A/N: I've been playing with this story for ages and finally feel ready to share it. I've never done a crossover before (though it really is more about Foyle's War with only little bits of Endeavour). It follows on from the last of my "Keep Me" series (Keep Me Closer Still), which some of you have been so kind about. So, for those who wanted more about the Foyle Family, here you go! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Part 1

1965

On a chintz sofa, stretched out elegantly with a magazine, sat a young lady who looked entirely at her leisure. Her long, blond hair came nearly to her waist with a fringe cut severely across her forehead. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she turned a page. Her blue dress with white collar stopped just above the knees of her long legs and looked as if it had been made especially for her. She had kicked off her pumps earlier, and they lay discarded nearby. Slender and full of repressed energy, she had a sensual quality about her in the set of her mouth, which pouted slightly under bright blue eyes.

Craning her neck round to look past the lampshade towards the door of the lounge, she narrowed her eyes impatiently. She was absolutely gasping for a cup of tea, and he was being ages about it. It was heavenly to be back here though, away from the fusty books and paper deadlines that seemed to plague her every step. The cold, autumnal day was being kept at bay by a roaring fire, and it felt cosy and familiar. Here, she could put aside her studies for a day or two and just enjoy her family's company. It sounded as if it was going to be quite a party, and she grinned suddenly, chucking down the magazine. Didn't she have a lot to tell them? She couldn't wait to see their faces!

Connie Foyle, twenty and in her second year of reading History at Oxford, loved the idea of surprising her family. She had done well for herself at school and was part of a nice set at Oxford, but it had been all rather by the book, and therefore slightly dull. She had a keen mind, and this latest development was just the sort of thing to intrigue her. She longed for a bit of excitement in her life, and this had certainly been unexpected. While life at Oxford had its exciting moments: balls, sporting matches, debates and lectures, music nearly every night, and plenty of clubs that stayed open until all hours, Connie found it slightly trivial. The young men that seemed to be constantly throwing themselves at her feet were all the same — many pretentious and rather full of themselves. She couldn't stand being chatted up or asked to dance by her contemporaries; they never wanted to talk about serious things, and if they did, they often were too radical for her taste.

Instead, Connie busied herself with her studies and her friends, organising evening meet ups for their little set or hosting informal parties in her rooms. She lived at the top of staircase C at St Anne's, tucked away at the end of the quad and the porter never bothered them about noise. They played records, smoked cigarettes, and spoke long and hard about changing the world. She had excellent taste in clothes and had saved many an evening from disaster for her friends who went out with older boys from the other colleges. Both gracious about lending things as well as being objectively opinionated, she was a dab hand at sorting her friends' styles. She was popular and well liked by both her peers and her professors, and Connie felt happy and at rights with the world. But a bit more excitement was nothing to sneer at.

Hearing his footsteps at last, she leapt up and opened the door to the lounge for him. Andrew Foyle gave a rather muffled "thank you" from behind his pipe and carried the tea tray in to set it carefully on the low table. He stood upright and smiled at her, eyes crinkling. Nearly fifty and going grey at the temples, he was a lifetime older than his baby sister, but they both adored one another and got on very well. Pulling his pipe from his mouth, he tugged at his thick moustache before sitting down. He wore a heavy, brown cardigan that had deep pockets: perfect for storing his tobacco and stubs of pencils in.

Connie sat down with a thump opposite him. "You've been ages. Where's Mrs Robertson?"

"Sorting out your mother's birthday dinner. I had to make the tea while ducking her rolling pin, so be grateful we've got anything at all."

Connie poured the tea from a Royal Albert Old Country Roses patterned teapot into matching cups. There were some biscuits on a plate, and she snapped one up as soon as she had handed Andrew his teacup. "When are they arriving? And where's Cassi? Do you think she'd mind if I nicked one of her French cigarettes?"

"No, she wouldn't mind, but you know Dad doesn't like you smoking."

Connie rolled her eyes at him and asked again, "When are they arriving?"

"They're driving up, so not long now. Cassi's just putting the finishing touches on their room — flowers and such. She'll be down in a moment, I'm sure."

"Shame the boys can't be here. I've seen the dining room — it looks as if it is going to be a right party!"

"Well, you know what Cassi's like. Nothing by halves."

Connie nodded and looked over at the mantle where a photo of two boys stood next to a wedding portrait. Andrew Foyle and the Honourable Cassandra Willouby-Myers had married in London when Connie was just two; it had been the most talked about wedding of the season, and she had been a flower girl — not that she remembered it at all, but it was nice to think she had been a part of it. She did remember when Hamish, their first son, had been born though. And when Timothy had come along two years later, they had become an inseparable trio. Connie, not surprisingly, became the leader and got them in to more trouble than they could have dreamed of. At seventeen and fifteen, they were both still away at school, and Connie missed them. It didn't feel right to have a family gathering and them not be here at Greystones too.

Turning away from the photos, she watched Andrew filling his pipe. "You aren't giving any more lectures at college this term, are you?" she asked.

He looked up. "Why? Do you mind?"

"No, of course not, silly, it's just the girls on my staircase never stop talking about you and keep asking me to take their books to you to be signed."

"What an awful bore," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it is rather," she retorted, putting down her teacup with a clatter. "I'm awfully proud of you, you know that, but having all the girls at St Anne's suddenly following me about as I try to get to lectures just because I'm Andrew Foyle's baby sister is a bit much."

"Do they really follow you about?"

"Yes. Do you remember that girl from your last lecture in the Trinity term— the one who had practically everything you've ever written with her in her satchel?"

Andrew looked at her blankly, so she added, somewhat unkindly, "You know, the one with spots who came up to you afterwards."

He nodded slowly. "Yes, I think so. What of her?"

"She followed me every morning for a week, asking if I would have you sign her copy of your book of poetry."

Andrew snorted and shrugged. "Sorry, Connie girl — awfully bad luck."

She threw a small pillow at him. "It's maddening. Anyway, we'll sneak you in next time you're up and we can have tea somewhere quiet without the masses gawping."

Andrew grinned. "Deal."

Connie drank her tea slowly, but tapped a fingernail against the cup. She couldn't sit still.

"What's up?" Andrew asked.

"Hmm? Oh, well…" she paused, setting down her cup again. "I wanted to wait until you were all here to tell you, but I don't think I can keep it in any longer."

Andrew's eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward. She looked strangely agitated, and a worried crease began to form on his forehead.

She pursed her lips. "Have you, er… seen the paper today?"

"Not properly."

"Right." She hesitated, looking down at her hands.

"Come on, out with it."

"Well…" she took a breath before saying in a rush, "my friend and I found our German History professor dead as we went in for our tutorial yesterday. The police questioned us and everything." She was trying not to grin and failed. "I know it's awful of me," she blurted out, "but it is rather exciting."

"Connie!" Andrew said, shocked. "What a thing to say — poor chap's dead and you're gloating about it like a schoolgirl."

"I'm not. I hardly knew him — we've only met a few times this term for tutorials. Of course I'm sorry he's dead; it's awful, but Andrew —" she broke off and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, "I think he was murdered."

Eyes wide, Andrew said nothing. He lit his pipe methodically, thinking hard before looking up at his sister properly. "Now look here, my girl," he began, pointing with his pipe, "this is a matter for the police and you're not to go sticking your nose in."

"Too late for that," she muttered, beginning to look sulky.

"What do you mean?" Andrew frowned.

"Well, they questioned us, of course, since we found the body, and again this morning…" she was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up the gravel driveway. They both looked out the window and recognised the Rover. Connie jumped up and Andrew followed, protesting, "I say, Connie, wait half a minute — what do you mean—"

But she was gone, quickly pulling on her shoes, hopping on one foot and then the other across the hall, and racing out the front door to be swept up in her father's arms and kissed heartily on either cheek by her mother.

Scratching the side of his head, Andrew followed more slowly. His wife, Cassandra, arrived at the bottom of the stairs and together they went out into the drive to welcome the newcomers. Cassandra looked perfectly put together, with a silver bracelet and matching earrings dangling elegantly, complementing her sleeveless red frock. She pulled a wrap around her shoulders as they stepped outside. Tall as Andrew, with defined and noble features under dark brown hair, Cassandra might have been a model. As it was, she was a happy wife and mother of two, endlessly busy with her organisations and completely devoted to her husband.

Two Springer Spaniels barked and raced around the side of the house, making the already boisterous reception an even larger spectacle. Andrew shook Christopher Foyle's hand, and kissed his father's wife, Samantha, on the cheek. Foyle Senior was looking trim and bright in a three piece suit and broad brimmed trilby. He moved stiffly from the drive and took a moment to stretch his back before winking at his son.

"Made good time; Sam was driving."

His wife swatted his arm affectionately. "Well, if you will buy a powerful car, what do you expect?" They stood beside a beautiful green Rover, series II saloon car — heavy, yet fast. It had power steering, and Sam loved it and drove it with an unabashed relish.

"Come in, come in," Cassandra said brightly after kissing them both.

Sam wore a long coat trimmed with fur, with her hair swept up under a matching hat. She plucked off her gloves and tucked her arm into her daughter's, pleased to be with her family again.

"Let me help with the bags, Dad," Andrew said.

The ladies went inside, all talking nineteen to the dozen. As soon as they had disappeared through the door, Andrew turned to his father and said quickly, "So, your daughter has just told me that she and her school chum found their professor dead yesterday morning, and apparently have been questioned by the police. She was positively gloating about it!"

Christopher Foyle raised his eyebrows and drew in a corner of his mouth in thought. "Have the police said anything?"

"No, she hasn't told me much — you arrived and she bolted out the door. She said it was exciting…" he shook his head and reached for a case inside the boot.

Foyle gave a small grunt. "Had to get it from somewhere. Just like her mother…"

Andrew looked up and they caught each other's eye, suddenly breaking into identical grins.

"Well, when you put it like that, I'm not so worried. I half thought she was being morbid…but if it's just curiosity…"

"I have no doubt we'll have the full story out of her."

"She was practically bursting to tell someone…"

The two men walked into the house and Andrew shut the door behind him. They heard the patter of the dogs coming into the hall, and one gave a half-hearted woof. In a stern voice, Andrew told them to make themselves scarce, and led the way upstairs.

"Good trip, Dad?"

"Yes. Glad Sam was driving. The roads these days…" he shook his head.

Something in his voice made Andrew pause, and it occurred to him that his father was perhaps becoming old. Strange to think, as Christopher Foyle certainly didn't seem it. His father's hair had gone white and stuck up in tufty curls, and he certainly had more lines on his face, but to Andrew, he seemed his usual self: reticent, quick minded, kind, and steadfast.

They dumped the bags in the guest room, and Andrew clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to have you here, Dad. It's been a while since you've been to Greystones."

"House is looking good. How are my grandsons?"

"Keeping out of trouble for the most part."

Foyle chuckled. "Now that Connie isn't landing them in it, you mean…"

"Never knew a girl like her for mischief — you expect it from boys…"

The two men smiled warmly at each other for a moment and Foyle said softly, "Good to see you, my son."

The cacophony of women's chatter hit them as they came down the stairs, and Andrew paused in the wide, stone floored hall.

"Er, a drink in the study perhaps?"

"I'll just pop my head in to say. Don't want Cassandra thinking we're avoiding them."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "But that's exactly what we're doing."

Foyle put his head around the door. "The boy and I are just going into the study."

He smiled to see the ladies together, faces all bright and eager.

"Dinner at seven, Christopher," Cassandra called out to him, waving a hand.

Foyle nodded and ducked back out, following Andrew down the hall into a dark, wood panelled room lined with bookcases. Andrew went to a small side table and began to pour them both a drink. "Still have some that single malt from Easter that you brought up."

"How's the writing?"

"Bit slow. Doing more lectures at the moment, much to my sister's annoyance."

"Oh?"

"Apparently being my baby sister garners unwanted attention."

Foyle's lips turned down in an amused smile. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her."

Andrew handed him a tumbler. "Of course. Not that it's done much good, seeing she's landed herself in the middle of a murder inquiry."

He looked up suddenly and went to his desk. "She mentioned the paper — maybe it's in here?" He set his drink down on the desktop and pulled a pair of reading spectacles from a cavernous pocket before shuffling through that morning's newspaper, searching carefully.

Sipping his drink slowly, Foyle paced by the window, chewing his cheek in thought.

"Here!" Andrew snapped the paper, folding it to the page he was reading from. Foyle pulled his own spectacles from his inside jacket pocket and came to stand beside his son. The two men leaned over the desk together, reading the small article. It didn't say much:

Professor Heinrich von Buren was found dead yesterday in his rooms at St Anne's College, Oxford, CID says, of apparent suicide. He was chair of the German studies as well as the History department, and had been a lecturer in Oxford for the last fifteen years. He has no surviving family.

"Um, how is Connie involved in this precisely?"

"She and her friend walked in to find him dead; she thinks it is murder for some reason."

Foyle nodded and rubbed his forehead.

"Anyway." Andrew shrugged, tossing the paper to one side. "How are you and Sam?"

"Good. Sam's busy with her different charitable funds as usual. I don't know what the vicar would do without her organising everything."

"Speaking of — is her father any better?"

"Not really. We were there last month, and he insists on continuing on as normal, even though the doctor told him to rest. Aubrey is with him at the moment to make sure he does as he's told and doesn't have another episode."

Andrew raised his tumbler. "God bless Uncle Aubrey."

Foyle gave a small smile. "I don't envy him the job — Iain and I get along, but he's a horrible patient. Sam was fed up by the time we left."

The telephone on the wide desk rang shrilly, making them jump.

Andrew sighed. "Better answer it; the girls won't hear it and Mrs Robertson will have my guts for garters if she's distracted from her cooking any more today."

He picked up the receiver, and Foyle went to stand by the window again, leaning his weight on one leg and admiring the view over a small paddock.

"I can hardly hear you, say again?" Andrew bellowed down the line, stuffing one finger in his ear. He nodded, "Righto, see you when we see you."

He placed the receiver back down and turned to Foyle. "That was Jack. Sounded like he was being half drowned — London must be having a downpour. Anyway, he's been caught up, but he'll be here eventually."

Foyle smiled and ducked his head. "We'll be all together then."

Andrew moved to stand by his father at the window and put a hand on his shoulder. "Indeed."

Dinner was a riotous affair, with everyone in high spirits. They had come down already changed for dinner, as any party of Cassandra's warranted, the men in black tie and the women in flowing dresses, necks and wrists decorated with pieces of jewellery. They had a few cocktails first, concocted by Cassandra, and watched the rain move in over the neighbouring fields. The table was set with candles and beautiful flowers, and the best china and silver laid out with precision. Mrs Robertson had out-done herself and cooked up a feast of wonderful proportions. Smoked salmon to start, cold ham, sliced chicken, roast potatoes and vegetables, a wine gravy, cheese, and for afters, apple crumble with thick clotted cream. It was simple, hearty food, and just what Sam wanted for her birthday meal. Her excuse for nothing fancy was that she was only turning forty-eight, and it didn't warrant extravagance. They sang and toasted her good health with their glasses of wine, and Sam beamed around at them, glad to have everyone together.

Jack arrived during the serving of the crumble, dripping wet and looking like he'd brought half of London's greyness with him. He'd also brought an enormous bouquet of fresh flowers for Sam. Once he had divested himself of his wet coat, she kissed him on the cheek and thanked him. He apologised for being late and for being on his own. His wife, Maureen, had stayed behind in London to look after her mother, and he ate with the speed of a man who hadn't had a proper cooked meal in days.

James 'Jack' Devereaux, Christopher Foyle's eldest son, had come to the family quite late in life through a series of misfortunes, but they had accepted him with open arms and without question, for which both Christopher and Jack were grateful. He was nearly bald, and the hair he did have was now completely grey and cropped short. He was a thin, quiet man who worked as an archivist. For all his reticence, he was Hamish and Timothy's favourite uncle, and Connie had a soft spot for him. With Andrew she could be bold and brash and teasing, but with Jack she was always kind. She had not learnt of his painful past until recently, but even as a small child she had sensed something was different and treated him accordingly. He doted on her and was always quick to smile in her presence.

As they finished their dessert, Cassandra produced finely wrapped boxes and colourful cards. They watched Sam unwrap her gifts which ranged from a lovely brooch, chocolate, a new book, a pair of gloves to match a new outfit Cassandra had helped her buy, and a writing pen. Sam felt utterly spoilt and went around to kiss them all. There was also a hand drawn card from Timothy, who was very good at sketching, signed by both boys in adolescent scrawl.

When they had moved on to coffee and cognac, Andrew heaved a great sigh and said firmly to Connie, "Right. Now as we're all here, let's hear this news of yours."

"I've told Mum and Cassi, but yes, I suppose I should really start at the beginning."

"What's this?" Jack asked, confused.

"She found her professor dead yesterday—"

"What?" Jack sat up and looked down the table in some alarm.

"Am I telling the story?" Connie asked Andrew with some impatience.

He held up his hand and settled back, swirling his cognac glass.

Shaking back her long hair and leaning forwards on her elbows, Connie began.

"Beth and I had a tutorial on German history yesterday at ten o'clock. She lives one staircase over and we always walk together. We arrived at Professor von Buren's rooms, knocked and went in as normal. The door looked fine, hadn't been forced as far as I could tel,l and it was unlocked, naturally. He was sat behind his desk, slumped forwards onto the top, facing the door. There was a load of blood behind his head on the desk top and a gun was in his hand."

The entire table looked at her, listening carefully and she warmed up to her story. "Well, Beth got into a right flap and began blubbing, which was of no use to anyone of course, so I told her to run to fetch the porter. I didn't much like being left alone with him, so I just had a quick look and went back out onto the stairs. I could see he had abrasions on his hands — on his knuckles, you understand? Also, his glasses were askew and the desk was a bit of mess. His rooms had never been untidy when we'd come there before. He was meticulous, everything had its place. Anyway, the police showed up and I had to talk some sense into Beth. She was still blubbing, the silly girl — she'd never even liked him, so I don't see why she felt the need to cry about it."

Christopher Foyle bit his lip, stifling a smile. His daughter was tough and could at times be impatient with her own sex, but with a family full of brothers and nephews, he hardly expected less. He also felt a moment of pride at hearing her clear, concise retelling of what she had seen. She seemed to have missed nothing.

"The police questioned us, but we couldn't tell them much of course." To the table's surprise, Connie suddenly paused, blushing. "There was a young detective who looked as if he had some brains. Asked the right questions, that sort of thing…"

Playing with her coffee cup self-consciously, Connie added lamely, "And's that it really…"

Andrew gave her a look. "You told me you thought it was murder, but the paper said the CID has ruled on suicide."

Cassandra gave a shudder and drained her cup. "Why must dinner conversation with the Foyle's always come back to such ghastly things? Might we have one evening without the Police and murder suspects?"

Connie frowned and eyed her brother carefully. "Then why did he have abrasions on his hands?"

Cassandra threw up her hands, recognising a sibling argument coming on. "I'll go give Mrs Robertson a hand."

The men of the table stood politely as she rose, and Sam said half-heartedly, "Do you need help?"

"Certainly not — it's your birthday, and you always loved an intrigue, I seem to remember."

Sam gave her a quick grin.

When she had gone, Jack spoke down the table, "So, you think he was attacked and it was made to look like suicide?"

"Yes. That's what I told Detective Constable Morse, too."

Sam's ears pricked, a mother's intuition hearing the change in her daughter's voice. "And who," she began, smiling sweetly, "is Detective Constable Morse?"

Connie was now a bright shade of becoming pink and Foyle hid another smile behind his cognac glass.

"Er, well…"

TBC...