.

.

Part Nine: Christmas Eve

The two stared at each other for a long moment, both frozen to the spot. Sam looked as astonished as he felt. He saw her lips form a single syllable - his Christian name, perhaps? Then Milner's long legs closed the dozen yards of pavement between them in a few swift strides. "Sam! What are you doing here?" He quelled the impulse to sweep her into his arms, prudently substituting a warm handclasp and a kiss on the cheek.

"I … I didn't know you were back," she replied, setting down her case and returning the greeting with a peck of her own.

"Got home a couple of days ago. But I thought you'd gone to your uncle's for Christmas?"

She averted her gaze, the dark eyes shuttering over a trifle. "Yes, well, I did, but … I came back."

"Why?"

She shrugged evasively, a gesture which almost immediately turned into a shiver. He suddenly realised that she was very wet and that the fingers he was gripping were bare and stiff with cold. Clearly she was in need of shelter, warmth and a sympathetic ear, all of which he was only too happy to provide. But where? Her Priory Lane digs were nearly a mile away. No restaurant was likely to be open on Christmas Eve, and he certainly didn't fancy the hurly-burly of a pub.

The solution was obvious. His insides quailed a little with excitement and nerves, but he plunged ahead. "Listen, you're half-frozen. We should get you inside, somewhere warm. My place isn't far and I've a fire all laid. Nice hot cup of tea?" At her startled nod he picked up her case and took her by the arm, guiding her gently but firmly to his little flat above the shop in the high street.


His hand shook slightly as he poured tea into two cups. Steeling himself to calm down, he stirred a small measure of his sugar ration into each. After all these months of thinking of her, worrying about her, longing for her … to be reunited with Sam at last! Better still, to be with her, alone and uninterrupted, in the privacy of his own home! It seemed akin to a miracle. The romantic possibilities of the situation tantalised him, but he pushed such thoughts firmly away. Much as he wanted to take her in his arms, to kiss her long and lovingly, he must be very careful not to overstep the bounds of propriety. It was only too clear, knowing her as well as he did, that she was deeply upset, but he was equally sure that she needed a friend, someone to listen and offer comfort as she had so often done for him. Surely only the worst sort of cad would try to take advantage of a woman in mourning. No, better not to touch her at all, because of what touching could lead to ...

He carried the tea through to the sitting room, where he found Sam on the hearthrug warming herself at the cheerful blaze. She had changed into dry stockings and shoes and smoothed her wind-tousled hair and sat now with arms wrapped loosely round upraised knees, gazing thoughtfully into the dancing flames. She accepted the mug with a murmur of thanks, cupping her hands round it to savour its warmth. He was tempted to join her on the floor but, remembering his resolve, resisted the impulse and settled himself on the sofa, positioning himself so that he could study her surreptitiously as he sipped his own tea.

Her appearance had altered subtly during the months they'd been apart. Her face had gained a new maturity, the last traces of girlhood erased by sorrow. There were faint smudges beneath her eyes, shadows of a sadness that made his heart ache. Her features seemed more finely drawn than he remembered, enhanced, perhaps, by her lavender jumper. So different to the usual dull brown of her uniform, the soft yet vivid colour lent her skin a delicate, almost porcelain cast. Her hair fell in loose waves about her face, gleaming gold where the firelight touched it. Despite her grief, he thought her lovelier than ever.

She broke his reverie, looking up at him with a small smile. "This is much better. The train was freezing – the only compartment with any space had a broken window, and even then I had to stand most of the way. And the station at Leavenham was cold too. I feel as though I'm finally beginning to thaw out."

"Glad I ran into you," he replied, striving to keep his tone light. "What made you come back, anyway?"

Her gaze shifted away, back to the cheerfully crackling fire. "It was – well, it's a long story, really. It doesn't matter."

He frowned, his concern aroused by this uncharacteristic evasiveness. "You didn't quarrel with your uncle, did you?"

"No, of course not. Nothing like that. Uncle Aubrey was very kind. And it was good that I went." It sounded as though she were trying to convince herself. "We saw Dad's solicitor in Brighton, finished up all the estate business – Uncle was executor, you know. He took care of everything for me. There's an annuity, nothing grand but enough for me to live on, and quite a lot of war bonds. It was good to get everything settled and done with. But afterward I just …" she trailed off and shook her head.

No wonder she hadn't been able to face Christmas after that. Thinking it better to steer the conversation to a less sensitive topic, he asked casually, "So … are you expected you at your digs for dinner, then? I've a meat pie my landlady left me. Plenty for two …"

She looked at him gratefully. "That's very kind of you. No, I'm not expected back. There's nobody home, actually. All gone away for Christmas."

No one home at all? The idea of her spending the night alone in an empty boarding house was unthinkable. "But won't the house be cold?" he asked. "Look, why don't you just stay here tonight? You can use the bedroom."

She looked a bit shocked. "I couldn't possibly – what about you?"

He ran a hand over the tartan blanket folded over the back of the sofa. "I'll sleep out here. I often do, anyway."

"Do you? Why?"

"It's a very comfortable sofa. Closer to the fire, too. It's fine, Sam. You won't be putting me out, I promise." He didn't add that he was often unable to face sleeping alone in the big old-fashioned four-poster bed, the empty space next to him a silent rebuke, mocking his loneliness. The sofa had quickly become his favourite spot in the furnished flat. Longer and deeper than most, its well-stuffed cushions could accommodate his length comfortably whether sitting or reclining.

"Are you sure?" she asked, still sounding a bit uncertain.

"Of course. No one will see you, and I won't mention it to anyone, of course. And just think of how much fuel we'll be saving," He added this last with a teasing twinkle – after all, it was usually she who was preoccupied with regulations like fuel restrictions – and was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.

"Very well. Just as long as you never tell my fa- " she broke off abruptly, her smile vanishing like a blown-out candle flame. He had no trouble finishing the sentence.

"Listen, Sam," he said gently, setting his teacup aside and leaning forward to emphasise his words. "I don't know if I ever told you how sorry I am. About your parents, I mean. It was so sudden, and then there were so many people about that we never really had a chance to speak …"

"But you were there," she interrupted, looking up at him with eyes that were shining with emotion. "You were with me when it happened. And I never even thanked you properly, did I? I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been with me that day, you and Mr Foyle. I'll never forget it. I meant to tell you, to thank you, but when I got back to Hastings you were gone. I couldn't even write to you."

"I'm sorry about that, too. I'd have written if I could, but it was too risky. Being undercover, you see. And even if I'd managed to post a letter you wouldn't have been able to write back. I was using an alias."

"I understand," she replied, seeming to welcome the change of subject. "I was sure it must be like that. Anyway, you're back now. Tell me what you've been doing all this time. Where were you? Can you talk about it?"

As so he began his tale: working as a docker in Liverpool, unloading endless cargo from ships making port while always keeping his eyes peeled for clues to the goods that were vanishing from dockside warehouses with such distressing regularity. Trying to earn the trust of the other men who lodged in dismal boarding houses, sweating out a meagre living on the quays. Sam listened raptly, swivelling her body to face him as he talked. She wanted to know all the details of the case; her questions, he noticed, were as perceptive as any seasoned police officer's - very similar, in fact, to the ones posed by Mr Foyle only two days before.

"Sounds jolly hard," she said eventually. "The cargo-hauling bit, that is. Did your leg bother you?"

"No, not much, once I got used to the work. And as it happens, it was the perfect disguise. A lot of the men had been demobbed from the Forces with injuries - burns, shrapnel, what have you. I wasn't the only amputee. Thanks to the leg nobody suspected for a moment that I might be a detective." He didn't add that working alongside these forgotten men had made him realise how close he had come to joining their ranks permanently after Trondheim. If it hadn't been for Mr Foyle asking him to come back to the police, would he have ended up as another cast-aside labourer, scarred and bitter?

"So it's finished now?" Sam asked, recalling him to the present. "You solved it?"

"Yes. Finally. Toughest case I ever worked on, I think. But I got to the bottom of it. Tricky business, too - turned out the Assistant Chief Constable was taking payoffs to look the other way. He was the harbourmaster's brother-in-law; they were in on it together. No wonder the Liverpool constabulary hadn't been able to crack it."

Her eyes widened. "That sounds rather dangerous."

"Well, let's just say I had to keep my eyes open." He thought it better not to mention his two predecessors on the case, local detectives who had been found out by the racketeers. Both had been viciously beaten and dumped on the quays; one still walked with a limp while the other had lost part of the sight in one eye. "That's why the AC sent me – coming from so far away, I wouldn't be recognised as a police officer. No one from the local force knew who I was, so I was on my own." He drew in a breath and let it out in a sigh. "I'm glad it's over and done with."

Sam looked troubled; after all, she was only too aware of what could happen when an undercover operation went wrong. She had patched up his cuts and bruises on more than one occasion, and no doubt remembered the time he had been shot, though fortunately the bullet had only grazed him. "Will you have to go back?"

"Only to give evidence when it comes to trial," he said reassuringly. "Shouldn't take more than a few days." He broke off, disconcerted by the intensity of her expression. She looked anxious and upset – and, he thought, something more. Did he see a hint of some deeper emotion in her dark eyes, something beyond the easy affection she had always shown him? His mouth went dry. Their gazes locked and held for a long, wordless moment before she looked away, her cheeks flaming scarlet.

His heart had begun to pound in his chest, but before he could react to unexpected frisson Sam had scrambled to her feet. She moved over to the window, turning her back to him and inching the curtain aside to peer out at the empty street. He rose too, feeling awkward and uncertain, unsure how to account for what had just flashed between them. Could it be – was there any chance – that she might have feelings for him as well?

Get a grip on yourself, he chided himself. Needing to take some action, he seized the poker and began to mend the fire, reducing the spent wood to embers with a few skilful blows before setting a fresh log on the grate. You're imagining things. She doesn't care for you in that way. She's just … upset. It's Christmas, her family is gone and she didn't like hearing about you being in danger. That's all it is. When he straightened up and dusted off his hands, she had not moved from her place by the window. "Sam?" he said softly. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, still not facing him. "Yes, I'm … I'm fine. Look, it's snowing." She was striving to keep her tone light, but despite her efforts she sounded so forlorn that his heart ached. He felt helpless, too constrained by the strength of his feelings for her to dare to break through the invisible barrier separating came to stand by her, looking out at the fluffy white flakes whirling lightly past on the other side of the glass.

He cast about for something to say, something commonplace and ordinary that might distract her from her dark mood. "They're lighting the churches tonight," he said finally. "Did you hear? At the midnight service. First time in six years they won't be blacked out. Were you thinking of going?"

She stiffened, fingers tightening on the frayed edge of the curtain and he knew at once he'd said the wrong thing. When she replied, her voice was low and husky with suppressed emotion. "I … I haven't been to church since the funeral."

Ah, he thought, recognising the significance of this revelation, for he knew that the habit of regular churchgoing had been instilled in her from childhood. He waited patiently for her to continue, silently encouraging her to unburden herself.

"I know … how that must sound. Coming from me, I mean. But I just … can't."

"Is that why you came back?"

She nodded, shamefaced. "I just couldn't face it. Christmas in a vicarage … do you know what that's like? The hymns. The advent candles. The bells. Decorating the church. And of course you're expected to attend every service ... everything just like home, but not home …" Her voice was tremulous, but she was fighting to maintain control. Her gaze was fixed on the darkness outside, as though she feared seeing his disapproval. "You must think I'm a dreadful coward."

"Of course not," he reassured her, his voice deep and tender. "I understand. Was your uncle disappointed when you told him you weren't staying?"

She looked abashed. "I … didn't," she admitted, still not looking at him. "I just left a note on the sideboard. I couldn't sleep all last night, so I finally got up at half-past five and slipped out before it got light and walked to the station."

He found this picture so heart-wrenching that the last of his resolve melted away. "Oh, Sam," he said, putting a gentle arm round her shoulders and giving a comforting squeeze. Her eyes were brimming with tears but she blinked them back fiercely and went on, her words tumbling out in a rush.

"It was beastly of me, but … it's Sunday, you see, and the idea of going to church … I just couldn't. I … oh, how can I explain it?"

He understood only too well, having struggled with his own spiritual crisis a few years before. "You think I don't know what it's like to feel angry with God?" he asked quietly.

She raised her eyes to his face then, catching her breath in surprise. "Angry with … yes, that's it. Exactly. How did you know? I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. My parents were good people, Milner, truly good! They spent their whole lives helping others, serving the Church. Serving God. They didn't deserve to die that way!"

The tears she had been suppressing so fiercely finally began to spill over, trickling down her cheeks. He tightened his arm round her and guided her to the sofa, drawing her down next to him and letting her vent her pent-up anguish in the safety of his arms.

He held her close, one hand gently caressing her back, keening soft indistinct murmurs into the sweet-smelling copper hair. These were not the quick, hot, bewildered tears she had wept on that terrible day in September; these were long, slow tears of grief torn from somewhere deep in her soul. Sensing how desperately she needed this release he let her cry as long as she wanted, her face hidden against his shoulder, her arms around him, clutching the back of his waistcoat.

Much as he hated to see her so upset, a selfish part of him was exulting in her breakdown. This, this was what he had wanted: to hold her and comfort her; to feel that, even for a brief time, he had some claim to a special role in her life. She felt indescribably precious in his arms. His spirit sang with the stinging joy of being needed.

After a long while her sobs lessened and he felt the tension in her body begin to ease. Still he did not move or speak, not wishing this treasured intimacy to end any sooner than it had to. Nor did Sam make any attempt to break away from their embrace; she had gone limp, spent by the force of her weeping. Eventually her breathing slowed, her head drooped more heavily against his chest and he realised with wonder that she had fallen asleep.