The drive back to Hastings proved unexpectedly eventful for the detective sergeant and his driver.

The changeable English weather was at fault. Yesterday's sunshine had given way to overcast skies and as the afternoon wore on fog began to blow in from the sea. Somewhere past Portsmouth Milner glanced nervously over at the girl, whose brow was knitted in concentration as she stared into the rapidly thickening mist beyond the windscreen. "Sam," he began, "perhaps we ought to think about stopping for the night. This is getting dangerous – "

He broke off at a startled gasp from his companion, steadying himself against the door as she stepped hard on the brake. "What's that?" she asked, indicating a dark shape just ahead.

It was a lorry, he realised, alighting for a closer look, an olive-coloured Army vehicle which had run off the road in the fog and tipped sideways in a ditch. Further investigation revealed a pair of soldiers trapped in the cab, one bleeding heavily from a gash on the forehead.

The next hour was a blur of activity –– prying the lorry's door open with a tyre iron, gently extricating the injured men, tending to their wounds, ferrying them to hospital. By the time Milner had spoken with the doctor, a local constable and their commanding officer the fog had grown still denser. "This settles it," he told the girl as they returned to the Wolseley. "We'll have to find some place to stay. It'll be dark soon and it's getting like pea soup out here. Wonder if there's a hotel or something nearby?"

"Oh, that shouldn't be necessary," Sam assured him as she started the engine. "We're well past Chichester, I think. Only a few miles from home. Mother and Dad will be happy to put us up."

"Are you sure? I hadn't realised we were so close." Milner was relieved. Staying in a hotel in Plymouth with Sam – in separate rooms, of course – hadn't seemed inappropriate because they'd been on legitimate police business, but stopping the night so close to home made him oddly uncomfortable. It seemed to smack of impropriety. Delivering her to her parents' doorstep would relieve any worries about appearances. "That's marvellous, but – well, I wouldn't want to impose on them. Is there a pub in the village where I can stay?"

"Don't be silly! Mother loves company."

Another thought occurred to him. "They will be home, won't they? They wouldn't have gone away for the weekend?"

She flashed him a quick amused glance. "What, my parents? Impossible. Vicars never go away for the weekend."

Sam was right, of course. Mr and Mrs Stewart were delighted by their daughter's unexpected appearance and immediately insisted that the travellers stop for the night. He was easily persuaded to accept their hospitality.

Milner enjoyed his visit in the Stewart home. He had met Sam's father once before but never her mother, a thin, greying woman with her daughter's dark eyes and quick smile. Lyminster's vicarage was a comfortable and welcoming home, all chintz and soft chairs with a tranquilly ticking grandfather clock in the hall. They took their dinner at the kitchen table to save fuel, the Stewarts apologising for the humble setting. It couldn't have mattered less. The war had done away with a great many such formalities, after all.

After dinner they all sat round a small, cosy sitting room just off the kitchen, warmed as much by the genuine affection between the reunited family as by the radiant heat of the Aga. At half-past eight Mr Stewart set aside his teacup and switched on the wireless. "Dad never misses ITMA!" explained Sam, curled up next to her mother on the sofa. She had changed out of her MTC khakis into an old jumper and a kilt that looked like part of a long-discarded school uniform. With her hair down and clipped loosely back from her face, she looked like a girl in her teens, an impression enhanced by the daughterly role she naturally assumed under her parents' roof. It's just the sort of home I would have expected her to come from, he reflected, watching her as she laughed at one of Tommy Handley's jokes. Quiet and provincial, yes, but filled with love and kindness and security. No wonder she's such a caring and compassionate person; she comes by it naturally. I wonder if she realises how lucky she is, growing up in a home like this?

Sunday 8 March 1942

The crowing of a rooster woke Milner next morning at first light. The Stewarts, it seemed, followed the wartime practice of keeping chickens to supplement their egg ration.

He dressed and went downstairs quietly, thinking he might read until the family awoke, but had only just picked up a discarded newspaper when he heard another step on the stair. "Good morning," Iain Stewart greeted him. "I didn't expect to find you up, Sergeant Milner. You're also an early riser, I take it?"

"I'm afraid I am. Good morning, sir. I hope I'm not disturbing anyone."

"Not at all, not at all! I always rise at dawn myself. I find an early-morning constitutional just the thing to begin the day. A chance for reflection and contemplation. Nothing like a bit of fresh air and exercise, you know, to clear the mind and refresh the spirit. You're most welcome to join me."

After a moment's consideration, Milner nodded. "Thank you, Mr Stewart. I think I'd like that."

A few minutes later they were striding briskly along a footpath that wound up a steep hill on the outskirts of the village, the detective clad in a borrowed waxed jacket and Wellingtons. The air was chilly but the early-morning light showed the previous day's mist dissipating. "I must say, it makes a pleasant change, having company for my morning stroll," remarked the vicar. "I've never been able to persuade Samantha of the benefits of rising with the dawn, and as for Mrs Stewart, well, sadly her health prevents her from joining me as she once did. She suffers from rheumatism in her joints, you see, especially in her hands and her knees, and the pain is most acute in the early morning. In the past year or two the condition has become so severe that she is unable to rise and dress without assistance."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes, it's a great trial to her. The pain prevents her from doing so much good in the parish – arranging altar flowers, leading the knitting circle, rolling badges with the Women's Institute – as well as tending to the house and the garden as she used to." He gave a regretful sigh. "It would be easier of course if Samantha were home. She could ease so many burdens ... and of course, we miss her a great deal."

"I'm sure you do, sir," said the younger man sympathetically.

"My wife and I are most grateful to you for stopping the night with us," continued the older man. "We don't see nearly as much of Samantha as we'd like. It's reassuring to see that she is safe and well, especially in such perilous times. We hear such dreadful stories about young women in uniform these days, you know, far from the guidance and protection of home … one can't help but worry, you know."

Milner suppressed a smile, thinking that Sam's father sounded more concerned about moral lapses than about physical danger. But then he remembered Lucy Smith, the nineteen-year-old WAAF impregnated by her superior officer, and some of the other stories that had made the rounds over the past year or two. "I don't think you need to worry about Sam, sir. She's very levelheaded, you know. And we're grateful to have her working with us. She's an enormous help."

"Is she? Just as a driver?"

"Not just that. She's useful in other ways as well." Milner drew in a deep breath as they reached the crest of the hill, hoping his companion wouldn't notice. The Reverend Iain Stewart might be some thirty years his senior, but he was obviously in excellent physical condition. "She's learnt a great deal about police work over the past couple of years."

Stewart's forehead puckered with concern. "Indeed? In exactly what ways is she useful, Sergeant?"

"Oh, little things, mostly, but they make a difference. Paperwork, errands …" Seeing the older man still looking worried, he tried to clarify. "Take last week, for example. We seized a large quantity of stolen goods – silver, candlesticks, that sort of thing. It all has to be examined and catalogued in detail. Normally we'd have an evidence officer to handle most of it, but as we're short-staffed we have to look after it ourselves. Sam took notes for me while I dictated descriptions for my report – it took less than half the time it would if I'd had to do it alone. She's quick, she's observant and she writes a neat hand. Next week I expect she'll help me go over old theft reports looking for matches, if Mr Foyle doesn't need her."

Sam's father relaxed. "I see. Well, that doesn't sound too dangerous, I must say."

"No, no, not at all! Mr Foyle is very careful to shield her from anything dangerous or disturbing," he said reassuringly, thinking it best not to mention Sam's brief foray into undercover work at the Bexhill fuel depot. "Driving him is still her primary job, of course, but when he's at the station there's not a lot for her to do and she's always willing to help out when she can."

"I'm sure she is, Sergeant. Samantha is nothing if not enthusiastic. But I still feel it unnatural, you know. The proper place for a young woman is at home, not hanging about a police station."

"Well, what about an Army base? An aerodrome? Women are doing all sorts of unconventional jobs in this war, you know."

"Don't remind me! I shudder to think of it. A thousand times worse. Far from home, preyed upon by unscrupulous men … one wonders what's going to come of it all."

"Perhaps you should be relieved Sam's doing her bit where she is, Mr Stewart. Now they've started conscripting women there's no telling where she could have ended up."

"That's true," sighed the vicar. "You're right, of course. I'm sure she's in good hands with you and Mr Foyle and I am grateful she's not in worse circumstances. This dreadful war – " he broke off as Milner's foot slipped on some loose gravel on the footpath. "Are you all right?" he asked as the younger man caught his balance.

"Fine, fine," he replied. "The left, never quite as steady, you know …" He noticed his companion's puzzled expression. "Surely Sam has told you about my leg?"

"Your leg?"

Milner was a bit surprised. She chatters, he reflected, but she does know how to be discreet when it comes to something sensitive. He patted his thigh. "This is fake. I was with the Terriers in Norway the first year of the war. I took a direct hit and lost half of my left leg. The prosthetic is marvellous, but of course it's not as sensitive a real foot."

Iain Stewart looked shocked. "I'm terribly sorry, Sergeant Milner, I had no idea. Samantha never said a word. How dreadful for you."

"Yes, it was a … a difficult adjustment."

The vicar sighed. "It's always hard to understand why the Lord allows such things to happen. What purpose can be served by such senseless pain and destruction … is it merely to test our faith?"

His words struck uncomfortably close to home. How can he know about my spiritual struggles? Milner wondered. Can he somehow tell that I feel abandoned by God? "Nothing can replace what you've lost, of course, but perhaps you've been able take comfort in what you've been able to retain? You're able to get about unassisted. You can work. In time you can look forward to marriage, a family, a nearly normal life. Yes?"

Milner hesitated. He had only shared the truth about Jane's desertion with a handful of people – first Sam, then later his sister and Mr Foyle – but something about Mr Stewart's manner invited confidence. "It's not as simple as that," he heard himself saying. "I already had a wife, you see. We were only married two years when this happened." He gestured toward his leg. "She's … well, she's been unable to come to terms with it."

Iain Stewart's gently sympathetic countenance seemed oddly familiar before Milner realised that he'd seen the same expression many times on his daughter's face. "I see," he said. "What a pity. Yet another burden for you to cope with. That must make for a difficult home life."

Milner shook his head. "It did, but … not anymore. She's living in Swansea with her sister now."

"Oh, dear. I'm very sorry to hear that. Do you think it possible that, given time, she'll be able overcome her feelings about your injury? Patience and prayer can work wonders, you know."

Milner looked away, across a stretch of green pasture to the fading pink streaks in the eastern sky. "I haven't given up hoping," he admitted huskily.