There always seems to be someone dying somewhere,
but you never expect it to be someone you know.
– Sam Stewart, in Bleak Midwinter
Disclaimer and caveat: Sam Stewart, Christopher Foyle, Paul Milner, Andrew Foyle, Edith Ashford, Sgt. Brooke, PC Peters, and several characters mentioned in passing are all the creations of Anthony Horowitz, who also wrote some of the dialogue in the first chapter of this story. No profit is sought by my use of them.
As with all of my stories, this one will make more sense if you've read the earlier ones.
Monday 21 December 1942
7.30 p.m. – Captain's Table in St Leonards raided today; end of very long investigation. Did not go along as Mr F and Milner took four constables w them. Proprietor arrested, large quantity of food seized, incl. whole turkey! (Uncooked.) Brookie says needed as evidence – trial might not be until next month! Will spoil by then; seems quite shameful, esp. so close to Xmas. Rather pleased w self for having warned M & D last month not to have meal at Captain's Table, however.
M & constables all rather out of sorts after returning to station – wonder if they are distressed at waste of food as well. Lady of certain age wearing factory overall came to see Mr F this p.m. Did not find out reason.
Parcels arrived today from Mother & Dad and Aunt Amy & Uncle Michael. Shall wait until Xmas morning to open them. Have wrapped Andrew's Xmas gift but need to find nice piece of string or yarn – brown paper looks rather sad all by self.
Later – Have just spent 1 hr trying again to make headway w/ Times summary of Beveridge Report. Still not much use, but apparently no fee for seeing doctor, so good.
Tuesday 22 December 1942
11.30 a.m. – Drove Mr F to munitions factory in Old London Road. Horrible accident there yesterday a.m. – girl killed in explosion. Noticed lady from yesterday there. Wonder if she thinks someone up to no good – otherwise why get police involved? Drank cup of tea (horrid) in canteen while Mr F toured premises. Chatted w girl there called Phyllis Law. Girl who died called Grace Phillips; funeral today. Mrs Law worked w her; said they were on 'suicide squad.' More grateful than ever for Aunt Amy campaigning to have me join MTC in '39, as would not want to do what they are doing. Suspect even Aunt A would be horrified at idea, not to mention Andrew!
Brought up question of turkey w Mr F on way back to station. Don't think I made any impression.
Milner wound up about something or other, but let me have piece of green & white butcher's twine he was using to tie up paperwork – will look nice on Andrew's parcel.
1.00 p.m. – Mr F just asked me to go to Grace Phillips' funeral & see what I can find out! Told him I'll see what I can dig up – not sure whether he got joke.
Just heard M asking Mr F for time off this pm. Wonder if all well w Edith A, but not sure I ought to ask him. Have not really got to know E. Would be good New Year's resolution to make more of an effort.
7.00 p.m. – Funeral as dreadful as most (though vicar really rather good). Very few people there – even GP's mother didn't come! One fellow spoke up, said GP was his best girl – made great show of being heartbroken. Couldn't help thinking that what he wanted was for everyone to see him doing this.
Thursday 23 December 1942
7.45 pm – Truly horrible day, worst since secondment began. Quite possibly worst day, full stop. Mr F & I arrived at station, found it almost deserted. (Told Mr F about funeral on way to work.) Milner late to work, only Brookie there, had dreadful news to relate. Mrs Milner found dead in alley off Parade. Beaten about head with brick ca 10.00 last night. Horrible – found her very unpleasant but certainly wouldn't have wished this on her. (Really only met her twice, I think.) Have heard only bits and pieces of story but seems she came back from Wales late Monday; M went to tea w her yesterday. (Explains why M asked for time off, also why so snappish.) Apparently she wanted to pick up old threads – M not interested, unsurprisingly. M has no alibi for time she died; at home alone. As well, turns out they were not divorced. (Don't know how one would go about doing this or how long it takes.)
Got worse after M's office and house searched. M's shirt found at house w Mrs M's blood on it – M suspended. Before that, drove Mr F to Spread Eagle Hotel where she and M went for tea. Was very upset by this time; asked Mr F en route if he really thought it possible M was involved in this in any way – Mr F quite flew off the handle. Possibly did overstep, and keep telling self this must mean he is very upset as well, but am now on horns of dilemma – was invited to Mr F's house for Xmas dinner and wonder now whether wouldn't be better to beg off. Don't have gift for him in any case.
Possibly worst bit: went by news vendor on way home tonight, Brighton Evening Telegram has already picked up story, quite sordid, not entirely accurate. (Mrs M was haircutter, not nurse.)
Sam hears the telephone ringing in the hall on the ground floor, but doesn't so much as look up.
Unwritten rule hereabouts is that all newspapers brought home are put in sitting room as 'community property' (Mrs Hardcastle's phrase), but am hiding this one in my room. Will probably be all over Hastings morning papers tomorrow, and if Brighton paper has already printed it Littlehampton Mirror won't be far behind – D & M will know about it soon.
'Sam, your chap's on the... are you quite all right?' Sam hears her billet-mate Helen Jones ask from the doorway.
'Yes – well – no, not entirely. I'm sorry, Helen, it's just... been quite a trying day.'
'You look as though that were putting it mildly! Shall I tell him you're indisposed?'
'No – no, of course not, I'm coming downstairs now.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'Hello, Andrew. Andrew?' Sam repeats when there is no reply at first. Her voice sounds hollow and weak.
'Sam – what in the world's been happening today? Are you all right?' Andrew asks.
'I'm fine. There've been... some problems.'
'So I'd guess! I've just telephoned Dad – I asked him what time I ought to come 'round to your billet on Christmas Day and collect you, and I thought he was going to reach right through the line and wring my neck!'
'Oh, golly – what did he say, Andrew?'
'In a nutshell, that it doesn't matter one bit what time – though he used a couple of rather choice words in addition to that! Sam, what is going on?'
'Something rather awful's happened.' Sam explains the day's events as best she can, taking care to note that this is police business, after all, and she isn't meant to discuss it with anyone.
'Of course not, but if it's in the papers... ' Andrew begins. 'I'm sure you're right about Dad – he's probably very upset about the whole nasty mess. And he's probably been kicking himself for biting your head off! If it's of any comfort to you, Sam, everything you've told me about is circumstantial evidence,' he points out. 'Having had a row with her in public doesn't automatically mean that he killed her, and the fact that he was alone when someone did kill her doesn't mean that it was necessarily him.'
'What about the shirt, though?'
'The shirt is... unfortunate, but it still doesn't actually prove anything. You don't think Sergeant Milner did this, do you?'
'No, of course not! It's all very sad,' Sam goes on. 'I met Mrs Milner a couple of times in 1940 and can't say that I much cared for her, to be honest. She seemed like a rather nasty piece of work. It didn't really surprise me to learn that she'd left him. But she certainly didn't deserve to be murdered! And poor Edith – she must be in a dreadful state!'
'Edith? Oh, Sister Ashford!'
'Yes – she's probably terrified! And I wonder if she thought that Milner was... free to marry, I suppose that one would say.' He is now, of course.
'Sam, listen to me, please,' Andrew says firmly. 'No one can do anything about any of this except to let it sort itself out. Or let Dad sort it out, which I'm sure he'll do. And I won't hear any rubbish about you not coming to Christmas dinner, Sam – that's completely out of the question.'
'I've no gift for your father, you know,' Sam puts in, the wearyness coming back into her voice.
'If you did it would be the very last thing he was expecting from you – no matter what sort of temper he's in.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
9.10 – Andrew telephoned; feel a bit better after talking to him. Rather comforting in circumstances to be walking out w legal scholar. Said all evidence against M is 'circumstantial' – apparently means doesn't prove anything one way or other.
Can't think of anything further to write but also can't think of anything else to do. Wishing for nice calm novel to read. Perhaps ought to make early night.
Friday 24 December 1942 • Christmas Eve
Past midnight so might as well begin new entry.
Have just now thought of something: M might say he was home by self because in fact E was with him all night.
All the way from Stonefield Road to police headquarters Sam turns over in her mind the thought that had occurred to her as she'd lain awake in the wee hours.
Milner would have a real reason to lie about that, she thinks. Edith would lose her job in the blink of an eye if it got out. Edith, Sam knows, lives at the St. Mary's Hospital Nurses' Residence, a dark, massive building that Sam has always thought would do nicely for a prison.
People think that nurses have loose morals, so they're forced to live in horrid places like that. There had once been another nurses' residence in Hastings; Felicity Prothero, the midwife who boards at Mrs Hardcastle's along with Sam and the others, had lived there until the day in 1940 when – all but empty in the middle of the day, mercifully – it had taken a direct hit. It was only because of the national emergency that Felicity had been permitted to take a private billet.
The question, really, is whether I ought to bring this up to Mr Foyle, Sam thinks as she parks her bicycle. Not after that set-to yesterday, I suppose. And Milner might not admit it even if it is true, so what would be the point in asking?
'Good morning, Brookie,' says Sam, with noticeably less cheer than usual.
'Better one than yesterday at any rate, Miss Stewart, let's 'ope. Though I'm not optimistic, to tell you the truth – look at these.'
'Oh – oh, no!' Sam hadn't gone by the newsagent's stall this morning, but Brookie has both the Chronicle (POLICE DETECTIVE'S ESTRANGED WIFE KILLED IN HASTINGS – HUSBAND CHIEF SUSPECT) and the Daily Express (POLICE SUSPEND DETECTIVE AFTER WIFE'S VIOLENT DEMISE). It's hard to say which one is worse.
'And just look at this!' Sam exclaims after reading a bit. 'They've both got the same thing wrong that the Evening Telegram did!'
'What's that?'
'Mrs Milner was a hairdresser before they were married.'
'Why'd they say she was a nurse, then, I wonder?'
'I haven't the slightest idea! Well – oddly enough -'
'Oh, that's right!' Brookie interjects. 'Miss Ashford!'
'Yes.' Sam glances at her wristwatch; she has a few minutes to spare. 'Brookie – do you think that it's at all possible that Milner has no alibi because on Tuesday night... ' she begins before trailing off. 'That is,' she tries again, 'do you suppose that -'
'Good morning, Mr Brooke – Miss Stewart,' PC Peters says genially as he emerges from the passage. He receives only cursory greetings in return, and seems to be on the verge of asking the reason.
'Look at the time! I'd better look sharp!' Sam exclaims. 'Where is that distributor cap?'
Steep Lane is only just wide enough to accommodate two vehicles side by side, and Sam has always wondered why the Local Council has never seen fit to declare that traffic will run along it in one direction or the other, not in both. Still, it makes no difference on most days: even before the end of the petrol ration few people in the street seemed to have cars.
The most sensible approach is from the south, allowing Sam to pull up in front of the house with the passenger's side next to the kerb. As Sam brings the Wolseley round the corner this morning she sees that someone is descending the four shallow steps in front of Mr Foyle's house.
Edith Ashford!
She is neatly dressed but other than that she looks perfectly dreadful, Sam thinks: distraught and as though she hadn't slept much. Well, understandably. Sam sees something else in her face as well: She's only just now had some sort of bad shock.
Sam brings the car to a halt by the kerb and sits as still as she can, unsure of whether she ought to greet Edith, wait for Edith to notice her or hope that she won't notice her. The last of these finally happens; Sam watches as Edith takes a few steps down the footpath, comes to a stop and turns part way around as if, perhaps, to return to Mr Foyle's house. Then she apparently thinks better of the idea – if that's what she was going to do, Sam thinks – and hurries on her way.
Sam counts to thirty. Then she gets out of the car, mounts the steps and knocks at Mr Foyle's door.
'My apologies for losing my temper yesterday,' Mr Foyle announces, but it's clear that his frame of mind hasn't improved.
'Think nothing of it, sir,' Sam replies. She counts to sixty this time, then asks, 'Have you seen the papers this morning, sir?' hoping that this will sound as though she is merely commiserating, nothing more than that.
'The Daily Express,' Mr Foyle tells her curtly.
'The Chronicle's picked it up as well – and the Evening Telegram in Brighton scooped both of them, I'm afraid. And all three printed the same error about Mrs Milner having been a nurse! Rather an odd mistake for them to make under the circumstances, isn't it, sir?' she adds when there is no immediate response.
'Because, um, Milner's friend Miss Ashford is a nurse, you mean,' says Mr Foyle after another silence.
'Exactly, sir,' Sam goes on. 'You know, I really don't think that I'd care to be a nurse.'
Mr Foyle looks at her for the first time since he got into the car.
'People think that nurses are no better than they ought to be,' she explains. 'My aunt was an Army nurse for ten years, and she told me that there were always some of the soldiers who thought that the nurses were... there for the taking.'
Mr Foyle continues to say nothing. He looks a bit... discomfited, that's the word, Sam thinks, but she presses on, ignoring distractions.
'Eventually she married an officer, but when they were courting they had to be very careful not to start any rumours, or my aunt would've been cashiered,' she relates. 'And not a single thing's changed since then, sir – that's why they make nurses live in those horrid residence halls, and if a nurse did do anything that people would think was... wrong – some people, at any rate – she'd be dismissed from her job at once! So it would be extremely important, I suppose, that no one found out what she'd got up to.'
'Noted,' Mr Foyle says after a few seconds.
A few small bursts of activity at the police station interrupt long stretches of silence.
Mr Foyle goes into his office and shuts the door.
Sam tries to read the remaining stories in the Hastings newspapers but is unable to concentrate.
Brookie answers the front desk telephone. Sam hears his end of a conversation; it has a stop-and-start quality that suggests that he is talking to someone with a great deal to say and a great determination to say it. After more than a minute of this he transfers the call to Mr Foyle.
Sam switches to The Times. Reading it now reminds her of the early weeks of the war when she was unable to take in anything other than war news, but this morning she finds it no better going than the local press.
After a time she finds herself wandering about the station like a butterfly looking for a place to alight.
The conversation hadn't started well and has gone downhill with breathtaking speed. Brief as it's been, it seems to Sam to have lasted an eternity.
'By the way, for what it's worth... I do have the key,' PC Peters notes in a way that can only be described as insinuating.
'What for?'
'The evidence room. Just thought you'd like to know,' Peters adds. His smile, always more of a smirk in any case, has transformed into a leer.
Sam turns away, feeling a bit soiled, takes a few steps towards the front of the station and turns left into Brookie's office, if that's the proper word for something that's separated from the passage only by a half-wall. Even so, he has a desk. It would be awfully nice, Sam thinks, to have a desk.
'Everything all right, Miss Stewart?' Brookie enquires.
'Yes, thank you, Brookie,' Sam replies. It's a reflex, merely an automatic response. 'No, not really,' she goes on. 'It really is a bleak midwinter, isn't it?'
'Well, we've just 'ad some news that might cheer you up. There was a witness.'
'What?'
'When Mrs Milner was killed. There was someone there, and 'e's just been on the blower.'
Sam, who has sat down at Brookie's desk, leaps to her feet.
'Where is he?' she asks excitedly.
'At the A.F.S. post.'
'I'll get the car right away!'
'No need to rush,' Brookie says. 'Mr Foyle said 'e needed to make an urgent telephone call 'imself.'
'My goodness – to whom? What on Earth about?' What could possibly be more urgent, Sam wonders, than clearing Milner's good name?
'Dunno. Erm, Miss Stewart.' Brookie changes the subject. 'Was that PC Peters who was botherin' you just now? I'll 'ave another word with 'im. 'E's sort of the ring-leader, you know.'
'Yes – that is, yes, it was Constable Peters, but no, he wasn't bothering me. He wasn't... forcing his attentions on me, if that's what you mean, Brookie,' Sam goes on when the sergeant looks unconvinced. 'Ring-leader of what?' she adds.
Brookie now looks distinctly uncomfortable.
'They like gossiping – that's all,' he tells her.
'Gossiping about what?' A dismaying idea occurs to her. 'You don't mean that they do think Milner killed his wife?' she asks in a loud whisper.
'Oh! No, I don't think anyone 'ere believes that, Miss Stewart.'
'What, then?'
'I shouldn't 'ave mentioned this,' Brookie says at last.
'You did, though,' Sam points out firmly. 'Brookie, if there's something that I ought to know, then please tell me what it is.'
'It's just... You've asked about 'avin' a desk in the constables' room.'
'I certainly have! Everyone seems to be against the idea!'
'There's reasons for that, Miss Stewart. The boys, they like to pretend... ' Brookie trails off. He looks miserable.
Sam's eyes widen.
A farm in the Downs, eighteen months ago – no, twenty. Three Land Army girls, one of them a rough customer, a girl called Joan, from Brookie's part of London.
'Why don't the old man drive himself? . . . Are you his fancy woman? Is that 'ow it works?'
'Does Mr Foyle know about this?' she asks, so quietly that Brookie has lean forward slightly to be sure of hearing her.
'Not if me and Mr Milner've been able to keep 'im from finding out,' he replies firmly. 'Y'know, Miss Stewart, it isn't you. It's really just – some blokes – well, a lot – a woman puts on a uniform and they think she's a... ' He falls silent again and then adds, 'I'd wager it was just the same in the last war.'
Sam nods.
'Brookie – whether or not Mr Foyle knows about this, I think that it'll be best if he doesn't know that you've told me about it,' she says. To say nothing of Andrew, she adds silently.
'No argument from me,' Brookie agrees. 'This entire conversation – it never 'appened! Was there something you was going to ask me when you came in this morning, Miss Stewart?' he asks.
'There was, yes... but it might be better to leave it be. It seems awfully easy to start rumours – even without intending to.'
'Ah – there you are, Sam.' Mr Foyle stands in the doorway. 'I need to go to -'
'The A.F.S. station, sir?'
'Yes. Know where that is?'
'Shepherd Street, in St Leonards on Sea, sir – opposite the lime works. I'll get the car.'
The A.F.S. have taken up residence not only in the fire station itself but over the road in the lime works' yard as well. Sam parks the Wolseley there; she is unsurprised when Mr Foyle instructs her to remain with it, and only mildly so when she realises that she feels no real disappointment. Still, it can't hurt to stand by the car and look about a bit rather than sit in it.
A cheery fellow of about Uncle Aubrey's age wishes Sam a happy Christmas and offers her a newspaper to read. It's two days old, but no matter: Sam hasn't seen it, and the lead article is about Grace Phillips, complete with a photograph.
A FEW HOURS LATER
'Mrs Wilson was very surprised when the turkey arrived in a police vehicle – and impressed, I think, even if the car was only one of the ten-forties, and not the fourteen-sixty,' Sam relates. 'Impressed with the turkey as well as with that, of course.'
'That's good,' Foyle says mildly.
'I'll telephone Mr Johnson on Monday morning, sir, first thing, and ask him when he thinks he can have the car ready,' Sam goes on.
'Thank you.'
'It'll probably be best not to expect too much on that score – although it is a police vehicle and really ought to take priority. But he'll be rather short-staffed for the time being.'
The sheer aplomb, not to say sang-froid, that this remark suggests shakes Foyle out of the pall of fatigue that has settled over him this afternoon. It isn't yet half past three, but Sam is driving him home in the same small marked police car she used to deliver the turkey. She herself has been, if anything, increasingly lively as the day has worn on, but there are circles under her eyes.
'You've had quite a day, Sam,' he begins.
'The entire department has had quite a week, if I may say so, sir,' Sam replies seriously, and then adds, more tentatively, 'All's well that ends well, though – isn't it?'
'Certainly,' Foyle agrees, unable to keep from smiling at this. 'That said... ' He trails off, then begins again. 'Well, for one thing, you're going to have to rearrange your schedule for tomorrow. What time are they expecting you?'
'They're going to sit down at noon, Mrs Wilson said.'
'Why don't we say that you'll join us for tea and then stay to supper? If I send Andrew to call for you at half past three, will that be all right?'
'Thank you, sir – I'd like that very much,' Sam answers him. They've arrived at the house. 'Was there something else, sir?'
Foyle hesitates, for no real reason, he admits silently. Still haven't lost the habit of avoiding this subject. Then he answers her.
'No need for Andrew to know about your visit to Johnson's Garage today, don't you think, Sam? I know that you never discuss police matters outside the department,' he goes on before Sam can reply – something I have little choice but to believe, he adds to himself – 'but it seems this case has been in the papers since Wednesday afternoon. He's likely to know something about it already.'
'Yes, well... ' Sam begins. 'To be honest, sir, he telephoned me last night – after he'd spoken with you. He said that you'd been... a bit short-tempered with him.'
'Mm. Yes.'
'And he wondered whether I knew what was troubling you. You know, sir, he does worry about you a good deal,' she adds.
'Not half so much as he worries about you, Sam.'
Author's notes:
My heartfelt thanks, as always, to those who have provided help and support: BellaDuveen79, inquietstrength, mercurygray, oldshrewsburian, OxfordKivrin, rosalindfan, and strangespacerock.
The Report of the Inter-Departmental Committee on Social Insurance and Allied Services (better known as the Beveridge Report), laying out the foundations of the modern British welfare state, was published on December 1st, 1942. Two editions were available – a 300-page unabridged version and a shorter official summary, combined sales of which reached 100,000 copies by the end of the year – and The Times and other newspapers published summaries of their own. (See Juliet Gardiner, Wartime: Britain 1939-1945, p. 582, and Valerie Holcomb, Print for Victory: Book Publishing in England 1939-1945, p. 194.)
The small marked police car that plays a crucial role in "All Clear" has been identified by observers at the Internet Movie Car Database as a Wolseley 10/40 Series II from 1937 or 1938. I am imagining that the Hastings Police have a small fleet of these and that Sam will be driving one of them until the large car – a Wolseley 14/60 from around the same time, I gather – can be fixed.