Disclaimer: First to last and always. "Foyle's War" belongs to Anthony Horowitz, not to me.

Author's Notes: And thus we come to the final installment of this epic fic. I am absolutely elated and a little sad at the same time. When I began writing this back in November, 2013, I thought it would be my NaNoWriMo project. Instead, it took a little more than two years, although to be fair I was interrupted by both a move and a baby, as well as the constant, messy reality that is life.

But now we have come to the end at last. The end of this particular fic, though I hope there will be more in the future. My brain seems to be teeming with short stories about Sam, Paul, and their children. Hopefully some of them will end up written.

Thank you to everyone who left reviews. It's been so nice getting to know all of you. A particular shout-out to my number-one-fan, KatieRose.

And finally, a last, heartfelt thank you to my Beta, GiulliettaC. You have been incredibly generous with your time, even though there are so many other claims upon it. I really, really appreciate it.

Late June, 1945

By some small miracle, when Paul finally dragged himself home at the end of the day, he found Sam awake and energetic, seeing to dinner while Christine slept peacefully in her pram.

"Christine's been an absolute angel today," Sam gushed sotto voce as she flitted about the kitchen, laying the table. "I even got a bit of a lie down myself after lunch. Isn't this too marvellous?" Sam beamed as they both sat down at the table, "We get to be people rather than parents for a half an hour. Now, tell me all about your day."

Paul leaned back in his chair and glanced down at his plate. The feeling of unease that had dogged him ever since his encounter with Mr. Foyle settled solidly in his stomach and took away his appetite. He didn't want to talk about what had happened. Or think about it. It seemed, though, that the harder he tried to push it away from his thoughts, the more insistent the memories became. He should probably talk it through with Sam, he finally admitted to himself. She might be able to help him sort everything out. He glanced back up at his wife and found her scrutinizing him curiously.

"Is something wrong, Darling?" she asked solicitously.

"There was a murder some time yesterday afternoon," Paul began. He described the house, Sir Leonard's studio, Miss Robbins, and the missing Russian. Sam peppered him with breathless, delighted questions, and Paul felt himself relax slightly as the narrative spun itself.

"Then Mr. Foyle turned up."

"No, really?" Sam exclaimed, her face lighting up, "What did he want? Are you going to be working together? It would be just like old times!"

"We're not working together," Paul replied more vehemently than he had intended, his tone impatient and bordering on truculent. "He doesn't have any jurisdiction in Brighton." Sam studied her husband for a long moment, eyes narrowing.

"What happened, then?"

"He said that he needed information about one of Vladschenko's associates," Paul began tersely, "He talked to the housekeeper, then he left."

"There must be more to it than that," Sam prodded after a moment's silence. "I can see that something's bothering you." Little by little, eyes fixed on his dinner plate, Paul went into the details of his encounter with Mr. Foyle. When he finished speaking, he looked up, expecting to meet with his wife's usual ready sympathy.

Instead, Sam looked positively thunderstruck.

"Paul," she began in flat disbelief, "Have you gone completely mad?"

"What are you talking about?" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling himself on the defensive.

"You told him that he was out of his jurisdiction?" Sam's tone grew more horrified and indignant with each sentence. "You told him to go away? How could you have been so unspeakably rude? To Mr. Foyle of all people?"

"He's not God Almighty, Sam."

"He's Christine's godfather," his wife retorted sharply. "We both worked for him for nearly five years. We owe him nearly everything."

"I haven't forgotten what we owe him. But he was pushing in on my case."

"I'm sure he was doing no such thing. What did he say?

"He said that he needed to speak with Vladchenko – who is my principal suspect." Honesty compelled Paul to add, "He did say it was on a matter unrelated to the murder."

"When, in all our years of working together, have you ever known Mr. Foyle to appropriate another detective's case? I do not understand you at all, Paul. Even if we didn't owe Mr. Foyle everything we do, any inspector would still owe a DCS common courtesy. What's this really about?"

Paul let out a long breath. "I wanted to solve this case on my own. Without any help."

"And do you suppose Mr. Foyle never had help on a case in his entire career? Ever?"

"Of course not. But that's not the point."

"Well what in heaven's name is the point then?" Sam sounded thoroughly exasperated.

"I have to solve a case on my own eventually. I'm not going to be tied to Mr. Foyle's apron strings for the rest of my life. I'm not his sergeant anymore. I can't be expected to be at his beck and call any longer. And I won't."

With all the suddenness of an air-raid siren blasting across the quiet of the night, Christine awoke screaming, causing both of her parents to jump in their chairs.

"Honestly," Sam exclaimed, abandoning the remaining food on her plate and pushing back her chair with a loud scrape, "If this is how you're going to behave, I wish you had stayed Mr. Foyle's sergeant." Without pausing to see Paul's reaction to her parting shot, Sam scooped up her Christine, huffed out of the kitchen, and clumped angrily up the stairs.

...

Paul sat alone at the deserted table for a few minutes, listening to Sam tending Christine, before finally hauling himself to his feet. When he had sat down to dinner, his appetite had been delicate; now it was gone completely. He put the kettle on, assuming that once Christine had been given a fresh nappy, Sam would want to give her a bottle. Then he retreated to the sitting room, giving vent to all the combined frustrations of the day by shutting the sitting room door with a loud bang and flinging himself into an armchair near the window.

Paul looked out into the street, the rows of windows in the houses opposite, lights no longer obscured by blackout curtains. But he took no real notice of the people walking along the pavement or the cars trundling down the street. He could feel the lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. The events of the day were ricocheting around his brain, now joined by Sam's sharp words of criticism. This was the first real row he and Sam had ever had.

At first he allowed himself to simply fume. Paul was annoyed that Sam hadn't been more supportive. She was usually so in tune with the way he thought about things, especially as related to his work. It was jarring to find that there were subjects on which they were not in agreement, and galling that she should side with Mr. Foyle rather than her own husband.

But as he sat in the hushed sitting room, calm self-awareness settled on him, and Paul found that the lion's share of irritation lay with himself. He knew that his encounter with Mr. Foyle at Redwood Lodge could have played out very differently. That he – Detective Inspector Paul Milner – could have behaved otherwise. If – instead of Mr. Foyle – it had been some DCS from London, a stranger with whom he shared no history, Paul knew that he would have acted very differently.

As Paul sat, watching the light fade, his memories seemed to grow sharper. With a dull, dawning horror, he began to grasp just how inexcusably rude he had been to his old boss, though that had truly never been his intention. An insistent litany began in his head, listing all of the ways in which Paul was indebted to Mr. Foyle.

The DCS had sought Paul out in the immediate aftermath of Trondheim, offering him a job and self-respect just when Paul himself couldn't see any real future for a former detective sergeant with only one leg. Mr. Foyle had saved both his life and reputation when Constable Peters had framed Paul for Jane's murder. It was the DCS who had set Paul's promotion in motion, not six months ago. Each of these items alone were reason enough for anyone's indefinite gratitude. Added to all this were the myriad of small things that had made working with Mr. Foyle such a pleasure; the frequent signs of the DCS's confidence, trust, and respect.

No wonder Mr. Foyle had been so put out by Paul's behaviour today. The longer he thought about it, the worse it looked. And the worse he felt. He wished the armchair would open up and swallow him whole.

...

Sam seethed with inward indignation as she wrestled a squirming, squalling Christine into a fresh nappy. It was all very well for Paul to want to prove himself. She understood that easily enough. She could even understand that Paul wanted to be independent of Mr. Foyle. It couldn't be easy, always trying to keep up with an intellect as intuitively brilliant as the one the DCS possessed. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, Paul had felt as though he were engaged in a competition that he couldn't hope to win. And with the new promotion, he had been looking forward to emerging from behind Mr. Foyle's shadow.

"And that's all well and good, Christine," Sam soliloquized to her daughter as she re-entered the kitchen, and began preparing Christine a bottle. "But," she added emphatically as she shifted the baby onto one arm and continued preparations with her other, "There's still a big difference between independence and rudeness. I really thought your Daddy was clever enough to know that."

When Sam saw that Paul had put the kettle on after she'd stormed out of the kitchen, she sighed. Despite her anger over how he had treated Mr. Foyle, she was touched by her husband's consideration, even in the midst of their first real row. "We'll have to thank Daddy the next time we see him, Darling."

As she watched Christine sucking lustily away at her bottle, Sam wondered where Paul had taken himself. When Christine had finished her bottle, she heaved them both out of the chair and walked down the hall towards the front door. Paul's hat was still on its hook, so he was obviously still in the house, probably holed up in the sitting room. She listened at the keyhole for a minute, then opened the door cautiously. Her eyes fell on Paul almost immediately. He was sitting near the window, hunched over, elbows on knees, his forehead resting against his palms, the very picture of misery. It called to her mind the way Paul had looked the night that he had finally proposed, when he had been awash in spiritual agony at the idea of showing Sam his prosthetic leg, in case she would reject his offer of marriage after seeing it.

Christine burped, then squealed happily at the sensation and Paul raised his head, looking in their direction. For a long moment he and Sam held each other's gaze in weighty silence. Paul was the first to speak, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.

"My first really big case. And I've made such a cock up of everything."

"Oh, Paul," Sam said gently, her heart softening at the sight of her husband's evident distress. She walked across the room and stopped in front of him. "You haven't arrested anyone yet, have you?" He shook his head briefly, as though afraid to speak. "Then you haven't…mucked up your case unless you arrest the wrong person. That's what happens when people rush to conclusions and fail to look at all the facts carefully. But I know you. I know how you work. I've watched you investigate other cases. You're thorough. You're careful. Go about this investigation your own way and I'm sure you'll solve this in the end." She held out Christine with the air of one making a peace offering. Paul reached out gingerly and took the baby into his arms. Sam knelt down next to his chair and they both watched as Christine's face contorted into a huge yawn, then something that looked exactly like a smile, though they both understood that when babies were still this small, a smile really meant the baby had wind.

"Thank you for putting the kettle on while I was upstairs," Sam told him gently.

"I'm glad if it was helpful." They both lapsed into silence and gazed at Christine. Paul stroked the dark, downy fuzz that covered her head, then the velvet smoothness of her cheek. She was so incredibly soft, and sweet, and innocent.

Sam was the first to break the silence, her voice still gentle but unwavering in its resolve as well. "You owe Mr. Foyle an apology, Paul. And you absolutely must make things right with him. As soon as ever you can. You can't simply leave this to sort itself out." She heard Paul sigh unhappily.

"I know," was all he said aloud, "I will."

...

Christine slept peacefully that night, only waking for her regular feedings and then falling promptly asleep once more. Paul and Sam ate their breakfast together, but it was a rather subdued meal. The previous evening had ended amicably enough, but Paul didn't feel quite certain whether or not he had been readmitted to Sam's good graces. As he prepared to leave the house, however, she set his mind at rest by joining him at the door and beginning her usual fussing over his suit and tie.

"There now," she said, her tone decisive and her smile genuine, "You still look every inch the Detective Inspector. Now off you go, and remember to act like one."

...

It was a day crowded with interviews. It became clear extremely quickly that there were a plethora of suspects with equal opportunity and far better motives for murdering Sir Leonard than the missing Nikolai Vladschenko, including the painter's estranged son. The two biggest counts against Nikolai were his nationality and his flight, which had been confirmed by a witness at the Brighton station who had seen Nikolai board a train after the time of the murder. But according to both Miss Robbins and Sir Leonard's solicitor, Nikolai had the most to lose if anything happened to Sir Leonard. The artist had been the only thing standing between Nikolai and forced repatriation to Russia. He had even talked to his solicitor about adopting the young Russian.

This in turn suggested that Nikolai's disappearance from Redwood Lodge might have other explanations. He might even have witnessed Sir Leonard's death and gone into hiding for fear of being blamed. Perhaps he was a target himself. The longer Paul thought about the whole tangled mess, the more certain he became that Nikolai Vladschenko was the key to unravelling everything.

But despite this new train of thought, none of Paul's efforts to locate Nikolai bore any fruit. His other suspects and the information pertaining to their alibis failed to lead him anywhere either.

It was at this juncture that he received a telephone call from Mr. Foyle, who kept their conversation short and to the point. He had located Vladschenko in London. The lad had information pertinent to the investigation into Sir Leonard's death. They would both be returning to Brighton on the afternoon train, at which time Paul could hear Nikolai's story himself.

Paul ordered a car to meet Mr. Foyle and Nikolai at the station. Despite his imperfect English, Vladschenko's story was clear and straightforward. He had, as Paul deduced, witnessed Sir Leonard's murder. In fact, Sir Leonard had been killed accidentally in trying to prevent the military police from taking Nikolai into custody, to send him back to Russia.

Leaving Vladschenko at the station to give a formal statement, Paul and Mr. Foyle both went to the barracks at the nearby POW camp. When confronted by the two detectives, the captain responsible for Sir Leonard's death admitted what he had done immediately. He was deeply embarrassed and regretful of his actions, which had included taking Sir Leonard's wallet and making a mess of the house in order to throw suspicion on Nikolai.

It was at this juncture that Mr. Foyle came to Paul's aid yet again. Paul's initial understanding of the law regarding the situation in question was that a soldier committing a crime of this nature, in the course of carrying out an official duty, was subject to a court martial rather than arrest by civilian authorities. No sooner were the words out of his mouth and he was turning to leave when Mr. Foyle stopped him, quietly informing Paul that since the victim – Sir Leonard – was a civilian, jurisdiction fell to the police rather than the military.

Feeling decidedly foolish, but swallowing his pride, Paul immediately turned back to Captain Bradley and placed him formally under arrest for the murder of Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones. When he had finished with the Captain and looked around, Paul just caught a glimpse of Mr. Foyle exiting the building and hurried after him. There was still some very important unfinished business between them.

He caught up with the DCS just outside the building, about to descend the steps to the pavement below.

"Sir…," Paul called, and Mr. Foyle stopped and turned towards him. "Thank you."

"Well, your first one," Mr. Foyle replied with studied neutrality, "Glad to be able to help." The DCS began moving to leave; Paul knew that he mustn't let this opportunity go by.

"Sir?" he said again, and Mr. Foyle stopped, turned, and stood still, allowing Paul to close the distance between them. "Perhaps I owe you an apology," he began hesitantly, unsure how to begin, "That day at Redwood Lodge." Mr. Foyle, of course, made short shrift of his former Sergeant's attempt at beating around the bush.

"Well, frankly," he replied, voice now sharp with anger and disappointment, "I'd say there was no 'perhaps' about it. You were rude, uncooperative, you defended a junior officer who was disrespectful, and I'd say that's a poor return for the five years we spent together. But if that's how you want to handle yourself now you're in Brighton, it's entirely up to you."

Paul hadn't been on the receiving end of a dressing down from Mr. Foyle – and such a well-deserved one at that – since he'd fallen briefly under the spell of the Fascist Guy Spencer right after coming home from Norway. He winced inwardly at each charge, so entirely warranted, and did his best to accept his just deserts manfully.

"I'm sorry," he said, eschewing further verbal embellishments in favour of simple sincerity.

Mr. Foyle subjected Paul to a long, scrutinizing stare. "I hope so."

...

August, 1945

After making such an ass of himself the last time their paths had crossed, Paul was rather dreading his next encounter with Mr. Foyle. When they finally met up again, about six weeks later, it turned out to be remarkably painless. Paul hadn't been entirely certain at first that all was truly forgiven, but Mr. Foyle's manner made it clear that he bore no grudges.

In point of fact, Mr. Foyle was extremely cordial and Paul matched his demeanour to that of his former boss. It appeared that once again they were pursuing separate investigations that overlapped; in Paul's case the strangulation of a young woman named Agnes Littleton and in Mr. Foyle's case, the treason trial of a young man named James Devereaux. When Mr. Foyle had interviewed the Devereaux's retired housekeeper, Mrs. Ramsay – who happened to be Agnes' landlady – the woman had given Mr. Foyle a letter addressed to Agnes that she had found in the young woman's laundry.

Paul appreciated Mr. Foyle's courtesy in bringing the letter to his attention – he couldn't imagine how Perkins could have missed it when they had originally searched Agnes' room and belongings. He was going to have to have a word with the Detective Constable about this oversight. As they looked over the letter together and discussed its contents, somehow or other Paul felt more at ease, as though he and the DCS were on a more level footing than simply a subordinate and his superior officer. Paul wondered, with an inward stab of guilt, how much of this was simply a question of his own re-aligned state of mind.

In addition to making sure that Paul saw the letter, Mr. Foyle had also asked for some help in finding the particulars of a decades-old case from the Brighton area involving stolen jewelry. This time, Paul had been happy to accede to the request.

"So what did he want?" Perkins asked once Mr. Foyle had gone.

"You searched the house and the room, Agnes' room?" Paul retorted, ignoring the question and instead giving full vent to his irritation at his junior officer.

"Yes," came the confused reply.

"So, why didn't you find the letter?"

"Which letter?" Perkins bleated in bewilderment, not entirely sure what to make of his superior officer's sudden displeasure.

"The letter from Jack, Agnes' young man."

"I never saw any letter."

"Exactly, constable. But if you'd been doing your job properly, you'd have found it."

Perkins digested this bit of intelligence for a moment, then put two and two together. "So, has he got it?" he asked.

"If you mean DCS Foyle, yes, he's got it. And he's going to keep it a while longer. Mr. Foyle is helping us with our enquiries."

"I thought he'd left the police."

Paul had heard this recent rumour as well, which did make Mr. Foyle's involvement in this or any other investigation rather odd. But he was damned if he was going to cut Perkins' insolence any slack because of it. "Constable," he demanded with some acerbity, "if you and I are going to work together, do you think you could try showing just a modicum of respect?"

"Of course, Sir," Perkins responded obediently. Then, after a moment, he added, "For you or for him?"

Paul kept his temper with difficulty. Replacing a junior officer was not as simple as ordering a pound of potatoes, particularly when he himself was such a newly minted inspector. They needed to be able to rub along together. Paul counted to ten in his head slowly.

"Everyone," he finally growled, then cleared his throat and spoke in a calmer, more measured tone, "If you want to get anywhere is this job, Perkins, you show respect for everyone." That had always been the way Mr. Foyle did things. They drove in silence until they reached the Brighton station.

"Anything else, Sir?" Perkins asked carefully once the car was parked.

"Yes, there is." Paul allowed himself a small, inward grin. "I need you to do some hunting in Records for an old case. And this time I expect you to leave no stone unturned."

...

For the second time in as many months, it was Mr. Foyle who discovered the solution to Paul's investigation. The former DCS served up Agnes Littleton's murderer as though on a silver salver. All that Paul ended up doing was making the arrest; the man in question admitted his guilt as soon as he had been charged. In addition to all of this, Mr. Foyle had uncovered a second murder, decades-old, which he promptly and generously handed over to Inspector Milner.

"Thank you once again, Sir," Paul offered gratefully.

They stood together on the immaculate lawn in front of an enormous house whose aspect spoke of wealth and privilege, watching as its proprietor was escorted to a car by a pair of uniformed constables.

"Not at all. Thank you."

Perkins had actually managed to uncover the information that Mr. Foyle had been hoping to find.

"Well I can't take the credit for the arrest."

"I don't see why not." They were both quiet for a moment.

"So, this is goodbye," Paul said at last, breaking the silence. The rumours were true; DCS Foyle had finally, officially retired from the Hastings constabulary. Apparently his immediate plans were to travel to America for an indefinite period.

"Yeah, it looks like it," Mr. Foyle replied with genial good humour, "You're on your own now."

"He's got me, Sir," Perkins interposed cheerfully before Paul could reply.

"Precisely," Mr. Foyle retorted with a twinkle in his eyes. Ignoring Perkins' briefly crestfallen aspect, the older man turned and offered Paul his hand, and the two men shook. "Good luck," he added, then all three men climbed into their own cars and began driving their separate ways.

Paul followed Mr. Foyle's car with his eyes for several long moments, still grinning in appreciation at the quip made at his junior's expense. On my own… He repeated the words in his head, weighing their meaning, and briefly savouring the empowerment and responsibility they contained.

When Paul had begun his duties as detective inspector two months ago, he had wanted to do so as his own man, with no outside help or influences. When he and Mr. Foyle had crossed paths over the murder of Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones, Paul had made an idiot of himself trying to put distance between them. He understood now what an ill-judged notion that had been. The years he had spent working with Mr. Foyle, learning from him, had left an indelible mark. The fact was, that a part of Mr. Foyle – his scrupulous sense of justice, his respect for the humanity in everyone that he encountered – would always reside in Paul's brain somewhere, lending wisdom to the unfolding of future investigations and keeping him up to the mark. He would never really be alone. And there was great comfort in that thought.

...

There was a spring in his step as Paul walked home that evening. He was looking forward to telling Sam about his day, and could anticipate her excitement over the news of the two arrests. There was no doubt in his mind that she would be agog to hear all he could tell her about Mr. Foyle and his anticipated travels. Sam's enthusiasm was infectious, even in his imagination, and he quickened his pace as their home came into view.

"Paul, darling, is that you?" he heard Sam call out as he opened and closed the front door. "Come in the kitchen and tell me about your day – has there been any progress in the Littleton case? I'm dying to hear how it's turning out!"

Paul Milner smiled in appreciation for all the blessings in his life, and made his way towards the kitchen, and Sam, and Christine.

FINIS