Chapter Four
Foyle was having some porridge the next morning when Sam's knock sounded at the door. As he wasn't consciously remembering that he had asked her to dress differently, her appearance as she stood on his doorstep came as a pleasant surprise. He had stopped paying close attention to women's fashion when Rosalind died, so he didn't know that Sam's suit was a 1937 with the skirt hemmed; all he thought was that she looked professional and most fetching in the soft green-grey Shetland wool. Though she had not pinned her hair up into its usual regulation Victory roll, the front was neatly upswept, and she wore a little chocolate-coloured hat that matched her bag and shoes. Her gloves and the scarf softly tucked about her throat were a darker shade of the green. This outfit had been her parents' gift when she'd got her first job, and she had taken excellent care of it.
Many a morning she had brought the sun in with her even on grey days, smiling as she cheerily gave him his "'Morning, Sir!" This time was no exception (though it was a lovely enough morning in its own right), but there was an added warmth in her brown eyes that instantly increased his heart rate, and the familiar words were spoken with an ironical arch of her eyebrow.
"'Morning, Sam. C'mon in."
As soon as she'd let the door shut behind her, he had her in his arms. She closed her eyes tightly with joy as she hugged him close after the long kiss; she had purposely left off the lip rouge in hopes that just this sort of greeting would ensue. Christopher drew back and gave her yet another contented but I-can't-quite-believe-it look, stroking her arm.
"You look… beautiful. There, I got it out this time!"
They laughed.
"Have you had breakfast?" he asked her as she followed him, somewhat dazed, back to the kitchen.
She nodded. "But I'd love a cup of tea with you."
"Mmm." He put the kettle on and they sat down across from each other.
"I'll want to look in at the station before we go, as Milner may have left some information for me. We'll probably still be in Pevensey midday."
"There's a castle ruin there, isn't there, Sir?" she asked him, then blushed. "Isn't there, Christopher?"
He was smiling at her. "There is, Miss Stewart, but alas it's a base for the Home Guard for the duration. But we can have a bite of lunch before we leave town, and stop somewhere along the way for a walk if this glorious weather holds."
Sam hoped he wouldn't tease her about her yawning (as he had on those mornings months ago, after her attempts to sleep in a cell at the police station), but she had definitely had trouble falling asleep after the excitement of the evening before. Over and again she'd thought about the sensations she experienced when he finally held and kissed her… it was so much more wonderful than her dreams of it had been. Alone and reliving it, she'd stretched voluptuously and arched her vibrant body, a tiny secret smile on her lips.
Never before had such strong sensations been stirred up in her; now that she had told Christopher, and at last learned that her feelings were reciprocated, it was going to be difficult for her to ignore. At the same time, he seemed to be welcoming her to participate more fully as a professional colleague.
It's a separate thing from loving me or wanting me… Even if we weren't… romantically attached, he'd still believe it's a worthwhile thing to be my mentor.
For Sam it was a second great happiness to mix with the first.
During their drive he briefly reviewed the scant details of the case they would be interviewing about, but mainly they talked some more about music. She said she hoped he would play the piano more regularly, which made him smile a little sadly, as he had not told her how often Rosalind used to say the same thing. The beauty of the crisp February day reminded her of farm neighbours in Lyminster who'd begun to prepare for barley sowing and lambing around this time, and she told amusing stories about her less-than-effective attempts to help, which had finally led to her decision to join the MTC rather than the Women's Land Army, although the latter prospect had also rather intrigued her. Foyle found himself laughing and feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time.
Mrs Melcent was a surprisingly angular woman of about forty-five with a washed-out complexion and pale gold-brown eyes and hair. She was friendly and receptive in an anxious and fluttery sort of way, but it was obvious that she was very worried about "her Rhys."
"It's been a week now," she told them, once they all were seated in her front room and Sam and Christopher were holding the cups of tea she had pressed upon them. The concerned mother glanced at Samantha with a question in her eyes.
Is this young woman really a detective, too, or just a secretary? Or his daughter? Name's different; maybe his married daughter? No, I don't think they're related. The way he looks at her—it's a different kind of fondness. The Detective Chief Superintendent introduced her as "his assistant," but she's dressed like a society lady out shopping.
Foyle caught the woman's eye and gave one of his kindly "Do let's keep on track" smiles. "What makes you think this time that he isn't off with the friends he's been travelling with?"
"Well, he may well be. In a way that's what makes me uneasy, you see. They're a dodgy lot; not at all sure they aren't spivs. Always giving their girls nylons, they are, and never short of cigarettes."
Foyle nodded and looked at Sam. She was studying Mrs Melcent's eyes. "Did Rhys have a girl?" she asked gently.
Mrs Melcent's expression stiffened. "He was going round with that Bea," she said scornfully. "The one with the airs and the tight sweaters."
"But he isn't seeing her now?"
Mrs Melcent furrowed her brow. "He mentioned another girl… now I can't recall the name. That was just before he lost the job at Morehouse, maybe a fortnight ago. He was driving fish up north, then back to Hastings to do the same."
"How long had he been with… Bea?" Foyle asked, putting down his cup and saucer.
The woman gave it some thought. "Several months. Almost a year, I think. Bea… Stanley, I think it is."
"Know where she lives?"
"She's from Lunsford's Cross, I think… not far."
Foyle nodded, saying "Good" so quietly that it was almost inaudible. He stood, slowly crossing the living room as he continued his questions. "When you saw your son a week ago… what time of day? Was he with anyone when he left?"
"I remember it because he was dressed so smartly before he left here. His tie on, and that. It was Saturday last. No, he was alone."
"Can you tell me whether any of the others he knows live at any of his delivery stops up north?" Foyle asked her.
The woman's worn face creased in thought. "I don't remember. His boss might know. He met some of that lot driving the lorries."
"Yes, we thought we might have a word with him. Know the address?"
After taking down this information and asking Mrs Melcent a few more questions, Sam and Foyle tried to reassure her that they would pursue every lead.
She shook her head, seemingly pessimistic about her son's fate. "His father never came home from the last war, and he hasn't had much of a male influence in his life." She gave Foyle a respectful glance. "I think he missed that."
The office of Morehouse Haulage was on the Western Road close to the fishing shacks of the bay, so the area around it was silent but for gulls' cries; the fishermen were out on the water for the day, or at least for half of it. After two knocks at the door failed to get a response, the pair turned to leave, but they heard the bolt shifted and so turned back to greet the lorry company owner.
"Mr Morehouse? 'Morning. My name's Foyle; I'm a police officer. This is my assistant, Miss Stewart. Mind if we ask you a few questions about a young man who used to be in your employ?"
Morehouse shaded his eyes from the bright sun; the interior of his chilly stone-walled office was almost devoid of light. It crossed Foyle's mind that the man may have been sleeping rather than working. The DCS examined Morehouse's eyes. Or drinking.
The large, portly man with disheveled white hair wordlessly ushered them in, snapping on an electric light as they peered into the gloom.
"Sorry. Late night of it last night, after a long trip. Was having a doze, I'll admit."
Sam watched as Mr Morehouse took swift visual inventory of the surface of his desk and closed the half-open drawer at top right. He gestured for them to have a seat in the wooden chairs facing it while he sat in the extremely worn leather chair behind it. "A question about one of my hauliers?"
Foyle flashed a tiny smile and said with his trademark elongation of the first word, "Yesss… Rhys Melcent. I understand he drove for you up until a fortnight ago?"
Morehouse nodded slowly. "Aye. Not a bad lad, but I had the feeling he was spending more time in Hastings than he needed to be. Isn't good for fish, even packed in ice, to wait for a driver overnight. The last straw for me was a load that had turned, and I lost several sales."
"Any idea why he was detained each time he was in Hastings?"
"One of the other lads did mention…" The older man glanced uncomfortably at Sam. "Er, that there may have been a lady there he was calling on."
"Did he mention her name?" Sam asked him.
Morehouse cast his eyes upward in thought. "Ah. I think so. Now, what was…?"
"Might it have been Bea, or Beatrix?" she prompted.
The big man made a face at his inability to remember. "All I can recall is that is began with 'D'. Dorothy? Darlene?"
Foyle turned his hat in his hands and stroked the brim. "Were you aware of any group of men he was running with?"
Sam noted a subtle shift in the man's expression, as if he knew but was not sure it was wise to reveal it to the law.
The detective chief superintendent's gaze fixed on him. The penetrating stare gradually unnerved him; still Morehouse said nothing.
Foyle stood and walked the length of the room. "Melcent's mother tells us that he was possibly involved with some racketeers. Know anything about that?"
The tired-looking Morehouse gave Sam a piteous look. She shot an uncertain glance at Foyle before venturing, "It's all right, Mr Morehouse. We won't tell them you told us anything."
The manager looked resigned, as if he considered he had no choice but to tell what little he knew.
"Well, then… yes, there was another driver here took up with that cheating bunch. It was small time, the stuff they were up to at first—just cigarettes and lighters and such, you know. Then I think one of them started stealing ration books.
"…I don't think this lad Rhys was in on that," he added quickly in response to Foyle's raised eyebrow. "That's when he began to say he didn't want anything more to do with it. But he would keep spending all that time in Hastings. I never understood what he was about."
"We need the names of the people he worked with; as many as you can provide. And to know which ones he was most friendly with, if you can recall."
"Well done, Sam," Foyle said, smiling, as they walked back to the car after collecting further information from the bleary-eyed lorry owner.
They had decided earlier, upon driving past the well-established old Smugglers Inn, to give it a try for lunch.
As they dined on fish and vegetable pie, Sam said wistfully, "We'll have to come back to the castle here sometime… after the war. I suppose it's rather fitting that there are soldiers there—the Norman ships invaded this very harbour—well anyway, it was a harbour, before the sea retreated. There's also the story of Queen Joanna, who was imprisoned there wrongly…"
Christopher listened intently to her excited narrative, feeling the dichotomy he had noticed a few times before: she could sound like an enthusiastic youngster at the same time that she was showing remarkable maturity and depth of knowledge.
Stirring his tea some minutes later, he mused, "I think we'll want to run up Monday and see this Beatrix Stanley."
Sam nodded. "Doubtless she'll know more about Rhys than any of the men."
About half way back to Hastings Sam stopped off at a particularly scenic hilly stretch of the main road, so that they could go for a walk. She cheerily greeted the deceptively placid cows as they ambled to the edge of their fenced-off paddocks. The winter cold was bracing without being penetrating. Christopher reflected that it felt good to move around more energetically, now he was fully recovered.
And it's wonderful holding her hand like this, and feeling almost like a young man again. Work complete, and time to relax. What might she wish to do this evening? Go out to see a film? Stay in and read, or just talk? Not so sure about staying in… what might happen if we do? We should take this slowly; I'd be wisest to encourage an evening out.
At one point they split up; she waited on a bench and watched him briskly climb a hill, his overcoat flapping slightly in the breeze. Her heart gave a small leap as she reminded herself that this quiet, considerate man, so attractive to her, was willing to be as close to her as they had been the night before. At the same time it made her nervous. At what pace would they take their courtship… at what pace did she wish them to? Quiet and considerate he may be, but she sensed his leashed passion and the thought of it made her shiver with delight. She was confused about her desires… a vicar's daughter, she chastised herself, shouldn't be so quick to think what she was thinking.
Christopher studied her as he returned, noticing her preoccupation. She was rubbing her arms for warmth and shivering slightly as he approached, and he took her arm and pulled her against his side as he had the day before. This did not remedy the shaking, so he hugged her, murmuring in her ear, "I think we ought to be heading back." He smiled at her. She noticed the touch of worry in his eyes as she absorbed the dear lines of his face.
A good day's work done, each thought. And so we'll return to Hastings. And what will happen then?
They got in the Wolseley, quite secluded despite the bareness of the branches beneath which Sam had parked, and she hesitated before starting the car.
During these months of her driving for him, Christopher had sometimes unconsciously rested his hand on the corner of her seat back near her shoulder, or even along the top edge so that his fingers were near her neck, particularly if he needed to turn his head to speak with Milner or some other passenger in the back seat. If she leaned back when his hand was poised in either of those spots and inadvertently touched him, he'd feel his heart catch and then experience a small storm of confusion:
Should I pull away? Would she be offended if I seemed to take exception to her contact with me?
So at such moments he would pretend not to notice the one thing that was most preoccupying his mind: I'm touching her.
Now as Samantha turned to him with a shy half-smile, he was fully aware of how easily he could reach up and stroke her cheek or ear. With the knuckles of his right hand he lightly brushed down the curve of her cheek and she closed her eyes at the same time that she caught her breath. Christopher's hand stole from her face to her neck beneath her hair, stroking the velvety down at her nape, not visible to him with her hair loose, but something that had often driven him quite mad when he caught a glimpse of it seeming to glow in the soft morning light.
Sam started trembling again at the knowledge that he was doing this as he sat beside her in the car, this place where they had sat together for so many months in polite restraint, despite the desire each felt for the other. This not only made her feel a little light-headed, but also made her conscious of the intense warmth in the lower part of her body. She shifted uneasily.
"You all right?" he asked softly, his eyes looking almost sleepily into hers while that oh-so-mesmerising hand massaged the back of her neck. Sam tried not to moan as she bent her head back upon his fingers, but he was enchanted and acutely stimulated by her quickened breath and the overwhelmed expression on her face. In another instant he had pulled her over his lap and into his arms, taking care not to bump her knees into the steering wheel or her hip on the gear stick. He tilted his head to kiss her deeply as her arms wound round his shoulders.
At length he drew back to look at her and she slowly opened her eyes, only to immerse herself in his again. Today his eyes were reflecting the sky: more azure than grey.
"Sam…" he whispered. At that moment he wished to ask her to marry him as soon as possible, but he still feared that he would make her feel trapped or pressured in some way if he spoke of this too soon. Gentle God, how he longed for her…
I can feel how much he wants me, and I want him, too. Would he think less of me if I asked him if I could stay with him some night soon? He is such a gentleman. I don't want him to think of me as fast. If only I could tell him that it's because I want to marry him that I'd be willing to give myself to him.
Sam, though inexperienced, had a certain practical knowledge of the facts of life. One of her more adventurous friends in the MTC, Yvette, had proudly recounted some of her exploits with men, seemingly entertained by Sam's wide eyes and blushing laughter in hearing of most of it for the first time. Storing up information for some later potential courtship, Sam had asked Yvette frank questions and followed up with some library reading and eventual questions for her Hastings doctor.
When getting ready for an evening out with Violet and Connie at Bexhill she had also picked up snippets of information about sex; she remembered that Violet had implied her relationship with Andrew was considerably more advanced than Sam's and Andrew's ever came to be. Sam wondered now if it was because she was not quite as delicate and flirtatious as Violet, but recently she had become more certain that it simply indicated how little excitement Andrew had stirred in her.
But in retrospect I probably never gave him any sign that it was acceptable to be more forward.
To the man who was now holding her in his arms she felt inclined to send the message that he may be as bold as he desired, but she also still feared offending his sensibilities; she had witnessed his ability to understand and withhold judgment of people's sexual foibles, but she was uncertain of his personal code about such things.
He was still gazing into her eyes and fighting the urge to kiss her in a way that could make him quite lose his senses; exciting as it was to fulfill the fantasy of holding her here in the Wolseley, it was not proving as comfortable as he wanted them to be when they increased their intimacy. He bent and sweetly nuzzled her nose with his, and her heart leapt again at the warmth in his eyes. "Let's get back to Hastings."
After a period of quiet travel, during which Foyle and his driver attempted to collect their thoughts and examine the situation in a calmer light, they began to verbally map out their plans for work during the coming week. By the time Sam had drawn up near the door of 31 Steep Lane and stopped the car, the work plan was in place, but each still wondered what their personal plan would be.
After she had refolded the road map he remained in his seat, stroking her gloved hand with one finger.
Why do I feel so awkward, just asking her if she'd like to come in and have some tea? It's been a while since I've courted anyone, but then I never was very smooth at any of this. Shy, unsure of how to proceed every other time; if Elizabeth or Caroline or Rosalind had been as shy, would I ever have had the nerve?
"Y'know, Sam, you don't have to spend your entire Saturday with me, if you've other things you'd like to do."
She couldn't help but grin at him. It was clear to her that he was as eager to spend every moment of his weekend with her as she was to spend hers with him, and that this comment was not some attempt to extricate himself from her company. It was just his modesty keeping him from presuming that she felt the same. She felt another dizzying surge of affection for him and caught the fingers that caressed the top of her hand. "You're still stuck with me, Sir, I'm afraid. I can see that you are all well, but it's obvious that you need someone to force you to practice your music and keep eating sensibly."
He laughed and got out of the car to open her door for a change.
Another meal out was a bit of a luxury, but the occasion was special and he was trying to stave off the inevitable danger of their being alone together for long. They may have only shared a few relatively chaste kisses so far, but he had sensed in Sam an unguarded quality that (especially given that it only added to her allure) might make his task of holding back that much more challenging. He wondered what, if any, kind of experience she had in affairs of the heart. Andrew had admitted that his relationship with Sam had never gone further than a few kisses, and it had taken most of Foyle's resources to conceal the great relief he had felt to hear it.
Samantha looked so beautiful, and so youthful, sitting across from him in the candlelight of the small restaurant, that he knew he should try to speak with her about some of these things.
Just as he opened his mouth to do so, however, she said, "I don't think I should abandon the uniform quite yet, S—Christopher. For one, I haven't the clothing rations to have many nice things right now, and for another I think people aren't sure what to make of me in my mufti when I'm accompanying you."
He nodded, mulling this over. "They did rather seem to have little cogs operating in their heads after I introduced you."
"Yes, in a way I think I'm more likely to uncover information just by being your driver, just incidentally there, if you know what I mean."
He looked at her with undisguised admiration. "Very well, Miss Stewart. It's back to the MTC regulation attire on Monday."
After their meal he suggested a stroll to help their digestion, but the light wind of the afternoon had become sharper after dark and uncomfortable even for a couple walking close to each other. Like the night before, it was only half past eight when they reached the house, and he didn't want to say goodnight to her yet.
Ridiculous. Go ahead and ask her in. There's more to your wanting Sam's company than that. You can control yourself.
They had tea before a comforting coal fire, sitting together on the settee and letting their eyes lose focus on the capering flames. Good food had relaxed Sam, and she stole a glance at Christopher's profile in the flickering golden light.
He hasn't touched me since we came inside, but perhaps that's because he wants to talk about something. I think he's having trouble coming out with it…
She cleared her throat and Christopher gave her a small sideways glance and sheepish smile. "This just goes to show," he told her, "how unused I am to spending any time with anyone. I forget how rude it is to just retreat into my thoughts."
Sam boldly reached up to stroke his hair. "I know I chatter a lot, but I don't mind just spending quiet time with you."
He looked into her eyes with a mixture of gratefulness and love… and something else.
How can I broach all these things without sounding like a solicitor laying out a series of business arrangements? How can I think straight about it when her eyes are so wide and sweet and inviting?
Sam took his tea from him and turned as she rejoined him so that she was half sitting, half lying in his lap as she had in the car. Christopher had just a hint of smile on his lips and his eyes were fond and amused, as if to say, There's no use my resisting this, really, is there?
She kissed him.