Disclaimer: Definitely don't own "Foyle's War." I've checked.
Author's Notes: Anthony Horowitz gave us this nugget (our only one) into Paul Milner's childhood: he spent a lot of time snooping around people's back gardens pretending to be Bulldog Drummond, hunting for Bolshevik spies. One of the few details we have of Sam's past is that she loved reading mystery novels. One day, I thought to myself, "They have such similar interests - they would have had so much fun if they had grown up together!"
My more than usual thanks to my Beta, GiulliettaC, for her help in molding this story from the rough clay of my first draft. I haven't sweated a story this much in quite some time.
Thank you to HarperCurls for helping me determine the profession of Paul's father.
And my thanks to Dancesabove for the image attached to this story. I originally used it when I began posting "One Little Dance," but it got ousted for that story's current artwork. I'm glad to finally find a home for this awesome picture once more.
Lyminster, August 1923
"Hello, Paul!"
The tall boy paused mid-stride and looked around to see who had just called his name. Then a small hand waved at him, and he spotted a little girl with a long, fair plait perched high up in the Travis' apple tree. Her faded green dress had rendered her nearly invisible from the road.
"Hello," he called back, without much enthusiasm. Of all the rotten luck, he thought in frustration, getting waylaid just when he had something important to do. And by a girl at that. Before he had a chance to make good his escape, she scrambled nimbly down. The outline of a book distended one pocket of her cotton frock and Paul could see the rather dirty and scuffed legs of a doll crammed head-first into her other pocket.
"I know who you are," the girl declared, "I've seen you at church. Your dad's the post master. Do you know who I am?" she continued with an unconscious puff of self-importance, "I'm Samantha Stewart. You can call me Sam."
"Yes, I know who you are." Paul made some effort at a show of patience, trying to work out how best to shake her off. It wouldn't do to insult the vicar's daughter, but he didn't have all the time in the world…
"I suppose you must," Sam chirped happily, "though sometimes people don't know me when I'm not wearing my church clothes. You can't wear Sunday best all the time," she confided, "though sometimes I think people expect to see me in them all the time, just because Daddy's the vicar."
"Fancy," Paul replied non-committally, shifting from foot to foot and wondering miserably how to extricate himself.
"Are you going on an adventure? You look like you're going on an adventure. I'd love to go on an adventure."
"What makes you think that?" Paul felt his cheeks flush, non-plussed at this display of freckle-faced perspicacity. Was he that obvious? If he wanted to be a world-famous sleuth one day, he'd have to cultivate a more neutral expression…
"You looked excited and important, just like someone on an adventure ought to look."
"What would you know about it?" Paul's expression was a mixture of scepticism and scorn. But it hid genuine curiosity. What could the vicar's daughter possibly know about real adventures?
"Oh, I read lots of adventure stories," Sam assured the older boy, removing her book from her pocket and flourishing it under his reluctant nose, "I'm reading one by Miss Potter now, and it's great. But I'd rather go on a real adventure."
Despite his best intentions, Paul couldn't suppress a snort of derision. Peter Rabbit's daring little escapade in Mr. MacGregor's garden would doubtless appear thrilling to a five year old girl, but Paul was thirteen and a half, and picture books filled with furry little animals could not possibly compare to Bulldog Drummond's exploits in a booby-trapped den of conspirators.
"You wouldn't like my adventure," Paul informed her matter-of-factly, "I'm not about to steal lettuce from anybody's garden."
"It's got nothing to do with stealing lettuces!" Sam pushed the book right up under his nose so that he couldn't possibly ignore it. "There's a kidnapping, and tunnelling to the rescue, and booby-traps, and there's a terrific fight with crockery smashing everywhere! And then everything comes out right in the end," she added with a shrug. This time, Paul actually glanced down at the title: The Tale of Mr. Tod.
"Look, I really need to be getting on, Sam." Paul turned to go.
"Oh, let me come, please," she begged, catching at his sleeve. "I can help, I'm sure I can."
"What can you do?"
"I'm a tip-top climber. Or I could be your look-out. Or…throw somebody off your scent. Can't I come?"
Paul looked Sam over carefully. His plans would benefit considerably if he had someone to keep watch for him. Normally, his chum Henry Lewis would have obliged, but Henry's family had gone on holiday to Brighton for a fortnight. Since he couldn't seem to shake Sam, maybe he could find some way to make use of her. After all, Phyllis, the imperilled millionaire's daughter, had managed to help Bulldog Drummond rather cleverly early on in the book.
"Look here, Sam," Paul began, crouching down to her level, "If I let you come along, can you keep all this a secret? Cross your heart and hope to die? Or would you go around telling everyone?"
"I'm not a tattle-tale," Sam bristled in reply.
"All right, then." Paul straightened up and the unlikely pair began set out along the sun-dappled road together. If he had hoped for a quiet walk, Paul was destined to be disappointed; Sam peppered him with questions.
"Where are we going?" came first.
"To the Linden's." The Lindens had taken a cottage back in April. Mr. Linden was supposed to be working on a novel. Their arrival had set the entire village by the ears, and Paul had decided to make them his business.
"What for?"
"To investigate them."
"Why?"
"Well, I think the Lindens are Bolshevik spies."
"Are they really?" Sam asked, eyes wide. "What's a bolshy Vick?"
That stymied Paul for a moment. How was he meant to explain revolutionaries to the vicar's five year old daughter? Her choice of reading material suggested that she was made of sterner stuff than most little girls, but if something he said sent her home in tears, then Paul knew that Dad would tan his hide… for starters.
"Well…" he began cautiously, "Bolsheviks are quite nasty types – real rotters. They hate kings and queens, and democracies, and parliaments, and banks, and churches and all the rest of the things that decent, respectable people want. So they have secret societies and try to get dynamite and blow things up. Like the Bank of England, Buckingham Palace, and Parliament."
Sam digested this quietly for a minute while Paul held his breath.
"Like Guy Fawkes?" she asked, eyes bright with excitement. "He tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament."
"Yes, just like that," Paul replied, relieved that Guy Fawkes made a familiar, and therefore a safe sort of bogeyman, exactly suited to Paul's present purposes.
"And how do you know that Mr. and Mrs. Linden are bolshy Vicks?"
Once again, Paul found himself at a complete loss for words. He was certain to his marrow that he was correct in his assumptions, but he had never sat down and written out a list of all his reasons. Quickly, he marshalled his thoughts.
"Well for starters, they look like they are." Neither of the Lindens looked anything like the other inhabitants of Lyminster. Mr. Linden wore a beard, a pince-nez, and always looked as if he needed a haircut. He looked, in fact, just like an illustration of a foreign malcontent in a picture magazine. Mrs. Linden had plucked eyebrows and bobbed hair, wore lipstick and rouge. Her appearance had already sparked an enormous amount of gossip among the Lyminster housewives. Paul had picked up several earfuls simply hanging about the post office and the grocer's. No better than she should be was the frequent refrain. The precise meaning of this phrase still eluded him, but Paul felt quite confident that it was a damning indictment.
"And Mr. Linden's always getting foreign letters in the post." Paul's father had told him that; Dad took a professional interest in the origins of the letters he handled and always got excited to see unusual stamps. The Lindens had received letters from France, from America, from Italy, and even from Germany! And everyone knew that Bolsheviks had spies all over the world.
"And they never go to church," Paul added in conclusion, "Everyone knows that Bolsheviks don't believe in God."
"But Mr. and Mrs. Linden do believe in God," Sam informed him. "Daddy called on them a few weeks ago. He said that Mr. Linden is a crostic."
"A what?"
"A cros-tic," Sam repeated slowly. "Mummy and Daddy said it means that you believe in God, but you have a lot of hard questions that make you unhappy with going to Church."
"I think the word is ag-nos-tic," Paul corrected her, wondering what sort of story Mr. Linden had told Reverend Stewart. The vicar wasn't the fire and brimstone type, but in this case, Paul thought that Reverend Stewart's tendency towards judging his fellow man favourably was sadly misplaced.
"But, Paul, why would a bolshy Vick move here?" Sam enquired cheerily. "It's so boring, nothing to do except go on walks and nothing good to blow up. No banks, or palaces, or parliaments. If I were a bolshy Vick, I would live in London," she added. "You could have lots of fun in London."
"Lyminster might not be a good place to blow things up," Paul explained patiently, "But away out in the country is a jolly good place to plan things." The Lindens had frequent guests; people like themselves, with equally outlandish clothes and unkempt hair. "You should see the odd-looking people that come to visit them."
"Gosh." Swallowing any further doubts in the interests of adventure, Sam walked resolutely on. When the Linden's house came into view, Paul took hold of Sam's arm and held her back.
"Right," he began, his voice now pitched to a conspiratorial whisper, "Here's the plan…"
...
Sam watched as Paul disappeared into the hedges on the far side of the Linden's property, then she crossed the lane and settled herself on a convenient fence. From her perch, she could see a good way down the road in both directions. Pulling out both her doll and her book, so that she would appear occupied to any passersby, she proceeded to keep watch. Boredom set in much sooner than Sam had expected. Adventures were, it seemed, rather more dull in real life than they were in stories. But she remained staunchly at her post, determined not to let Paul down.
...
Paul skirted the Linden's house warily. He knew that they weren't at home; he had seen them motor away after buying provisions for a picnic lunch at the village shop. They probably felt safe enough in Lyminster not to bother booby-trapping their house, but it would be best if he were cautious. Who knew what a misplaced foot might trigger? In any case, he had already determined that this mission would be strictly reconnaissance. He wouldn't set foot across their threshold. That would be Breaking and Entering, and he would be hard-pressed to explain himself to the village constable if he were caught.
So he contented himself with peering carefully into all of the windows, particularly the grimed-over ones that gave into the cellar. Paul shaded his eyes against the sun's glare, straining to catch a glimpse of anything suspicious. If he had hoped to discover a laboratory with a bomb-making apparatus, or perhaps a prisoner languishing in chains, he failed to make out anything beyond an empty shelf.
None of the windows to the ground-floor rooms yielded any joy either. The kitchen, the dining room, and the sitting room all looked perfectly ordinary in an untidy, lived-in sort of way. There was one room that presented the appearance of a study; it was cluttered with books and papers. Paul positively itched to get his hands on them and see what sort of dangerous subversion they might contain.
Huffing in frustration at what was proving to be a wild goose chase, he cast about the empty yard, wondering how else he might get useful information. His eyes lit up when he spied the rubbish bin. It wouldn't be stealing if he were to poke through their rubbish, and he could take away anything that looked promising without fear of being accused of theft.
A swarm of buzzing flies rose out of the noisome darkness when he lifted the bin lid and he gagged at the stench of rubbish left cooking in the summer heat. Quickly, he dug a handkerchief out of one of his pockets and pressed it to his nose. Trying to focus on breathing through his mouth, Paul soldiered on, determined to finish what he'd started. After all, real detectives had to examine horribly mangled corpses, and those were sure to look and smell far worse than a few rotting kitchen scraps. Paul located a convenient stick near the hedges, and used it to poke around the bin and get a better look at its contents.
At first they appeared quite as ordinary and disappointing as the views through the windows. Eggshells. Bacon rinds. Chicken bones. Potato peelings. Then, below everything, Paul caught a glimpse of something white. Paper. What did it say? Heart starting to pound, he used the stick to nudge the kitchen detritus out of the way, then hook his treasure out into the light of day.
The papers were damp, stained with clumps of fetid tea leaves, and covered with cramped writing, heavily crossed out. Paul carefully rescued nearly ten pages, spreading each one out on the grass to dry before going back for more. When he had contented himself that there were no more papers lurking within easy reach, Paul gathered the pages neatly together into a bundle. He was just about to try deciphering the smudged words, when Sam's voice pierced the tranquil quiet of the afternoon:
"On-ward Christian so-o-o-l-diers, March-ing as to-o war…" That was the signal they had agreed upon. The Lindens were back! Stuffing the papers into the waistband of his trousers, Paul made a dash for the hedge…
...
Sam marched along the lane, belting out the hymn as loudly as she could. Though she waved cheekily at Mr. and Mrs. Linden as they drove past her in their car, her stomach had gone all in knots, worrying whether or not Paul had been able to get away in time. Presently, however, he emerged from the greenery, grinning triumphantly, and Sam's heart leapt with exhilaration.
"Did you find anything?" she hissed, as they hurried back towards the village high street.
"Papers." Paul patted the small sheaf wedged securely in his waistband. "I'll look them over once I get home. You were brilliant, Sam!" he added, with a sudden burst of generosity. Bulldog Drummond himself couldn't have asked for a more reliable little Phyllis.
"Was I?" Sam's face glowed bright pink at Paul's praise.
"Absolutely. They would've heard you in Gibraltar. I couldn't have done it without you."
...
Hastings, May 1940
"Hello, Paul!"
Paul Milner looked up from the pavement in front of the hospital where he had only just managed to securely plant his crutches. Leaning heavily on the leather-covered pads under his armpits, he looked around to see who had called his name.
A young woman in a khaki uniform was hurrying towards him, beaming with delighted surprise. Following behind her at a more dignified pace, Paul spotted the dapper, suited figure of DCS Foyle.
"Do you remember me?" The eager apparition halted, breathless, right in front of him. "It's been such a long time."
Paul stared at her blankly.
"Sam!" she exclaimed with an impatient bob, "Sam Stewart, from Lyminster. I knew it must be you; you could have knocked me down with a feather when Mr. Foyle told me you were going to be his new sergeant!"
Paul gaped. He hadn't seen Sam in…close to ten years. Once he'd left school and joined the police, he'd only gone back to Lyminster for fleeting holidays. On those occasions, Sam had been a distant figure in the front pew next to Mrs. Stewart. Since his father's death, Paul hadn't set foot in his native village. He remembered Sam as a pretty girl with long plaits. Standing in front of him now stood a young woman with a trim figure, wearing an olive drab tunic and cap, and her hair pinned up in the regulation 'Victory Roll.'
"What are you doing here?" Paul finally managed, uttering the first coherent question to cross his mind.
"I'm with the MTC – Mechanised Transport Corps." Sam's face was so alight with enthusiasm that she looked to be in danger of spontaneous combustion, "And I've been assigned to drive Mr. Foyle. I suppose I'll be driving you too, once you're ready to get back to work."
"Seems likely." Paul felt his mood recede into gloomy self-consciousness. What a pathetic figure he must seem to Sam after all these years. The crutches were beginning to dig painfully into his armpits; he tried shifting his weight, but that didn't seem to help much.
By now, Mr. Foyle had joined their tête-a-tête. "Morning, Sergeant," he greeted Paul with an amiable nod and smile.
"Sir." Paul tried to stand to attention, but found the crutches wouldn't grant him enough height.
"We've come to take you home now," Sam chimed in brightly, gesturing towards the waiting car. Mr. Foyle nodded his affirmation, and with an effort of concentration, Paul began hobbling towards the vehicle.
"It will be just like old times, won't it?" Sam chattered happily, matching her pace to Paul's. "Only so much better, because now we'll really be catching criminals together, not just pretending."
"The two of you…are already acquainted, I see?" Mr. Foyle interjected with evident, amused interest.
Sam craned her neck over her shoulder as she addressed the DCS, "We grew up together, Sir. When I was a little girl, I used to make a proper nuisance of myself, tagging along after Paul – I mean Sergeant Milner." Sam shot an apologetic glance at Paul as she corrected herself. Musn't forget to give him his title, she chided herself. It doesn't sound professional. "And he used to let me keep watch for him when he played at being a detective. Do you remember the Lindens?" she asked, her eyes alight with remembered mischief as they all reached the car.
"I…umm… do remember the Lindens." Paul could feel a burning blush spread over his face. Few memories still had such power to make him feel like the world's most colossal idiot. "Not my finest hour as a detective," he added, glancing over at Mr. Foyle as he spoke. Because despite all of Paul's grandiose ideas of Bolshevik spies infiltrating Lyminster, Mr. Linden had turned out to be precisely what he had said he was – a writer. The papers Paul had taken such trouble to retrieve from the rubbish bin had been discarded bits of manuscript. He had spent hours poring over them, deciphering Mr. Linden's handwriting and trying to make sense of what he was actually reading. Both the style and vocabulary had been extremely difficult to follow, though Paul eventually figured out that the subject was something to do with fighting in the Great War. It had taken weeks, however, as well as three further forays onto the Linden's property (with Sam helping out on each of these occasions), to convince Paul that the scavenged manuscript pages didn't contain any sort of secret code.
"But Sam made an excellent lookout," Paul added gallantly, leaning heavily against the car frame. Sam's memories of that long-ago summer had clearly remained coloured by the thrill of adventure and the joy of being included in someone else's scheme. It pleased Paul to find that she remembered him with such fondness.
Mr. Foyle took charge of Paul's gear and stored it in the boot. "She's become quite an accomplished crime fighter since you saw each other last," he announced with a humorous quirk of the eyebrow.
"Oh?" Paul was intrigued. Sam appeared to have made quite an impression on the DCS.
"May I tell him, Sir?" Sam asked Mr. Foyle as she opened the rear passenger door for Paul. The DCS nodded his permission, and Sam launched into her story, hovering by Paul's side as he manoeuvered himself awkwardly into the back of the Wolseley. Something about knocking out a fleeing suspect with a bin lid. Between Sam's excitement in relating the story and the distraction of his own physical exertions, Paul found the narrative a bit muddled. He would have to ask Sam to tell him the story again one day. Something told him she would be only too happy to oblige.
Despite the unpleasant cocktail of embarrassment, physical discomfort, and exhaustion still simmering within him, Paul felt an absurd light-heartedness begin to creep over him as Sam put the car in gear and pulled away, leaving the hospital behind. She glanced at him in the rear view mirror, eyes still shining, then turned her attention back to the road and negotiating the traffic. Her appearance had changed enormously (so has yours Paul's brain chimed in with a bitter aside). But the little girl he had known, the one who had craved adventure with such eagerness was clearly still alive and well. And judging by the ease with which she handled the car, she'd acquired a new, very useful skill.
Paul leaned back against the cushioned seat, and relaxed into a certain hopefulness about the future. Working with DCS Foyle. Working with Sam. He had been given another chance to make a real difference in the world – a far cry from the harebrained boy he had once been, chasing the shadows of his own imagination. Paul's thoughts circled back to Sam's earlier comment: 'not just pretending.'
"You were right, Sam," Paul offered as cheerfully as he could manage, though it would have been impossible to match Sam's exuberance. "This job is the real thing. I know you'll be a first-rate driver."
More Author's Notes:
Who was Bulldog Drummond, you may ask? The book, "Bulldog Drummond," was published in 1920. The titular hero is a gentleman who served in the Great War and finds himself at loose ends in the post-war world. To combat boredom, he puts out an advertisement looking for adventure. He gets a reply from a lovely young woman named Phyllis who is concerned about her father's creepy business associates. The villains are a cabal of Bolsheviks trying to take over the world. Bulldog defeats them, obviously. And marries Phyllis. There were many sequels.
I actually went to the trouble of tracking down "Bulldog Drummond" through my library and read the whole thing. I don't recommend it to anyone. There are, however, two points of interest. The first is that "Bulldog Drummond" was a direct inspiration for Ian Flemings' "James Bond." At least "from the waist up." (That's a direct quote taken from Wikipedia. From the waist down, Fleming took inspiration from the American crime novels of Mickey Spillane.) The second point of interest (to me) is the similarity of the plot device "gentleman fighting ennui by fighting crime" in both "Bulldog Drummond" and "Whose Body?" "Whose Body?" was published a few years later and is the first novel featuring Lord Peter Wimsey by Dorothy Sayers. Of the two, I most definitely prefer Lord Peter.
And now for a few words on the works of Beatrix Potter. My five year old son counts Potter as one of his favorite authors. She's most famous for "Peter Rabbit," but that just scratches the surface - she wrote close to two dozen books. Some of them are rather heavily saccharine (I'm looking at you, Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle...). But what I find really interesting about her books is the way that she doesn't shy away from the fact that nature is "red in tooth and claw" (to quote Tennyson). People eat animals. And animals eat each other. (Or try to at any rate. Potter doesn't actually let her characters get eaten. But the danger is always there.) Which brings us to "The Tale of Mr. Tod." This is a very long story (it takes between 30 to 45 minutes to read it aloud to my son) and easily her most violent. She opens the story by announcing: "I have made many books about well-behaved people. Now, for a change, I am going to make a story about two disagreeable people, called Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod." Unlike "Bulldog Drummond," I highly recommend "Mr. Tod."