Monday 10 March 1941

Something is most definitely Up, not that Mr F shows any signs of telling me exactly What, same as ever. But he spent quite a long time talking on the telephone with the door shut and then came out and told M he would be in charge for a few days and told ME to pack a bag and pick him up first thing tomorrow. Maybe there's a terrible grisly murder in London and even Scotland Yard is baffled and they need him to solve it. That would be fun altho' awfully sad of course for the person who got murdered. Maybe Daddy is right and this job is making me callous. I don't want to be callous but I do want to be useful and I wouldn't be very useful to Mr F if I started carrying on over every d.b. And anyway, I defy anyone not to be cheerful at the idea of a nice long drive, even if there IS a d.b. at the end of it. I wish he'd told me where we're going. Still, he'll have to tell me tomorrow!

"I say, sir," Samantha Stewart said. "Are you investigating something?"

"Policemen usually do investigate things," Foyle said.

"Something in particular, I mean. Something in Ashford."

"Ashingdon," Foyle corrected. "You're not taking us to Ashford, are you, Sam?"

"I'm taking us where the map says," Sam said. "I just haven't needed to look at it in a little while."

"Maybe you should look at it now," Foyle suggested dryly. "Before we get to Ashford."

She grinned. "Yes, sir."

Pulling the car over smoothly, she took out the map and studied it. One gloved finger indicated a spot. "We're about here, sir. Shouldn't be too much further to Ashingdon."

"Glad to hear it."

"So, are you?" she asked as she accelerated again, not in the least derailed. "Investigating something?"

"Yep." A vain hope, that Sam would take any hint to leave a subject alone short of a direct instruction, but one Foyle could not seem to give up. If she pressed too hard, he would have to be blunt: almost everything he knew about the reason for their journey was covered by the Official Secrets Act.

Phonecalls from Hilda Pierce usually are.

There's been a murder, Miss Pierce had told him, dry and matter-of-fact. Foyle suspected it would take much more than a murder to disturb her composure. In a place called Ashingdon. They're arrested the wrong suspect. The Chief Constable will be calling you soon to ask you to look into it.

"Is it a murder?" Sam asked cheerfully. "Or a spy ring?"

He winced at how close she was to the mark. "There are other crimes besides murder and spying, Sam."

"I know, sir. There's theft, and burglary - I always thought they were the same thing, but they're not, are they sir? And assault, and black-marketeering, and profiteering, and I shouldn't be surprised if there were quite a lot of other things ending with 'eering', and criminal damage, and trespass, and -"

Foyle turned a little in his seat to look at her. "Have you been reading the Criminal Code?"

"Yes, sir!" Sam said. "I thought I should know, to be more useful."

"I see."

"I can be quite useful, sir. I found out about Edith's young man for you, didn't I?"

"You did." He was careful to keep amusement out of his voice.

"And I arrested Keegan," she said proudly.

"You didn't exactly arrest him, Sam," Foyle pointed out. "I did that."

"Well, I knocked him down so you could arrest him."

"That's quite true," Foyle conceeded mildly. "And which section of the Criminal Code did that come under?"

"Sir!" Sam said, outraged. "He was running away from a policeman! It can't be a crime to -"

"Hit him over the head with a dustbin lid?"

"I was assisting the police! That's a civic -" In her indignation, she took her eyes from the road long enough to look at him, and shut her mouth with a snap mid-sentence. "You're teasing me, sir. You think I can't tell but I always can. I'm very perceptive."

"Did you perceive that sign back there?" Foyle asked.

"What sign?"

"The one that said 'Ashingdon' and pointed down the road we didn't take."

"Oh, that sign. Actually, sir, I did, but this way is quicker. Have I ever gotten you lost, sir?"

"We-ell …"

"Really lost, not just, well, slightly misplaced."

"I suppose," Foyle said carefully, "depending on your definition of 'lost', it could be said you have never gotten me lost."

"There you are then. You should have more faith in me, you know, sir. I have an excellent sense of direction, as well as being useful. And perceptive."

Foyle turned again to look at his driver and, suspecting he'd regret it, asked: "Is this leading up to something, Sam?"

"Well, sir. Since you're investigating something, and Sergeant Milner is back in Hastings so you don't have an assistant, I thought you might need me to be even more useful than usual. To be your assistant, so to speak, unofficially. Just while we're here."

"Sam, you're not on the Force."

"You could deputize me!" she suggested brightly.

"Only if the next wrong turn takes us to Texas."

"Oh." She deflated again, although only momentarily. "But unofficially, then, sir. I'm sure I could help! I've been reading all the Sherlock Holmes stories about deduction and everything."

"You're not my assistant, you're my driver, and leave Sherlock Holmes out it," Foyle said.

She visibly deflated. "Yes, sir," she said glumly.

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek. "Look," he said after a moment, "criminals can be dangerous people. You've seen that. And they don't much like policemen."

"Yes, sir, but I can -"

"So," he interrupted, because sometimes with Sam that was the only way to get a word in before his train of thought was irretrievably lost, "you wouldn't be very useful if everyone knew you were my … if they knew you were useful and so on."

She brightened immediately. "You mean like being 'under cover', sir?"

"Exactly. But you'll have to be very careful not to do anything to tip anyone off. Just … carry on as usual."

Sam nodded wisely. "Mum's the word, sir! They shan't suspect anything!"

"Good."

The problem of Sam solved to his satisfaction, Foyle turned his thoughts back to the case ahead. Victim, local man, Michael Wilson. Suspect, visitor to the area, Jennifer Chenard. No alibi - at least, not one Miss Pierce or Miss Chenard were willing to share with the local force. Or with me.

Foyle would have been willing to bet that Miss Chenard was 'visiting' a local establishment not unlike Hill House, suspicion strengthened by Miss Pierce's insistence that he had only a few days to sort it out and get her released.

He'd taken a good look at the moon last night, waxing almost towards full.

"So is it a murder, sir?" Sam asked.

He sighed to himself. "Yes. A murder."

"I knew it!" Sam took the last corner. "And here we are, sir. That's Ashingdon just ahead."

"Excellent. Now, Sam …"

"I know, sir. Mum's the word. You can count on me!" She navigated few streets between the edge of the town and the police station. "I can be very discreet, sir. You have no idea!"

Foyle opened the passenger side door and grabbed his hat. "Start now," he suggested, and headed toward the station to find out exactly what he was up against.