Up with the lark, to bed with a wren

By Emma de los Nardos

Chapter 8

Milner's house was tidier than Sam had imagined it would be. It was hard for her to remember that he was married; he worked such late nights at the station that his existence resembled that of a bachelor more than a married man. Then again, Sam suspected that all was not well between Milner and his wife. The one time she had met Jane, outside of the church on the day of national prayer, she had been struck by how ordinary-looking and dour Jane was, when compared with her tall, dashing husband. A true Plain Jane, Sam had thought at the time. Sam knew that many women would not have considered Paul Milner to be attractive, what with his missing lower leg and his dragging step, but she thought that the sergeant was very striking. It pleased her to see that, even in his wife's absence, he had kept up the housekeeping.

The first night Sam stayed there, they did not say much to each other besides "goodnight," both turning in at around midnight. Milner's spare room had a comfortable bed, cheery yellow curtains, and a host of lace doilies on every available surface. Someone—Jane, likely—had taken a lot of trouble to make the room hospitable. Sam wondered if the Milners had many guests; she doubted it. Troubled couples rarely invited other people to share in their home life.

It felt surprisingly comfortable to greet Milner in the morning and take breakfast together. Sam chatted away in her usual fashion and Milner seemed at ease. She had to leave early, to go pick up Foyle, and she was somewhat relieved that their breakfast had not dragged on. Part of her still thought that it was a poor decision to accept Paul's invitation, and she preferred to spend as little time in his house as possible. Back to calling the billeting office today, Sam thought.

But Sam had little opportunity to search for accommodations the next day, as Foyle was back to his usual business of crime-solving and prowling the town for witnesses. She spent nearly the entire day out of the office, driving her boss in the Wolseley. Things were strained between the two of them, starting from the moment she picked him up in the morning.

"Good morning, Sam," he had said, in a neutral tone.

"Good morning, Sir," she had replied, starting the engine.

"I trust that your lodgings were acceptable last night?" he asked. He hoped that she would display some sign that they were less than desirable, and thus let him offer her his house instead. But Sam remained impassive.

"Perfectly acceptable. I slept like a baby," she said. It was true; she had slept well in Milner's spare room.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, not quite telling the truth. "Sam, might we have a word together, tonight?"

"Tonight?" she asked. "Why—I don't know. What were you thinking?"

"A drink," he suggested. "At my place."

"Well, my friend won't like it if I come back late," she said. "You see, there's
a chance—"

He interrupted her.

"We can do it another time if tonight is not convenient for you."

"I would like that," she said. "Another time." She did like the idea of spending another evening in Foyle's sitting room, but she feared what would happen if Foyle pried too closely into her present living arrangements. It would be awkward if he asked to accompany her back to her friend's house, not knowing that it was Milner, or if he pressed her too closely. She knew what kind of investigator Foyle was, and she did not believe that she was up to fielding his questions.

Foyle, for his part, felt that something had changed between the two of them since the day before. Had it only been yesterday that she lost her house? he thought to himself. So much had happened since then—a dead man found on the beach, a German spy washed ashore—what would happen next? Sam was acting as if she were his driver again, and nothing more. Foyle yearned to ask her what was wrong, but he knew from experience that it could be best to leave a woman alone when she was agitated.

This was the moment that Foyle recalled several years later, when he could not help but admit that he was still in love with his driver, and that he had lost her due to his own short-sightedness. There, together in the car, what he should have done was to ask Sam to take the long way to the station, ignoring her puzzled expression. He should have told her that he wanted to help her in any way he could, including offering her his spare room if she would let him. He should have put his hand on her shoulder and reminded her of how brave she had been after the bombing, and of how precious she was to him. She might have stopped the car then, to allow herself to finally cry the tears that she had been holding back. He would have comforted her with his words and his kisses, and they would have driven back to the police station with a renewed sense of their care for one another.

But Foyle did none of these things.

Instead, he started to fill Sam in on the details of the dinner party and how they might be connected to the dead tinker. He was so accustomed to talking over his cases with Sam that he hardly noticed that her replies were briefer than usual, or that she asked him hardly any questions. It was a knotty mystery to untangle, and before he knew it, Foyle fell silent again, caught up in his own speculations about the case. Sam drove on to the station, crestfallen that he had not asked her more about her situation, but too proud to show it.

The rest of the day passed in a rush as they drove all over Hastings, and Sam was looking forward to spending an evening in Milner's company. Although her boss continued to confuse her, she knew where things stood between her and Milner. He was attractive, that she had to admit, but he had none of the spark that she felt with Foyle. Milner was much closer in age to Sam than Foyle was, but his solemnity ran counter to her inclinations towards mischief and rebellion. Moreover, she had never seen him participate in the kind of verbal sparring that she and Foyle regularly engaged in with each other. Sam lived for the witty exchanges that Foyle had perfected, and constantly sought out opportunities to make the older man respond to her questions or comments. From what she had gathered, Foyle liked her little games, too. And he had a few tricks up his own sleeve, as had been apparent when he had touched her knee at the restaurant. It had surprised her, but not alarmed her: she knew that he would never do anything more than give her a bit of a tease, as long as they were in public together. At spare moments in her day, when they were apart, she liked to think about the things that Foyle might do if they were alone together.

His kisses made her want more—more kisses, more touching, more of him, most of all. She longed to know more about Christopher Foyle. That is why she had pressed him to tell her about the Lewes; there was so much of his life that she was not privy to, that she could never understand. Perhaps I am just too young for him, she thought. Why could he possibly want to spend time with me?

It made her flush to think of the reasons why most older men, when they had a chance, sought out younger women. But so far, Foyle had been clear in his intentions towards her. She had to trust in what he had said, no matter what other people might have told her about older men. She and he had worked together long enough for her to know what kind of man he was: clever, reserved, honourable, kind, passionate even—and stubborn. She wished that he were not quite so stubborn.

It was just as well that she was staying at Milner's place that night. It made her feel topsy-turvy to spend too much time with Foyle. She felt that she could relax in the sergeant's company, whereas if she had seen Foyle that night, the conversation would have been tense, to say the least.

Secretly she thought that Milner took himself too seriously for his own good, but she had to admit that he was a very decent man, and she appreciated his invitation to stay with him. But he could not hold a candle to Foyle in her mind, and that was why she was not at all concerned about spending a few nights in his home, except for how other people might respond if they knew. But Sam did not intend to let anyone know, if she could help it. She had not even rung her parents yet to tell them about the bombing; the moment they heard that she was out on the street, they were sure to order her back to Lyminster. After fighting so hard to stay in Hastings, Sam would not let anything—not even a German bomb—prevent her from performing her duty as Foyle's driver.

Sam was determined to be a good houseguest for Milner, so she offered to make dinner for both of them that evening. He was impressed by her choice of recipe—coq au vin—and she didn't bother to tell him that it was the only thing she knew how to make, other than a ham-and-cheese omelet.

There was quite a lot of detective work that day that Sam hadn't been privy to, and she did her best to pry the information out of Milner.

"So, how's the case going?" Sam asked between bites. "You are lucky, you know, getting to rummage round all of those dead bodies." Milner thought that this was an odd thing for a girl to say, but then again, Samantha Stewart certainly wasn't like most girls that he knew. You wouldn't catch Jane anywhere near a dead body, he thought with grim amusement.

"Well, we're fairly sure it wasn't suicide." Milner was pleased to have the chance, for once, to tell Sam what was going on. Too often, he had felt left out when Foyle talked his cases over with Sam before informing his sergeant on the details first. "But then that leaves the question: Who would want to kill Richard Hunter? And why?"

"If his son was in the AFS," Sam surmised, "and they were the ones doing the looting—"

"—Well, you see," Milner interrupted, "That's another mystery. Henry Jamison. He's guilty, I'm certain of it. But at your landlady's house, he took her coins, and her necklace, but he left behind a valuable pocket watch. Why?"

Sam thought about it. "Maybe Richard Hunter knew the answer, and was going to tell, and that is why he had to be silenced." With great gusto, she took another bite of chicken and shrugged. Milner nodded back.

"Have you managed to find anywhere yet?" he asked, unexpectedly. Sam looked up at him in alarm.

"You're not kicking me out, are you?" she asked, partly in jest. Of course he's not kicking me out, Sam thought. He was just hinting that I can't stay here forever.

Paul Milner looked chagrined. "No, no, not at all!" he rushed to reassure her. "Actually, I rather like having you here." Sam hoped that he did not like it too much.

"Mr. Foyle would have a fit if he found out," she said, wondering how Milner would react to that. He probably still thought that Mr. Foyle was looking out for Sam on her father's request.

Milner chuckled. "Yes, I don't think he'd be entirely happy," he said.

"Well, I am looking," Sam said with her brightest smile. Milner nodded and returned to his food.

The radio, which neither had been paying much attention to earlier, began to play a song that Sam recognized. The bright notes of a trumpet sounded through the apartment, and she felt an irresistible urge to get up and dance. Music, dance, movement—they had always been the cure for her sorrows. If only she weren't stuck at a table with Milner! He was such a sourpuss. Sam thought regretfully how different it might have been if she had been dining with Foyle. She didn't know if he liked dancing, but she couldn't imagine that he would have begrudged her a dance.

"I love this one," she said, getting up from the table to turn the volume up.

Milner watched her, admiringly. He liked her spontaneity, her ease with herself and with others. The last few months, Milner had felt anything but comfortable with himself. At work, he still suspected that he was Foyle's charity case, and he dreaded his boss finding out that Milner was not as smart as Foyle seemed to think he was. At home, Jane had kept him on pins and needles, ignoring him one minute and criticizing him the next. It was a relief to be relaxed in his own home again. He wished that he could have the innocent joy in dancing that Sam had, but he had not felt the same about his body since he had lost his leg in Norway. He was awkward, in his body and around Jane, and he longed for the kind of physical gracefulness that Sam effortlessly embodied. Entranced, he watched her begin to dance, snapping her fingers and swaying her hips.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked, playfully. She always loved dancing; it didn't matter who her partner was, even if he was a one-legged police sergeant.

"No," Milner said, a bit startled by her request.

"Dance with me," Sam entreated.

"No," Milner said again.

"Don't be such a cold fish!" Sam cried. "I've been bombed, I've lost my house, I just lost all of my possessions, and here I am, stuck with you!"

That last comment riled Milner. Was he really such poor company, then?

"Oh, really?" he asked, only half-serious now.

"I just want one little dance, that's all," Sam insisted, still dancing by herself, her arms raised as if she were waiting for him to join in as her partner. Milner decided to appease her. She was right, he was wrong: Sam was not immune from disaster, she was not as innocent of tragedy as he had supposed. She was correct to remind him that she had just been bombed, displaced, made an unwelcome houseguest. The least he could do was to grant her wish. He stood up to join her.

"All right, I'll have a go," he said.

Unbeknownst to both of them, at that very moment Jane Milner had opened the front door. She had decided to return from Wales, quite suddenly really, after she and her sister had fought about the proper way to dress a roast. In recent months she had not bothered to tell Paul much about her comings and goings, and she had not considered it necessary to inform him that she was coming back to her own house. It was quite a shock, however, to walk in the front door and hear the sound of music in the kitchen and two distinct voices, laughing together. One was Paul's, the other belonged to a woman.

"But I'm warning you," Jane could hear him say—playfully, almost flirtatiously— "I was never much of a dancer."

Jane, a vain and jealous woman by nature, was enraged. Who in the hell has he brought here to my house? she thought to herself. Even if she didn't want Paul to touch her, the idea that he might enjoy himself in the company of another woman was enough to make her want to wring his neck. After all I've put up with, too… the letters from Norway, the telegram that he was injured, the visits to the hospital, that dreadful prosthesis. Jane had already felt betrayed by her husband's injury; she had married a strong, athletic man, someone whom she expected to care for her for the rest of her life. Instead, she had ended up with a cripple who couldn't even walk straight. What's worse, she had caught him crying at odd times, over the strangest things, like the smell of burning wood. And at night, she often woke to the sound of him crooning like a banshee, caught in a nightmare. He was not the man he once was.

What right did Paul have to enjoy himself when she could never have a part in his enjoyment?

Jane moved closer to the kitchen door, hearing the rest of her husband's sentence as she watched him—the gimp!—dancing with a blonde in uniform.

"I was never much of a dancer," he said, "even with the leg." Jane wondered how he could make light of his defect in such a way.

"That's just an excuse," the girl said to him, swinging in time to the music. He was behind her, a glass still in his hand, and she was dancing facing away from him. One tiny step back and the girl would have pressed her backside completely against his front. Jane had seen that kind of dancing before, in the kinds of dance halls that her sister had dragged her to on occasion, and it disgusted her. What disgusted her even more was to see how her husband actually appeared to be liking it. The girl looked up at Paul over her shoulder, smiling at him.

"No, it's true, really, I can't dance," he insisted. He is right, Jane thought. He never was much of a dancer. At least not with me.

"I used to love going to dance halls," the girl said. "When I was in London for
training—"

Jane could not stand to watch them another second. She opened wide the kitchen door and came in. Milner spotted her first, and stopped dancing. Sam soon copied him, growing still.

"Jane!" he said, very much surprised.

"What are you doing?" Jane asked quietly.

"Jane, this isn't what you think," Paul said. Sam smiled, then caught herself, and looked away. This is exactly why I should not have come here, she thought. Milner will get in trouble and it is all my fault.

Jane stared fixedly at her husband. She could not imagine anything he could say that would excuse his behavior. He had entertained another woman in their home, while she was away—what more was there to know?

She turned and left the kitchen. Milner ran after her, calling her name.

"Jane, I promise you it's not what you think it is!" he said.

"And just what do you think I think it is?" she hissed back at him.

"It's just Sam, Jane. You've met her before." Yes, Jane had met her before, that day at church. She had not recognized Sam until Milner reminded her. But knowing that this was a woman who worked with her husband did nothing to calm Jane's temper.

"Just Sam?" she asked. "You say that as if she were your sister!"

"She might as well be," he said. "We work together."

"Yes, I know that, do you think I'm an idiot? So you thought you'd invite her here while I was gone? You thought I would never find out! How many other times have you had her here?"

"Sit down, Jane," Milner said. "Let me explain. Sam's house was bombed by the Jerries…"

As they spoke, Sam quietly went to the spare room to gather her things. She could not imagine a happy outcome for this situation. The best she could do was leave, and quickly. It did not take long to pack her bag—at least I am very transportable these days, she thought regretfully. But Sam was worried about where she would go now. It would not do to go knocking on Foyle's door at this time of night. Besides, she was not sure that he would welcome seeing her, even if she did beg assistance from him. He had been terribly distracted in the last few days, and Sam suspected that there was more to it than the case.

Sam went to the only place she could think of to stay: the Hastings police station. She let herself in with the key that Foyle had given her, found a spare cell with the night sergeant's help, and tried to settle in for the night. But the cell's cot was hard, the mattress was lumpy and water-stained (she shuddered to think about who had last used it, or what he had used it for), and a bright light shone in through the cell's sole window.

It was a long, cold, lonely night for Samantha Stewart.