Sam was fascinated with M. Picard and though she took great pains to conceal it, Christopher Foyle had no trouble at all observing her interest. At first, he had simply thought She's so young and had expected to take the measure of the foreigner quickly, sure he would be less intrigued by the man than his driver the sheltered vicar's daughter had been, Sam whose peaks of excitement prior to the War must have been gymkhana medals and the latest frustrating Christie with no redeeming moral virtue. He'd been wrong though, for Jean-Luc Picard was an unusual man, even for the unusual time they found themselves in, and Foyle had not imagined he would have discovered someone who was so much a challenge and a peer when there had been a rap at his office door and a muffled Pardon.
The Frenchman, for he was undeniably so, despite the Oxbridge accent he used effortlessly and, Foyle thought, consciously, had walked in not as if owned the place, as if anyone would wish to own the Hastings police department, but as though no matter where he found himself, he was at home. The degree of security and self-awareness this indicated was rare in Foyle's experience and it was enough to make him only note the slightly odd affectation of straightening the sober silk waistcoat before the man sat across from him, preparing to explain his situation. His story was perhaps not so remarkable for the times, an exile who had once moved among more rarefied Continental circles as the owner of a highly regarded vineyard, until it was added that he was also an archaeologist and writer who had a certain following for a series of fantastic novels he wrote about exploring the vast recesses of the heavens.
It was Picard's connections to the French and German oenophilic elite, his excavatory experiences in the Levant and the patronage of a peculiar American magnate named Roddenberry that had led him to Foyle's office with a request for assistance in "a delicate matter that I cannot manage alone, but which might alter the course of the War." It made a change from chasing the tawdry black market that Hastings supported, solving murders that showed man's tendency to sin was not mitigated by the virtues the War called for—courage and justice and self-sacrifice. Foyle found himself as nearly giddy as Sam could be at the prospect of helping Picard arrange his trap, though he fancied he did not reveal himself as she did. The man's initial plans were cleverly thought out but suggested the amateur detective and Foyle was able to offer several modifications which would increase the chances of success exponentially. Foyle could not recall a hour spent so pleasantly, though it was invigorating and not contemplative as fly fishing would have been. He had so enjoyed himself that he did not even mind the disruption of Sam at the door, poking her head found the edge of the frame to inquire about refreshments.
"Mr. Foyle, I could bring round some tea and biscuits for you, if you'd like, and perhaps M. Picard would prefer coffee?" she said brightly. She generally found it dull sitting at the station waiting to drive him but today was an exception; the foreign visitor, the sense of mysterious conspiracy behind the closed door to Foyle's office, her gratification in knowing more of M. Picard than Brookie and her rare ability to lord it over the sergeant had all led to the broad smile they'd been graced with and Foyle could only attribute her feminine instinct for a Frenchman's appreciation of womanly charms on the utter neatness of her uniform, her Victory Roll pristine and her cheeks pinched to a becoming flush.
"That will do very well, Miss Stewart," Foyle said when Picard made a sudden gesture with his hand.
"I beg your pardon, but no coffee for me," he said. Foyle was taken aback.
"Would you prefer something else then, sir, I mean, monsieur?" Sam said, correcting herself with a little of the school-girl French she could recall and looked pleased as punch with herself for it.
"Tea, Earl Grey, hot—if you have it," Picard replied. Sam nodded smartly, already in pursuit of the elusive beverage. She might have to go to the hotel in High Street to get it or wheedle the greengrocer, but Foyle was sure before the hour was out, his office would be fragrant with bergamot.
"You surprise me. A Frenchman who doesn't drink coffee?" Foyle said.
"Mr. Foyle, may I ask permission to speak frankly?" Picard began and Foyle could only tilt his chin to indicate the man should go on. "I've had English coffee and I cannot risk my palate on it. A nice cup of tea, however, that will do nicely."