes in an exaggerated innocence. “I was right here Sir.”

He smiles back, warmed by the sense of humour “No, no trouble today.” He looks around “I wondered if anyone here knows how to play chess?”

A hand goes up from one of the tables “I play pretty well Sir.”

A chuckle from more than one of the other men checks him as he weaves through the tables, “Watch your pocket Inspector, Brierly's playing is better than 'pretty well'.

One of the other men has fished out a pocket chess set from somewhere, and brought it over the the table Briarly was sat at, Foyle nods over at the speaker, then to the man in a dressing-gown opposite him. “Well, I wasn't planning to play for money, and I don't smoke either.” So no matches or cigarettes

Don't mind them Sir, I don't mind playing for fun.” Briarly said, turning his head to look at his companions, then back to Foyle “You're a guest, so White or Black?”

He looks down at the checked board, then at the two Queen figures set at the side, “White, if you please.”

I wonder just how good you are?

Sam arrives, not in the Wolseley, or another police car, but riding passenger in a Lorry bringing ordinary supplies to the manor, or so she explains once he's finished a last unsuccessful game against Briarly and joined her in a corner of the room near the door, where she's been hovering for five minutes, “The driving orderly saw me and offered a lift, - it seemed easier than any other method, it didn't really feel right to use one of the station's cars, as this is more personal.” She's watching him, eyes shifting a little, checking she has done the right thing.

“That's fine Sam.”

She relaxes just a little at that, seems to remember something “Milner sent a message as well, that he's arrested Mrs Roecastle, the old housekeeper, for the sabotage.” Sam glances around the great room, “It seems she felt the requisition unfair, and was trying to scare the RAF out so Sir Michael could have it back.” She shakes her head hard, face flickering with thoughts. But of all the thoughts she only says “She was very lucky that the statue from the roof only hit the Group Captain's car, that time”

Indeed, another inch further in or further back and things may have been even more fraught, and no laughing matter for the Variety. .

It's the Matron who walks through the door, looking around, clocking their, and nodding “Ah, Mr Foyle, Miss Stewart, they said they saw you in here.” She beckons them out “Doctor Jamieson is ready to attend Andrew, she gives them a kind smile, but Sam has gone pale, and he wouldn't be surprised if his face has done the same.. Now we'll know, for better or worse, we'll know.

Chapter Text

He puts the phone receiver down on the cradle, does not slam it, of course not, though the cradle rattles alarmingly at the pressure and throws his shoulders back in his chair, twisting his neck to stare at the wooden rafters and slats of the hut ceiling.

Would this winter, this week, this fortnight, never END. We kept them off all last summer, we drove them off in the Autumn, we stopped an effort at invasion. And yet still the days are crammed nose to tail with either sorties or full scrambles, running the men thin and ragged. 15 ops for Foyle last week, he needed a rest more than a weekend, and yet who else could I send on PR, Woods' Spit was in dock and Foyle is - was - the best low flyer in the Squadron.

Foyle, who managed to get it home even in flames, and then let down by his own plane, trapped by a stuck hood.

Foyle, whom by the time he'd been rousted out of his billet and brought to the field, was already in an Ambulance, and being driven at pace to that new RAF hospital just setting up outside Hastings.

The Spitfire, the precious photographs - were a wreck, a black skeleton in the eventual morning light. Foyle may yet die, may very well be blind or unamendable crippled by the burns, will certainly never fly to battle again.

Foyle had complained about the maintenance on the Spit. I hauled Drake in here and put it to him, and he cool as ice, said there had been nothing wrong when the Spit went out. I should have had him on a charge of dereliction of duty, the ground crew on duty said they struggled to get it loose, and that can't all be put down to the effect of flames.

And now according to the Sergeant on the other end of the phone, Aircraftman Drake is dead, possibly by foul means. Never really knew the man, but never really liked him either, wherever Drake was there had been an air of tension, simmering like a thundercloud, and there had been shoddy work, just little things here and there. But then he was a good mechanic, and the RAF needed those. Not this badly though, if it was low quality work maintenance that costs us a sterling pilot- and valuable photographs, as far as the Brass are concerned.

The rafters offer no answer.