Chapter Nine
Philip Garson was similar to Paul Milner in many ways. Perhaps that was why the Sergeant rather liked the younger man, despite his flashpoint temper. Paul knew how it felt to snap when pushed too far… or to flare up when someone hit a sore spot of his psyche, as Mr Foyle had last year, when he had initially seemed not to understand the complex confusion and pain behind Paul's conversations with Nazi sympathiser Guy Spencer.
Showing up again at Garson's tiny house mid-Monday, Milner steeled himself to the expected reaction of annoyance. But when the saturnine young man opened his door to Milner, holding a pair of shoes in one hand and a couple of shirts slung over his arm, he merely raised inquisitive eyebrows and quietly gestured for the detective to enter.
At Milner's questioning look, he supplied, "Called up to drive already. I leave tomorrow."
Milner nodded, a quiet smile of encouragement on his lips, and to his surprise, Garson smiled too. It made for a startling change in the lean man's face—how much more relaxed he appeared than during their last interview.
"Caught you just in time, then. I've just been talking with Walter Mansfield, and—" he stopped at the slight lift of Garson's eyebrows. "What can you tell me about him?"
A veil seemed to pass over Garson's face; he was shuttering up, holding something back.
Milner sighed, and walked about the room a bit, trying to loosen the omnipresent stiffness in the upper part of his leg when he'd stood with his weight on the prosthesis for more than a minute at a time.
Maybe someday I'll get used to this and not think of it every moment of every day…
Trying a new tack, the sergeant turned and smiled again. "I'm glad, Mr Garson, to hear that you can now go and drive military lorries; I know you wanted to be useful to the war effort. I wish you'd also be of some use to this effort—Daphne deserves the satisfaction of seeing Rhys' murderer brought to justice."
Garson gave the tiniest of nods, his mouth a clenched, semi-pursed line. He echoed Milner's thoughtful sigh and put the clothing down on a worn upholstered chair in one corner of his sitting room.
"You've been square with me and I'll tell ya what I know," he said with a friendlier tone to his lilt. "I didn't say before because I… well, I've thought on it since, and I think it's safe, now I'm leaving."
"Safe." Milner's brow furrowed.
"The whole reason Rhys ever did any of the runnin' was to impress his girl, Bea. And that woman was trouble. A beauty but one that always was wantin' her way and making a man's life complicated. I think he knew it all along, but then she started seeing that Roke Hechinger.
"He was the one gettin' in with the worst of the rackets… before when Rhys was doing it, 'was just a few cigarettes and lighters. Roke was drivin' Bea round town, sending her into shops to see if they could trick the assistants into selling them goods off ration. When they started in with that, Rhys told me himself he didn't think that was right. His mother struggling each week to figure out how to feed them on what little they had…"
Sergeant Milner nodded his understanding, and Philip Garson sighed.
"Anyway, he could see that Bea was starting to make a play for this 'more daring' bloke and he started backing away. He'd met Daph by then and was changing all, like I told you before. Then Bea made a big show of charming Rhys in front of her 'new man.' Roke didn't like that, and Rhys and him had words—more than once. I wouldn't ha' wished to cross him… he was that vicious. And I saw him almost hit Rhys once."
Walking to the station Tuesday morning, Milner mused, If Rhys and Roke did fight, then it really is crucial we talk to this Hechinger, wherever he's got to.
He was so deep in thought as he walked into the station and paused just inside the doors, he didn't realise immediately that Mr Rivers was looking at him worriedly.
"Sergeant Milner, 'morning. Have you seen DCS Foyle this morning?"
Paul snapped out of his daze and stared at the desk sergeant. "Nnooo… did he mention that he'd be out before coming in today?"
"Just the opposite… he'd said he planned to come in early before heading out to that house that was robbed in St Leonards. But I haven't seen nor heard from him…or from Sam, for that matter."
"Well, I'll look on my desk in case he left word, but I shouldn't worry. He probably just changed his mind when Sam went to fetch him and decided to head straight out."
"Er… but that's the other thing. The police car. It's parked out back and hasn't been run this morning."
"And no word from Sam…" Paul's eyebrows arched.
As he sat down at his own desk and found no note or indication of his colleagues' plans, he remembered the strangeness of their behaviour the day before. In contrast to their usual easy and jocular communication, each was quiet and preoccupied—maybe even tense. He had wondered if any attempt on his part to make conversation would even be welcomed.
Had they had some sort of argument? Anything to do with Andrew? That could well be a source of contention, he reflected. Sam did step out with him, even if only briefly.
And if they did argue, it still would not keep them from reporting to work punctually. Milner had seen Sam in a chastened but dutiful mode before, and of course Mr Foyle could shut out any adversity with his work… force of habit.
Sam lay listening to Christopher's heartbeat as he slept. Though the two were lying entwined, a matter of necessity in the narrow bed, she didn't mind a bit. They'd have to arise soon, and they'd decidedly not had much sleep.
What had it been? Three in the morning? …that he had shown up at her door, and they had fallen into her bed only about 15 minutes later, but probably an hour or more had passed before they fell asleep. Then she had wakened him only half an hour or so later, already craving him again, and they had explored each other for an even longer time. It was almost light now, so surely they would be running late for the station if they didn't get up and ready themselves.
Foyle awoke gradually and his eyes focused on Sam's face. She smiled up at him, her eyes telling him how full her heart was.
Last night had been even more wonderful an experience than he had dreamed it would be. He was so relieved it hadn't hurt her—almost as relieved as he had been to learn she wasn't injured when Mrs Harrison's house was bombed, or when he'd found her unhurt when exposed to that bomb in Bexhill. His eyes welled up and he felt his stomach tighten just at the thought.
"Christopher!" she furrowed her brow at his wet eyes. "What is it?"
He smiled weakly. "Just glad you're alive and well and willing to marry me."
"Willing?" she waggled her eyebrows at him. "I shall insist upon it now!"
"Hmm. And well you might. Especially since I didn't—"
"Doesn't matter," she soothed, her fingers on his lips. "We'll probably be all right, anyway, but if we're not, we'll probably be wed by the time we know."
"What sort of wedding would you like to have, Sam?" he asked, vaguely fearful that a vicar's daughter would envisage something elaborate. He smiled as she cast her eyes upward in thought. Though she would look splendid in a wedding gown...
"Well, I know Mother and Father probably would be very disappointed with the registry office, but I believe they'd be rather relieved not to have it too grand. Maybe St Clements?" Remembering the National Day of Prayer, she smiled. "Do you know how much I loved sitting with you that day? Pretending I was your wife?"
"Was that when your aspirations to be a nun went by the wayside?" he teased.
Her dark eyes were wide and sweet as she answered, not without some seriousness, "Being with you made me sure I couldn't lead a celibate life."
Christopher smiled through tears. "I could say the same of you."
At the moment of possessing each other she had cried out and he had stilled. It was so difficult at times to distinguish between an expression of pain and one of pleasure, and he felt alarm until she opened her eyes. He could see then how relaxed and happy she was, and it was contagious. Then she writhed and whispered, "We're so close to each other."
His eyes danced as he said, "Reasonably sure it's impossible to be any closer."
Sam's giggle had turned into a gasp as he stirred within her and held her even tighter, his hand moving slowly up from where he had braced her hip to the small of her back and then to her shoulder blade. She shuddered deliciously. Something about his soothing caresses was infinitely relaxing and warming, and yet built a tension within her at the same time. She stretched luxuriously beneath him and made a sound that drove him wild; he kissed her with such intensity that she was almost overwhelmed, though she exalted in trying to keep up.
Her eagerness and enthusiasm made up for any lack of experience, and he was so touched by her concern for his enjoyment. Teaching her all the ways that they could share pleasure was going to be a joy.
Lying naked with her glorious hair all spread upon the pillow, she'd brought to his mind Poynter's painting of Andromeda on sea-crashed rocks.
The beauty of that painting had always struck him whenever he'd seen it at the Royal Academy. The curly auburn hair waving gently back, the classical figure; the pale luminescent face with the rosy full lips. It was Sam! But the living, breathing Andromeda in his arms was so much better. The intelligence in her eyes didn't impede a concurrent sense of wonder and delight that also was so much a part of Sam.
Thinking of all this as he stroked her lightly freckled skin in the early morning light had him ready for her all over again. All these years out of practice, and yet she made it seem so easy for him. But what time must it be? His watch was in his waistcoat pocket and that particular item was on the floor across the room. Judging from the sunlight they already were late, and those at the station were probably wondering where they were.
"Did you leave the car at the station, Sam?"
She nodded.
"Hmm. We need to figure out just how to explain our lateness. I would have to go and tell Mr Rivers I'd arrive early today." He wore a gently worried smile.
Samantha toyed with some of the hair on his chest. "To say you didn't get much sleep, and then overslept, would not be untruthful."
He bent to kiss closed first one of her eyes and then the other. "And, with the Wolseley parked in plain sight, why didn't you report for work?"
Sam shrugged philosophically at the impossibility of their avoiding subterfuge given their situation; a goofy smile tugged at her lips.
"Perhaps we shouldn't arrive together. You could go ahead, say what I've just suggested, and say that… that you told me I could come to work later if I wished."
He hummed with assent as he nuzzled and nibbled her neck and she wriggled with pleasure. "Just how late are we going to be?" she asked him suggestively.
Their plan worked reasonably well; they probably weren't fooling Milner or Rivers (Foyle thanked heaven Hugh Reid was not on hand when he arrived at the station), but neither man was inclined to push Foyle into any uncomfortable situation.
Foyle consulted his watch as he walked in. Lord… 9:40!
"I apologize, gentlemen. Got a terribly late start—not much sleep last night—and I let Sam know she could have the morning off. I believe she'll be in before noon; then we'll need to head over to the Julians' house about the jewellery." His cool grey-blue gaze bent upon them a challenge lest they question him, but he received only silent nods.
Milner began to brief his boss on what he had learned from Garson that morning, and they discussed ways to track down Hechinger.
Gazing into the mirror as she smoothed her uniform over her hips, Sam thought of a book she had read, in which a young wife had peered at herself in the mirror the morning after her wedding night and wondered if everyone could tell she was different.
"You certainly look different," she told herself aloud, then smiled radiantly. She was so looking forward to the rest of the day, to the experience of having their secret and endeavouring to keep it, to working with him now that she was free to tell him anything.
Her smile faded slightly. They would soon have to tell her parents, though, and there she wasn't sure what to expect. She knew that Christopher was worried, given that only six months before he had reassured Reverend Stewart as to Sam's moral safety, and now he was, in his own only half-joking words, "the one corrupting her."
She did not look on what they were sharing as corruption at all. She looked upon it as lovely and right and magical. She knew her father and mother would not approve if they knew (even understanding that Sam and Christopher were planning to be married), and hoped that her father would not feel it necessary to question Christopher on this point.
When she entered the station and saw Mr Rivers she found herself struggling not to blush, but she gave him a quick hello without further explanation and headed straight for Christopher's door. Milner, back in Mr Foyle's office to let him know what new information he had discovered about the spivs' activities, looked up as Sam opened the door to let her boss know she had arrived. Sam had intended only to say, "I'm here, Sir, if you need me," but suddenly such a statement seemed a bit too revelatory and she sputtered, "I'm here, Sir, erm… all present and correct."
Her blush flowered fully this time. Damn! Am I going to do that every time anyone looks at me?
