A/N: Longer summary (here because of ff's character limit): A few weeks after the events of "Sunflower", Foyle is back in Hastings. He is filling his days with fishing, reading, and trying to prod Andrew into finding some direction to his life, when an unexpected visitor and a puzzling crime lead him back to the murky corners of London's underworld, and the murkier corners of England's espionage community.
In the series "Ill Met By Moonlight", "The Year's Midnight" and "Tongued With Fire", this Bletchley Circle X-over will ultimately feature Foyle, Andrew, Sam Wainwright nee Stewart, Adam Wainwright, Susan Havers, Millie, Lucy Davies, Jean McBrian, Hilda Pierce, Jen Chenard/Jeanne Valois/Jenny Pawley/Jean Marcus, and some other familiar faces and original characters. F&S, hints of Andrew/Sam, no doubt plenty of F/S subtext, humor, crime, some angst, some h/c, some implied f/f, some violence, some period-appropriate bad language and some period-appropriate language that modern readers may find offensive.
Everything I know about crime in London in the 1940s, or indeed London in the 1940s, I learned from the Internet, errors are doubtless rife. 'Foyle's War' and the characters therein obviously do not belong to me. Slightly AU in that the minor changes I made to the Foyle's War canon in previous stories continue to be in force; and in that the four women of the Bletchley Circle here meet up again in 1946, rather than, as in the series, going their separate ways until 1952.
All reviews gratefully received.
The title and chapter headings are from the 1941 poem The Ballad of the Mari Lwyd by Vernon Watkins, who worked, during WWII, at Bletchley Park.
The codes are breakable, although you might want to apply higher tech means than pencil and paper, but for those of you without the inclination to try, you are missing out on nothing from the plot or mystery. I will not be posting any hints in the body of the story but, if you are stuck, you can PM me for a clue.
This may well be posted far more slowly than previous stories because I am still working out some of the finer details of the plot.
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Ripping The Stitch Of Grief
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6 October 1946
Foyle cast the line out over the river, flicking the fly back and forth across the surface of the water before letting it settle where the darker color of the eddies indicated deeper water. The sun was not yet above the trees and the long shadows of its early rays striped the scene before him. The day stretched ahead, empty of responsibility and filled with possibility: a walk by the sea, perhaps, or a spot of gardening; the ticklish business of working on the new lure he had an idea for, or thrashing Andrew at golf. He could drive up to London and surprise Sam, perhaps, or get to grips with the new book on Japan that had arrived from the bookshop yesterday.
Whatever the day held, he knew, it would not hold another sordid crime scene, another broken body, another labyrinthine espionage plot. That, Foyle told himself, was exactly as it should be, and he was nothing but pleased at the knowledge that that part of his life lay firmly in the past.
Perhaps he would save his visit to the Wainwrights until tomorrow. The travel and the visit would take care of almost an entire day; if he stretched out the work the garden needed that would fill most of the afternoon, which would leave Tuesday for reading. And by Tuesday, no doubt, he would come up with something for Wednesday, perhaps -
"Hello."
It was a familiar voice, for all he had heard it only a few times: the low timbre, the half-swallowed vowels. Foyle's fingers stilled on the line for just a fraction of a second, and then he drew the lure across the surface of the water a little to keep it clear of the bank, and turned.
James Devereaux stood at the edge of the clearing, hat pushed to the back of his head, hands in his pockets. There was more color in his face than the last time Foyle had seen him, and he'd filled out in the shoulders slightly. His suit was newish, despite rationing, and fit well, but neither it nor his hat were of particularly good quality. What showed of his hair was cut shorter than Foyle remembered.
He took in all those details in the time it took him to take a breath and say, mildly: "Mr Devereaux. Or I should say, Constable Devereaux, and congratulations, by the way."
The younger man smiled, ducking his head. "Thank you. I suspect I'm in your debt, there … again."
"Not at all," Foyle said. "Nothing to do with me, entirely on your own merit." It was true: he would certainly have been willing to put in a good word for Devereaux with the Commissioner but none had been needed.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Devereaux said, still studying his feet. "I should have called … I went to your house and a young man told me I'd find you down here."
"Andrew," Foyle said. "My son."
Devereaux looked up. "Andrew," he said, as if rolling the idea of Andrew Foyle around in his head as he rolled the name in his mouth.
"And you're not disturbing me, I'm very glad to see you," Foyle said. He waded back to the bank and laid his rod down. "Down from London?" At the younger man's nod, he said: "You must have started very early. Is this a social call, or is there something I can help with?"
Devereaux looked embarrassed. "There is actually something," he admitted. "I'm not sure you can help, exactly, but I hoped you could give me some advice."
"Happy to," Foyle assured him. "How long can you stay?"
"I have to get back tonight," Devereaux said. "On shift tomorrow."
"Ri-ight, well," Foyle said, picking up his rod again, "if you can spare me a little while here we'll make sure you have a decent lunch, at least."
Devereaux settled down on the bank to watch as Foyle cast again. Whether because of his natural reticence, or an understanding of how acute a fish's hearing could be, he said nothing as Foyle delicately tempted the trout he knew was lurking beneath the trailing branches of the old willow on the opposite bank. It investigated the lure, retreated, and then struck. It was a devilishly ticklish piece of work to land it, the fish clearly a canny survivor of other such battles, but in Foyle it had met its match and eventually he had in the net. Even Andrew can't complain at this one, Foyle thought, lifting it clear of the water, and then, turning, surprised something on Devereaux's face that made him hesitate.
He lowered the net back into the river and deftly extracted the hook from the trout's jaw before tipping the fish back into the river. Wading back to the bank, he said: "There's always spam sandwiches."
Devereaux looked down, hiding his face, as he got to his feet. "If fish have gods," he said unexpectedly, "they must imagine them to be much like anglers."
"Striking unexpectedly?" Foyle said, beginning to pack up his gear. God has certainly dealt James Devereaux more than one unanticipated blow.
"Inexplicable mercy," Devereaux said. He smiled, the same tight smile Foyle had seen in the cell, but there was self-deprecation in the expression now, not self-mockery.
They walked back to the house talking only of inconsequentialities: the recent tragic air-crash in Canada, the political future of Sweden. At the steps, Foyle paused. "I haven't …" told Andrew about you.
"I won't …" Devereaux said, lowering his head to glance up at Foyle beneath the brim of his hat.
"Thank you," Foyle said, and opened the door.
Andrew was still lingering over breakfast and the paper, but he looked up as Foyle and Devereaux entered.
"No luck, I'm afraid," Foyle said.
"Dad," Andrew said reproachfully. "Man does not live by spam alone." Seeing Devereaux behind Foyle, he grinned, and asked cheerfully: "So you found him, then?"
"Yes," Devereaux said, hesitating in the hall. "Sorry to intrude on your Sunday like this."
"I'm used to it," Andrew said, folding the paper and setting it aside. He had, Foyle noted without surprise, demolished several days' worth of the National Loaf. "Dad's been telling me that crime doesn't keep banker's hours since I was old enough to understand what bankers were."
"Constable Devereaux has a case he wants some advice on," Foyle said. "He'll be staying to lunch."
"Jolly good," Andrew said. "Spam all round! Want some tea, Constable?"
"Thank you, Mr Foyle," Devereaux said, taking off his hat.
"Andrew," Andrew said, offering his hand. "I'm not on the force."
"Jack," Devereaux said, taking the offered grip, but glancing at Foyle as he said the name. Jack. The name his mother called him, not the one Sir Charles chose. "So what do you do?"
"As little as possible," Foyle said dryly. "I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"
"Thanks Dad, you're a sport," Andrew said. "I'm in advertising - I write the jingles."
"The breakfast that says 'good morning'?" Jack asked, turning his hat in his hand.
"That's not one of mine, but that kind of thing," Andrew said. As Foyle went into the kitchen, he heard Andrew say: " Rack's just behind you."
"Thanks." A pause, no doubt Jack hanging up his hat. Then: "These are nice," he said, and Foyle realised he must have seen the water-colors on the wall. "That's the view from the headland, isn't it?"
"You know Hastings?" Andrew asked. "Yes, that's looking across to the old fishing shacks. Gone now, of course."
"I used to know it," Jack said. "Everything's changed now."
"Yes," Andrew said. "This is my favourite, I think because I can remember Mum painting it. I thought it was taking her an age and kept wanting to help to get it done faster." He was silent a moment, and when he spoke again Foyle could hear the smile in his voice. "I don't have all that many memories of her, not that I can really tell apart from the stories Dad tells, but that one is clear as yesterday."
"I'm sorry," Jack said.
"It was a long time ago," Andrew said. "I missed her like fury, of course, at first. Funny, you know, I think I missed her more these past few years. With the war ending, and coming home."
"I know what you mean," Jack said. "My mother … died. When I was young."
"And your Dad?"
"Indisposed these days," Jack said, as if it were a private joke.
Indisposed. Yes, Foyle supposed Sir Charles Devereaux could be said to be indisposed. His KC had persuaded the judge that Caroline's murder had been manslaughter, that Sir Charles had been overcome by emotion in the belief that Caroline had been unfaithful to him. He'd escaped hanging, but Sir Charles was indisposed at His Majesty's Pleasure and would be, hopefully, until he died.
"That's rough," Andrew said with ready sympathy. "I don't know what I'd do without Dad."
"I have a step-mother," Jack said. "Jane. She's very nice."
"Dad shows no sign of giving me one," Andrew said. "No matter how I hint."
Foyle paused in the doorway of the dining room, tea tray in his hands, and raised his voice to say: "You don't show much sign of giving me a daughter-in-law, either."
"Not that it's any of your business," Andrew said, ushering Jack into the dining room.
"Pot," said Foyle. "Kettle."
"Point," Andrew conceded. "Anyway, Sam went and got married and I haven't met anyone a patch on her since. Maybe you and I are two of a kind, Dad - one-woman men."
Involuntarily, Foyle met Jack's gaze. The younger man's eyes were lit with a spark of amusement. He raised an eyebrow, acknowledgement of a shared knowledge - silent recognition of a private family joke.
He returned the gesture. "How do you take your tea?"
"As it comes, thanks." Following Andrew's example, Jack sat down. "Your wife's paintings are lovely."
"She was very talented," Foyle said, pouring. "Here you go. Got plans for today, Andrew?"
"Thought I might take a stroll down to the harbor," Andrew said, accepting his own cup. "And Bill is in town - Bill Woodruff." He explained for Jack: "Went to school with him. He took off travelling after demob and just got back." He sipped his tea. "We might meet up for a pint." He glanced at Jack, and hastily added: "Private party."
"Of course," Jack said.
"You're welcome to join us if you're done picking Dad's brains," Andrew offered.
Jack smiled down at his tea-cup. "Thanks," he said, "but I've got to get back to London. The Met discourages tardiness." He took a swallow of tea. "Actually the Met discourages a lot of things."
"Independent thought?" Foyle said dryly, and Jack gave a quiet chuckle, and nodded. "Who's your sergeant?"
"Probert," Jack said. "Dylan Probert."
Foyle winced. "Still carrying that chip on his shoulder?"
"'The Treachery of the Blue Books' gets a daily airing," Jack said. "But he's not that bad, really. Very good at procedure. Does everything by the book. I've learnt a lot."
Foyle heard the unspoken but trailing at the end of that sentence. He drained his cup. "We can talk in the garden," he said, standing, "while Andrew washes up the breakfast dishes."
"Why do I also get stuck with the dishes?" Andrew complained good-naturedley, starting to clear them.
"Why do I always get stuck with the cooking?" Foyle countered.
"Because you banned me from the stove," Andrew said. He grinned at Jack. "All that fuss over what was really quite a small fire."
Foyle raised an eyebrow in comment on that interpretation of events, and led the way out into the small garden tucked in the corner made by the kitchen and the fence, shooing Henny Penny off the bench and sitting down.
Jack eyed the hen. "You keep chickens?"
"I keep a chicken," Foyle said.
"I suppose the eggs come in handy." Jack put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the flowerbed, the laundry props stacked neatly against the fence. Very different from what he's used to, Foyle thought, remembering the Devereaux estate.
"She doesn't lay," Foyle said. At Jack's raised eyebrow, he explained: "She's … pensioned off."
"Well," Jack said judiciously, "I suppose she's a war veteran, of a sort."
"I suppose we all are, of a sort," Foyle said.
Jack walked a little way to the fence - there was only room to walk a little way - and glanced back at the door. "You must be proud of him," him said. "Andrew. Battle of Britain, all that."
"I am," Foyle said.
"It all worked out for the best, I suppose." The younger man glanced at Foyle. "If you and … if things had been different, don't suppose there'd be an Andrew."
"Don't suppose there would," Foyle said. "And I'm very glad to have him, but I'm rather less happy about the price. And I'm sorry that you and your mother paid it." He paused. "If I'd had any idea, I would never have allowed her to go back to him."
"You don't know Sir Charles," Jack said. "My mother was right, you know. If she'd left him, he'd have killed her." He smiled wryly. "So there still might have been an Andrew but there wouldn't have been a me."
"I'd consider that a great loss," Foyle said.
"For a long time I mightn't have agreed with you," Jack said. "I do now, though."
"I'm very glad to hear it," Foyle said. He cleared his throat. "So what about this case?"
"I don't know if you'll be able to help," Jack said. "And I know I should have come earlier than this, not just when I wanted a favour."
Foyle knew very well why Jack Devereaux had not made the trip to Hastings until he had a reason grounded in their common profession. He himself, had their positions been reversed, would have been reluctant to make the journey. Foyle had offered the young man his help the last time they had met in the visiting room of the gaol, but words were only words. Not confident of his reception, Jack had stayed away until he had the protection of an excuse.
"I'm glad to see you," he said, choosing his words with care, "for … whatever reason. I'm pleased … you thought of me when you needed help. But you'd be welcome at any other time."
"You said once if there was anything you could do …" Jack said to the fence.
"I meant it," Foyle said.
"Yes, well." The young man glanced at him, then looked away, pinching a dead bloom from the rose bush. Then, Foyle was obscurely glad to see, he looked back. "I wasn't sure."
"That's understandable," Foyle said.
Again, the sliding sideway glance, the business with the rose. "I don't know how to do this," Jack admitted.
"That's understandable too," Foyle said. "Why don't you … just tell me what the problem is? And we can … worry about anything else later."
"The problem,"Jack said, "is that the problem is tied up with the anything else."
"And …" Foyle pursed his lips, spoke to the hen investigating his shoes instead of the man opposite him. "If it wasn't?"
"There've been some break-ins," Jack said. He grimaced. "There's been a lot of break-ins. Nobody talks about it because of public morale, but the Blitz was the opportunity of a lifetime for criminals. And things haven't gotten much better."
"I've heard," Foyle said.
"We're close to strength, with men coming back from the forces, but if we had twice as many men it wouldn't be enough," Jack said. "Black-marketeering, boot-legging, robberies, theft, fights, if we can make an arrest fast we do it and if we can't, there's five more cases where perhaps we can." At Foyle's nod of understanding, Jack went on: "So there's not a lot of time for constables to chase down personal hunches."
"But you have one." Foyle nudged Henny Penny gently aside from his shoelaces.
"I have one, alright," Jack said a little grimly. "Five robberies in the past six months, shops and residences, all at times when there were a lot of people there." He shrugged. "Five is a drop in the bucket. There's nothing to link them - two shops, three houses, all different, none with any common factors. Sergeant Probert chalks two of them up to the Hoxton Mob and the other three to the Elephant and Castles."
"But you don't," Foyle said, watching him. The young man had lost his diffidence as he set out his case, pacing a little as he talked.
"Both the Hoxtons and the Elephants are struggling to hold on to what they had before the war," Jack said. Foyle didn't ask how he knew: as a young constable himself, he had spent many off-duty hours unobtrusively sipping a pint and listening to the talk around him and he would have bet that week's sugar ration Jack did the same. "Darby Sabini's a spent force and Alf White is still taking hold of that organisation. I'll eat my hat if they're branching out into stick-ups. And they'd never co-operate … and these are being done by the same men. All of them, six men, armed, violent, but not impulsive. Just enough brutality to keep everyone cowed and compliant. In and out, fast and efficient. A driver in a van on the street, not always the same van, any safes blown with explosives."
"Witnesses descriptions confirm they're the same?" Foyle asked.
"The descriptions aren't much use," Jack said. "They wear balaclavas
"Any … changes to their methodology?" Foyle asked.
Jack shook his head. "No. Which means they've been practicing somewhere else."
"One of the regional towns?"
"Or Americans," Jack said, and Foyle nodded thoughtfully.
"FBI could help with that," he suggested.
"A constable can't call the FBI on his own authority," Jack said. "And Sergeant Probert doesn't think there's anything in it."
Foyle nodded again. "Feather in your cap if you broke a case like this," he said mildly.
"Might be, but that's not the point," Jack said.
"What is the point?" Foyle asked, studying the young man as he paced back and forth between the kitchen wall and the fence.
"One of the places they hit was the townhouse of a Frederick Hayden," Jack said. "Good family, well-connected, dinner party, women in jewels. One of the guests was Hayden senior, decorated for his part in the Somme but fairly frail now." He turned. "The old man decided he wasn't going to take being ordered around by a bunch of thugs with guns and got obstructive. One of the gang broke his fingers. Each and every one. His daughter started screaming and when she didn't stop when told to she was pistol-whipped unconscious." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sooner or later, they're going to kill someone," he said. "They haven't yet, because they haven't needed to. But all it'll take is one returned serviceman who thinks it makes him a hero, one Bobby walking past as they come out with their haul, and they'll need to, and they will. And … if they're this good at stick-ups, what happens when they decide to branch out? Mr Foyle, these men, they'll make mincemeat of what's left of the organised mobs and sweep straight over the small-time remnants."
Foyle raised his eyebrows. "Six men?"
"Six ruthless, well-equipped, organised, competent men," Jack said.
"And … where d'you think they got the equipment?" Foyle asked.
"Good question," Jack said. "And where are they getting the vans?"
"And the information on their targets," Foyle added. "You … sure there's no link between them?"
"No common staff, deliveries, suppliers, or services."
"Got a copy of the file?"
Jack reached into his jacket and produced a buff envelope. "It's not entirely complete," he said apologetically. "I had to summarise the witness statements - there are more than ninety of them."
Foyle took the envelope. "I'll look it over. Let you know what I think." He paused. "I can reach you at Bow Street?"
"I haven't got the phone on," Jack said, "so that would be best." He paused. "I appreciate this, Mr Foyle."
"I'll be in touch," Foyle promised, tucking the envelope into his pocket. "Now, how about lunch?"
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A/N: the 'new book on Japan' might very well have been 'The Chrysanthemum and the Sword' by Ruth Benedict, a flawed but hugely influential anthropological work published in 1946.
Publicans often got around licencing laws by keeping their doors locked, opening them to customers who knocked, and letting them drink on tab so they could argue they were neither open nor selling alcohol outside legal hours, but instead hosting a 'private party'.
'The treachery of the blue books' is a reference to a 19th century parliamentary report into education in Wales.
There was a spike in organised and disorganised crime during the war and post-war years in London, and in the immediate post-war years there was considerable instability in the organised crime underworld due in part to the internment during the war of several powerful figures as 'enemy aliens' leading to the fragmentation of their organisations.