A/N: I really wanted to set this story in December, which presented me with some problems. December 1941 was too early; December 1942 is when the episode Bleak Midwinter occurs; In December 1943 Foyle has left the police for the first time and December 1944 too late. In the end I settled on December 1942, and I hope readers will forgive me for asking them to pretend 'Bleak Midwinter' happens at some other time in December 1942 than this.

Sunday 13 December 1942

St Lucy' s Day. 'Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.' Feels odd to remember all that sort of thing and Daddy and so on in the middle of all this. Still, as Mr F says we must carry on as much as usual as we can, and he's right of course, or what's the point? Am glad not to be listening to Daddy's sermons though. Jolly good thing for him that they're not able to start rationing words! He'd be quite disapproving if he knew I'd been working today - and I will be again later - a proper stakeout! Things are going missing from Fowler's yard and Mr F and I are going to see who it is tonight. And M and B and some of the other officers of course. The moon is quite full so we'll be able to see who it is perfectly clearly altho' I suppose that means they'll be able to see us too but what with all the bombing and people living in hostels Mr F and me will just look like two people trying to be alone for a while. Gosh, I hope Mr F hasn't thought of that he'll get all worried about his reputation again and tell me to stay behind.

Foyle leaned against the car door, one arm along the back of the seat, and adjusted his hat. "I hope this isn't going to get you into too much trouble with your landlady, Sam."

"Oh, she'll just assume I'm out with my young man, sir," Sam said brightly, hands on the wheel as if ready to race off in pursuit at an instant's notice. "Give me a few disapproving looks for the sake of good form, but her son is in the navy and her heart won't be in it."

"I … see," Foyle said. "Then I hope this isn't going to get you into too much trouble with your young man."

"Don't have one, sir," she confided cheerfully. "It's awfully hard to find a good one, these days."

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek, not sure if he wanted to encourage further information. "Oh?"

"Yes," Sam said. "I mean, it's perfectly understandable, they don't know how long they've got until - well, 'gather ye rosebuds' and so forth. And I do rather see the point, and it makes one feel like such a beast for … for not, sir. But we might not all die tomorrow, and then where would I be?"

"Ye-es. I take the point." Rather better than she might imagine. That had been another war, another generation of young men determined to tear their pleasures with rough strife through the iron gates of life.

Another generation of young women who bore social censure and personal consequences in a way those boys never did.

"Besides," Sam said. "I'd much rather be here with you. Who needs to go to the pictures when you can be in the middle of a real live gangster film yourself?"

He was alarmed. "If anything happens, and I don't suppose it will, you're to stay in the car, Sam."

"Of course, sir," she said, and then added: "Unless I'm needed."

"You won't be needed," Foyle said firmly. "These are very dangerous men, Sam. Leave them to the police. After all," he added as her shoulders drooped, "what if one of them tries to drive away and you're off running after someone?"

"Golly, sir, yes. I didn't think! I'll be right here, at the ready."

"Good."

And then he heard it, a second before Sam's head turned sharply. "Is that a plane, sir?"

"Yep. No sirens, though."

"One of ours, then," Sam said. "There it is. Gosh, it's awfully low. The engines are much brighter than I thought they'd be. But then I s'pose when there's planes overhead at night I'm usually in the shelter, so - "

Foyle leaned forward, peering through the windshield. "That's not the engines. Start the car, Sam."

She did, obediently, not quite understanding why. "Not the engines? Then -"

"Drive, Sam, quick as you like. After it."

She stood on the accelerator and the car jerked forward. "Why? And if it's not the engines, what was it?"

"The plane's on fire."

A/N: The moon was not full on 13 December 1942 but St Lucy's Day, and John Donne's poem, were too good to pass up. Forgive me!