Title: The Long Shadow

Authors: dancesabove and jewell

Rating: T+

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in Foyle's War belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and we in no way profit from the story we've written.

Feedback: Thank you, readers, for the wonderful comments. Hearing more rumors just the last few days that Foyle's War could return! We do hope it's true…

Epilogue

November 1945

Foyle's journey to America had not taken too long; almost as much time was spent on travelling and awaiting travel as on putting Paige in gaol. Paige was now sitting in a small cell awaiting extradition to Great Britain; it was sure to happen soon.

The former Detective Chief Superintendent had only been back in Hastings for two days when James Devereaux called and asked to meet him for dinner. They met at the Royal Victoria Hotel and shared a congenial meal. James caught Christopher up on the details of his life since mid August: when he was released, where he was living and the disposition of his father's property, which was still quite tied up in legalities.

Foyle held up his end of the conversation by telling many amusing tales of Americans and their odd ways. For the most part he glossed over the true purpose of the trip.

James offered to drive Foyle back to his house after the meal, and when they arrived, Foyle invited James in for a drink.

They were seated across from each other in front of the fire, each holding a glass of Jack Daniel's bourbon Foyle had brought back.

It's odd, this young man sitting across from me as Andrew has done so many times. Something is troubling him—how can I help?

"So James, how are you feeling?"

"Quite well, I believe, considering… " James trailed off. The man had been through a lot in his young life. It was almost unimaginable: witnessing the murder of his mother by his father, the bloody battle at Dunkirk, prisoner of war for three years, the bombing of Dresden, and a trial for treason.

James cleared his throat. "I've been seeing your Dr Novak, and I think it's helping."

Dr Novak was a friend of Foyle's who had been convicted of manslaughter. Due to the circumstances of the killing he had been put on supervision for three years instead of facing prison. He was living in Hastings with his daughter and still working at the hospital helping war veterans.

"Glad to hear it." Foyle could see it was going to take some coaxing to get the young Devereaux to say what was on his mind, though he thought he might have some inkling…

"James, you know I said if there should be anything I could do to help you when I returned from America… "

James sat silently looking at the floor with an occasional glance up at Christopher. The older man sat patiently.

After more than a minute had passed, James took a deep breath and asked, "Mr Foyle, are you my father?"

Hmm. I was right.

"It's possible," Foyle answered after a pause. "There's no sure way of knowing."

He went on, "If you knew your mother's blood type and your… father's blood type and… uh… mine, you might be able to know. But even then it's not definite. For instance, if my blood type were to be the same as your father's… "

Foyle glanced up. "Do you know your mother's blood type? Or your—or Charles Devereaux's?"

James slowly shook his head.

"No. It would be odd if you did." Christopher Foyle's usual deliberate way of speaking was heightened by this somewhat uncomfortable subject. They were, after all, discussing the young man's mother and an adulterous affair. He sighed.

"You were born when?"

"1916. 10th December."

"Yesss." Foyle drew out the word as he calculated. "Then the timing makes it possible that I am your father."

Neither spoke for a few minutes.

Finally Foyle said softly, his eyes tightly closed, "I loved your mother very much. I understood her decision to return to Charles for the sake of her child. I had orders in hand to return to France. She thought Charles offered safety and stability; all I could offer was love—and an absent love at that."

He looked at James. "Throughout the years I thought about you on occasion, but especially when Caroline died. A few years later I was raising my son on my own. You hold your head like Andrew at times, and some of your facial expressions are the same. It could be… "

James gave a rueful smile and said, "I'd prefer to be your son than the son of a murderer, of course. Than the son of a man who never let me get close. I'd like to get to know you better; I have no other family."

"I would welcome the chance to know Caroline's son."

They smiled at each other, each holding back tears of remembrance.

The two talked on for quite a while. They set a firm date to get together again and discussed James meeting Andrew. Together they decided that James should call the older man "Christopher". Foyle then, almost shyly, asked if he could call James "Jack", as his mother had.

"I'd like that quite a lot," 'Jack' replied with a wistful smile.

Jack left shortly after this. Foyle had welcomed him to stay there, but he had already taken a room at the Plume of Feathers. After seeing him out, Foyle returned to the sitting room and crouched to bank the coals. He paused before doing so and slowly stood. He poured up another two fingers of whisky and leaned back in his chair.

Such a maelstrom of memories, feelings and regrets. There was no way he could sleep now, no matter how late it might be.

How was he to tell Andrew? "Andrew, you have a brother, maybe." Andrew would be shocked. His staid old dad having a torrid affair with a married woman. And in the course of that affair possibly fathering a child.

Yes, Andrew would be shocked. Andrew believed that Rosalind was the love of his life. Of course Rosalind was the love of his life, but he had loved Caroline… Loved her desperately, even after she had left him near the Hastings Pier.

He thought back to the dark days after she'd left him.

He'd wandered back to his parents' house and immediately decided he couldn't stay there. Not in this place, not in his bed, nowhere that they had been so happy. He quickly packed a kit bag, spoke to Mrs Neagle about looking after the house, and went to the station, where he waited three hours for a train that would take him to Leicester. He didn't feel he was "running home to mother"; it was just a destination. Somewhere that wasn't here.

Visiting Mum brought no solace. She was weak and bedridden. She was pleased to see him, but seemed confused at times—called him by his father's name more than once—and would drift off abruptly. Aunt Ivy had looked more and more worried for him as she cared for her sister and witnessed the young man's silent dismay.

Late that night he and Aunt Ivy talked.

"I'm so sorry, Christopher, that you didn't get to see your father before he left us."

"It had been weeks by the time I got your letter. Without your letters I'd have felt even more disconnected. And how kind you have been to Mum…" he couldn't help it. He dropped his head into his hands and fought to hold back tears.

His aunt looked down at him with great sympathy, petting his soft hair. "It's all made worse. You can see how little will she has… she is fading."

He only nodded, struggling to overcome the urge to sob.

Ivy went to make him some cocoa and returned to find him wringing his hands.

"But there's something else, too," she said sagely. "Who is the girl you must leave behind?"

Christopher was startled that Ivy could read him so well. He told her the basics of his love and her inability to wait for him, leaving out that the woman had been married and was now expecting a child.

His kind aunt then spoke of love and war and the difficulties they caused the young. At the time it helped but little, but in the ensuing months he would often think back on his conversations with Aunt Ivy and take comfort.

Intellectually, he could agree with the decision Caroline had made. His reasonable side loved her, too, and wanted her life to be happy and full without the worry of his return.

Emotionally he both loved and hated her. Hated her for leaving, hated her for carrying Charles' child. How could she? After what they had shared, how could she have been with Charles? The child, Charles' child. Or was it?

All too soon he had to leave for Southampton and France. His mother cried, Aunt Ivy silently wept, but Christopher's eyes were dry, at least in front of the two women. He knew that he would not see his mother again and that made his desolation complete.

Sergeant Foyle stood dockside in Southampton awaiting the time to board the Folkestone. His strong sense of duty compelled him to make the trip to France. He looked around him and saw that the men who were returning had congregated slightly away from the fresh-faced replacement troops. They stood wordlessly together. They didn't know each other's names but they knew each other. The jittery youngsters talking excitedly in the other group were the unknowns. He saw them glance nervously towards his group.

He walked a short way down the dock. An Argentinean cargo ship, the Mariposa, was berthed adjacent to the SS Folkestone. He studied the ship carefully. He'd heard of men escaping to South America to avoid conscription. Why didn't he? Duty. Christ; at times he felt as if he and the others were just running at top speed towards a cliff.

But just now it did not matter to him that he might be doomed. His mother was dying, his lover had left him to bear a child with another man. He was going back to France to die. And he did not care.

Years later an older Foyle shook his head to clear it of the dark memories, and drank the last bit of whisky. His mother had died and he had never heard from Caroline again. But he hadn't died in France—he had met Rosalind just weeks after he had returned for good. And just as he had told Elizabeth a few years ago, marrying Rosalind had changed everything.

His life had turned out as it should have. The pain and the sorrow, but also the joy and the love. And now another young man had entered his life.

It did not matter who was Jack's father; Caroline was his mother. And Christopher Foyle loved him just because of that.

The End