"Steady on," said Mr. Foyle, as if it were Sam herself who'd just nearly pitched down his front steps. "Not to worry," he added, in a strangely thin, breathless voice that was anything but reassuring.

"Mr. Foyle, sir!" Sam loosened her hands from where they'd landed under his arm and on his waistcoat, but kept them out as she settled into a crouch beside him. Beneath his hat Mr. Foyle's face was gray and his eyes seemed at once unclear and too bright. "Sir, you look absolutely terrible."

"Well, thanks very much." He closed his eyes briefly and let out a breath that ended in a cough which, though it was quiet, seemed to shake him all over.

"Have… have you a temperature?" Sam bit her lip. "It looks as if you had."

"Not sure. " He took hold of the railing. "Give me a hand up, would you?"

A woman carrying a shopping basket was watching them with curiosity as she came along the pavement. Sam tried to look nonchalant rather than concerned as she stood and held out her hand. "Certainly, sir."

Mr. Foyle drew himself upright and let go of the railing to lift his hat as the lady came abreast of them. "Good morning." He loosed his grasp on Sam, though not until he had his other hand back around the wrought iron of the rail. She could hear him breathing; it sounded rough, and quick, and much too shallow.

"Good morning," said the shopping woman, nodding and then looking away with the air of having decided that they were in the midst of a minor mishap that should be politely ignored rather than an interesting crisis.

When she'd passed, Mr. Foyle slowly turned around. "Inside," he said, with a tilt of his head to tell Sam to follow him.

"Yes, sir." Sam stepped back to let him pass, then almost ran into him when he stopped just beyond the swing of the door and put a hand on the wall.

"Sorry," said Mr. Foyle. "Must catch my breath. Sorry."

Sam pushed the door shut behind them. She ducked under Mr. Foyle's arm, taking his weight over her shoulders and, with a blessed flash of memory from her first aid training, groped under his overcoat and jacket to get her hand on a belt loop. Now at least if he fell she'd have something to hold on to. "Sofa's just through here, isn't that right?"

Mr. Foyle coughed, a deep racking cough that she could feel shuddering through his chest, but didn't speak.

"Right," Sam said, her heart pounding in her throat. "Just a few steps, right? That's it. Here we are. Not much further. Slowly, now." Her legs cried out at the strain of bending to the sofa while supporting both their weights, but she managed it. "There. That'll be better. To catch your breath. Sir."

He sank back bonelessly into the sofa, crushing his hat until Sam caught it and set it aside. In the clearer light of the front room he looked more dreadful than ever, his whole face as white as his collar.

Collar. Right. "Sir, I'm going to unfasten your collar, so you, you can breathe better." Sam peeled off her driving gloves and leaned in to loosen Mr. Foyle's tie, then unbutton his collar, and, after a moment, his waistcoat as well. His skin felt hot even to the light brush of her fingers against his chin, and when she opened his waistcoat the shirt beneath was transparent with perspiration. Hesitantly, Sam touched the back of her hand to his forehead and frowned at the heat. "Sir? Can you tell me who your doctor is?"

"Mm," Mr. Foyle answered, not opening his eyes.

A steamer rug lay folded over the back of one of the armchairs; Sam spread it carefully over Mr. Foyle. A little color began to creep back into his face, but he didn't open his eyes. Sam gave it a full minute by the mantel clock before she went across to the telephone. There wasn't an address book on the surface of the desk, and she didn't dare start opening drawers. With another glance back at the sofa, she lifted the receiver and waited for the operator. "Hastings 715, please."

The call seemed to take an age to go through. Sam fidgeted, rocking from her heels to her toes. Finally, the phone began to ring on the other end, and a blessedly familiar "Milner here" came down the line.

"Oh, thank goodness I got you before you left home. It's Sam," she added belatedly. "Could you come round to Mr. Foyle's on your way to the station?"

"Of course. What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I just, Mr. Foyle... Mr. Foyle could use your help."

"I can be there in twenty minutes. Do you need anything else? Anyone else, a constable?"

"No. No, thank you, just you." I think. She wanted to keep Milner on the line for the comfort of his voice, but it would only delay his arrival. "See you soon." They rang off and she went back to stand by Mr. Foyle. "Sir?" she asked, again, and finally was rewarded with a flutter of his eyelids.

"Sam?" he asked, in a hoarse but stronger voice. "What are you doing in my bedroom?"

"You're not in your bedroom, sir."

Mr. Foyle began to sit up straighter, grimaced, and pressed a hand to his temple as he squinted at the sitting room. "Oh... sorry… is it still Monday?"

"It's Monday morning, sir. You were coming out to the car and you... well, I think you... got a bit lightheaded, sir."

He nodded. Then he frowned. "Miss Stewart, I believe you're trying to be tactful with me."

"No, sir."

"Because it's coming back that I more or less fainted in your arms twice in the space of ten minutes."

"I... don't think you were quite unconscious, sir. Certainly not the first time, and not for long, anyway. I did ring Milner. I didn't see an address book to find the name of your doctor and I thought you wouldn't like an ambulance."

"You thought right, since we're talking about a simple case of moving too fast with flu. I'm sorry, Sam, this isn't quite what the MTC promised in their recruiting posters."

Sam laughed a little wildly with relief. "Not at all, sir, really, I'm glad I came by in time to, to be useful. How are you feeling?"

He tipped his head towards his shoulder in an abbreviated shrug. "Headache."

"Have you a thermometer?"

He nodded. "Bathroom cabinet, upstairs... you remember where that is?"

"Certainly. Be back in a tick." Sam tucked the blanket more firmly over his shoulder and trotted up the stairs. She collected the thermometer and looked for aspirin but found none.

"I don't suppose you could call off Milner," Mr. Foyle said as she came back to the sitting room.

"He'll be on his way." Sam took the thermometer out of its case, then looked up with a frown as Mr. Foyle coughed again. He turned his face courteously away, but she could see how his shoulders shook and how his hand settled on his chest after. "Does that hurt you, sir? It sounds as if it hurts."

"I'm not a car, Sam, you can't fiddle with my engine when you don't like the sound of it."

"Sorry, sir."

"No." He shook his head and rubbed his face. "I'm sorry. You're being very kind."

"Not at all, sir." Sam carefully shook down the thermometer and checked the time on the clock. "Here... oh, wait, what's your doctor's name?"

"I, ah. Haven't one at the moment. Dr. Forrest used to see Andrew and me, but he died in an air raid last year and I've not needed anyone, so."

It had been months since he'd spoken Andrew's name in Sam's hearing, and then it had been with an air of gentle apology. Now he let it fall seemingly without thought. Well, no need for him to think about it, Sam reminded herself, unsure whether it was the name itself or Mr. Foyle's uncharacteristic lapse that made the knot of anxiety tighten in her chest. "Milner can probably suggest one." She held out the thermometer again.

"Sam, really, if you… or Milner… bring me some aspirin I can put myself to bed and be quite all right."

"We'll see about that," Sam said, in conscious imitation of the ward sister who'd looked after her at St. Mary's. "Open, please."

Mr. Foyle gave her a look, but took the thermometer under his tongue.

"May I put the kettle on?" With his nodded approval, Sam went through to the kitchen, where she found the remains of a spartan supper but no indication of breakfast. She washed the single soup bowl and the cut-glass tumbler while the kettle tapped and creaked towards boiling. A knock at the front door nearly made her drop the bowl, but she managed to get it safely down on the drainboard and darted out through the sitting room.

"One more minute, sir," she told Mr. Foyle, then went to pull the door open for an out-of-breath Milner.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Sam tugged him over the threshold. "It's Mr. Foyle. He's ill."

"What?" Milner stared at her, then looked to the stairs. "Is he in bed?"

"He ought to be. He almost fell down the front steps. He's a bit steadier now, I'm taking his temperature, but he has a fever and a terrible cough. Oh, I had better get the thermometer..." She led the way back to the sitting room. "Sir, Sergeant Milner's here." She checked the clock, then took the thermometer over to the window to read it.

"Morning," Mr. Foyle said roughly, the word dissolving into a cough that he'd probably been holding back for some time.

"Morning, sir."

"Mr. Foyle! Your temperature's over a hundred and three. No wonder you fai-, ah, felt lightheaded." Sam whirled around to see Mr. Foyle sinking deeper into the sofa and the rug with a look of embarrassment, and Milner standing shocked and uneasy in the doorway. "Milner, Mr. Foyle said his doctor's not available; would you ring yours? He really ought to have a doctor," Sam went on, when Milner looked even more uncomfortable.

"I've not seen a doctor since the Talbot Brothers case." He touched his arm. "The one I used to see… his, ah. His wife was a friend of Jane's."

Mr. Foyle raised his eyebrows slightly. Sam held back a shiver at the fanciful sense of Jane Milner's ghost passing through the room.

Milner swallowed. "Though I do agree with Sam, sir." He took off his hat and fixed his steady gaze on Mr. Foyle. "You don't look yourself."

Mr. Foyle quirked his mouth, then looked to Sam when a faint hissing sound came from the kitchen.

"Oh! the kettle!" Sam darted towards the kitchen, came back to carefully put the thermometer down, and dashed out again. After a few moments of aimless cupboard-opening she was able to recall where Mr. Foyle kept things, and happily none of his arrangements had changed since the week she'd spent staying in his spare room. While she warmed the pot and measured leaves and let the kettle boil again, she could hear the regular murmur of Milner's voice and the shorter bursts of Mr. Foyle's, interspersed with coughs. He should have lemon and honey but of course there were no lemons to be had anywhere, and only a small, mostly empty pot of honey in the cabinet. Sam put it on the tray anyway, along with the teapot and three cups and the milk jug.

Milner had drawn an armchair closer to the sofa and was sitting very straight on the edge of it, his hat on his knee. "What about Davies, sir, the M.O.?"

"It'd be a change for him. Having a live patient," Sam said as she poured.

"Fine. If it will set your mind – your minds - at rest." Mr. Foyle pushed the rug off his chest in order to reach for the teacup Sam offered him, but when she made a noise of dismay and Milner half rose in protest, he pulled it up again as he settled back. "Worryguts, both of you," he muttered, but there was a faint spark of his usual humor as he muttered it. Something in Milner relaxed just a fraction.

"Honey, sir? Are you sure? Well, it's here, anyway." Sam poured a cup for Milner and one for herself.

"I'll phone the station, then." Milner took his tea over to the desk. "It would be fastest for you to drive over for him while I'm ringing up, if you don't mind."

"Of course not."

Mr. Foyle shook his head at her. "Drink your tea, Sam. Davies probably isn't in yet." He pressed two fingers to his forehead over his right eye, then lowered his hand and sat up straighter. Sam hid her frown in her cup.

"Brooke? Milner here. Can you tell me, has the M.O. come in? Right, when you see him, let him know that Miss Stewart will be round shortly; Mr. Foyle needs him. Yes, I'm with Mr. Foyle, but I'll be in later this morning."

Sam drank her tea quickly, then refilled Mr. Foyle's cup before she looked for her driving gloves. She finally found them under the sofa, where she'd dropped them in her rush to loosen Mr. Foyle's collar.

"Take Milner with you," Mr. Foyle suggested. "One of us ought to be on duty."

Milner looked to Sam; she glanced at Mr. Foyle, then gave her head a tiny shake.

"Sam can run me back when she's brought Davies," Milner said. "Sir, if you could tell me what would be best for me to concentrate on today...?"

Mr. Foyle looked appraisingly at Milner, who held himself stiff under the scrutiny. "Right."

Sam pulled on her gloves. "Right-o. Back directly, sir." She gave Mr. Foyle a salute and was rewarded with a small amused smile, though he followed it with another shuddering cough.


"There's a shortage of manpower. You know that better than anyone, Foyle." Assistant Commissioner Rose narrowed his eyes. "We can't dismiss an experienced constable because…"

"Because he's disgraced his training, his uniform, and the law?" He kept his voice mild, but Rose was not deceived.

"I'm not saying we let it pass. Certainly Peters can't continue in Hastings, and suspending him was entirely appropriate."

He nodded slightly. "Glad you approve, sir." He raised his eyes to the window behind Rose, and the strip of gummed tape that had started to pull away from the corner. It had lengthened in the week since his previous visit.

"But transferring him is a better course than prosecution, under the circumstances."

"Well, it's the course you favor, sir."

Rose leaned forward, settling his immaculate elbows on his leather blotter. "You wouldn't look very good if it was brought to trial. Infighting under your command, eh?"

"I didn't look very good investigating my own detective sergeant on suspicion of murder." He met the AC's gaze. "Prosecution is costly in man-hours, absolutely, but I had hoped my reports might defray that to some extent."

"Why are you so dead set on this?"

"It was my failure that made it possible. I want to see it put right. There's also the matter of morale for the local force, professional relations with wherever Peters might be sent, and Milner's career going forward."

Rose touched a file on his desk. "He's quite capable, it seems."

"He is, but something like this is a bad mark on a man's record, and it should be resolved. Without stain on his character. And, respectfully, sir, while I do certainly appreciate the staff problem, it does seem unfair that the exigencies of wartime should benefit a dishonest man at the expense of a wounded veteran." He raised his eyebrows slightly and let the uncomfortable silence settle into the room.

Finally, Rose sat back. "Couldn't transfer anyone to replace him."

"Wouldn't expect it."

"You don't think being even more shorthanded will increase tensions?"

"I think that, with a cleared detective sergeant, I'll manage very well."

"I hope so, Foyle."


"The bronchi are badly inflamed," Dr. Davies said, ushering Sam and Milner back into the sitting room, "and there are considerable patches of consolidation throughout the lungs, especially in the lower lobes."

Mr. Foyle pulled down one corner of his mouth and shrugged his waistcoat back over his shirtsleeves.

"Pneumonia?" Milner asked, before Sam could bring herself to voice the same fear. She looked up at him, taking in the extra tension in his jaw, then turned anxiously to the doctor.

Davies frowned critically at his patient. "It's not pneumonia now but it's a nearer matter than one likes to see. And bronchitis is no joke in itself, when it comes with this sort of fever. Mr. Foyle, your son's not home, is he? And there's no one who cooks for you, just a woman for the charing? Well, is there any friend whose household could look after you? You need at least a few days in bed, regular meals, inhalations for the congestion, and treatment to keep the fever down."

Mr. Foyle shook his head slightly and kept buttoning his waistcoat. "I couldn't impose. Look," he stared up at the doctor from under his brows, "clearly setting out to the station this morning was a mistake, but I do think I can look after myself."

"Mr. Foyle," Dr. Davies said, with full Welsh gravity, "You are a sick man, and will be sicker if you don't keep in bed. Doing for yourself is out of the question. You must either go to a friend or I shall find you a place in hospital."

"No, that's…" He sat back in frustration. "St. Mary's and St. Luke's both received large transfers from Hythe and Bexhill on Friday – it took three quarters of the constables to manage the traffic." Mr. Foyle coughed. "They've no room for me." He coughed again and reached for his now-cold cup of tea.

"I shall find something," Dr. Davies said. "Possibly a nursing home, if the hospitals are full."

Mr. Foyle rubbed a hand over his face. He looked so deeply uncomfortable, on top of exhausted and ill, that Sam impulsively turned towards the doctor. "Does it need to be anything special in the way of inhalations, or just steam? Because, well, I won't have anything to do while Mr. Foyle's off work, and my mother had pneumonia when I was seventeen so I was making steam inhalations for simply ages. Could probably do it in my sleep. In fact I imagine I have a few times! And I'm not much of a cook but I can manage powdered eggs, and broth, and tea and porridge and toast. Does he need trained nursing, or would that do?"

"Sam, I can't let you…" Mr. Foyle protested.

"That would be most of it," Dr. Davies said slowly. "And keeping track of his temperature, making sure the room's kept warm, that sort of thing. But for you to stay alone..."

"I'm a sort of police employee; couldn't we call it a temporary billet? Like a land girl!" Sam looked to Milner for support.

Milner turned his level gaze to the doctor. "You're not saying he can't get up at all."

"Well, stairs would be risky, in view of the fainting…"

Mr. Foyle rolled his eyes. "...won't happen again…" He drew on his jacket, but left his tie where it sat coiled beside him on the sofa.

"...but as long as there's some help with washing, as necessary... if someone came in once or twice a day…"

"I could do that," Milner said, adding diffidently to Mr. Foyle, "If you'd have me, sir."

"I haven't any objection to you, Milner. Or Sam. I just don't see that it's necessary." Mr. Foyle swallowed back a cough.

"A hundred and three, sir," Sam said, reproachfully.

He grimaced, and raised his eyes to the doctor. The two of them looked at each other for a long moment, and finally Mr. Foyle nodded. "If the two of you are quite sure," he said, not looking at them.

"Quite sure," Sam answered promptly.

Milner nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Sam hung up Mr. Foyle's overcoat and hat while Milner and Davies discussed the car and Mr. Foyle, quieter even than usual, finished his tea. Dr. Davies could drive, so they finally settled it that he would drive himself and Milner back to the station and garage the car there, so Brooke and Milner could use it if necessary. Sam had Dr. Davies write out his instructions, and Mr. Foyle, after an argument of stares and monosyllables, suffered having Milner escort him up the stairs. The doctor followed when he was done, murmuring about proper elevation of the shoulders, and Milner returned to stand by Sam in the hall.

"You'll be all right?" he asked.

"Absolutely." Sam lifted her chin. "I'm just a bit shaken. Mr. Foyle's never ill."

"I know. I can't remember him ever being off sick." Milner shook his head. "He's been working much too hard."

"He always works hard," Sam countered. "You both do."

Milner let out a tight little sigh. "Not like... since Christmas. All the things I usually do, after a murder case, that's fallen to him. And what with Peters..."

Sam winced. The matter of Constable Peters had been pressing hard on Mr. Foyle, it was true, as well as on the entire station, now short yet another man. And though Mr. Foyle would never say anything specific about his meetings with the Assistant Commissioner, the fact that he'd gone to London three times since the New Year didn't exactly suggest cheerful discussions."Peters," she agreed, grimly. "But, Milner, that's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" His thin lips went even thinner.

Sam put a hand on his arm. "No." Mr. Foyle coughed somewhere overhead, and Milner frowned harder. Sam tightened her hand. "It's not pneumonia," she reminded him. "That's good, isn't it?"

"Yes. You're right, yes." Milner nodded and put on his hat as the doctor came downstairs. "I'll call in tonight on my way home, but ring the station if you need anything at all."

"I will. "

"Right, Miss Stewart, "said Dr. Davies. "I think he'll sleep for a bit now. I gave him a dose of aspirin, which should help. You'll need to get some more - soluble, if you can find it. The more fluids he drinks, the better."

Sam held herself at attention. "Very good, Doctor. I'll see to it."

"I'll come tomorrow to see how he's getting on."

"Thank you." Sam handed over the keys to the Wolseley. "The clutch is ever so slightly stiff at the top, but only at the top, which can be surprising. Right, good-bye. Good-bye." She locked the door behind them and stood in the suddenly quiet hall. Feeling as if she were playing house, Sam unpinned her hat, took off her jacket, and turned up the sleeves of her blouse.

"Well," she said aloud. "I suppose the first thing is food."


It was like being a constable again, he thought, with the station as his beat. Watch the landscape; watch the people; track the currents to see if they changed. Sergeant Brooke had done - did - well overseeing the constables, but he lacked the authority of his predecessor's age, and the benefit of long experience of the men under him. Foyle had some of the experience, and at moments he felt every day of the age. What he lacked was time.

He missed Hugh Reid with more than the usual fervor, albeit without the old touch of envy that Hugh had been released to more direct war work. The administrative logic that a Detective Chief Superintendent could carry the work of a uniformed CS as well as his own seemed particularly hollow now.

Milner haunted the corridors, nervous as a cat, craving something to do but all too aware of his own disqualification for the most pressing tasks. The constables treated him with nervous deference, Brooke with careful collegiality. Only Sam seemed to find no difficulty. She chattered as easily as ever to both Brooke and Milner, and with only a slight increase in formal coolness to the constables. He knew, from her tentative questions (now always carefully timed for when the car was in motion, not parked in the high street) about the nature of Peters' offence and likely punishment, that it was not ignorance that made her so. It was assurance that justice would be done and the station's work would recover its old ease, and he tried to see her confidence as a bolster to his own bruised supply.


At the station Mr. Foyle took his lunch at one, but he'd had no breakfast to speak of, so Sam brought up a tray at noon. The door to his room was ajar, which was lucky, since she had no place to put the tray down. Must bring up a chair or something. "Mr. Foyle?" she called softly. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, come in." He was sitting up in bed, wearing blue-and-white striped flannel pajamas. His hair was rumpled and his eyes had that odd feverish lack of focus, but he was only pale, not ashen as he'd been before. "Sam, it's very good of you to, well, all this," he gestured with the red cloth-bound book in his hand, "but isn't it going to make trouble for you? Worry people?"

"I jolly well know what scriptures I'll quote to my father if he objects. I meant it, sir, about having nothing to do. If I weren't here I'd be getting up to no good in the Parade. Much better to be useful."

Mr. Foyle twisted a corner of his mouth, but took the tray onto his lap. "I feel a fraud being waited on."

"Well, I must say, sir, you don't look a fraud, and you certainly don't sound it." Sam drew a buff envelope from under her arm. "Constable Studdock brought this from Sergeant Milner, and Mrs. Hawkins came with your clean laundry and has gone out to do the marketing. I took your ration book from your overcoat, I hope that's all right."

"Of course."

"It's only porridge, I'm afraid, but I put dried apples in," Sam said, as Mr. Foyle tentatively picked up his spoon.

"Thank you."

Sam glanced around the room, taking in the light blue wallpaper and the solid dark-wood furniture. "I don't suppose you have such a thing as a breakfast tray in the house? The sort with legs, you know. I didn't find one in the kitchen."

"Airing cupboard. Very bottom." Mr. Foyle took a long drink of water.

"Did I put in too much salt, sir?"

"No, it's fine. Just," he shook his head slightly, eyes still cast down, "not terribly hungry."

"Would you rather a sandwich? Cheese, or spam?"

His eyebrows drew closer together. "No, no."

"Do try to eat a bit, sir. To keep…"

"Does Milner want a reply?" he interrupted, taking up the envelope.

"I'm not sure. The constable didn't say."

"You'd better bring me a pen," Mr. Foyle coughed, "and some notepaper, in case."

"Yes, sir. Would you like anything else? The newspaper, or the wireless?"

"No. Thank you." He gave her a firm nod and opened Milner's note with the same air of you are dismissed that he used in his office.

Sam checked the airing cupboard and sure enough, at the bottom, entangled with a worn attaché case and a boy scout sleeping roll, she found a dusty white wicker breakfast tray. It must have been Mrs. Foyle's, she thought, with a pang. She carried it carefully down to the kitchen, then washed her hands and collected a pen, notepaper, and blotting paper from the desk.

Mr. Foyle hadn't made much progress on the porridge; he seemed more interested in the file he'd spread out on the green chenille counterpane. Sam put the writing things on the table by his bed, next to an etched glass carafe and tumbler, and a christening photograph of a tiny Andrew in his mother's arms. Seeing the carafe was more than half empty, she took it to the bathroom to fill it at the tap. "Will you have anything to send back, sir?" she asked, when she returned.

"No, it's not pressing, and Milner says he'll call about six." He coughed again, steadying the tray with the hand not pressed in a fist to his lips.

Sam took a step closer to the bed. "Could I make you some tea, or Bovril, or something?"

"No, no." He turned over a page of typescript.

"Only it would help your cough, sir."

Mr. Foyle put his hands down on either side of the tray and fixed her with a stare. "Sam."

"Sir."

"I am in bed. I am eating. I am... supervised. Davies' instructions are, for the moment, fulfilled, and I am fine, and could there be rather less fuss, please."

Sam swallowed. "Absolutely, sir."

"Have Mrs. Hawkins make up Andrew's room for you; it's warmer than the spare room," he went on, more gently, as he returned to the file.

"Yes, sir. I'll, um, I'll come back for the tray, shall I?" Sam retreated rapidly to the hall. Oh, for something simple, like a three-point turn in a London alley, or a bust fuel pipe. She let out a sigh, then went back to the airing cupboard to look for linens, not wanting to trouble Mrs. Hawkins with bed-making. When she'd collected sheets and pillowslips, she turned to the middle bedroom and, purposefully not hesitating, pushed open the door.

Andrew's room had only a very, very faint scent of him, or rather of his tangy shaving soap. For the most part it smelled, like any shut-up room, of dust and furniture polish and still air. A narrow brass bed with a cheerful red quilt stood against the left-hand wall with a bedside table and a glass-shaded lamp. Ranged around an old-fashioned braided rug were a bureau, a bookcase, and, under the single window, a small desk. Without even putting down her armful of linens, Sam went to the bookcase.

The top two shelves held heavy, serious-looking volumes with titles about Constitution and Rule of Law. The lower shelves held a jumble of books, all more brightly colored than the university reading on the top. Sam knelt down to look more closely. Several volumes of Beatrix Potter; When We Were Very Young; a complete Sherlock Holmes; some E. Nesbit; Swallows and Amazons; half a dozen beautifully illustrated fairytale picture books; two books about fishing and a Book of Common Prayer, all looking as if they came straight from the shop; and at the end of the bottom shelf, three sets of Meccano and two jigsaws.

Something made a space between the Meccano and the jigsaws. Sam balanced the linens on her lap and lifted up the jigsaws to find three more books, slim ones. A.E. Housman, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Vachel Lindsay.

Poetry.

The sea air, and Andrew's hand in hers, and the smell of his shaving soap and the wool of his uniform and her own perfume - she'd still had perfume - and his voice in her ear and his lips…

Sam put the jigsaws down abruptly. Her face felt hot and her breath came too fast. It was a long time ago, she told herself sternly. More than a year. It was just a wartime thing. Like Joe. Just, with Andrew I was the one who thought… who wanted… more.

She gathered herself and went to make up the bed. Think about something else. Think about films - but not Gone With the Wind with Andrew. Think about food - but not tea with Andrew. Think about the Russian front. Think about barrage balloons. Think about needlework, and music lessons, and polishing silver.

Think about becoming a nun.


Sam put a dining chair in the upstairs hall for parking trays, and one in Mr. Foyle's room, near the door, so she could sit down and not hover. (Hovering, it appeared, was nearly as grave a sin as fussing.) She sat down at Mr. Foyle's dining table with paper, ruler, and pencil to make herself charts for temperature readings, medicine, and meals. She cleaned the wicker breakfast tray, washed the lunch dishes, singed the quarter-chicken Mrs. Hawkins had bought and started it roasting in the oven, and put away the rest of the marketing. She examined the cookware, selected a heavy saucepan as the best option for making a steam inhalation, and started the water heating.

After that, her efficiency lagged. When she went hunting for brown paper to make a cone for the steam, little bits of Andrew kept popping up to surprise her: baby dishes that could only have been his stacked in the back of a cabinet, a date in his handwriting on a jam label, his Debden address tucked in the blotter on the desk. None were as painfully evocative as his room, but all struck harder than she thought they should. When she had to give up on brown paper and tested a cone of newspaper, the paper quickly collapsed and the ink melted in the heat, turning the steam an evil color and leaving black smears all over her blouse. She had to rinse the saucepan and start again. Then, once the clean water boiled, she had to make one trip up the stairs with the breakfast tray and clean bath towels, followed by a second more cautious trip carrying the covered saucepan swathed in tea towels. At least the actual steam inhalation went all right, and Mr. Foyle sounded the better for it, though he was very prickly about Sam's efforts to arrange the towels.

Sam shredded the roast chicken, started soup from the bones, and put the meat in the refrigerator for the next day. She put the wireless on softly while she washed and chopped vegetables, mixed up a pint of household milk, and checked to be sure she could see how to do the blackout on all the ground-floor windows. The thin winter daylight had already started to fade, and she found herself yawning as she put carrots and potatoes in the soup. Come on, Stewart, this will never do. She made herself a cup of tea from the morning's leaves, not strong but very hot, which helped, and trotting upstairs to do the blackout there and look in on Mr. Foyle (frowning drowsily over Milner's papers) made her feel more lively. Still, she was grateful when she heard Milner's knock and could open the door to the cold, fresh evening air.

"Sam, how are you? How is he?" Milner asked, taking off his hat. "What…?" He looked with concern at the smudges on her blouse.

"Oh. I had a mishap with the newspaper. It's all right. I'll just need to wash it out tonight. His temperature's down to a hundred and one. I think he spent most of the afternoon dozing over that file you sent."

"Good." A nervous grin flashed across Milner's face. "It was the most tedious one I could lay my hands on."

Sam covered a startled laugh with her hand. "Sergeant!"

He ducked his head. "But as soon as I handed it to Studdock I started to worry that Mr. Foyle would find something pressing in it."

"Not so far. Look, could I ask you to take his supper up? I've got to pop back to my lodgings for a few things and I'd like to be out before my landlady gets home from her shift. Easier to leave a note than to answer questions."

"Of course." Milner followed her through to the kitchen "Ah. Just don't have anything brimful on the tray. I limp a bit on stairs." He looked away.

"Oh." Sam paused in ladling soup into a bowl. "Would you rather not?"

"No, just… don't want to look careless. Not in front of Mr. Foyle."

"At the moment I think he'd prefer careless to careful, when it comes to himself. He keeps complaining that I fuss." Sam let out a sigh as she arranged toast on a plate. "My mother always seems to think I don't fuss enough." She put a saucepan lid over the bowl to keep it hot, filled a tumbler three-quarters full of milk, and tucked a serviette under the cutlery. She measured a dose of aspirin into another glass, but didn't add the water. "There, I think that's everything."

"Let me guess," said Milner. "Coq au vin without the vin?"

Sam smiled. "Very little coq, this time, I'm afraid, but the stock is good and strong and there are plenty of potatoes." She handed him the tray and held the doors for him going through to the hall. "I put a chair in the hall so there's a spot to put the tray down while you open his door. I shouldn't be more than an hour, possibly less."

"Take your time. Edith's matron is always at the nurses not to skimp on their walks." He gave her a nod and started climbing the stairs, a little unevenly, it was true, but steadily. Sam buttoned her jacket, pinned on her hat, and let herself out.


Even days after his last journey the London dust stuck in his throat; the London chill clung to his bones. Again and again he turned his thoughts to the business before him, and again and again he found himself pondering unrelated scenes: Edith Ashford in his sitting room, or Mrs. Summersgill in her shop, or Milner, months earlier, his eyes clear but grieved as he said "No, it won't trouble anyone if I'm late, sir. I should tell you that Jane's not coming back; we've agreed to divorce."

"You know him," the women all had said, some as a criticism, some as an accusation, and in his mind now there rang the response he'd barely kept from hurling at Sam when she questioned him outside the Spread Eagle: don't you know me? Don't you remember when Andrew was the last to see Connie Dewars? Don't you know by now what this job demands, what I have to put aside, what I have to do because no one else will?

He had one packet of Aspro left; he stirred it into a glass of water with the end of his pen, drank it off, and walked the corridors again. Winborn and Turner by the cells, Norrell in the canteen (must watch him, he'd been thick with Peters), Page at the front with Brooke and Sam, Goodsell in with Milner making a report on illegal gambling. The constables all nodded respectfully. Brooke gave him his post (three civil defense bulletins, five committee notices, and, God help him, a thick envelope from the internal inquiries department). Sam popped up eagerly, then sat down resigned when he had to tell her he didn't need the car. Milner froze, stopping Goodsell in mid-sentence until Foyle shook his head and motioned for them to get on with it. His diffidence rasped on Foyle like a starched shirt over sunburned flesh, the more so because he knew he should be able to ease it but it only seemed to worsen.

There was another answer to the challenge, a harder one that repeated with the pulsing of the headache over his right eye: do I know him?


Bomb! was Sam's first thought, followed by ow! when she tried to roll out of bed and struck a wall. That woke her enough to remember that she was at Mr. Foyle's, and to realize that there was neither smoke nor fire. She felt certain that there had been some sudden noise, but now only silence pressed on her ears. Blinking, she settled back in the middle of the bed. The luminous dial of her alarm-clock showed a few minutes after midnight.

In the front bedroom Mr. Foyle coughed. Coughed again. And again, loud and harsh and painful to hear. Sam drew a long, grateful breath herself, pushing away the unwelcome memory of her anthrax, and shut her eyes. Probably he coughed before and that's what woke you, she thought, but the sleep-dim memory of some other sound danced tauntingly in the back of her mind. Go back to sleep, Sam told herself, but when the coughing started once more she pushed back the bedclothes and got up. She couldn't lay hands on her slippers or her dressing gown, so she put on her shoes over bare feet, buttoned her uniform jacket over her nightgown, grabbed her torch, and stumbled into the hall. All was quiet again, but a thin line of light showed under Mr. Foyle's door. Sam crept up to it, listened for a moment, then, when she heard faint sounds of movement, knocked. "Sir?"

"All right…" The hoarse words dissolved into more coughing.

"I'm opening the door, sir," Sam said, more boldly than she felt, and turned the knob.

Mr. Foyle stood by his bed, one hand on the bedside table, the other on his chest as he coughed. Broken glass glittered on the floor. That's what woke me. Sam switched off her torch.

"Sorry," Mr. Foyle croaked out. "All right. Just dropped…" he motioned at the shards, and Sam recognized them as the remains of his carafe and water glass. "Go back to bed, I'll…"

"No! I mean, I have shoes on, sir, and you haven't." Sam looked him over with an anxious eye. His eyes were as bright as the broken glass, and little tremors of chill kept going through him as she watched. "Were you cut?"

He shook his head, breathing carefully in a way that reminded Sam of her own illness and the struggle to find a way to get air through her aching chest. Her heart clenched. It's only bronchitis. Coughs are always worst in the night. Somehow the truths did not comfort her.

"It's cold, sir," she said, stepping carefully through the debris. "Get under the covers and I'll bring you something to drink."

Mr. Foyle sat down and frowned up at her, not with disapproval but with confusion. "Sorry," he said again. "Was dreaming, I think." He did not protest when Sam arranged his pillows in her best imitation of what the nurses at St. Mary's had done to help her breathe more easily, nor when she motioned for him to lie back. "Did he tell you?"

"Who, sir?" Sam straightened the bedclothes and tucked the sheet in firmly down the side. "Andrew? Tell me what?"

"What? No." He turned away with a new round of coughing. "Milner," he managed, between the ugly spasms. "Not divorced."

"Shh." Sam put out a hand but didn't quite dare to rest it on his back. He was throwing off heat like an engine with a leaky radiator, but his teeth kept chattering. Aspirin, I have to get some aspirin in him, and something for the cough. "I don't remember what exactly he said to me, or when, but I thought he was divorced. We all did. It doesn't matter, though, sir, it wasn't him. It was that Harry, from the garage, who'd killed Grace Phillips as well." She watched with concern as he rubbed his chest. "I need to go downstairs for some things; will you be all right?"

Mr. Foyle nodded, not meeting her eyes, his face still creased with concentration, or pain.

"Five minutes," Sam promised. Torch in hand, she took the stairs at a run and propped the hall door open to speed her return journey. She barked her shin on something in the sitting room and stubbed her toe on the cooker in the kitchen, but she only gasped out "Blast!" and kept moving.

Mug. Spoon. Honey. Aspirin. Dustpan. Oh, Lord, he's coughing again. Oh, Lord, what do I do. Whiskey will help. There's some in the sitting room. Where in the sitting room? Sideboard. Decanter. No hand for the torch. Spoon and aspirin in one pocket, honey in the other, mug handle over my fingers. Oh, dear Lord, stop the coughing, please stop the coughing, he's not going to be able to breathe.

Sam toiled up the stairs and back to the bedroom. Mr. Foyle hadn't moved except to rub at his side rather than the center of his chest. Sam dropped the dustpan to the floor, put down her various other supplies on the dresser, opened the nearly-empty pot of honey, splashed in a clumsy few ounces of whiskey, and stirred vigorously.

"Here, sir, this will help." She waited, worrying at her lip with her teeth, while Mr. Foyle coughed, then gave him a spoonful. "Try to swallow it slowly, in small bits, I mean."

He nodded. Sam watched him closely, and when he'd swallowed it all she gave him another spoonful. He drew a cautious deeper breath and some of the strain went out of his face. He nodded again.

"Good," Sam said, feeling the sympathetic tightness ease in her own chest. She put the honey on the table and smoothed the counterpane on the edge of the bed, then knelt down with the dustpan to sweep up the broken glass. There clearly hadn't been much water left to be spilled, which was good, and Mr. Foyle didn't cough once while she was sweeping, which was even better. She took the mug to the bathroom for water to mix up the aspirin powder, added a little more whiskey and honey, and handed it to Mr. Foyle. "Drink all this, now."

He was still shivering intermittently, but he was steady enough now to raise his eyebrows in amused resignation before taking the mug carefully in both hands.

Sam sat down in her chair near the door. Her own hands, she noticed suddenly, were trembling, and her leg hurt dreadfully where she'd banged it in the sitting room. She clasped her hands, trying to still them, but that only made it worse. When she looked up, Mr. Foyle was watching her over the mug.

"Sorry it's not hot," she said.

He shook his head. "No,no." He sipped the medicine. "Sorry I woke you."

"That's why I'm here, sir." She should probably take his temperature, Sam thought, but it was so nice to sit down. As she relaxed into the welcome silence, the trembling eased, and sleepiness crept over her like a tide. She straightened up, fighting it off. "I'll find a jug or something, something not so breakable, so you'll have water."

"One in the spare room. Put the hall light on," he added, as she stood up. "Can't h-have you…" he coughed, briefly, and took a drink. "...breaking your neck on the stairs."

"No, sir," Sam agreed, warmed by the familiar chiding. She easily found the white china jug, though her own oddly-dressed reflection startled her when she saw it in the spare-room mirror. Filling the jug and collecting the thermometer took only a few moments. When she returned to the front bedroom, Mr. Foyle had finished the aspirin and settled himself back on the pillows.

"Sam," he murmured, when he saw her shaking down the thermometer. "Doesn't matter."

"It might. Please? It would… it would put my mind at rest," she added, half pleading and half teasing.

Mr. Foyle tipped his head back and let out a soft puff of a laugh. "Well, then." He held out his hand for the thermometer and put it under his tongue.

Sam set the water in easy reach, and the whiskey and honey. "You can have more of this," she told him, "if you, if the cough troubles you again." She fiddled a little with the counterpane, making sure it lay straight, until Mr. Foyle cleared his throat. When she met his eyes, he looked pointedly at her chair and then back at her. "Sorry, sir. I don't mean to hover, really."

His face softened slightly and he nodded, then smoothed the counterpane with his own hand as if to say it's fine. Then his mouth tightened around the thermometer and his eyes fixed hers, saying, as clearly as print, don't fuss.

Sam sighed and sat down obediently to watch Mr. Foyle's clock for the remaining minutes.

"Well?" he asked when she read the thermometer.

"Just over a hundred and one point five. Not so bad, even if it's off a bit from the cold water you had." Sam cast about for how to phrase what she wanted to ask, finally settling on "Are you quite comfortable now, Mr. Foyle?"

He shut his eyes and nodded. "Yes, Sam. Thank you." He looked up at her. "Now go back to bed."

"Yes, sir." She put the thermometer back in the case and set it down on the dresser. "But do shout if you want more water, or another blanket, or..."

"Goodnight, Sam," he said firmly, and turned out his light.

"Goodnight, sir."


Andrew,

I'm writing to let you know that your father's been taken ill; it's not terribly serious and he didn't ask me to write, but I thought you'd want to be told. The doctor says it's bronchitis and he should be better in a week or so.

Sincerely,

Samantha Stewart

Sam laid down the pen and studied her words. Since waking she'd gone back and forth half a dozen times about writing to Andrew, and half a dozen more on what to say if she did. The nastier part of her kept suggesting the sorts of treacle-sweet, stabby things that women on Lyminster Ladies' Aid committees would say to each other - this is properly your job but never mind I'm happy to do it since you're so busy. A differently nasty part wanted to make him feel the horrible squirming guilt she did when her father wrote about Mummy having a particularly low spell. In fairness to Andrew, though, he probably couldn't feel that because he wouldn't feel the shameful relief at being elsewhere. The logical part of her kept wondering if it wasn't an over-reaction to write at all. It was all very complicated.

However, her two straightforward, factual sentences seemed unexceptionable. Sam was aware of a slight feeling of priggish self-satisfaction - I'm writing to you promptly even though you wouldn't do the same for me - but she hoped none of that showed. Really, it was as much for Mr. Foyle as for Andrew; it would please Mr. Foyle so much to get a letter, and perhaps even make him a little less prickly.

She folded the note, addressed the envelope, licked the flap and the stamp, and shrugged on her uniform jacket. As she did up the buttons she listened for any sound from the first floor, and heard the rise and fall of Dr. Davies' voice and the creak and splash of Milner pouring out Mr. Foyle's shaving water in the bathroom. She slipped out the front door and ran hatless down to the pillar box on the corner. With the envelope poised on the edge of the slot she breathed a childish prayer - Oh Lord God, let this be the right thing. Then she let the letter go and ran back to the house.

Milner was halfway down the stairs when she she came in. He rapidly limped the rest of the way and beckoned her over to a box he'd set on the hall table. "I was out with Edie last night," he explained, a bit shyly, "after I'd been here, and was telling her about..." He tilted his head towards the stairs. "So when I took her back to St. Mary's, she ran in and borrowed a few things to make it easier on you." He opened the box to show her a spirit lamp, a bottle of spirit, and an enamel pot-and-cone inhalation set.

Sam picked up the spirit lamp, checked that it was empty, and then hugged it to her chest. "Paul Milner, I could kiss you. And Miss Ashford. I won't," she added, laughing as Milner gave her a sidelong glance. "But honestly, I don't know how to thank you. I was dreading hauling more boiling water upstairs."

"I'll tell Edie, though maybe not in quite those words." Milner pulled aside some of the cardboard packing. "There's mentholatum and friar's balsam as well, if that's wanted."

"Thank you." Sam gave the spirit lamp an affectionate pat, then put it down hastily as the doctor approached.

"Do what you can to keep the aspirin doses regular, Miss Stewart, especially in the evening. The cough may still wake him but if we can keep the fever down he'll get more rest. The whiskey and honey were good thinking. I'll send along something stronger, in case, but once the consolidation starts breaking up he shouldn't need it."

"Yes, Doctor. Anything else?"

"Keep up the steam and fluids, and don't stint yourself on food or sleep." Davies pulled on his overcoat, then took up his bag again and put on his hat. "You're doing well. I'll be back tomorrow."

Milner hung back a little as Davies went out, and told her quietly, "You remember, call the station if you need anything."

"I will. Do I look so fragile?"

"You look a little tired, that's all."

"Today will be easier," Sam assured him. She saw him out, hung up her jacket, and went back to the kitchen to cook breakfast. She put her own on the tray alongside Mr. Foyle's, and when she went upstairs she paused in what she was resolutely trying to call her room before knocking with her toe on Mr. Foyle's doorjamb.

"Do you mind if I eat mine in here, sir? I promise I won't jaw at you." Sam set the tray down for Mr. Foyle and took her own plate off it. "I have a book."

"Don't mind." He shook his head with a little upside-down smile. "And Davies says I'm not likely to infect you."

Sam blinked at him as she sat down. "Were you worried about that, sir? I imagine if I was going to get the germ I'd have picked it up wherever you did. I have been most everyplace you have."

"Mm." Mr Foyle unfolded his serviette and uncovered his plate of scrambled powdered egg and toast.

"Except up to London, of course. Those last two times."

"What are you reading?" Mr. Foyle asked, as he took up his fork and opened his own book.

"Oh. You'll laugh at me, sir." Sam turned the book so he could see the spine. "Death 'twixt Wind and Water. It's, it's a murder mystery."

He raised an eyebrow. "Don't get enough of that in the job?"

"Well, it happens quite differently in books. And the police don't always come into it much, and when they do they're often quite silly and don't seem to have any regulations at all. These aren't bad that way, though." Sam picked up her toast. "What about you, sir?"

"H.G. Wells. The Invisible Man."

"That seems a bit of a busman's holiday itself." Sam grinned. "Mysterious guests and unsolved thefts?"

Mr. Foyle coughed, then half-smiled and tipped his head. "Mm, and human nature."

Sam wanted to ask more questions at that, but remembering her promise, she bent her head over her breakfast and her novel.


Tuesday was easier. With some meat cooked ahead Sam could get the meals together more quickly, and with the hospital equipment doing the steam inhalations went much more smoothly. At times Mr. Foyle still bristled under her attentions, but Sam discovered that as long as she could keep from asking about how he felt, she could do a fair bit for him.

Ask Mr. Foyle if he was cold, and he would grumble, but put an additional blanket on the foot of the bed and he merely raised a skeptical eyebrow. Ask if he was thirsty, and he would say no, but leave a hot drink on the bedside table and, though he might look askance, he would not tell her to take it away, and more often than not he would drink at least some.

Tuesday night, no more glass broke, but even though Sam woke Mr. Foyle for a dose of aspirin before she went to bed herself at ten, his temperature was over a hundred and two when his coughing woke them both at quarter past three. He'd been so restless that half the bedclothes were on the floor; Sam tucked him back in and gave him Dr. Davies' cough syrup and aspirin in hot water and watched him anxiously for twenty minutes after he fell back to sleep.

Wednesday passed in peaceful routine, and by the afternoon it even seemed that Mr. Foyle's cough was loosening a bit, but Sam prepared for the night as if for battle, setting a well-shaded lamp burning in Mr. Foyle's room, leaving the bathroom light on, dressing in her long underwear under her nightgown and setting her alarm for midnight to wake him for more aspirin.


Sam was out of bed and pulling on her dressing gown before she realized the sound that had woken her came not from Mr. Foyle's room, but from downstairs. She stuck her stocking feet into her slippers and opened her door. Two dim bars of light fell across the stair head, one narrow from Mr. Foyle's room and one wider from the bath. The snick of the front door's latch sounded loudly in the quiet house, almost as loudly as the cautious footsteps that followed.

Burglar, or something worse? Sam cast about for some kind of weapon, finally settling on the frying pan she'd left on the hall chair, after bringing it up in an attempt to keep their supper of powdered-egg-omelette hot. Now, hit the intruder and run out for help, or hit him and retreat to protect Mr. Foyle? She hefted the frying pan, grateful that she'd managed not to get grease on the handle, and took a step closer to the stairs. The footsteps stopped, and she drew breath, then held it when they started again. A bit of shadow solidified and advanced.

"Look," Sam said, wishing her voice sounded steadier and deeper "Don't come any further, because I'm armed."

The shadow stopped. "Sam?" A match hissed and sparked. "What are you doing here?" Andrew asked.

At the sound of his voice all the fear went out of Sam, and for an instant she felt bright and warm and glad. Then the sense of his words sank in, and echoed with the words burned in her memory: someone else… begin again… don't think badly. "What am I doing here?" It came out more loudly than she meant; Sam dropped her voice to a fierce whisper. "What are you doing here? You're meant to be in Debden!"

"I got your letter. About Dad." The flickering light made his dark eyes cavernous and unreadable.

"Oh." Sam couldn't find anything else to say.

"Is he in hospital?"

"What? No!" Sam motioned towards Mr. Foyle's room with the frying pan, then hastily set it down. "He just, it's because he's not to get his own meals. And the steam inhalations. Are why I'm here. I did tell you it wasn't serious," she added.

"Not terribly serious," Andrew said. "Which… ow!" The match guttered against his fingers, and he winced as it went out. "Bugger. Sorry."

Sam blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.

"...which could mean anything, depending on who's saying it."

"Well. It was me saying it," Sam retorted.

"Right. Of course. But if it was what Dad had told you..."

"I should have had the doctor write you. I'm sorry," Sam said formally.

"No! You… Sam. You have nothing to be sorry for." Andrew came up the last few steps into the pale wash of light from the bath. He looked tired, but less worn out than the last time Sam had seen him, immediately after his breakdown and immediately before he left for Debden. He also looked sharply older somehow, broader in the shoulder but thinner in the face. No less handsome, unfortunately. "I'm sorry I scared you, creeping in like that."

"I'm sorry I scared you, with the letter." He was wearing his flight jacket. She could smell the leather. It made her heart jump as if nothing had changed.

"Is it… can I…?" He motioned towards his father's door.

"Of course." Sam stepped back, then, when Andrew hesitated, led the way. On the threshold she could feel him tense, and hear the sharp breath he drew as he took in the room, and at the center, Mr. Foyle, lying pale and rumpled and unshaven on his pillows.

"When?" Andrew asked, his whisper hardly audible over Mr. Foyle's rough breathing.

"The week-end, I think," Sam answered softly, her eyes automatically checking everything: Water in the glass. Cough mix in reach. Bedclothes quite straight, he's not been too restless. "He was his usual self on Friday but when I came on Monday he was very poorly indeed."

"Christ." Andrew's voice trembled.

Sam made fists in the pockets of her dressing gown, though whether to keep from hitting him or embracing him, she wasn't quite sure. "I'll make some tea," she said. "There's a chair by the door, move it if you like."

It was just exhaustion and the chill of the kitchen that made her eyes water. Certainly nothing else, Sam told herself, as she watched the gas flame.

As Sam carried the tray upstairs with tea for Andrew and a mug of hot water for herself, Mr. Foyle began to cough, thickly at first but then with the painful barking sound that meant he'd go on coughing until he sat up and had something to soothe his throat and chest. Sam quickened her steps.

"Dad!" Andrew's voice, urgent and anxious. I should have told him what to do. Warned him how terrible it sounds. But there, in the pause between coughs, she could hear water splashing into a glass and the clatter of a spoon. "No, don't talk, here."

Quiet. Sam's shoulders relaxed, and she put the tray down on the chair in the upstairs hall.

"Andrew? What…" Mr. Foyle let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting back another cough. "When...?"

"Just now. Sam wrote to me. Have some more of this."

A pause, the sound of pouring again, another pause. "Shouldn't have worried you."

"Dad." A clink, probably the water glass going down. "I'm glad she did. But it's very early and I'll be here for three days, so go back to sleep."

"Long leave… going back to ops?"

"No. Going back to instructing at Debden. I promise. D'you want…?"

"Just water."

"Right." A creak of bedsprings. "Bloody hell, Dad, you're like a furnace."

"Am not, you're frozen. Did you walk from Debden?"

"Train as far as Ashford, then I hitched on a lorry. Only walked the last few miles. Should you have some aspirin?"

"Had some… midnight."

"Not time yet, then. Let me turn the pillows for you. It always helped me sleep when you did that."

"All right."

You're eavesdropping. Sam gave herself a little shake. She filled Andrew's mug and brought it into the bedroom, walking as softly as possible. Andrew was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his father's hand. Sam almost backed straight out again when she saw the naked fear and affection on Andrew's face. It seemed indecent to intrude on that.

As if he felt her eyes on him, Andrew looked up. Hoping she wasn't blushing as much as she felt she was, Sam pointed to the mug and held it out towards him. He nodded, and made to rise, but she waved him down and brought it to him. He smiled in thanks and took a grateful sip. Sam stood at his elbow and they both gazed down at Mr. Foyle.

He looked very worn, the lines around his mouth and on his forehead deeper than usual. Will Andrew lose his hair that way, when he's older? Sam wondered, letting her eyes wander to the back of Andrew's head. His isn't as curly as Mr. Foyle's; perhaps he takes after his mother that way. Though even if he did lose his hair like Mr. Foyle I shouldn't mind. It's much nicer than losing it back to front like my father or Uncle Aubrey. It's rather nice to have an idea of what someone will look like years on. Or it would be. If he were my boyfriend. Which of course he's not.

Mr. Foyle coughed and Andrew made a movement for the water on the bedside table. Mr. Foyle's eyes opened a crack, then fully when he saw Sam as well. "No, no," he murmured. She saw his hand tighten on Andrew's before letting it go. "Go to bed, both of you."

"When I've finished my tea," Andrew said. "You're in the spare room?" he asked Sam.

"I put her in yours," Mr. Foyle said. "Warmer. And, didn't expect you." He turned his head to cough.

Andrew drew the counterpane a little higher over his father. "I don't think you should talk."

Mr. Foyle pulled a long-suffering face.

"If you don't mind the spare room just for tonight, we can switch in the morning," Sam said. "It's made up, and I can put in a hot water bottle."

"The spare room is fine. And I don't need a hot water bottle."

Mr. Foyle looked to Sam. "I think what my son meant to say was 'thank you, a hot water bottle would be very nice.'" He leaned on his elbow to drink some water (shooting Andrew a look when he tried to get it for him) and then settled back with a sigh. Andrew flushed; Sam could see his ears go pink.

"Sorry, Sam."

"That's all right," Sam answered automatically. "The teapot's in the hall, if you want more. And there's another bottle of cough syrup on the dresser."

"Thank you."

"Certainly."

"Sam." Andrew put a hand on her sleeve as she began to turn away. When she looked at him, he said again, "Thank you," with a weight far beyond tea and hot water bottles, and with the deep warmth that made her memories at once so sweet and so painful.

For an aching instant she stood with his hand on her arm and her eyes locked in his, and then she pulled away. "Goodnight, sir," she said, much too loud. "Goodnight, Andrew." She didn't hear an answer; she hardly knew how she got out of the room.

Andrew thoughtless, Andrew selfish, Andrew cruel, those were all terrible, but Andrew being kind hurt a thousand times more.