Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing about "Foyle's War" aside from the idea to make Sam Stewart and Paul Milner become more than just friends and all of the creative work that this entails. Up until "Invasion," Horowitz actually abets me more than otherwise, but this is where I begin to use canon as a guideline rather than a map. Sadly, I make no money from the endeavor either way.
Author's Notes: This chapter would be only half as long (and half as good) without the excellent criticisms put forth by my Beta, GiulliettaC.
Plus, in honor of the new direction everything is now taking, new artwork!
Late March, 1942
Sam was surprised, when she finally arrived at the American base, to find Mr. Foyle getting out of a taxi. She hadn't expected him to attend the dance, though she supposed that he had probably come as some sort of courtesy to Captain Kieffer. He professed some surprise on seeing her as well, which she shrugged off as best she could, remarking on the wonderful food that was likely to be on offer.
They walked in together and surrendered their coats to the young American acting as an usher. Paul was already waiting near the entrance of the dance hall, as he and Sam had arranged. Sam thought that Paul looked quite adorable in his gray sports coat and burgundy necktie; like a fetchingly overgrown schoolboy. The two men shook hands and Paul leaned in and gave Sam a peck on the cheek. It made her tingle all over to feel his lips briefly brush her skin, though she told herself sternly that he hadn't meant anything by it other than friendship and affection. Nothing romantic, certainly.
For his own part, surveying Sam's royal purple dress, ornamented with a crimson silk flower, Paul thought that he had never seen Sam look so…sophisticated. She stood out from the crowds of local girls in their dresses of pale pinks and blues. He was reminded of a phrase from a novel he had read once long ago – he couldn't remember the title – that a blonde woman could wear any colour to her advantage. They lived so much of their lives in their workaday clothes; it was a kind of revelation to see Sam out of her drab uniform, with her hair elaborately styled, and wearing some makeup. Tonight, she looked like a film star. Maybe she would need his help in keeping over-eager Americans in their place after all.
Mr. Foyle introduced Paul to Captain Kieffer, who was standing at the door playing host. Paul was struck by Kieffer's warm and outgoing manner, wondering momentarily how much to ascribe to his nationality and how much to the man himself. Then he, Sam, and Mr. Foyle made their way to the refreshment table. They each got some punch, and stood sipping their drinks, taking in the hall's decorations and the couples dancing to the lively music.
Standing about, Sam wondered what to do next. How was she supposed to get Paul to dance with her with Mr. Foyle standing right there? While she puzzled over how to proceed, one of the Americans – Sam recognized Joe Farnetti from the other evening – approached.
"You came," Joe beamed, enormously pleased.
"Yes, I did," Sam had to raise her voice slightly to be heard above the music.
"You wanna dance?" Sam hesitated a moment, watching the dance floor.
"You'll have to show me how," she said, putting down her drink and allowing herself to be led out into the crowd of dancing couples, throwing a quick smile backwards at Paul to indicate that they would catch up later.
...
Over the course of the next half hour, Paul was pleasantly surprised to discover that, as usual, Sam had been correct: he was genuinely enjoying himself. He spent some time socializing with Mr. Foyle, which he very seldom had occasion to do outside of work. He shared a pint with Captain Kieffer, who had asked Paul all about himself, and England, and the war. The American was fascinated by everything around him and eager for information, but perceptive enough not to press too hard when Paul spoke evasively about Norway and its aftermath. Recalling his own CO's rigid formality of manner and general air of unapproachability, Paul wondered if any of Kieffer's men appreciated how fortunately they were placed. Kieffer didn't make Paul do all the talking either, but returned the favor as well, speaking about his family and his life back in America, which Paul found equally interesting.
And all the while, Paul kept an eye on the dance floor, watching Sam spin and whirl. Over the course of six songs, she danced with three different men. She was aglow with the pleasure of the evening, in her element in a way that Paul didn't think he had ever seen her before. His memory harked back to the week she had stayed with him a year and a half ago and how much they had enjoyed dancing to the wireless in his kitchen. He found himself thinking, rather wistfully, that he would like to ask Sam to dance with him tonight. If he could fight his way through the queue of Americans with the same idea.
And then suddenly, Sam had materialized in front of him.
"You owe me a dance, Paul," Sam informed him, slightly breathless from her previous exertions. He offered her no resistance as she pulled him in amongst the other couples. She reached up and let her left hand come to rest lightly on his shoulder, felt the slight pressure of his hand on the small of her back as they started to move about to the music. They hadn't had occasion to dance since the meals they had shared a year ago, courtesy of Sergeant Rivers' onion. In the months that followed, Sam had thought occasionally of inviting Paul to go dancing, but had never actually done so. Then, when she had sensed her feelings towards him changing in more recent months, she had never dared suggest they go dancing, certain that she would betray her feelings if she and Paul were thrown together in that way.
But now, everything was going to change.
"Any of the Americans give you problems?" Paul asked the first question that occurred to him, trying to combat a sudden, rather odd case of nerves. This song lacked the frenetic beat of the last, allowing for conversation while dancing. He and Sam had never danced to something with such a leisurely pace before.
"No, no; they've all behaved themselves," Sam assured him brightly, "Joe," she gestured across the room where Farnetti was chatting up another girl, "Taught me something called the jitterbug."
"What's that?" It didn't sound particularly pleasant, but there were so many odd American idioms floating about – it could mean anything.
"It's a dance; I'll teach it to you now that I know it – it's not hard. He's from California – I got him to tell me something about what it's like out there. It doesn't rain very much, he says."
"And what about your other partners?"
"Well there was another chap named Lawrence. He said he's from Nebraska. I thought that was where "The Wizard of Oz" took place, although apparently that's Kansas, which is one state over. He spent most of our dances telling me about his fiancée, Jean. She sounds like a lovely girl. Though, of course, the word he used was 'swell'." The Americans seemed inordinately fond of that adjective to indicate that they liked something or someone.
"How's Andrew?" Feeling slightly guilty, though he would have been hard pressed to say what for, Paul reminded himself that Sam also had a sweetheart whom she must be missing.
"He's well," Sam replied breezily. Of course, Paul would ask after Andrew. Time to start setting the record straight. "I had a letter from him just the other day. He's met someone else, in Debden. We're not together anymore."
"Oh, Sam." Dismayed, he scrutinized her face as though searching for signs that she was concealing a broken heart behind her joyous demeanor. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be, please," Sam protested earnestly, "It's very much for the best. We'd been drifting apart for some time; I noticed it in his letters. But I couldn't bring myself to be the one to end it."
"Are you really all right, Sam?" Paul's forehead wrinkled in concern, "You don't have to hide it if you're upset, not from me."
"Everything's tickety-boo, Paul," Sam reassured him with a small smile. "I don't have any regrets. Andrew's a sweet boy. They're all sweet boys," she observed, gesturing with her head around the room filled with young Americans. Sam took a deep, steadying breath. "But I'm tired of boys," she added quietly, her manner suddenly serious, glancing up and meeting Paul's eyes.
There was a pause wherein their bodies continued to move automatically and Sam held her breath, waiting for Paul to process her words. She could tell when he had; his eyes widened just perceptibly and the pressure of his hand on the small of her back increased slightly.
As she waited for him to respond verbally in some way, wondering if she ought to follow up her words with something else, Sam became aware of a disturbance in the atmosphere of the room. She heard a gasp of dismay and a rise in the murmur of conversation around them.
"Sergeant Milner?" They both turned their heads and saw – Oh Lord, Mr. Foyle of all people! Immediately they broke apart and turned to face their boss. Sam could feel a blush starting to burn her cheeks. She felt certain that no one but Paul had heard her disclosure. She had no idea, however, what she and Paul, sharing this slow dance, might have looked like to an outsider. Especially one as shrewd and observant as Mr. Foyle. Could he tell the nature of the moment he had interrupted? She didn't dare glance at Paul in case he looked as guilty as she felt. "We're needed, Sergeant," Mr. Foyle informed Paul, "Someone's found a body." Watching the two men walk away, Sam fancied there had been a certain acerbic edge to the DCS's voice, although she prayed it was merely her imagination.
...
The girl was lying in one of the back hallways. Paul stared down at her, taking note of all the details she presented. Curly hair. Pale pink dress. New stockings. Fresh bruises purpling her neck. She should have been dancing and enjoying the evening, the way all of the other girls had been. It was an abomination that while they had all – himself included – been having so much fun, some…butcher had snuffed out this bright young life.
Unbidden, the image of Sam appeared before him, aglow with vitality. Had she really said that she…? Before Paul could complete the thought, he shook himself mentally. There would be time later to think about Sam, and their dance, and their conversation. Now he had to concentrate on the job at hand. For the moment, Paul banished all thoughts of Sam to the realm of his subconscious and resumed his study of the crime scene.
Clutched in one of the girl's hands were a set of American identity discs belonging to a Private James Taylor. Checking her identity card, Paul recognized the name: Susan Davies. The barmaid from the Wheatsheaf whom he had wanted to question. He was sure that she had known how Will Grayson had come to be so mysteriously drunk – either she had sold him the stuff or she knew who had. Possibly the landlord, Carter. This much Paul knew from experience: innocent witnesses were seldom so slippery to track down and didn't ignore requests from the police to look in and provide information.
It was a very long night. After getting permission from a suddenly less than cooperative and by-the-book Captain Kieffer, they spoke with Private Taylor. He had been taken ill at the dance and was resting in a room just off the hall where Susan had been strangled. He reported hearing her argue with someone – something about her "still working" – he had been too foggy to process much more than that. Taylor was clearly hiding something, but he seemed genuinely shocked to discover that his dog-tags weren't still safely around his own neck – let alone that they had been found on the dead girl.
Sam had been sent home for the night along with all the other party goers; a constable drove Paul and Mr. Foyle to Susan's home for the supremely unpleasant task of informing her parents. Her father let them examine her room. Toiletries and cosmetics on her dressing table. A picture of her with her fiancé, Ben, who was in the navy. A picture of herself from when she had worked at a chemical plant near Bexley the previous year. Paul found a diary, mostly empty, with a date in January circled. Her father hadn't known its significance.
...
The Medical Officer had shed light on that the next day, though: Susan had been pregnant. And certainly not by her fiancé, who had only returned the previous night on leave, according to her parents. An interview with Susan's doctor confirmed this. The same doctor had attended the dance the night before and treated Private Taylor when he was taken ill. He couldn't say what had caused the gastritis – either food or alcohol. Taylor had been decidedly intoxicated. But also most genuinely ill.
As Sam drove Mr. Foyle back to the American headquarters, she steeled herself to tell him about Andrew's letter. When she had picked up Mr. Foyle that morning, he had asked her about the dance – had she seen anything of Susan Davies' movements? Sam had precious little to offer. After all, she had been dancing.
"Yes, I saw," had been the dry, somewhat testy reply. Had he divined the nature of her interrupted conversation with Paul? Or simply disapproved of her behaviour in general? He was obviously being protective of Andrew. Sam knew this wasn't really an appropriate conversation to have while they were both on duty, but they were so seldom in each other's company off duty. And if she really planned on pursuing Paul, essentially under the DCS's very nose, she had to set the record straight before he got all the wrong ideas about her. Or worse – about Paul.
"Sir?" she stopped him before he went up the steps of the American headquarters, "I know this isn't the right place or the right time, but there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I got a letter from Andrew the other day, and…he's sort of thrown me over, I'm afraid. He's met someone else." Sam had only slightly exaggerated her insouciance the previous evening when telling Paul the same thing, but it wouldn't be fair to Mr. Foyle to let him think that she hadn't genuinely cared about Andrew, so out of compassion for her boss, she allowed more emotion to colour her voice.
"I didn't know that." It wasn't very often that she saw Mr. Foyle betray surprise.
"No, there's no reason why you should. I didn't want to mention it on duty, but… He was very nice about it… Very honest. And it's absolutely true that with him in Debden and me over here, it really wasn't going to work. Well…there we are. I just thought that you should know." Her relief at coming to the end of her announcement was palpable, as was her embarrassment over having to discuss the whole thing. But it was worth the trouble just to get everything off her chest. Mr. Foyle had thanked her quite kindly before resuming his duties. Watching him mount the stairs and enter the building, Sam reflected that now she was truly free to carry on with her plans regarding Paul.
...
Mr. Foyle hadn't spent very long with the Americans, and as soon as he and Sam drove away, they returned to the station to pick up Paul and two other cars' worth of reinforcements. Sam listened to Mr. Foyle briefing Paul as she drove. The DCS had gotten Private Taylor to admit that Susan Davies had been supplying the Americans with bootleg liquor, which was what Taylor had been drinking before he had fallen ill.
"Of course…" Sam's gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror and caught the comprehension dawning over Paul's features as all of the puzzle pieces slotted themselves neatly into place, "Her father told me that she spent a year working at Benson's chemical plant before she started at the Wheatsheaf."
"She would have picked up enough knowledge and training to operate a still. And what better place to run an operation like that than out of a pub?"
"That was what she sold Will, then. Industrial alcohol." Something had changed in Paul's voice as he spoke the last two words and Sam glanced back again. Paul looked like someone who had just bitten into something nasty and was longing to spit it out. Preferably into the face of the cook responsible. "So when he said that he couldn't see, it was because…"
"Yup," Mr. Foyle confirmed, "Of course, Carter must be in this up to his neck," he added.
"Did he kill her, do you think? To keep her quiet?" Paul's voice had gone very calm and quiet, but Sam's next check in the mirror showed her a face like thunder with flashing eyes.
"It's possible. He was certainly seen at the dance," Mr. Foyle agreed.
When they arrived at the Wheatsheaf, Sam could feel the force with which Paul slammed the door of the Wolseley; the tremor traveled through the body of the car and up the steering wheel. She watched him stride ahead of Mr. Foyle into the building, the embodiment of Nemesis, and her stomach started to twist in apprehension. She knew how deeply he had been affected by his friend Will's death, but in all the time they had been working together, she had never seen Paul so angry. Gripping the wheel momentarily, she closed her eyes and prayed that Paul wouldn't do anything he would come to regret later.
...
Facing Carter across the bar of the Wheatsheaf, Paul could feel what little patience he had slipping away rapidly. Carter must know that prevarication was useless at this point – the man clearly had the wind up – but he was still doing his best to bluff on a losing hand.
"Where is it?" Paul demanded.
"Where is what?" bleated Carter, feigning incomprehension.
"The still." Paul's glare would have melted wax.
"Sir?" A constable had poked his head in the back door and indicated for everyone to follow him. They all filed out. There was a gardening shed behind the pub. "This way, Sir," the constable preceded Paul, Carter, and another uniform into a back room. The still sat quietly amidst its coils of wire. Next to it stood a table, strewn with bottles of varying sizes and full to varying degrees.
Paul entered the room, eyeing the instrument of Will's destruction with undisguised revulsion. He picked up a random bottle from the table, uncorked it, and sniffed its neck; his head jerked back involuntarily from the fumes. He felt a moment's flare of rage against Will (What possessed him to swallow this poison?), but it was immediately redirected towards Carter, who had sold the stuff to make a profit.
"Cuff him." The two constables obeyed their Sergeant's order and handcuffed Carter. Paul eyed the older man: another petty crook looking for an easy way to exploit the war and the men who were sacrificing everything for the relative safety and relative comfort of those at home. Carter had known nothing, and cared less, for Will's bravery and Will's misery, and for Will's painful, horrific, unnecessary death; the direct result of Carter's greed. To Carter, Will had just been someone looking to get drunk fast, discarded without a second thought once the exchange of cash for alcohol had been made. He had been indifferent to the consequences that might be suffered from anyone drinking that terrible stuff. Paul felt the familiar rage that, in one form or another, had dogged him ever since Norway. He had always managed, however, to control himself. Now, deliberately, Paul let his restraint fall away. This time, by God, there would be consequences.
Make him…
"Give us a minute, would you?" he ordered the constables. They left the room and Carter started to sidle after them. "Not you, Carter," Paul added curtly, "Sit down." Carter obeyed.
Make him…
Paul slowly approached the seated man, who appeared to be trying to shrink within himself, perhaps expecting a blow of some sort. When Paul made his move, it was from a direction that Carter hadn't been expecting. He reached around from behind, pinning the older man's head in place, pinching his nose and jerking back his head. With his other hand, Paul grabbed another bottle and uncorked it with his teeth. Spitting out the cork, he started to pour the contents down Carter's throat, as he choked and spluttered and struggled.
Make him take his own medicine…
"Sarge?" One of the constables had returned. Perhaps, on hearing a struggle, he'd thought that Carter was giving trouble. More likely, the constable had had a shrewd idea of what had been going through Sergeant Milner's mind, and come back before Carter could come to serious harm.
"Get him out of here," Paul spat in disgust, releasing his choke hold on Carter, hauling the landlord to his feet by his coat collar, and flinging him at the constable. He watched them leave the room, struggling to get himself under control once more. There were several large bottles littering the table by the still, with the dregs of some viscous liquid in them. Paul hefted one and smashed it against the still. It did precious little to relieve his feelings.
...
Paul could still feel his temper simmering in the interrogation room, sitting across from Carter and listening to him making his excuses. According to him, Susan Davies had come up with the idea. She had worked at Benson's Chemicals and knew how to set up the still. She had talked him into it. They had never intended to harm anybody. Mr. Foyle entered the room during Carter's litany and began to lay into the landlord as well, in the very quiet, devastating way that the DCS had perfected to an art form.
"Industrial strength alcohol, however you disguise it, can cause asphyxia, insanity, blindness, death…
"No," Carter protested.
"Will Grayson is dead because of you." Paul funneled the intensity of his anger, his disgust, and his grief into his voice and his eyes. He didn't dare raise his voice or raise his hand against Carter a second time. If he let loose again, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop. Mr. Foyle's presence helped Paul maintain his control.
"It wasn't my fault," Carter reiterated doggedly.
"He didn't want his father to know what he was doing, so he locked the door. And drank a bottle of it." Bile rose in Paul's throat as he spoke and he wished, not for the first time in the last hour, that the constable had been less conscientious in interrupting his administration of rough justice. "The room caught fire," Paul pressed on, "but he was blind – blind drunk. That's what your moonshine had done to him. He called out to his father, 'I can't see.' But it wasn't the smoke – it wasn't the fire – it was you."
"No."
"There was a key right beside the bed. But he couldn't see it to let himself out. You killed him, Mr. Carter."
"No, I told you, it was never my idea. It was the girl. I have stopped. I was going to destroy it." It was at this point that Mr. Foyle pointed out some scratches on Carter's neck. The landlord's increasingly agonized denials dissolved into hesitancy and confusion. He claimed to have been clearing brambles. When they tested his blood, however, it matched what they had found under Susan Davies' fingernails. Finally, wearily, Carter confessed to her murder. It all came back to the still. After what had happened to Will, he'd wanted to shut down operations, but Susan was ambitious; she had wanted the money and was adamant to keep on going. He'd snapped.
...
Late in the afternoon, Sam prowled the station restlessly, worrying. She didn't know what had happened at the Wheatsheaf, but Paul had returned to the car fairly quivering with rage, with a rather strange look in his eyes. He hadn't said a word the whole way back to the station.
From some chance remarks overheard later in the day, when passing the canteen, Sam gathered that Paul had lost his temper with Carter in some way.
"Still waters run deep is what I says. And Sergeant Milner is deep." She thought she recognized the voice of Constable Simpson, one of the men who had been present at the Wheatsheaf.
"Carter had it coming to him, he did," replied another uniform named... Brown, Sam thought, "They say he's the one what did for that girl at the dance. Anyway, there's no harm done and what does it matter?"
Sam had puzzled over this cryptic exchange for a few minutes before finally dismissing it. She had seen Carter when he was escorted into the station. He hadn't appeared injured in any way. She wasn't aware that Mr. Foyle had reprimanded Paul for any inappropriate behaviour. So whatever Paul had done couldn't have been so very terrible.
Peering through the glass walls of Paul's office, Sam could see that he was working away at his desk. The clacking of his type writer was just audible through the closed door against the background noises of the station beginning to wind down for the day.
Reaching a decision, Sam returned to the canteen and collected a cup of tea. She looked around for some biscuits. Finding none, she retrieved her handbag, fished out the packet that she kept there, and arranged several on the saucer. Then, taking a deep breath, she gave a very light tap on Paul's door and eased it open.
Her entrance had been deliberately quiet, giving her several moments of observation before Paul noticed her presence. His earlier rage appeared to have transformed itself into a concentrated, intensely burning energy. Paul was attacking his report with the single-mindedness of a man intent on exorcising an evil spirit. He looked up, somewhat startled, when Sam was feet from his desk.
"I brought you some tea," she said gently, stating the obvious, setting the cup and saucer down near his hand. He looked blankly from her, to the tea, and back again, as though he couldn't quite process her sudden appearance.
Paul blinked and his mind, still preoccupied with wrapping up the case, caught up with his other senses. Sam had brought him some tea. He had forgotten that he was hungry.
"Thank you," he replied, looking up into her face. Their eyes met for a moment and he sensed her wordless sympathy as clearly as if she'd spoken the words aloud. She sensed the overwhelming and commanding urgency that was driving him to officially close this investigation and put it behind him. They hadn't had any opportunity to speak to each other since their interrupted dance, and now was not the time to begin. She would continue, for the moment, to bide her time.
"Good luck, Paul," Sam added, leaving his office and closing his door as noiselessly as she had entered.
Processing all of the paperwork kept Paul at his desk long after everyone else had gone home. But he stayed on, typing away. He was determined to get this case and everything to do with Carter out of his system. Until it was, he couldn't think of anything else. But, as he drank his tea between mouthfuls of biscuit he remembered – blearily – that there was something very important to which he needed to devote some serious thought.
More Author's Notes: Just wanted to give a shout-out to the cameo I gave my father-in-law's parents, Lawrence and Jean, of Omaha, Nebraska. It's been my privilege, this past year, to have had the opportunity to begin transcribing their correspondence from his time in the service. Lawrence (who really was handsome enough to be a film star) was the kind of correspondent that any woman with a sweetheart overseas would have given anything to have: he wrote to Jean at least once a week, usually far more frequently. He often wrote quite long, detailed letters about all of the things he was doing, the people he was meeting, and the places he was seeing. And no matter whether the letter was one page or fourteen, he always made sure to tell her that he loved her.
And he really did overuse the word "Swell" every bit as much as the GIs in "Invasion."