Disclaimer: I have never been all that great at plotting my own mysteries. Unlike Anthony Horowitz, who created "Foyle's War" and from whom I borrowed a significant amount of dialogue in this chapter.
Author's Notes: We have finally arrived at "Bleak Midwinter," a Paul Milner episode par excellance. No further introductions are necessary.
The same could probably be said about my Beta, GiulliettaC, whom we all know and love. But I could never miss the opportunity to thank her for helping me to polish my prose for public consumption.
December, 1942
It was a rare occasion, nowadays, for Paul to stay behind at the station working late, after everyone else had gone home. But his interview with Mr. Tremayne, restaurateur and would-be trafficker in black market turkeys, had yielded so much information that he had elected to stay on to get the report squared away, ahead of the quickly approaching Christmas holidays. All in all – barring the unpleasantness of Constable Peters' insubordination in the restaurant's kitchen – it had been a most productive and satisfactory day.
As he turned out the lights in his office and pulled on his coat, he registered the clack of a woman's heels against the floor of the hallway. Before he could process this oddity further, he heard his name spoken aloud.
"Paul." He felt his ears twitch, his body recognizing the voice before his brain had quite caught up with current events. He rounded the corner, and there stood…Jane.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, utterly bewildered.
"In Hastings?"
"No, here." In the station. Feet away from him.
"I came to see you."
"Why?" Bewilderment was fast becoming panic. He couldn't imagine why Jane should appear at the station at this hour, and without any warning, for any reason that could actually make him happy; her next words confirmed this.
"I want to come home, Paul. I want to come back to you." She started to close the distance between them, almost as though she meant to kiss him. Paul recoiled in panic, a shudder of revulsion rolling along his skin.
"Jane," he cut her short, taking a step back and putting more space between them. "Stop. It's been two years."
"I know. But we're still married. I'm still your wife. I know I was stupid. I know I made mistakes. But I want you to take me back."
After several long moments of gaping at Jane, Paul had escorted her out of the station with dispatch. Sergeant Brooke seemed to have stepped away from the front desk – and Paul was grateful beyond measure not to run into anyone while Jane was hovering at his elbow. Thankfully, for the moment, she seemed content with extracting a promise from him to meet her for tea the next day, rather than attempting to follow him home that night. He disengaged himself as soon as he could and hurried home, locking the door behind him.
Alone, Paul paced nervously from room to room, wishing that he smoked or even drank, anything to help occupy his hands and to still his racing mind. His encounter with Jane had been so brief that he could almost make himself believe that he had fallen asleep at his desk and would be waking up at any minute from this ghastly dream with an almighty crick in his neck.
Almost.
The rooms suddenly seemed alive with ghosts from his last few months with Jane. The ways that she had avoided him, the ways that she had ignored him, the ways that she had made him feel helpless, and incompetent, and small. Her snide comments, her sarcasms, her silences. And now, after two years of…nothing at all, she expected him to simply take her back?
The months they had spent together after Jane's first sojourn in Wales now numbered among Paul's biggest regrets. When he really gave the matter some thought (which he generally tried to avoid doing), he knew that those months had been necessary to show him how unequivocally mismatched he and Jane had become, how little there had been left between them. But if only he could have dated Jane's desertion from the beginning of June rather than the end of December, that would have meant only six months left until he could claim his freedom. Instead there was still a full year until he and Sam could escape the limbo that held them both prisoner, and until they could truly be together without their love falling prey to the label of adultery.
Privately, Paul had come to suspect that Jane deserved that title more than he currently did. She could have gotten up to anything while she had been in Wales, even during their first, shorter separation. An affair would have explained a lot about Jane's behaviour when she had returned the first time, the way she had tolerated his attentions and those packets of bicarbonate of soda she had been taking. Paul had assumed at the time that if Jane were pregnant, then he must be the father, but now he thought that it was just as likely that Jane might easily have taken up with someone or other in Wales. Some fellow who still had both his legs. Jane had set a great store by that, Paul reflected bitterly.
Paul couldn't imagine why such an idea hadn't occurred to him at the time. Maybe he had been blind to the possibility because such a suspicion would have hurt too much at that juncture, compounding everything else that was wrong between them with betrayal. The thought had only materialized in his brain, seemingly from out of the clear blue sky, close to a year after Jane had left for good. And when it finally did, Paul found that he hadn't even cared enough to feel hurt or angry. Only vaguely curious as to whether his theory had any foundation in fact. The suspicion had been so lacking in any real evidence that it hadn't even seemed worthwhile to go to the expense of hiring a private investigator and trying to hasten the divorce process. And when his relationship with Sam had made him wish that there were a way to extricate himself more quickly, he hadn't dared pursue any investigation lest it call too much scrutiny upon himself and Sam.
It wasn't until well after midnight that Paul felt calm enough and tired enough to even bother trying to lie down. As an aid to induce slumber, he heated up some milk, which he drank before climbing the stairs. Maybe the milk helped to tip the scales, because, once he closed his eyes, sleep came for him with merciful promptness and kept dreamless possession of him until his alarm went off the next morning.
But then the previous evening had rushed back with sickening clarity.
…
Mr. Foyle had been very accommodating, granting Paul's request for time away from the station without even inquiring what his "personal matter" might be. Paul avoided Sam, pretending that he was still submerged in paperwork and telling her that he couldn't go anywhere that night. Even such a small deception made him feel ill. If only he could convince Jane that too much time had passed and too much had changed for them to go back to their former lives. If only he could just make her go away. Paul didn't care where. Away from him. Away from Sam. Out of his life.
Jane was already sitting at a table, waiting for him when Paul arrived at the Spread Eagle, his stomach in a ferment of apprehension. He sat down across from her without a word, the awkward silence broken by a waitress bringing them a pot of tea and offering to bring them pastries. Jane spoke up to accept the offer, but Paul over-rode her. If Jane wanted to play Happy Families over tea and biscuits, then she was going to be disappointed. Paul had never had less of an appetite for either food or social niceties.
"When you came back from Norway I know I was beastly to you," Jane began unctuously, without any further preamble as she poured out tea for both of them. "It wasn't just your injury, please believe that. We'd had so many plans together and everything had suddenly changed."
"You'd changed," Paul ground out, eyeing Jane warily, as though she were booby trapped somehow. She took a sip of her tea. He didn't touch his cup.
"And I was wrong; I see that now," Jane persevered, her voice oozing devotion, "But I've learned so much being away from you. The one thing I know is that I still love you and I want to be with you."
"I've met somebody else," Paul blurted out. He hadn't planned on telling Jane about anything to do with the current circumstances of his personal life, but listening to her going on in this vein was just too much. He wanted nothing more than to wipe the simpering smile off of her face. His announcement had the desired effect.
"What?" she demanded incredulously, leaning back as though she'd been slapped, "Who?"
"Does it matter?"
"Well yes, I'd like to know."
Already regretting his disclosure, Paul nevertheless answered truthfully. "Samantha Stewart. Mr. Foyle's driver. You met her once, though you probably don't remember."
"That child?" Jane's expression of surprise turned sour. Apparently she did remember Sam after all. "Is she living with you?" Jane's question dripped disdain. "Is she in our house?" The word 'mistress' hung heavy in the air, though Paul ignored her implication. He marvelled at Jane's nerve, acting like the wronged party. Two years ago, she couldn't get away from him fast enough.
"It's not our house, Jane, it's mine," Paul replied with emphasis. He was the one who had been living there. By himself. Making his own meals and doing his own housework, to say nothing of paying the bills. The assertion felt marvellous. Then he added, trying to avoid sounding smug but not quite succeeding, "No she isn't. Not yet." Though truth be told, according to Paul's own mental criteria, Sam currently had far more claim to his house than Jane.
"But you've asked her to." A derisive snort of laughter escaped Paul's throat.
"It's none of your business," he shot back heatedly.
"Aren't you forgetting something? We're not actually divorced," Jane hissed at him, eyes narrowing.
"It's been two years." What in heaven and earth had given Jane the delusion that she could waltz back into his life after all this time to find him and his feelings for her unchanged?
"But it's three years, isn't it?" Jane countered with malicious triumph, as Paul blanched, his stomach lurching. He knew exactly how many years the statute required, but he had been assuming all this time that Jane wouldn't be as well versed as he was. Her next words proved how false that hope had been. "The Matrimonial Causes Act, 1937. I can come back if I want to and I do. My sister doesn't want me in Wales. I've got nowhere else to go, so you can tell Samantha…" Paul's patience had reached its limit.
"You stay away from me, Jane," he growled, rising to his feet, "And you stay away from Sam. I'm warning you…"
"What?" she spat the challenge, staring up at him as he loomed over her.
"It's over between us. You're not part of my life. So just keep away. Or else." And with that, Paul stalked determinedly out of the restaurant. He had to find Sam.
…
Paul decided against going back to the station; a glance at his watch told him that Sam would most likely have left already. Instead, he headed for Sam's lodgings.
"Sergeant Milner, how nice to see you." Mrs. Lovell had answered his knock, and as she spoke, she ushered him out of the dark and cold into the hallway, closing the front door. "Was Samantha expecting you?"
"No, Mrs. Lovell, I'm sorry to be intruding, but something unexpected has come up. Is Sam home yet?"
At the sound of Paul's voice, Sam had popped her head around the kitchen door and hurried over. As soon as she was facing him, she knew that something was amiss. She waited until Mrs. Lovell had retreated to the kitchen, then spoke very quietly.
"Darling, what's wrong? Has something happened?"
"Can…can we talk somewhere? Alone?" Sam looked at him searchingly for a moment, then gave a little nod. Paul watched as she retreated to the kitchen, and heard her voice in quiet conference with Mrs. Lovell. Then Sam reappeared and ushered him into the sitting room, closing the door firmly behind her.
"I told Mrs. Lovell that you'd just had word that a very good friend had been killed overseas," Sam informed Paul quietly as she steered him towards his usual armchair, "She was very sympathetic and said that we could have the sitting room until nine, but absolutely no later." Sam perched herself on an ottoman in front of Paul's chair and captured one of his hands. "Now what's really going on?" Paul looked down at the floor, then up at Sam.
"Jane's back in Hastings." Shock slammed itself across Sam's face. Voice pitched low, Paul recounted the last twenty-four hours for Sam and the details of his encounters with Jane. Their meeting at the Spread Eagle was so recent that Paul only began processing it properly within his own mind as he talked it through with Sam. As he repeated Jane's ultimatum and her claim that she was no longer welcome at her sister's, a part of Paul's brain wondered which was stranger: that Jane had managed to exhaust her sister Kate's hospitality in the first place, or that Kate had managed to put up with Jane for two full years.
He cursed himself for a fool, telling Jane about his relationship with Sam. After all of the efforts that he had gone to in order to protect Sam's reputation, it had been beyond stupid for him to be so recklessly candid with the one person who would actually wish to do him a bad turn. And all for the fleeting pleasure of rubbing Jane's nose in his newfound happiness. Jane probably wouldn't know how to contact Sam's parents, but she could easily approach Mr. Foyle about the true state of affairs between them, to say nothing of the rumours and gossip she could sow amongst the population of Hastings at large.
"But why didn't you tell me sooner, Paul?" Sam asked, with a hint of reproach.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he said, leaning forward and rubbing his temples, "I know I should have. I just hoped…I hoped I could make her go away and not trouble you about it. But now I've just made Jane angry to no purpose. She'll be merciless. And if she has the law on her side…"
"You need to see a solicitor and find out where you both stand," Sam interrupted, her voice firm and determined, "And in the meantime, you don't cede that woman one inch of territory."
"I don't know what this will mean for our own plans. I don't know what she'll do." Paul tried to remember whether or not Jane had taken a house key with her when she had left two years ago. He was almost afraid to go home to find that she had simply taken up residence while his back was turned.
"This doesn't change our plans one jot. We just have to wait her out. She'll get tired of waiting long before you or I do."
"I've always envied your optimism, Sam," Paul said wearily, "You talk as if everything will sort itself out in the end."
"Because it will, Paul," Sam replied vehemently. "We'll muddle through all of this somehow. That woman didn't want you two years ago and she can't have you now. I love you with all my heart. I'm not letting you go, Paul."
At nine on the dot, Sam saw Paul to Mrs. Lovell's front door. His parting kisses were distracted, hurried, and completely unsatisfactory. Sam spent some time before bed giving her uniform a thorough and unnecessarily energetic brushing, as her thoughts raced with Paul's news about Jane. Sam had only met Jane once. When had it…? Yes. After the service for the National Day of Prayer. Just before Dunkirk. Sam had accompanied Mr. Foyle and they had run into Paul and his wife on the church steps. Paul had still been adjusting to the prosthesis and was using crutches. And Sam remembered the way Jane had simpered at Mr. Foyle, thanking him for taking Paul on, because they'd thought that his career with the police was finished when he lost his leg. Talking as though Paul were a charity case. That wretched woman – no doubt she had spent all of her time while she and Paul were still living together making him feel like some sort of a charity case in his own home, because of his leg.
Sam remembered the look on Paul's face as Jane had blathered on; as though he'd wanted to sink into the ground. So Sam had been moved to make her rather silly remark about wanting to become a nun – a passing fancy which had really only lasted for about a month when she was fifteen. But it had turned the conversation away from Paul, and that was what had mattered. Sam thumped her pillow vigorously before getting into bed. If that woman showed her face at the station and tried to threaten or embarrass Paul, Sam planned on making her regret ever leaving Wales.
…
When she picked up Mr. Foyle the next morning, Sam distracted herself as best she could in reporting her impressions of Grace Phillips' funeral for the DCS. He had asked her to attend the munition worker's burial the previous afternoon and to report on anything odd. Apart from the absence of Grace's mother, the only item of note had been the speech made by Grace's young man, Harry Osbourne. It had been rather rambling, wild, and melodramatic, and – Sam thought – rather as though he were playing a part rather than speaking with real feeling.
And then, immediately upon their arrival at the station, a visibly shaken Brookie had met them both with the most extraordinary news. A young woman had been found dead early this morning. The woman, according to Sergeant Brooke, was Mrs. Milner.
"What?" Sam exclaimed, certain that she had misunderstood Brookie, "Jane Milner?"
"Yeah. His wife. Ex-wife I mean; I understand they were divorced?" Sergeant Brooke went on to say that Jane had been at the station at 6:30 the previous evening, asking for Sergeant Milner. Sam had never seen Brookie look so rattled. Within a few minutes, she and Mr. Foyle were back in the Wolseley, driving to view the crime scene.
…
When Paul arrived at the station, he knew it was well past his usual time. He hoped that this wouldn't draw too much notice. He usually took pride in his punctuality, but despite Sam's best efforts to calm him down, and despite every effort he himself had made (including another glass of warm milk) he'd been unable to fall asleep until after three in the morning, and then he'd overslept.
Strangely, the station seemed completely deserted. From the nights that he had spent working late, he was familiar with the station when it was empty. By daylight, however, it was always bustling with people. Now, the silence was echoing and eerie, and without the accompaniment of darkness and shadows, Paul found it more than a little unnerving.
Thankfully, Sergeant Brooke came upon the scene presently. But the man was nervous and subdued, his usual cheeriness utterly deflated. When Paul asked him where everyone had gone, all he would say was that there had been an incident in town. Before he could be pressed for further details, Mr. Foyle had entered the station, looking as serious as Paul had ever seen him. The DCS gestured with his head for Paul to follow him into his office. When the door was closed, he indicated for Paul to take a seat.
"This is going to come as a shock," Mr. Foyle began, "But there was a murder last night. And you know the victim."
"I do?" Utter surprise left no room for anticipation. "Who?"
"Jane Milner." For several moments, all of Paul's thoughts came to a complete standstill. He had entered the DCS's office wondering what Jane's next move would be and whether or not she would be coming by the station today to make a scene. She couldn't be dead.
"You're sure it's her?" he asked his superior. Mr. Foyle nodded. "Can I see her?" The look that crossed Mr. Foyle's face indicated that this would not be the best idea, and Paul shook his head as well, changing his mind. He didn't need to see the body to confirm that Jane was dead. Mr. Foyle's word was enough.
"You know she was here?" the DCS asked.
"Yes, Sir. I saw her yesterday. How was she…?"
"She was…attacked with a brick."
"When?"
"Last night, about ten o'clock."
Paul digested this information in silence. There was no room for relief at the news and he felt none. He had never wished for Jane's death as a solution to their difficulties. Murder was one of the most barbaric evils that Paul knew. He would no more wish such an end on anyone than he would commit the act himself.
"What can you tell me?" Mr. Foyle asked and Paul realized with a start that their conversation had now become an interrogation. Because he had been one of the last people to see Jane alive. And they had been estranged so long, and parted on such bad terms. Which made him the most likely suspect…
"I had tea with her yesterday afternoon at the Spread Eagle," Paul replied. "That was the last time I saw her."
"What did she want?"
"It's difficult to explain." Paul remembered the lie he had told Mr. Foyle, close to six months ago, that he and Jane had already divorced. He had been amazed, at the time, that his superior hadn't seen through the falsehood immediately. But now Paul had to make a clean breast of everything, under conditions which would show his actions in the worst possible light, making him look like he had something to hide and powerful reasons for wanting Jane out of the way…
"Well, I hate to ask, but under the circumstances…" Mr. Foyle pressed.
"Sir, I told you that we were divorced, but it wasn't true." Paul felt his face catch fire as he forced the words out, trying to keep his voice calm. "It would have been in another year – she was the one who left me," he continued, "But it turns out that wasn't what she wanted. She asked me to take her back." If the DCS was either surprised or angered by Paul's admission, he concealed it well.
"She know about your…current circumstances?" was all that he said in reply.
"I told her about Sam. Jane was upset, angry. She asked me if she could move back into the house and I said that wasn't possible now."
"Where was she staying?"
"There's a hairdressers on the High Street. She used to work there before we were married."
"And last night?"
"I was on my own. I left Sam around…nine." Which meant his movements were completely unaccounted for the time of the murder. "Sir, I know how this must look. You have every right to treat me as a suspect."
"Well, look, I mean…I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that you didn't do this, but if we're not seen to be doing it by the book…"
"I understand. Are you suspending me?" Mr. Foyle would certainly be justified if he did that.
"No, no, no, no, but obviously you can't be involved with the investigation. And we're going to have to take a look at your home and your office, I'm afraid. I do wonder why you felt it necessary to lie about the divorce?" The DCS' voice was surprisingly mild and businesslike, though rather embarrassed. Paul felt the implied trust and confidence being directed at him despite the circumstances and clung to Mr. Foyle's apparent valuation of his own worth; it made Paul feel all the more ashamed of his previous deception.
"I started putting it about when Sam and I decided to start seeing each other. I didn't want people to think badly of her. After Jane left I did write to her suggesting we divorce, but she never replied. Even before Sam and I… sometimes I liked to pretend that we were really divorced. And the more I said it the more real it felt." It all sounded so fanciful and inadequate when he said it aloud.
"Did Sam know the real state of things?"
"Yes, she knew." Paul registered an inward relief at finding himself on some solid footing in this increasingly disorienting situation. "We don't have any secrets from each other. I just wanted Jane out of my life."
"She is now," was all that Mr. Foyle had to say in reply.
...
"Sir," Sam fought back tears as she drove Mr. Foyle to the Spread Eagle, to begin following up on Paul's statement, "You can't think for a single minute that Paul had anything to do with the death of his wife?"
"What makes you think I'll be answering this question?" the DCS snapped, "Haven't I made it clear that cases are not for discussion?"
"Yes, Sir." He'd made that clear on Sam's very first day as his driver.
"Do we discuss cases?"
"No, Sir," Sam responded dutifully. Except that wasn't true at all. They always discussed cases. Sam couldn't help but make observations about everything that she saw or heard. Sometimes Mr. Foyle would ask for her impressions of people or situations. He let her ask him questions. He wouldn't always answer them, of course…
"Will we be discussing this one?" the DCS continued, adamant.
"No, Sir," Sam repeated meekly as they pulled up outside the Spread Eagle.
"Right," Mr. Foyle was curt as he exited the Wolseley.