Chapter 4
The stone was cool under her hand and she picked at a loose piece of mortar. The sun broke through the clouds for a moment, warming her face. She was grateful for the comforting warmth and hugged herself to keep from shivering. Looking towards the long gravel drive she thought again, oh do hurry up!
Sam had taken the mid-morning bus, after breakfast with Foyle. He'd given her his bacon ration. She left Steep Lane feeling restored and well looked after. How she wished he were here now. She had rung the police immediately, but she knew it wouldn't be Foyle who came. No, she'd have to look after herself. With this thought she fortified her resolve, standing a bit straighter as a police car bumped up the drive. A uniformed and a plain clothes policeman stepped out. Sam swallowed away unhelpful thoughts. Time to be of some use to these men and find an answer…
Finding Sir Leonard sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood that morning had been a shock, to put it mildly. Sam was used to bodies and murders to a certain extent through her previous work with the police and the slight morbid fascination with all things criminal, but seeing Sir Leonard was neither fascinating or thrilling. She still felt slightly sick, but went down the steps to greet the plain clothes man, face determined.
The young man nodded at her. "Morning. I'm Detective Constable Perkins. You telephoned us?"
"Yes, Samantha Stewart."
"And you are?"
"Sir Leonard's secretary and housekeeper."
When Perkins just nodded, Sam felt the need to fill the silence, "I look after his correspondence as well as keep house — the cooking and cleaning and so on…"
"Where is the body?"
Sam led him through the foyer, not much liking this young Detective and his abrupt manner. Why hadn't they sent someone more senior? I did say there had been a murder…
They stood looking over Sir Leonard's prone body. Eyeing the bullet wound in his abdomen which had by now oozed a lot of blood, Perkins whistled. "Well, at least we know it wasn't your cooking."
Sam glared at him, "Are you trying to be funny?"
The silly grin on his face slackened slightly and he whipped out his notebook. "When did you find him?"
"This morning." She crossed her arms, still glaring.
They heard a few more cars pulling up the gravel drive and Sam turned.
Perkins nodded with his head towards the door, "That'll be my governor. Wait here."
She scowled fiercely at his retreating frame. They let anybody in the Police these days…
Certainly not about to wait around, she followed him. When she saw Milner walking in, holding his hat and staring up at the frescos of the entrance, Sam gave a cry. Her relief was palpable, and she came quickly over to him.
"Milner! Why, I didn't expect to see you!"
"Hallo Sam."
Milner gave her a tight smile as she continued, "I suppose I should call you Detective Inspector Milner now."
"Do you have any idea what happened, Sam?" he asked, following her.
"No, I have no idea. I had the day off, as you know, for the Christening." Sam paused, "Um, I stayed the night in Hastings…When I came back this morning, he was just lying there."
Milner nodded, looking around at the mess on the floor. Books and papers were strewn everywhere.
"The whole place was in rather a state," Sam added, "like it is now…"
She kept her tone bright and businesslike, doing her best not to betray any of the emotion that was trying to catch at her words. She was disappointed that Milner seemed so aloof. Yesterday it had been all laughs and smiles, and yet today, when a friendly face wouldn't have gone amiss, he was strictly business. While she could appreciate this, his manner seemed cold and she felt uncertain of herself. Maybe he thinks I'm a suspect…
"His paintings, are they valuable?" Milner asked, looking around him again.
"I suppose so," said Sam, "I hadn't really thought."
"Did anyone have a grudge against him, do you know?"
"Well, now you mention it…" Sam looked uncomfortable, "There was a young man who came here last week - Tom Bradley. He wanted his old job back and left quite angrily when he realised he wouldn't be able to get it. I know Sir Leonard was upset by it. I didn't feel too good about it myself…"
"You'd done him out of a job you mean," said Perkins from behind her left shoulder.
Sam turned and glared at him again. "Well, yes. Niko and I."
"Who is Niko?" Milner asked.
"Nikolai Vladchenko — he's Russian; an ex-prisoner. He's been working on the gardens and the grounds."
"Do you know where he is?"
"He should be here," Sam said looking around, "I don't understand it."
Milner flashed a significant look at Perkins who nodded in silent agreement.
"Where did Sir Leonard work?" Milner asked.
Sam led them both through to the large studio, wondering if the paintings had indeed been a motive.
"We will need to take an inventory to see if anything is missing."
"Is that really necessary?" Sam's voice had an edge to it, and Milner looked up.
"Yes."
She felt a wave of alarm go through her, realising what an inventory would mean. Voice high with restrained panic she said, "Um, I might have a list somewhere."
"That's all right, Sam, we'll do it." Milner put up a hand, wanting to keep her out of it.
Not caring much if he thought she was interfering, Sam began to shuffle through things. I must find those drawings!
After seeing Sam safely on the bus, Foyle had continued to his office, only to find a note waiting for him. Recognising the name, he stuffed it into his pocket and went straight back out again. At the top of the hill, in amongst the ruins of Hastings Castle, Foyle found Elsa waiting for him. She was sat on a wooden bench with a subtle old world grace, watching him as he approached, and he eyed her carefully. Though they had been friends once, long ago, her face was not pleased to see him. She had information, as he had hoped, but realised with dismay that it had brought her trouble and caused flutters further up the line. There was something bigger at stake here, he could feel it.
"I may have an idea where you can find your Ivan Spiakov. He was in the camp with two others. One, a young boy called Nikolai Vladchenko, was released early. He was only sixteen at the time."
Foyle's ears pricked up, could this be Sam's Niko?
"He was sent to work at a place called Redwood Lodge, near Brighton. It is possible Spiakov went there," said Elsa, confirming his suspicions.
Foyle nodded slowly, touching her arm. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."
Her face broke into a soft smile, "If I have to ask questions, Mr Foyle, I'd rather they be for you."
Foyle drove quickly towards Brighton, tapping a finger against the wheel. Why can I never keep Sam from these things? he wondered with a sigh. As he drove up the long drive to Redwood Lodge he was surprised to see a uniformed constable standing guard, with many cars littered around the front of the great house. His heart began to race. He stepped out, and showed his warrant card to the constable who then saluted smartly. Walking towards the house he saw Milner coming stiffly down the steps.
"Chief Superintendent?" Milner began, looking slightly confused, "can I ask what you're doing here?"
Eyeing the younger man carefully, Foyle said lightly, "Was about to ask you the same thing."
Milner put his hands in his pockets. "I'm afraid there's been a murder."
Foyle's face drained of colour. Sam!
"Is Sam here?" he asked quickly, glancing over Milner's shoulder.
"She's inside. She found the body."
Foyle let his breath out slowly in relief. His right hand was shaking slightly and he stuffed it into his pocket. "I see."
"If you've come to see her I'm afraid that won't be possible just now."
"Oh? Well I've actually come to see Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones."
A young man from just behind Milner's elbow popped his head around, "That won't be possible either. He's the one who has been murdered."
Eyes narrowing, Foyle did his best to keep the incredulity from his voice. "And you are?"
The young man puffed himself up, "Detective Constable Perkins."
"Right, well, in my day a constable wouldn't dream of addressing a Detective Chief Superintendent without permission, and certainly not without calling him 'sir'."
Perkins deflated and slipped away at a nod from Milner.
Milner quite visibly bristled and said none too kindly, "Sir, why did you want to speak with Sir Leonard? May I remind you that you are in my jurisdiction, and if you have information… "
"I don't need reminding," Foyle said sharply, "I'm simply here for information about a missing Russian—"
Milner interrupted him, "Yes, we want to find him too."
Foyle nearly tutted, unused to being interrupted by anyone but Sam. Right…Vladchenko or Spiakov? he thought grimly. "He a suspect?"
"Too early to say. I've only just finished talking to Sam. I've taken her statement."
Feeling fed up, Foyle said with impatience, "Well, if she's just found her employer dead, it sounds like she could do with a bit of support." The blue in his eyes flared for a moment and he levelled an icy gaze at Milner, "So I'll be going in there."
Seeing he was beaten, Milner nodded grudgingly. "Follow me, sir."
Foyle's eyes missed nothing as they walked through the large house. Once in the studio his eyes were drawn to the paintings. At the sound of Sam's voice, however, he spun on his heel.
"Mr Foyle? What are you doing here?"
The relief she felt was reflected in his own eyes at the sight of her, and he smiled gratefully. Thank God she's all right…
"Well, I'm not here because of this," he said, waving vaguely at the room at large with his hat.
"Why do you want to speak to Nikolai Vladchenko?" Milner asked, voice still prickly.
At that moment a uniformed constable crossed their path, the movement of air from his stride catching the edge of a cloth that had covered a canvas propped on an easel. Foyle stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. The face of the model was instantly recognisable. He let himself take in the remainder of the drawing for a heartbeat second before moving to replace the cloth. From the corner of his eye he saw Sam cover her face in mortification. Oh Sam…
He turned back to Milner, answering his question as if nothing had happened. "I'm not after Vladchenko. I'm here about a man called Ivan Spiakov. I have information that he may have come here."
Milner looked confused. "Well if he came here, he might be a suspect…"
"He did." Her voice startled the two men, and they both looked up from their own subtle match of wills. "Niko's friend — he did come here. Niko told me. There was some money taken a few days ago…he was here and then he left. I didn't see him though." Sam glanced at Foyle, cheeks still bright red and not quite meeting his eye.
"Well, that answers my question," Foyle said with finality. He shot a glance at Milner before moving towards Sam, making it clear their conversation was very much over.
"Sir." Milner stuffed his hands in his pockets again and sauntered away sulkily.
Sam, previously a flurry of movement searching for the incriminating drawings, was now still, head hung and eyes bright.
Foyle touched her elbow, nodding towards the end of the large room. "Why don't you show me the conservatory?"
