Friday 5 February 1943

… and as usual I find myself at a loss to understand why you can't use the bloody telephone occasionally. For the next few days you can reach me at the vicarage in Levenham - and Sam, incidentally. I noticed you've been inflicting your incomprehensible modern poets on her. Glad you two seem to have patched things up but Auden, really?

Foyle frowned out the window of the car at the countryside flicking past them, chewing the inside of his cheek furiously. Sam had arrived promptly at eight that morning while he'd still been trying to frame a tactful but unmistakable inquiry for the last lines of his letter to Andrew, and he'd had to abandon it as a bad job and simply sign off.

What he'd wanted to write, what he might well have said if Andrew had been there, was You thoughtless young imbecile, did you think I gave you all those fatherly lectures about precautions for my own benefit? You'll marry her, if she'll have you, and you'll make a damn sight better husband and father than you did beau or God have mercy on you because I'll have none.

It was the only possible explanation. Andrew had been in Hastings at Christmas, two days of leave before he hitched a ride on a plane the ATA was ferrying north; Foyle himself, god help me, had been responsible for Sam and Andrew meeting again. Andrew had an easy charm he very well knew how to use and Sam had a soft spot for him. Foyle really wished he could believe his son wouldn't take advantage of that.

But I can't.

He'd considered, and rejected, alternatives: Sam was too cautious to have allowed any liberties from a more recent acquaintance and her declaration before Christmas that she wasn't seeing anyone had had the ring of truth. She'd have told him if she'd been attacked, and I'd have known something was wrong whether she said anything or not.

No. It was his son, his irresponsible, reckless, cad of a son who had put Sam in this position.

Damn it, Andrew. Did you have to be quite so much a chip off the old block?

He cleared his throat. "You're, ah … been feeling all right, Sam?"

"Oh, yes, sir, tickety boo," she said cheerfully.

"Ri-ight. That's good, then." He studied her out of the corner of his eye.

"Absolutely ravenous of course," Sam said, "but when am I not?"

Foyle frowned harder. "Miss breakfast?"

"Never! But it does sort of hardly touch the sides. And I could quite cheerfully never eat another slice of national loaf."

"I know what you mean," Foyle said with some feeling, and Sam laughed. "We-ell, your uncle might be able to recommend a fishing spot. Might even have time to try my luck today."

"Gosh, sir, that would be super!" Sam said enthusiastically. "I'll ask him. You could teach me, sir. We'd catch twice as many!"

"Ye-es, well," Foyle said dryly, "it's rather important when fishing not to talk. Fish have very good hearing."

"Oh." She drove in silence for a moment. "How was that, sir?"

"Hmm? How was what?" Foyle asked.

"The not talking. How was it?"

He looked out the window to hide a smile. "Very good," he said. "Keep practicing, you might get the hang of it."

"Roger, sir!"

She practiced quite successfully for several more miles - in fact it was Foyle himself who broke the silence. "Heard from Andrew lately?"

"How did you - oh, the poetry," Sam said. She grinned ruefully. "It is rather more his cup of tea than mine. Yes, he sent it to me."

"Forgiven him, then?" When she hesitated, he added quickly: "Not my business, of course. Tell me to keep my nose out if you like."

"It is sort of your business, sir," Sam said. "He's your son, and I work with you. For you, I mean. It's just that it's not as simple as that. I do understand how it all happened. It's the war, isn't it? And he was nice about it and all that. I don't hold a grudge."

Foyle could almost see the word but hanging on her lips. "He'd deserve it if you did," he said.

She laughed. "I have moments of thinking much the same," she admitted. "And sometimes I forget all about it. I suppose that's forgiving him, isn't it? So I daresay I have, in patches at least."

Foyle took his hat off and studied the brim. "See him recently?" he asked casually.

"Not since Christmas," Sam said. "Has he been back?"

"Not as far as I know," Foyle said.

"Perhaps he'll get leave again soon," she said cheerfully, and leaned forward to peer through the windshield. "I think we're here, sir. Aren't we?"

"We are," Foyle said, seeing the gates of Hill House ahead. "Now, listen, Sam, be careful, d'you hear? Keep your ear to the ground but don't go poking around. There's been one murder already."

"Don't worry, sir," she said, drawing the car to a stop. "Everyone around here still sees me as a skinny ten-year-old scrumping apples. It's as good as being invisible!"

Foyle reflected that she was probably right, but warned again, "No risks!" as he got out of the car.

"Wilco!" she called brightly, turning the car towards Levenham.

Foyle jogged up the steps, unsurprised when Hilda Pierce emerged from the front door as he reached the top. Probably had us under observation for the last few miles at least.

"Mr Foyle," she said, extending the hand not holding her cane.

He took it. "Miss Pierce. I wish I could say it was a pleasure."

Her lips quirked. "Likewise," she said dryly. "I presume you'd like to see the scene of the crime?"

"I would," Foyle said. "But I'd like a little more information about what happened, for starters. The victim was …?"

"Known here as Axel Brink," Miss Pierce said. "A … veteran." She turned and led the way inside, cane tapping on the parquet floor. "He'd served with some distinction, but he was no longer fit for active duty."

Foyle walked beside her. "Was he injured?"

"Not physically," Miss Pierce said. She opened the door to her office and closed it once Foyle had followed her through. "The work our agents do is demanding. Mr Brink had reached his limits."

She seated herself behind her desk and indicated a chair for Foyle with a stab of her cane.

He took off his hat and coat, tossed them on the indicated chair, and strolled to the window. "So he became an instructor?"

"Of a sort," Miss Pierce said. "He was competent, but not expert, in the skills we teach here. However, his recent experience was invaluable. Much has changed in Europe. There are many ways to betray yourself as a stranger, even in a country you were once familiar with. Small things, but they can be deadly."

"I'm sure," Foyle said.

Miss Pierce studied him. "While you are here, you will no doubt meet Miss Jean Marcus," she said.

"And who is she?" Foyle asked, turning from his contemplation of the view.

"Another of our 'instructors of a sort'. I single her out because you may find her familiar, although the name is not."

"I see," Foyle said.

Miss Pierce inclined her head. "You should also know that Mr Brink's tenure here was coming to an end. He was not … recovering as I had hoped. The day before he died, I had told him that he was to be given medical leave. There are facilities where appropriate care can be given in a secure environment."

"Psychiatric facilities?" Foyle asked, and she nodded slightly. "Was this widely known?"

"I don't know if Mr Brink mentioned it to anyone," she said. "I doubt it. I certainly didn't. Why?"

"We-ell," Foyle said, "if the motive was to get rid of him, why not wait a few days until he simply left? On the other hand, if only his death would serve the purpose, then the killer might have known he or she was on a timetable. It would be useful to know who else knew he was due to leave, either way."

Miss Pierce inclined her head. "I will see what can be learned."

Foyle wandered casually across the room, to a large pin-board on the wall beside the desk. Row upon row of photographs, all composed in the manner of identity cards, marched across it. He recognized some faces from his last visit, the instructors at the time, and noted that they were fastened to the board with green pins, while the row of younger faces below were secured with yellow ones. Students. "How did he die?"

"He was shot," Miss Pierce said. "When he did not come down to breakfast, one of the housekeeping staff - Mary Bishop - went to his room. The door was locked - we later found the key inside."

"Where inside?" Foyle interrupted, turning.

"In the drawer of his dresser," Miss Pierce said. She waited, but when he said nothing further, went on: "Mary knocked, received no answer. She reported the matter to me, and we raised a discreet search of the house and grounds. When that was fruitless, I used the master key to open Mr Brink's door, and we found him, shot through the head."

"And the gun?" he asked.

"No sign of it."

"What time was that?" Foyle took a few steps to the side, to study the map on the wall beside the pin board. It was immediately recognizable as Hill House. Neat scraps of paper with tidily handwritten names were pinned to different rooms, again with color-coded pins.

"Nine eighteen precisely," Miss Pierce said.

He located Axel Brink's room, and the dining room. "And what time is breakfast?"

"Seven."

"I see," Foyle said. "What sort of gun was it?"

"A pistol. That was my impression, and the MO also agreed."

"And the body is … ?"

"The police removed it to the coroner's morgue."

"Ri-ight," Foyle said. "Does the room have a window?"

"Yes," Miss Pierce said. "And yes, it was open. But I doubt the murderer left through it."

"Or shot Mr Brink through it?" Foyle suggested.

"I doubt that too," Miss Pierce said. "It's on the third floor. There's no suitable vantage point - although I'm sure you'll want to confirm that for yourself."

"I will, thank you," he said. "Other bedrooms on that floor?"

Her eyes moved to the map, an eyebrow lifted. "Several. I have a list for you."

"No-one … heard a gunshot?"

"We all heard a number of gunshots last night," Miss Pierce said. "Night training on the range."

"I see. About what time?"

"From two until four."

"And who knew that was planned?"

"Everyone," Miss Pierce said. "At least, it was posted on the class schedule."

"Ri-ight," Foyle said.

"You think that was when he was killed?"

Foyle raised his eyebrows. "Seems possible, doesn't it? Who else has access to the master keys?"

"From time to time the instructors have them, for …" She paused, and then said delicately, "Particular training exercises."

"Any of those last night?"

"No."

"I'll need a list of everyone who has had access to those keys," he said. "I presume you teach key copying here."

"We teach the principles of making a mold," Miss Pierce said. "Not of casting from it."

"But once a mold is made," Foyle pointed out, "a visit to a less-than-scrupulous locksmith takes care of the rest. And of course there are any number of people here who could, no doubt, lock a door without a key as easily as unlocking it."

"Yes," Miss Pierce said.

He moved back to the window. "Who disliked him?"

"Enough to kill him?"

"That bar can be surprising low for some people," Foyle said.

"Yes," Miss Pierce said. "Well. There are always tensions. This is not a holiday camp and Mr Brink was forthright in expressing his opinions."

"I'll need a list of those, then, as well."

"You'll have it," Miss Pierce said.

"And what makes you think this might be … mmm, enemy action?" Foyle asked.

"Isn't that obvious?" she asked. "You are well aware of what we do here."

"Well, yes," Foyle said. "But I should think there are other, more effective targets to hamstring your operations? Yourself? Wintringham? Why Axel Brink? What made him worth the risk?"

"He had the most recent field experience," Miss Pierce said. "A valuable resource."

Foyle inclined his head. "Perhaps. But I'll also need more details of his experience overseas."

"I'm afraid not," Miss Pierce said. "That is highly classified."

"It may be," Foyle said, "but if it's the reason he was killed, I can't find your killer without the information."

Miss Pierce considered. "If it becomes necessary," she said finally, "I'll see what can be arranged."

"Thank you," Foyle said. "And now I'd like to see Mr Brink's room?"

"Of course," Miss Pierce said. She pressed a button on the telephone on her desk. "I'll have Mary Bishop show you up. I'm sure you have questions for her."

"I do," Foyle said.

She paused, gaze on the pin board, on its gallery of patriots and suspects. "Axel Brink was a dedicated and courageous agent," she said, and added surprisingly, "I think you might have liked him, at least, the man he was before the war. It's a pity you'll only see the way his life ended."

"We-ell," Foyle said. "I'm rather used to that, y'know? In murder, the end is usually where we start from."

As the door opened, he picked up his coat and hat. A young woman entered.

"Mary," Miss Pierce said. "This is Mr Foyle. Please show him Mr Brink's room, and answer any questions he has."

"Yes'm," Mary Bishop said. "This way, if you please, sir."

Foyle followed her out.

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A/N: The 'national loaf' was a wholemeal loaf fortified with vitamins and minerals. Due to shortages of white flour, the national loaf was the only kind of bread available. It was not popular.