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7 October 1946
The Minim was a far more classy establishment that Foyle would have expected from his knowledge of Soho. A long, low, dimly lit room was dotted with chairs clustered around small tables, eclectic in style but none which would have been out of place in a gentleman's club. Thick carpeting and heavy wallpaper muffled conversation to a low murmur. At the far end of the room, one corner held a well-stocked, mahogany bar, bottles glinting in the lamplight; in the other, a small stage barely big enough to hold the grand piano crammed onto it was currently occupied by a solo saxophonist.
The club was busy for a weeknight, and it took Foyle a moment to pick out Jack in one of the chairs close to the stage. He considered finding somewhere he could watch the young man and see who he was here to meet. But there is a point where reasonable delicacy begins to look like distrust.
Instead, he went to the bar and ordered a malt, taking his time to give Jack the opportunity to see him. When he turned, glass in hand, the younger man was looking directly at him, expression wry, and motioned to the chair beside him with an economical tilt of his head.
Foyle joined him. Settling in the chair, he raised his glass slightly. "Cheers."
Jack returned the gesture. "I'd say what a coincidence," he said with faintly mocking note in his voice, "but it isn't, is it?"
"No," Foyle said. "Any more than it's … a coincidence that one of those robberies was here. This your local?"
Jack laughed soundlessly. "Bit rich for a constable's salary," he said. "I've no desire to have my boss thinking I'm on the take, or asking too many questions about my means. No. I play piano here, some nights."
Foyle sipped his drink. "Were you playing the night of the robbery?"
"No. I was on lates, that week." Jack tipped his glass, watching the ice float from one side to the other. "A … friend was." He set the glass down untouched. "Is that relevant?"
Foyle pursed his lips. "In explaining why you worked a case so hard on so little evidence, yes."
"Oh, I see." Jack smiled, not looking at Foyle. "You wondered if I was involved."
"No," Foyle said. "I wondered if someone you knew might be. If that was the anything else you weren't comfortable telling me yesterday." He watched Jack over the rim of his glass. "If that was why you needed my help."
"No," Jack said, but he still didn't look at Foyle. "Sorry to disappoint."
"I wouldn't describe myself as disappointed," Foyle said mildly. He paused. "I met one of your admirers on the way here tonight." Jack did look at him then, one eyebrow up. "Afraid I didn't get her name. Tall woman, French teacher, across the road from your building?"
"Miss Charlene," Jack said. "She's not … actually …" His face held the same expression Foyle was sure his own had worn once or twice, as a young constable discussing cases with his father. How do I explain this to the poor old man?
"I did rather gather her skills lay elsewhere than linguistics," Foyle said dryly, and realized that he was giving Jack the same look he'd been on the receiving end of, decades before. Being old is by definition not born yesterday, lad.
"That's not the anything else, either," Jack said. "In case you're wondering."
"I wasn't," Foyle said mildly. "I doubt you'd be foolish enough to choose a career in the police if it was."
Jack laughed again, but this time without the mockery. "No," he said. "Although I did spend one uncomfortable night in a … dress on a street corner when one of the women police officers came down with 'flu the day of a stakeout."
Foyle smiled. "I'm sure you make a lovely girl," he said.
"That's not what Miss Charlene thought," Jack said. The corner of his mouth lifted. "I forgot to shave. Apparently it's an important detail." He picked up his glass, sipped. "Are you going to tell me a good police officer would arrest her?"
"No," Foyle said. "I'm not going to tell you that."
Jack glanced at him, and then away, with the quirk of his mouth that Foyle was beginning to learn meant the younger man was filing away new information. He knows me as little as I know him, Foyle thought, with a sense of sadness for all the wasted years, the years that would have let them understand each other as well as he and Andrew did. Or at least, he thought, misunderstand each other as well as Andrew and I occasionally do.
He thought of the two young men together at the dining room table, one so open, one so guarded, and yet, in small ways perhaps only he would notice, so much alike - something about the jaw, the temples.
Foyle frowned at his glass, and cleared his throat. "I'd like to tell Andrew. About …"
"About me," Jack said.
"I realize you might not consider it his business," Foyle said. "But … it's unfair, now he's met you."
"And what are you going to tell him?" Jack asked.
"Exactly what I told you," Foyle said. "Have you … considered pursuing it?" He didn't know Sir Charles's blood-type, or Caroline's for that matter, but there was a chance a test would provide a conclusive result.
Jack smiled. "During Sir Charles's trial I thought of not much else," he said. "But there are … legal complications." He shrugged. "I don't much care myself but Jane doesn't deserve to be turned out by some second cousin. And …" He looked at Foyle, looked away. "What if I get the wrong answer?"
"I'll take that as a compliment," Foyle said. He cleared his throat again, and drained his glass.
"You should," Jack told him. "And you should tell Andrew … if he can be ... discreet."
"He managed to keep his trap shut about his war work," Foyle said. "I'll make sure he understands the complications."
Jack nodded, and then glanced at something behind Foyle's chair. "I'll have to ask you to excuse me. The manager is on the way to tell me my set is due to start." He stood. "I'll have them send you another drink, if you'd care to stay."
"I would," Foyle said, meaning it. "Thank you."
Jack made his way toward the stage, but paused as he was intercepted by a slender negress, wearing a yellow dress studded with sequins that had to predate rationing, her hair lacquered into a braided ebony crown. "I thought you'd lost track of time, Mr Devereaux," she said, with only the faintest trace of an American accent.
"Never, Miss Harper," Jack said. "Would you have another drink sent to my friend?"
Their words were formal, but Foyle noted that the glances they exchanged were anything but, noted too that as they parted ways their hands met, fingers briefly intertwining.
Jack stepped onto the stage, sat down at the piano and began to play, a familiar war-time melody that quickly wandered off into the thickets of improvisation. Miss Harper moved to the bar and out of Foyle's line of sight, but a moment later she was at his table, carrying a tray with a single glass, bearing as royal as if she were a queen carrying the scepter of her office.
He rose courteously. "Miss … Harper?"
"Please, sit down," she said.
He did, and she set the glass on the table with a hand that trembled slightly - a tremor that made the diamond on her ring finger shiver in the lamplight.
The 'anything else', Foyle thought. He imagined Sir Charles's response to the news his heir planned to marry the manager of a bar, not only not titled but also not white.
No wonder he's afraid to tell me. "Will you join me?" he asked Miss Harper politely.
Miss Harper shot one quick glance toward the stage, and then nodded. "Thank you." She glanced toward the bar, signaled with one finger, and then seated herself in the chair Jack had vacated, as demure and upright as a debutante.
"My name is Foyle," he said.
"I thought it must be," she said. "Mr Devereaux has spoken of you." She added hastily: "In the most complimentary terms, of course."
Foyle picked up his glass. "Have you known him long?"
"Almost a year," she said. "I sing, a little. He used to come to listen, and we got to talking one evening."
I'll bet he did, Foyle thought. The woman was exquisite. "Do you sing here?"
"From time to time," she said. "Now I manage Minim there's less leisure for music." Another quick glance to the stage, and Foyle had the conviction he knew on whose wealthy behalf she managed the bar.
"That's a very nice ring," he said mildly.
Miss Harper looked reflexively at her left hand, not the right one on which she wore that diamond, and then back at him. If she was blushing, her complexion didn't permit it to show, but Foyle thought perhaps she was. "Thank you," she said evenly.
"A gift, I think, from Mr Devereaux?"
She hesitated, then finally nodded. "Yes." A waiter brought her drink, a martini, and she took a long swallow. "Mr Foyle, Mr Devereaux … he values your opinion." She set the glass down precisely, folded her hands on her knees, and looked straight at him. "I understand you may very well object to me, to …"
"To your being the future Mrs Devereaux?" Foyle asked.
"Yes," Miss Harper said with dignity.
Foyle raised his eyebrows. "I'm not in a position to object to Jack's matrimonial plans."
"You are in a position to make him very unhappy, however," Miss Harper said. "Please don't do that, whatever your opinion of me, of my … my heritage."
"Do you love him?" Foyle asked.
"Yes." It was said with absolute conviction and, Foyle judged, absolute truth.
"We-ell, then, I can't see what grounds I'd have to object," Foyle said. "As to my opinion of you … very beautiful, very brave, clearly a good head for business if this is an average Monday night … can't really see how Jack could do better." He picked up his glass, and raised it slightly. "Your health and happiness."
The piano had stopped. Foyle looked up to see Jack returning, his face wearing the sardonic expression with which, Foyle had learned in the gaol interview room, he habitually disguised anxiety, or pain, or fear. The young man stopped behind Miss Harper's chair, and rested his hand on her shoulder. The look he gave her was full of tenderness; the look he turned on Foyle was full of challenge.
"My congratulations to you both," Foyle said quietly and sincerely, and saw the challenge melt to relief.
"Shall I order us some champagne?" Miss Harper asked, covering Jack's hand with her own.
"Better not," Foyle said judiciously. "At least … not until you've taken me through your witness statement for the robbery here last June."
"I didn't give a statement," she said, surprised.
"But you were here, weren't you?" Foyle said, with a glance at Jack. "And the police might have overlooked you as a witness …" Overlooked was as polite a way as he could phrase it, although he was quite sure all three of them knew it had been casual racism that had seen the officers dismiss a woman of her color as having the wit to make any useful observations. "But you saw something, or heard something, that you told Jack. And if I'm going to help, I need to know what it was."
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.
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A/N: "Negro" and "Negress" were still considered to be neutral terms in this period, while 'colored' and 'black' were considered offensive.
