A/N: slight touch of AU - in "All Clear" it seems implied that Andrew and Sam have had no contact since he threw her over in "Invasion" (April 1942). However, I had them run into each other at the end of "The Year's Midnight" and - well, you'll see.

what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

T S Eliot Little Gidding 1942

Thursday 4 February 1943

Not much happening. Should be grateful - crime is a Bad Thing so not a lot of crime is a Good Thing but it's dull. Dull, dull, DULL. Am not the only one thinking so altho' no-one of course says so because of crime being a Bad Thing. But Brookie has taken to hanging around when I'm servicing the car offering "helpful" advice hah-hah and Mr F is reading ALL the station reports and not just the important ones, but the ones he usually leaves to M to handle, which has been a Rude Shock to some. Of course M has less to do as a result and not being one to knock off early he just hangs around the corridor Alone And Palely Loitering as it were and looking hopefully at every opened door in case it should be a Crisis.

Which it never is.

We all need a nice juicy murder to get things back to normal.

Pref. of someone not very nice of course. Altho' is terrible when someone gets bumped off who RICHLY deserves it and Mr F has to arrest someone Quite Nice who just did what everyone wanted to.

P. sure He Had It Coming not a defense in law. Must ask M.

Foyle made a neat note in the margin of the file and capped his pen again. Constable Marksbury's reports were clear and to the point, but sadly marred by the young man's apparently congenital uncertainty as to the correct spelling of 'proceed'. Foyle had brought it to his attention the previous day, and Marksbury's reaction, if this report was anything to go by, was to work through every possible variation in the hope of hitting the correct one at least once.

Covering, as our American friends would say, his bases.

He picked up his pen again and drew a neat line through 'prucede', then glanced up at Sam, whiling away the hour with a book as she waited for him to announce the day was over. Sherlock Holmes? Agatha Christie? Idly, he craned to see the page. Neither. The narrow, irregular lines indicated poetry, not prose.

Foyle wondered if it was a gift from his son. Sam had not, in the past few years, shown any indications that reading poetry was her idea of an entertaining afternoon.

"Good book?" he asked casually.

Sam looked up. "I'm not altogether sure," she said ruefully. "A bit over my head, I'm afraid. Some of it is quite nice." She flipped back a page and read, stiltedly, "Ash on an old man's sleeve is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended marks the place where a story ended. It's awfully sad. Is it about the Blitz, do you think?"

"Or any war," Foyle said.

"And then there's stuff about nettles which I don't follow at all." She frowned at the page. "Why don't poets just say what they mean to say? I mean, can you imagine what a report written by a poet would be like?"

"Depends," Foyle said, glancing back at the page in front of him, "on whether or not the poet could spell 'proceed'."

Before he could frame a further tactful enquiry on the origin of the book, his train of thought was interrupted by the shrill tone of the telephone.

He set down his pen and lifted the receiver, identifying himself.

"Mr Foyle." A familiar voice, cool and dry and slightly tinny with the distance of the telephone line.

"Miss Pierce," Foyle said. Sam looked up from the book again. He raised an eyebrow and gestured to the door, and she nodded, and got up to close it.

Of course, she closed it with herself on the inside and returned to her chair to watch him with an air of alert expectation.

"I have a problem, Mr Foyle," Hilda Pierce said.

"Have you." Foyle said, deliberately noncommittal. "Well, I wish you all the best resolving it. We're rather busy here at the moment so -"

"A murder," she said as if he hadn't spoken.

"Have you reported it to the police?" he inquired politely.

"We have," she said, surprising him. "To little end. As could be expected."

"Expected because …?"

"Because this death occurred on the ground of Hill House," Miss Pierce said, "and was almost certainly committed by someone resident here. I would be disappointed if they had not covered their tracks thoroughly. Inconvenient as it is on this occasion."

"Inconvenient," Foyle said. "I can see that it might be."

"Need I remind you, Mr Foyle, of the possibilities beyond simple domestic murder which a violent death here raises?"

"No, you needn't," Foyle said. "But I'm still not sure what this has to do with me."

"Don't play games with me, Mr Foyle, I'm not in the mood," Miss Pierce said flatly. "Only an exceptionally stupid man would fail to realize that we require your particular expertise to resolve this matter."

"Resolve it precisely how, exactly?" Foyle asked. "Make an arrest? Or are you anticipating an unfortunate accident that will happily eliminate the need for an embarrassing trial?"

"If it's a criminal matter, it will be left in your hands," Miss Pierce assured him. "If there are wider implications, other authorities will of course be involved."

"I … see." Foyle said.

"So you'll come?"

"We-ell," Foyle said. "We are rather busy here at the moment."

"If you need me to give you a speech about how much your country needs you," Miss Pierce said dryly, "you can take it as read. If what I fear is true, Mr Foyle, the very heart of our efforts could be compromised - and more disturbingly, compromised in a way that I have had no inkling of until now." She paused, and Foyle could tell how hard that admission was for her to make. "Lives are at stake."

"Aren't they always, when it comes to murder?" Foyle said mildly. "I presume you've cleared this with the Chief Constable and the AC?"

"Of course."

"Ri-ight. Then I have a couple of conditions."

"Conditions?" Miss Pierce said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Yes, if you want my help, I have conditions," Foyle said, still mild.

"Your driver," she said.

"Ye-es, and I won't be staying at Hill House. Doubt it would be conducive to sound sleep."

"Agreed," Miss Pierce said. "I'll arrange rooms at the local pub."

"Don't worry," Foyle said. "I'll make my own arrangements. And I may have other stipulations once I've seen what we're up against."

"Within reason," Miss Pierce said warningly.

"Within reason," Foyle agreed, and rang off. He looked up. "Sam."

"Yes, sir?"

"Think your uncle might have room for a couple of house guests?"

She grinned. "He'd be delighted. When do we leave?"

"In the morning," Foyle said. "Give him a call, why don't you. And tell Milner I need to see him."

Sam bounced to her feet. "Is it a murder, sir? Or a spy ring?"

"We-ell," Foyle said. "Could be six of one and half-a-dozen of the other at this point."

She beamed. "As good as Christmas, sir!"

"Perhaps not quite," Foyle said, but he was talking to himself. In the hall, he could hear Sam calling to Milner.

With a sigh, he pulled the files in his in-tray to the center of his desk and turned his mind to the delegation of the operations of the Hastings Constabulary.

.

.

.

A/N: All chapter titles are from "Little Gidding", which is of course the poem Sam is reading, although I believe at the time of this story the poem had only been published in a magazine, not book form.