Disclaimer: And we're back to canon (and all its accompanying angst), which belongs to Anthony Horowitz rather than yours truly. Just in case you were wondering.
Author's Notes: I actually found it quite interesting to learn about anthrax as I was working on this chapter. For starters, the name "anthrax" comes from the Greek word for coal, due to the black sores that form on the skin of those with cutaneous anthrax infections (as prominently featured in the episode "Bad Blood"). I was very excited by this bit of information, because I had been wondering for well over a decade what the connection might be between anthracite (another name for coal) and the disease known as anthrax.
Plus, among the older, historical names for anthrax is "woolsorter's disease" which is one of the illnesses mentioned by Dr. Brindley in the episode itself, when he is brainstorming about Elsie's cause of death. So, even though he was feeling his way in the dark, he totally had the right idea about what was going on.
Now, about Dr. Brindley. He is an official, named character taken from "Bad Blood." I didn't know his name just from viewing the episode, but I got it from the full cast list on IMDB. He is not related to the delightful character of Dr. Grindley who keeps popping up in the stories of my awesome Beta, GiulliettaC, with whom I've already discussed this interesting coincidence.
August, 1942
"It's like something out of the Wild West!" Sergeant Brooke crowed with delight, as he showed the report to Mr. Milner and DCS Foyle. Plucking the paper from the Sergeant's hands, Paul glanced at its contents and passed it to Mr. Foyle: six cows reported stolen from Vauxhall Farm. Studying his superior's face as he scanned the report, Paul fancied that Mr. Foyle's reaction mirrored his own: that this was one of the more fortuitous – albeit bizarre – developments that he had ever experienced while working on a case.
The case in question had arrived at the station early the previous morning in the guise of Edith Ashford, one of Paul's old friends from school. He hadn't seen her in at least ten years, though he remembered her fondly. She had sought him out after all this time for a very specific reason: her younger brother, Martin, had been arrested on a murder charge. Edith was adamant in her conviction that her brother was innocent, despite both the evidence and Martin's refusal to speak in his defence, and begged both Paul and Mr. Foyle to look into the matter. The DCS had eventually agreed to see what could be done, despite the fact that the case was further up the coast in Hythe, and out of their jurisdiction.
Sam had driven them both to Hythe that same day, and Mr. Foyle had spoken with DCS Fielding, who ran the station. They had been allowed to see and question Martin Ashford, but Paul's efforts to establish any kind of rapport with the young man had fallen completely flat. Mr. Foyle had had a bit more success, though of the negative kind. When he had suggested that Martin was protecting someone, the young man had shut down even further, suggesting that a nerve had been hit. The whole interview had raised more questions than it had answered.
The same could be said of Paul's second interview with Edith. Upon their return from Hythe, he had gone to St. Mary's Hospital, where she worked as a nurse, and spoke to her there. When he had asked if Martin might be protecting anyone, her face had clouded over. Questioned as to whether Martin was involved with anyone, Edith had shaken her head, suddenly very interested in smoothing her apron and avoiding his eyes. He hadn't pressed her very hard, though he wondered what Edith was hiding and whether or not she realized what a poor liar she was. At the end of the interview she had invited him to get some tea and catch up.
"That would be nice," Paul had replied, thinking that it would be quite pleasant to swap stories about what had happened to everyone they had known at school in the intervening years, "But I already have plans." He knew that Sam was waiting for him back at the station.
...
The next morning, Paul went over Martin Ashford's file with Mr. Foyle. The murder victim was a recently decorated sailor named Tom Jenkins, who had left behind a wife named Elsie and an eighteen month old son. Martin and Tom had argued violently at a pub, then – passions still riding high – had arranged an assignation later on the beach to settle their differences. Martin was seen heading for the beach carrying something long and thin, and then later observed running away from the scene. Jenkins had been stabbed, and his blood was found on Martin's clothes. The murder weapon had been found near Vauxhall farm, where Martin lived and worked. The more Paul looked at the information in the file, the more he appreciated DCS Fielding's initial displeasure at their appearance the day before. There was nothing sloppy or slapdash about the work out of the Hythe station and the evidence seemed very cut and dried.
After dismissing Sergeant Brooke, Mr. Foyle collected Sam and left to see what Martin Ashford's former employer had to say about the murder and the missing cattle.
...
When he returned to the station in the early afternoon, Mr. Foyle reported that the farmer had had considerably more to say about his missing cows than about the murder, despite the fact that Tom had been his own son-in-law. An odd pattern was emerging. Everyone was adamant in their belief that Martin couldn't have killed Tom. And they seemed to have nothing to say about Tom, one way or the other. That Edith should adopt this attitude was not particularly surprising, but even Tom's widow Elsie, whom Mr. Foyle had called upon before returning to the station, had the same conviction in Martin's innocence and the same tendency to damn Tom with extremely faint praise.
...
It was nearly the end of the day; Mr. Foyle had called Paul into his office for a few minutes to show him the murder weapon used on Tom Jenkins. DCS Fielding had called and left it with them to puzzle over. It looked somewhat like a sharp screwdriver; it had been identified by the Hythe MO as a veterinary tool called a trochar. Fielding also reported that a young man – the son of the local vet – had come to the Hythe station, offering his two pennies' worth to the effect that Martin couldn't have killed anyone. But nothing more concrete than that.
Mr. Foyle had gathered his things in preparation for the journey home and both men were lingering momentarily in the hallway when Sam came upon the scene.
"Are you alright?" Mr. Foyle asked in concern, though the question hardly needed asking. Sam looked pale, clammy, and uncomfortable, moving somewhat stiffly as though she ached all over.
"No, I'm not," she admitted to Mr. Foyle, then addressed Paul, "Paul, I'm going to have to stand you up. I feel rotten; I think I've got flu."
If any other sign were needed that Sam was not entirely herself, it was the fact that she had mentioned their having plans in front of Mr. Foyle. The new direction their relationship had taken wasn't precisely a secret – they were hardly sneaking around Hastings when they went out and about nearly every night – but they had a tacit agreement about not mentioning their outings at the station, not drawing attention to themselves or how they had been spending their time.
"Would you like me to see you home?" Paul ventured, uncomfortably aware of Mr. Foyle's scrutinizing gaze and deciding that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
"That's alright," Sam replied, "I'll drive Mr. Foyle home then I'll drive myself.
"You alright to drive?" Mr. Foyle queried.
"Absolutely." Sam seemed to rally with her affirmation; she sounded almost well for a moment.
"Well then drive yourself home and go to bed," the DCS ordered gently, "I'll walk."
"Are you sure, Sir?" Sam's relief and appreciation were palpable.
"Of course."
"I'm sorry, Paul," Sam repeated, her eyes apologetic, managing to convey that she had realized her blunder.
"Don't trouble yourself, Sam," he reassured her, patting her arm, "I'll see you soon." The two men stood, watching as Sam walked down the hall and out of the station. Then Mr. Foyle turned and looked at Paul.
"Why don't we take a walk, Milner?" the DCS suggested levelly.
"Of course, Sir." Paul recognized an order when he heard one. They left the station together and began walking in silence.
"What were your plans? You and Sam?" Mr. Foyle asked at last.
"We were going to go to the pictures. There's a new spy thriller that Sam's been keen to see. She likes to try to unravel the mystery before the people in the picture do."
"Does she ever manage it?" Christopher Foyle smiled despite himself, imagining Sam's face, squinting up at the screen, mental gears working furiously.
"Actually, Sir, she does, about half the time." Paul allowed himself to smile as well, with fond pride, though he knew better than to let himself relax. His interrogation was far from over.
"You and Sam have been…seeing each other?"
"Yes, Sir."
"How long?"
"About…" Paul calculated in his head quickly, "Four months now."
"That long?" Foyle chewed on the inside of his lower lip as he digested this information. He had only begun to suspect that Sam and Milner might be romantically involved for the past month and a half. Their behaviour at work had been irreproachable, but he had nevertheless detected a perceptible change in their interactions with each other; there was a warmth and an intimacy that went beyond the friendship he knew had already existed between them. Clearly they were both considerably more discreet than he had given them credit for. "I heard that you and Jane got a divorce?"
Paul didn't ask where the DCS had had his information. Ultimately, he knew the source would have been Sergeant Brooke. In the wake of his conversation with Sam in the Wolseley and their decision to become more than friends, Paul had decided to put it about that he and Jane had already divorced. He was determined, insofar as he was able, to protect Sam and her reputation. Paul had bided his time and watched for his opportunity, which had materialized a few weeks after his first date with Sam. Sergeant Brooke was friendly and chatty, and Paul usually spent a few minutes every morning passing the time of day with him. One morning, Brookie had been exulting over a date he'd gone on the previous evening.
"I heard from one of the lads that you're married, Mr. Milner," he'd smiled. And Paul had seen his opportunity.
"Yes, I was," he had replied as nonchalantly as he could manage, "But we got divorced." And Paul had known that he would be the subject of clandestine gossip around the station for the rest of the week. But whenever his new relationship with Sam came to light, she would still enjoy everyone's good opinion. And that was all that mattered.
"Yes, Sir, we did." Paul could feel himself redden as the words had left his mouth. It was one thing to lie to Sergeant Brooke, whom Paul didn't know very well, but it was quite another kettle of fish to do so to Mr. Foyle. It helped that they were both still walking, that it was natural for his eyes to be focused on the pavement in front of him. It would have been impossible for Paul to tell Mr. Foyle such a bald-faced lie if he had had to meet his superior's eyes. As things were, he was astonished as one moment bled into the next, and nothing happened. He hadn't expected to be struck down by lightning, but he had been working with Mr. Foyle for long enough to know that the DCS was not an easy man to fool. He had expected to be called to account immediately and glaciated by the full force of Mr. Foyle's icy contempt.
"I was sorry to hear it," was all that Mr. Foyle said.
"Some things can't be helped, Sir," Paul shrugged.
"Do Sam's parents know about the two of you?
"I know that Sam writes to them every week. I don't know what she's told them." Paul could hear the prevarication behind his words and winced inwardly, wondering what Mr. Foyle must be thinking.
Christopher Foyle glanced sideways at his Sergeant. He wasn't Sam's father, or Milner's either if it came to that. Any right that he might have had to interfere in Sam's personal life had ended when Andrew had broken things off between them. He could even understand if Sam were reluctant to be completely forthcoming with her parents about any budding romance between herself and Milner. No Anglican vicar would approve of his daughter becoming involved with a divorced man, although Foyle's private view was that the Stewarts would approve of and appreciate Milner for himself under other circumstances. Perhaps that made it all the more important for him to say something now, despite the tenuousness of his authority in this matter.
"I hope I can rely on you to treat Sam with the consideration that she deserves."
Paul stopped walking, turned, and looked Mr. Foyle straight in the eye. "I would never let any harm come to Sam, Sir."
After a moment, during which it looked as though the DCS were chewing on the inside of his cheek, he gave a small nod and said, "Rrright. Good. See that you don't." Mr. Foyle turned the conversation after that. A few minutes later, they arrived at his home and the two men parted ways for the evening.
...
Sam called in sick the following morning, and Sergeant Brooke, who had taken the call, said that she sounded very under the weather. Brooke acted as Mr. Foyle's driver that day, a change of pace that he seemed to enjoy. Several times throughout the day, Paul found himself reaching for the phone to call and see how Sam was getting on, but each time he stopped himself, not wanting to disturb her rest. She would be back at work in a day or so, he told himself. But it felt odd, going the whole day without either seeing her in person or hearing her voice.
Sam was still out the next morning, but another odd wrinkle had turned up in the Ashford case. Someone had left an anonymous letter for Mr. Foyle, claiming to have seen the murder of Tom Jenkins and describing the killer as a tall man with blond hair – the antithesis of Martin Ashford. The paper smelled distinctly of ether, and Mr. Foyle dispatched Paul to St. Mary's Hospital to see what Edith had to say about it – and asking him to look in on Sam while he was out and about.
Edith denied sending the letter, becoming indignant at Paul's insinuation that she might have sent it in order to misdirect the investigation.
"Edie, why don't you tell me the truth?" Paul's patience with his old school friend was beginning to fray.
"I have!" she exclaimed, thinking he was still referring to the letter.
"No you haven't," Paul persisted, "I asked you if Martin was involved with anyone and you said he wasn't."
"Are you calling me a liar?" She sounded deeply offended. The circumstances, however, were too serious for Paul to indulge in any polite prevarication.
"Yes, I am. I could tell, Edie. People lie to me all the time; it's part of my job." It never ceased to amaze Paul, not that people lied to the police, but that they were always so surprised to be found out. He sometimes felt quite indignant with the general view of the public towards the average police officer as someone stolid and reliable, but also easily hoodwinked. Paul had usually found that the opposite was true. No matter what their rank or education, the quality that all experienced members of the police shared was an ability to read people accurately and to know truth from fiction when they heard it.
"You've changed." Edith frowned, her eyes accusing and hurt. Paul exhaled in frustration; what was that supposed to mean? What had Edith expected when she approached him in the first place? That he would pull a few strings, speak a few words in the ears of the right people, and Martin would be magically exonerated? Evidence couldn't simply be ignored.
"You came to me for help," Paul replied as patiently as he could manage, "But you also used me. Was Elsie Jenkins having an affair with your brother?"
"No."
But Paul ignored Edith's denial. The description in the report, the way that Tom and Martin's argument had ignited and then escalated spoke of far more than a few too many drinks. It suggested some other enmity, and a rivalry centered around Elsie Jenkins was the most obvious. Paul was sure that, if Martin had been involved with anyone other than Elsie, Edith would have mentioned it long ago. Shamefaced, Edith admitted that Paul was right; Martin had become involved with Elsie while Tom was away at sea.
"Did you write this?" he asked once more, indicating the letter.
"No. I promise you." Paul looked at her searchingly. This time, he believed her.
"That's all I need to know," he said, and realized immediately that he still needed to know a great deal more, beginning with Elsie's own account of what had happened. When he mentioned this to Edith, however, she informed him that Elsie had been admitted to St. Mary's the previous evening, acutely ill, and had died that morning. Paul placed a call to the station to inform Mr. Foyle of this development in addition to Edith's confirmation of Martin's affair with Elsie. Then he went in search of Elsie's doctor.
Dr. Brindley had little to add to Edith's account of Elsie's death. She had presented with a high fever, respiratory distress, and odd black sores on her arms and face. She had died rambling incoherently about a dead sheep. The doctor confessed himself utterly mystified as to cause of death, casting about the names of possible ailments that meant little or nothing to Paul, including something rather arcane-sounding called "woolsorter's disease."
...
As the police car pulled away from the hospital, Paul remembered that Mr. Foyle had asked him to look in on Sam and see how she was getting on; he directed the constable acting as his driver to her address. It felt rather odd to be knocking on Sam's door in the middle of the day, almost as though he were skiving off of work or intruding on her privacy somehow.
The door opened almost at once, and Paul's thoughts scattered to the four winds. Sam had opened the door. She was fully dressed, as though she intended to go out somewhere, but he could see immediately how ill she looked; her face was simultaneously ashy and too flushed, her eyes glassy and bright with fever. Her hair was a mess of loose, uncombed curls.
"Oh, Paul," she gasped, grabbing his forearms to steady herself, relief flooding her face and voice, "I'm so…glad you're here. I was just going… I think I need to see a doctor…" The words had barely left her lips when her knees buckled and her body went suddenly limp, knocking Paul back into the doorframe as he struggled to continue supporting Sam's dead weight.
It was when he shifted Sam's body, bellowing for assistance from the constable in the car, that the sleeve of Sam's cardigan pulled up and Paul saw the black sores on her forearms. And panic became terror.