Disclaimer: The Royalty checks get made out to Anthony Horowitz, not to me. Because I own nothing.
Author's Notes: It's always fun to tinker with canon to skew things the way you want them to play out, but I think that I had the most fun tinkering with this episode. Sam's take on how the blood might have ended up on Paul's shirt was my own guess regarding how the plot would resolve itself the first time I watched this episode.
Despite my obvious adoration of Paul Milner, my favorite scene in "Bleak Midwinter," hands down, is when Foyle unmasks Constable Peters and nails him to the wall as only Christopher Foyle can. I could (and have) watched that scene over and over and over again.
Finally, those of you who follow the stories written by my fantastic Beta, GiulliettaC, will be familiar with her story "Victory Roll." It ends with Foyle asking out Sam after drawing a comparison between himself and Spencer Tracy (and casting Katherine Hepburn as Sam). In addition to numerous technical and grammatical tweaks to this chapter, Giullietta graciously allowed me to use her Foyle/Spencer Tracy analogy. I have absolutely no idea who I would have come up with if left to my own devices.
December, 1942
Christopher Foyle was rather proud of his ability to read people. He wouldn't have been able to do his job half so well if this hadn't been the case. And he knew his sergeant. It was impossible to work so closely with anyone for this long without also becoming thoroughly acquainted with their character. Paul Milner was as decent and upstanding as a person as he was thorough and conscientious as a sergeant. This had made it all the more surprising for Foyle to find that Milner had been lying about the state of affairs between himself and his late wife. Before today, Foyle would have never believed that his sergeant was capable of such a deception. As a private individual, Foyle understood and even applauded the chivalry that had motivated it. As an officer of the law, however, it made the conversation he was about to have with Milner painful in the extreme.
Foyle watched as his door opened and Milner entered. The younger man hesitated on the threshold and their eyes met for a long moment before he shut the door behind him. Foyle could see that Milner was a little anxious. That was neither surprising nor suspicious – the situation warranted it. But Foyle was also prepared to give his oath that his sergeant's eyes were those of a man with a clean conscience and no secrets.
"Sit down." Milner took a chair on the other side of Foyle's desk.
"Have you found anything, Sir?"
"Well, I spoke to the woman at the hairdresser's."
"Mrs. Summersgill? Was she helpful?"
"I wouldn't say so." Indeed he wouldn't, considering that the woman in question had immediately and point-blank accused Milner of murdering Jane. She had furthermore accused Foyle – to his face – of trying to cover up Milner's alleged crime because they were colleagues and on friendly terms. The woman was clearly foolish and misguided, but DCS Foyle knew precisely how convincing a jury would find her.
"We did find this; this was with your wife when we found her," he continued, handing an empty envelope across the desk towards his Sergeant's outstretched hand. "I wonder if you recognize the writing?"
"No, Sir," Paul said after making careful note of the envelope. "It's postmarked Hastings," he observed aloud.
"Sent about a week ago," was all the confirmation that Mr. Foyle would offer.
"Was there no letter with it?"
"There wasn't."
"Could this be the reason she was killed?"
"Unfortunately we also found this," Mr. Foyle continued without answering, handing a large envelope across the desk. Dubiously, Paul pulled out the contents and examined them.
"This is my shirt," he said matter-of-factly.
"Taken from your house." Mr. Foyle's voice was perfectly neutral.
"Why?" Paul asked, but even as the words left his mouth, he glanced down and saw the fresh bloodstains on one of the cuffs.
"Well, why do you think?" Mr. Foyle parried, noticing the direction of his Sergeant's eyes.
"Is this where I'm supposed to say I cut myself shaving?" Paul inquired with an edge of sarcasm to his voice, putting the shirt away from him on the desk.
"Well I'm very glad you didn't." Now Mr. Foyle looked Paul straight in the eye. "Because it's not your blood, it's your wife's." Paul glanced back at his shirt on the desk, starting to feel sick.
"It's ridiculous!" he exclaimed, looking back at Mr. Foyle. "There must be a mistake." Mr. Foyle merely blinked at him inquiringly. "There's no explanation," Paul went on. Even as the words left his mouth, his sense of logic and police training over-rode his increasingly muddled thoughts. "Of course, that's not true. There can only be one explanation, can't there?" He took a deep breath as Mr. Foyle gave the tiniest of nods.
"Also went to the hotel where you and your wife were last seen. A few people there who…"
"Heard us arguing," Paul finished Mr. Foyle's sentence, hoping that by pre-empting the statement, he could forestall the inevitable direction he could see the conversation was taking.
"Well, 'arguing violently' was how it was described," Mr. Foyle countered.
"No. It…it was heated. It wasn't violent." Paul replayed his exchange with Jane back again in his mind. He knew that he hadn't shouted, hadn't cursed – though goodness knows it would have been a relief to have done so.
"Well whatever it was…" Mr. Foyle continued, "You threaten her?"
"No! Not in so many words." Did his vague phrases 'Stay away, or else' really qualify as threats?
"How many words do you need?"
"Sir, I don't deny the argument. I can't explain the shirt… What are you going to do?"
What DCS Foyle did was suspend Sergeant Milner from his duties. Which was exceedingly generous under the circumstances, Paul admitted to himself as he trudged home through the wintry streets. Any other suspect, under similar circumstances, would certainly have been spending the night in a cell.
...
As soon as she had finished work, Sam hurried to Paul's house. She made tea, turned on the wireless, and they sat together on the sofa in the sitting room, just as they had dozens of times in the past few months. Paul told her, haltingly, about his interview with Mr. Foyle and its repercussions.
"They found her blood on one of your shirts?" Sam sat straight up in astonishment.
"Yes." Paul leaned his head over the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Well, there can be only one explanation, then," Sam said with such briskly determined cheerfulness that Paul opened his eyes again, curious and irritated.
"If I killed her, you mean?"
"Paul, don't be ridiculous," Sam shot back with a touch of impatience. "I know you would never have done that, no matter what the provocation. I know it looks very bad," she continued, growing more serious and subdued, "But since you didn't kill her, the only other explanation is that you've been framed!"
"Framed?" He was too drained to be more than mildly incredulous. "By whom?"
"The real murderer, of course!" Sam exclaimed with an excited little bounce.
"Sam…" Paul groaned, amused skepticism flitting briefly across his face, "We've been taking in too many Jimmy Cagney thrillers lately." Now it was Sam's turn to take offense.
"You might listen to what I have to say before you dismiss it out of hand," she began indignantly. "Think about it, Paul. We don't know what enemies Jane may have made in Wales during the past two years. Suppose she really came back to Hastings to get away from someone and they followed her here. They saw your argument at the Spread Eagle and followed you when you left to see where you live. Then, they tracked down Jane and killed her. Scalp wounds bleed like billy-o, so it would be easy to collect a little of her blood. Then the killer waited outside your house the next morning until you left for work, broke in, and put some on your shirt. Now, is that really so very far-fetched, Darling?"
"I think it's rather unlikely to happen in real life."
"Anyway, I don't understand why I'm not a suspect."
"You?"
"Well, I had as much motive as you did for wanting Jane out of the way. And it would have been easy as anything for me to creep out of the house without Mrs. Lovell being any the wiser. I don't understand why Mr. Foyle hasn't questioned me!"
"Sam, don't talk like that!" To Sam's surprise, Paul sounded really angry. "Don't put yourself forward as a suspect to take any of the scrutiny off of me. Don't interfere with Mr. Foyle's investigation. He's doing exactly what he's supposed to be doing – following the evidence."
"But the evidence is clearly wrong," Sam protested.
"Then the investigation will prove that there's been some mistake," declared Paul, not entirely able to conceal the bleakness creeping over him.
"But Mr. Foyle knows you. I'm sure he knows you couldn't have done this," Sam argued doggedly.
"It doesn't matter that we work together," Paul retorted with impatience. "That's not what this is about. If the situation were reversed, I hope I would be conducting myself the same way. Just let Mr. Foyle get on with things. Don't badger him with theories unless he asks you for them first. Just keep well out of it. I'm not going to let you get dragged into this." This was as bad as any of his recent nightmares about Sam's welfare. No, this was much worse. This was happening. Jane was dead. He was the principal suspect. Paul could envisage a trial and the notoriety that it might entail. He could see headlines screaming from newspapers, calling Sam his mistress, inventing lurid details about their relationship, and accusing her of having had a hand in Jane's death.
"I'm sorry, Paul." Sam's voice sounded uncharacteristically small and abashed. He focused his gaze on her face. She looked close to tears.
Paul shook himself mentally, and made an effort to reign in his morbid imagination. Things weren't going to come to such a pass. He hadn't done anything to Jane, and the investigation would bring that to light eventually. The last thing he had meant to do was to upset Sam like this. He reached out and took hold of her hand.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he said more calmly, "I know you mean well. It's just been a very long day."
"It's been a horrible day," Sam added, her voice becoming calm and steady once more.
"I won't argue with you there," Paul replied, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead.
"Do you want an aspirin?" Sam queried sympathetically. Paul looked as though his head must be absolutely splitting. He exhaled slowly, then nodded his head, eyes still closed. Sam brought the bottle down from the bathroom and gave Paul a couple of pills, which he washed down with the remnants of his tea.
"Thanks, Sam."
"Is there anything else I can get for you before I go home?"
"Maybe something to take my mind off of things?" Paul managed to manufacture a mischievous smile, though it was more strained than usual. "I don't suppose you have a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo?"
"You silly man. Here's something I think you'll like better." Sam leaned forward and kissed Paul full on the mouth, her hands braced on his shoulders. A few moments passed before she felt his lips begin to respond to hers. Next, she expected to feel his arms encircle her, but his hands simply came to rest on her shoulders. Sam broke the kiss and looked at Paul searchingly. There was something unreadable in his features, a hesitancy that she hadn't seen since the beginning of their relationship.
"I'm tired," he said, leaning his forehead against hers for a minute
And worried sick, Sam added to herself as Paul sat back against the sofa, away from her. And trying to protect me.
"Everything will look brighter in the morning," she said gently, taking his hand and rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. "You'll see. It's just like you said earlier. Mr. Foyle will sort everything out."
...
If any ingenious theories had occurred to Mr. Foyle overnight, he didn't share any of them with Sam when she picked him up the next day. She told herself to be patient, but the whole situation was becoming absolutely unbearable. She prowled the corridors restlessly, pausing to glance at the turkey sitting in the evidence room. Even the sight of all that good food going to waste quite failed to capture her attention for more than a minute or two. As she was about to move along the corridor, Constable Peters stopped her to offer a few unctuous words of sympathy about Paul. For some reason, his words grated on her nerves and she had to fight the urge to snub him. Finally she wandered into the area behind the front desk.
"Everything all right, Miss Stewart?" Sergeant Brooke inquired kindly.
"Yes, thank you, Brookie," she began wearily, then decided to opt for the truth instead of polite stoicism. "No, not really." Sam sat down heavily in a nearby chair. "It really is a bleak midwinter, isn't it?" she sighed.
"Well we've just had some news that might cheer you up," Brookie announced with the suppressed glee of someone who knows that he is about to impart glad tidings. "There was a witness."
"What?" Sam leaned forward, Brookie's words making her feel hot and cold at the same time. Oh thank Heavens…
"When Mrs. Milner was killed. There was someone there. And he's just been on the blower."
While Sergeant Brooke headed for Mr. Foyle's office to inform him of the new development, Sam flew to get the Wolseley, and already had it parked in front of the station's steps when Mr. Foyle emerged, buttoning his coat. She had to force herself to obey the speed limit as she drove, though every nerve was straining to speed towards their destination. Then, of course, when Mr. Foyle had found his witness and began interrogating him, all that Sam could do was to sit in the car, reading the paper, and feeling rather useless.
When Mr. Foyle returned to the car, he made a quip about her pre-occupation with her reading material and Sam pointed out the article she had been reading about the dead munitions worker, Grace Philips. The article included a picture of the poor girl, and something about it seemed to arrest Mr. Foyle's attention. He stared at Grace's photograph for several long moments, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he folded up the newspaper again and directed Sam to the hairdressers on the high street. He went inside by himself while Sam stayed in the car, staring after him and wondering what he hoped to discover.
Sam could sense something different about Mr. Foyle when he returned to the Wolseley and they began driving back to the munitions factory where Grace had worked.
"You've found something, haven't you, Sir?" she queried, trying not to bounce too much with pleased impatience. Of course Mr. Foyle would sort it all out somehow.
"Have I?" He turned the question back around to her, revealing nothing. But this time Sam was determined to winkle out something if she could.
"I can always tell," she boasted, "You have a look. A sort of 'cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.' That's Julius Ceasar." But of course, Mr. Foyle wouldn't be drawn. Instead, he corrected her quotation; apparently Shakespeare had written 'let slip the dogs of war.' Before Sam could try to get back to the subject of Paul's innocence from another angle, the Wolseley broke down in a cloud of hissing steam. Blasted radiator.
So Mr. Foyle had elected to walk the rest of the way to the munitions factory, while Sam attempted to roll the car along to the nearest garage.
...
Sergeant Brooke had telephoned Paul at home to inform him that a witness to Jane's murder had come forward and asking him, with Mr. Foyle's compliments, to come in to the station for an identity parade. Paul walked over, uncomfortably self-conscious that everyone he passed in the street must know about the events that had been buffeting his life for the past few days, though he told himself that this couldn't be the case. The feeling intensified ten-fold when Paul entered the station and knew that this was not a projection of his own sensitivities, but a simple statement of fact.
Mr. Foyle met him and ushered him to a room at the back of the station where four other men, all variations of the physical description "tall, thin, and thrity-ish" were milling around, dressed, like him, in coats, hats, and gloves. Whilst Paul recognized one or two of the other men from around the station, he didn't know where the others had been dug up from. Then Mr. Foyle left to take care of something or other.
Eventually, they all formed a line and were escorted into a courtyard at the back of the station. Other officers without pressing duties were loitering in hopes of catching the unfolding drama. Paul caught sight of Constable Peters talking to an elderly man whom Paul didn't recognize; he must be the witness. Peters seemed to be giving the man instructions on how the identity parade worked.
Paul and the other men came to a stop and stood still. He stared straight ahead, doing his best to fill his mind with memories of when he had participated in other identity parades, while he had been a trainee and then, later, a constable, and the more senior officers had needed men to swell the line-up. A strange, almost dissociative serenity settled over his mind, which seemed to drive out trepidation and anxiety.
It was through this quasi-dreamlike state that Paul's ears registered the hoarse whisper with which the witness informed Mr. Foyle that this man – indicating Paul – was the man he had seen following Jane Milner moments before she was attacked. Paul felt his stomach clench, but all of his other senses seemed to have become strangely muted.
The courtyard emptied of people. The witness was escorted inside; the other men from the identity parade filed out; the other officers went back to their official duties. Finally, the only two people in the small, enclosed space were himself and Mr. Foyle, who was regarding him with a wry, speculative twist to his face.
"He couldn't have seen me, Sir. I wasn't there." The utter calm that had suffused his mind a few minutes earlier still held sway; his words were a simple statement of fact. Mr. Foyle gave a little nod, but didn't say anything. Moments later, two uniformed officers led Paul inside the station and escorted him to a cell.
...
Paul sat alone in his cell, still numb with shock. He didn't know how long he had been sitting, or how much longer this blessed numbness would persist. I'm going to swing for this, he thought with a kind of torpid fatalism, and I know I didn't do it. The sound of footsteps and rattling keys made Paul look around, and through the bars of the cell, he saw Sergeant Brooke coming towards him.
"I have very good news for you, Mr. Milner," Sergeant Brooke announced, beaming, as he unlocked and opened the cell door, "You're cleared of all charges."
"I don't understand," Paul said blankly, his expression equally devoid of comprehension.
"Let's get you out of here, Mr. Milner," Brookie replied kindly, offering his hand to help the seated man to his feet, "Once you're settled back in your own office, I'll explain everything."
There was a waiting cup of tea steaming fragrantly on Paul's desk when the two men entered. He collapsed into his chair and stared at it. The numbness that had been supporting him for the last hour or so was beginning to wear off and his head was swimming from the succession of shocks that he was having to process.
"I would drink that right down, Mr. Milner," Sergeant Brooke advised, striving by the tone of his voice to avoid the impression that he was giving an order to a fellow Sergeant. "Two sugars," he added conspiratorially. Thankfully, Mr. Milner did as directed, though Brookie wished that he could have procured something stronger than tea; if ever he'd seen a man in need of a shot of something good and strong, then Mr. Milner was that man. But already, within a minute or two of downing the beverage, Brookie fancied that he looked less like death warmed up and more like a bloke with all his wits about him.
"Sergeant," Mr. Milner spoke at last, "What in Heaven's name is going on?" Now he sounded thoroughly exasperated, as well he might, given the events of the last few days.
"It seems that it's like this," Brookie began, relating the facts as they had been explained to him by Mr. Foyle, "Constable Peters was miffed at you for putting him on report for backchat and taking food from Mr. Tremayne's restaurant. He was one of the officers what brought in Mrs. Milner's body. And one of the ones that searched your house. He nicked some of her blood and…put it on your shirt. To get his own back.
"Peters says," Sergeant Brooke crammed a shedload of contempt into a single syllable, "that he wouldn't have let it go so far as the hanging, that he just wanted to see you squirm. I don't know how Mr. Foyle cottoned on to Peters, but he's put paid to his antics, sure as you and I are sitting here."
Brookie fell silent, watching Mr. Milner quietly digest all of this information, and his hackles rose with renewed indignation. In his career thus far, Brookie had worked under and alongside a fair number of officers, and Mr. Milner was one of the good sort. He didn't throw his weight around more than was demanded, and he got on with his own work. He wasn't the type to take offence easily (if he had been moved to put Peters on report, whatever that miserable little bastard had said must have really crossed the line). He was more well-spoken than most of the lads, a bit more of a gent, but he wasn't snobbish about it. The detective branch was the proper sort of place for a decent bloke like that to end up. Peters had a hell of a lot to answer for, with the evidence that he'd planted against Mr. Milner, and if he didn't look sharp about him, he was going to have Brookie's fist to answer to.
"Mr. Foyle would have told you himself," Brookie finished up, "But just as soon as he'd finished dealing with Peters, Miss Stewart come running in all out of breath about some nutter trying to do her in."
"What!?" Panic took possession of Mr. Milner's features, and Brookie silently cursed himself and his big mouth. He knew that Milner and Miss Stewart had been seeing each other for well over six months. They never got up to anything at the station, but it was clear to anyone with a pair of eyes that Mr. Milner worshiped the ground that Miss Stewart trod on. The poor bloke was likely to go completely off his rocker if he thought that Miss Stewart was in any danger.
"She was all right, Mr. Milner, not a scratch on her," Brookie hastened with his reassurance. "Just terrible out of breath from running. Seems that Mr. Foyle's car broke down and Miss Stewart managed to get it to a garage. She said she was with the police so they'd hop to it with repairs, but the young man that she spoke to got the wind up and imagined she was spying on him. She said that he stabbed another bloke that helped her get away and after that she legged it back here like the clappers."
"Who was he? Why did he 'get the wind up'?"
"Name's Harry Osbourne. He was keeping company with that girl from the munitions factory that blew herself up. Someone tipped off Mr. Foyle that there was something queer about her death and if you ask me it's looking like this bloke must have something heavy on his conscience if he went after Miss Stewart. She said he was completely barmy."
"And where is she now?"
"Miss Stewart? She and Mr. Foyle left straightaway to find the garage," Brookie replied, "'Fore they left, Mr. Foyle told me to see to you. And here we are."
"Thank you very much, Sergeant," Paul said, extending his hand across the desk towards Brooke, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done."
"Don't mention it, Mr. Milner," Brookie said, giving the other man's hand a hearty shake, "I said to Mr. Foyle, there had to be some mistake. And so there was."
Just then, a constable knocked on the door. A call had just come in from a solicitor's office, complaining of suspicious banging noises coming from the bank on the other side of their wall. Paul collected a constable to drive him over, leaving Sergeant Brooke manning the front desk as usual.
...
As Sam parked the Wolseley in front of the row of shops, she saw Paul emerge from another police car. It took every ounce of self-control for her not to run over and throw her arms around him in celebratory delight. Instead, she had to settle for smiling even more brightly than usual, waiting impatiently while Paul and Mr. Foyle conferred about the likelihood that Harry Osbourne was somewhere in the bowels of the bank, quite possibly with Mrs. Summersgill the hairdresser as a hostage. Mr. Foyle elected to enter the hairdressers' to assess the situation, and once he was gone, Sam allowed herself to clutch the sleeve of Paul's coat.
"I was right! You were being framed!" she exclaimed delightedly.
"But not by the murderer."
"Well, no, I suppose not. That horrid, horrid man." Sam almost wished that she could see Peters just once more so that he could feel the back of her hand. "I can't believe that he could do something so despicable," she added, swelling with righteous indignation.
Paul shrugged, but refrained from commenting. He and Constable Peters had gone through training together, and Paul remembered quite a number of practical jokes that Peters had performed in those early years. They had stopped seeming funny to Paul quite quickly. On one occasion, Paul had given Peters what he had thought was a friendly recommendation not to overtax the tolerance of their fellow recruits or their instructors with his antics. For his pains, Paul had been informed derisively that he couldn't take a joke, and Peters had filled Paul's boots with shaving cream a few days later. Paul had joined in the general laughter that had echoed the room even though he'd been angry, because he'd sensed that Peters would have been encouraged by his displeasure rather than otherwise. Paul had simply withdrawn himself from Peters' company after that, thereby earning himself a somewhat exaggerated reputation for aloofness and solemnity. He wasn't surprised that Peters had never made Sergeant.
"Mr. Foyle told me what happened…about the identity parade," Sam continued, gazing intently up into Paul's face, "It must have been too frightful for words. Are you all right now?"
"I will be," Paul replied. The events of the past couple of days were starting to catch up with him. He felt a kind of dull rage simmering in his chest when he thought of the torture that Peters had inflicted on him. Paul took a deep breath and brought his focus back to Sam.
"What's this I hear from Sergeant Brooke about you being chased through the streets of Hastings by some mad killer?" he asked, his eyes examining her face with a concern that belied the light tone of his words.
"He didn't chase me through the streets. I don't know if he tried to follow me; I never looked back. It was terrifying; he was mad as a hatter. I'm sure I've never run like that before in my life and I most sincerely hope that I'll never have to run like that again. But I'm right as rain," Sam hastened to add, "And everything has been happening all at once."
Turning her attention to getting Paul up to speed, Sam began expounding on the new details of the case, which Mr. Foyle had been willing enough to impart now that Paul's innocence had been firmly established. The DCS had gone back to the hairdressers earlier in the morning because he realized that he'd seen Grace's picture hanging there, along with Jane Milner's. Mrs. Summersgill had confirmed that the two women were close friends and identified the empty envelope found with Jane's body as addressed in Grace's handwriting. And it seemed increasingly likely that whatever had been in Grace's letter to Jane concerned Harry Osbourne, who had apparently aspired to robbing banks. "Mr. Foyle told me that Harry was fascinated with American gangster films. He probably thought they would make one about him, starring Jimmy Cagney and all that."
"Probably," Paul agreed somewhat absently. If Mr. Foyle was on the right track, then Harry had killed Jane because Grace had told her too much…
"Who do you think they would get to play us?" Sam asked after a minute or two of silence. After the sort of day he had already endured, Paul looked like he could do with a distraction.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, this whole terrible week; it would make a very good thriller."
Paul made a wry face. That was an understatement. "Who would you get to play me?" he enquired, curiosity piqued despite himself.
"Oh, Jimmy Stewart, absolutely," Sam replied immediately, suggesting that she had already given the matter some serious study, "The only pity is that he's rubbish with accents. I suppose the film people in Hollywood would change the setting from Hastings to somewhere in America. Now, who do you think should play me?"
"Hmmm…" Paul considered the films that he'd seen in the past few years. If Sam thought that he ought to be played by Jimmy Stewart… "How would you like to be played by Jean Arthur?" he ventured at last. Paul thought that he remembered Miss Arthur's characters being strong-willed, and kind, and funny. That sounded about right for Sam.
"Oooh, yes!" Sam exclaimed with delight, "They were lovely together in 'Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.' Perfect."
"Who do you think should play Mr. Foyle?" Paul's question stumped them both into temporary silence as they tried to contemplate a film star playing their boss. "What about that chap from 'Random Harvest' – Ronald Coleman?" Paul suggested after much cogitation.
"Maybe…" Sam pondered. The age was right and the gravitas, but Coleman didn't quite capture Mr. Foyle's lively intellect or his sometimes unexpected sense of humor… "Oh, what about Spencer Tracy?" she exclaimed suddenly and was rewarded by seeing Paul's face break out in its first genuine smile in nearly three days.
"That makes it a completely American cast, but that's probably just as well," he said, "Then when the story does get filmed, no one will know it's really us."
Sam sighed with a mingled combination of weariness and contentment. She knew better than to hope that Paul would kiss her while they were both on duty and surrounded by a large group of constables, but she reached out and gave his hand a warm squeeze, which she felt him return after a moment.
"I'm so glad this is all nearly over," she said.
"Yes," Paul agreed, though Sam thought that he sounded lost in thought and rather far away, "Nearly over."
More Author's Notes: I have been an enormous Jimmy Stewart fan since I was in college. My second favorite scene in "Bleak Midwinter" is when Hilda is telling Foyle that Harry Osbourne hero-worshipped an American filmstar named Jimmy something. "Stewart?" queries Foyle; "Cagney!" exclaims Hilda. Gives me the giggles every time.
As much as I love Stewart's body of work, however, he really couldn't sound like anything but a nice Mid-Western boy. In 1940, he did a film called "The Shop Around the Corner," which is set in Hungary. The rest of the cast are either European or making a passable effort to fake something. Not Stewart. It's still a sweet film, though.