DBRAG CDBSK GGIMN IXAZW HTMGU ZQOHX JED

9 October 1946


Andrew stopped pacing across the reception area of the Times long enough to ask: "Are you going to tell me what this is about, Dad?"

"Nup," Foyle said.

"Fine." Andrew threw himself down into the chair across from his father. "I take the morning off work, come down to the Times office to meet you because you need me to introduce you to Alan Brayley, but by all means, don't tell me why."

"Remember all those forms you filled in during the War?" Foyle asked.

"Of course, I —" Andrew's eyes went wide. "Right. Like that?"

"Like that," Foyle confirmed.

"I thought you were out of all that," Andrew said.

"So did I," Foyle said dryly. "This is rather … unofficial."

There was a small silence. "I say, Dad," Andrew said at last. "Do be careful."

"Never anything but," Foyle assured him, and heard the lie the moment it was out of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "We could get lunch, after this? My shout."

Andrew shot him a look that said as clear as words if that's how you want to play it. "Sure," he said. "There's a place near my office that does a —"

"Andrew!" A tall, thin young man who looked to Foyle as if he had dressed out of a 'Hollywood Reporter' catalogue came through the door to the inner office. He seized Andrew's hand and pumped it enthusiastically. "Bloody good to see you. It's been, what — two years?"

"Almost," Andrew said. "How have you been, Alan?"

"Alright," Alan said, and grinned. "Better than alright, actually. Remember that girl I used to talk about, Marjorie?"

"Couldn't forget," Andrew said, "you never stopped singing her praises."

"She's Mrs Brayley now," Alan said. "And there's a little Brayley on the way."

"Congratulations," Andrew said warmly. "That's great news." He turned to include Foyle in the conversation. "Alan, this is my Dad." The two men shook hands and exchanged greetings. "We've come with rather an ulterior purpose, I'm afraid."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "I'm a journalist, Andrew. Ulterior purposes are my bread and butter. Come through and tell me about it."

He led them down a corridor, up a flight of stairs and across a wide room crowded with desks, all of which seemed to be occupied by men either hammering on typewriters or shouting into telephones. On the other side of it, a small number of doors bore individual names. Alan opened the one marked 'Brayley' and ushered them into a tiny cubicle.

"Not much, I'm afraid," he said, although with obvious pride, "but it's mine. Now, what can I do for you? And can I print it?"

"No," Foyle said firmly, and the young man's face fell.

"But," Andrew said, "when there's something that can be printed, you'll be the first phone call. Right, Dad?"

"Of course," Foyle said.

"Good enough," Alan said cheerfully. "So what is it?"

"I was hoping you'd be able to introduce me to … whoever does your crosswords," Foyle said, and Alan's eyebrows shot up.

"I say, that's a rather rum request. You're not with the War Office, are you?"

"No-o," Foyle said, raising an eyebrow in turn. "Why?"

"Rather rum rumours," Brayley said. "Something hush-hush about the higher-ups summoning the compiler a few times."

"Mmm," Foyle said. "We-ell, no, not War Office. Quite retired. This is a personal matter."

"A personal matter," Alan said. "With the crossword compiler of the Times."

Andrew glanced at his father, then said: "Look, Alan, the truth of it is, the old man's just trying to spare me some embarrassment, but you're too sharp for us. Just … don't laugh too hard, alright?" Alan nodded, and Andrew went on: "The fact is, there's this girl. She used to get the same bus as me. I introduced myself one day, and from then on we used to say hello and chat a bit. I was working up the courage to ask her out and then one day, she just wasn't there. Hasn't been back. I know her name, but I don't have any way to find her. And actually, I'm a bit worried something might have happened."

Alan was smiling at the story, but not maliciously. "She must be quite something if you had to work up courage to ask her out," he observed.

Andrew cleared his throat uncomfortably and glanced involuntarily at Foyle. "She, uh, is."

"You want the classifieds, man, not the crossword," Alan said.

"She doesn't read the classifieds," Andrew said. "She doesn't read any of the newspaper, she just does the crossword. Every day, without fail. So what I was thinking was if there were clues that solved to something like 'Susan Havers' — that's her name, Susan — 'please call' and my number."

"Very cloak and dagger," Alan said. "You know, old chap, she might just not — I mean, she might have just started taking a different bus."

"I know," Andrew said. "But at least I'd know."

Alan studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. "Alright," he said. "I'll see what I can do. I owe you, after all, for all that time you spent listening to me rabbit on about Marjorie."

"You certainly do," Andrew said fervently, and Alan laughed, and picked up his phone.

The crossword compiler, who turned out when he reached Alan's office to be a very short, very rotund elderly gentleman, was quite taken with the romance of the story Andrew had cooked up — he certainly considered it completely understandable that a man would be unable to forget a woman who finished the whole crossword every day, especially when Andrew added the invented detail that Susan Havers did it entirely in ink. Foyle had already arranged with Sam and Adam to use their home number, since anyone trying to reach him at his hotel or Andrew at the RAF club would need the name of the person they were calling, and after Andrew wrote down the message they'd worked out, the compiler promised it would appear in two day's time, and hurried away to get to work.

"I think you've made his day," Alan observed. "You will let me know what happens, won't you? We could get a human interest story out of it if you end up marrying this girl."

"Steady on," Andrew said, laughing. "I haven't even asked her out yet and you've got us in a pre-fab with a baby in a cot and another on the way."

"Absolutely," Alan grinned. "Everyone should be so lucky."

With promises to keep in touch, and further promises to give him an exclusive on the hypothetical future wedding of Andrew Foyle and Susan Havers, they took their leave.

"Well done," Foyle said quietly as they made their way back toward reception.

Andrew put his hands in his pockets and said nonchalantly: "Maybe I have a future in Intelligence work."

Foyle stopped dead. "Good god, Andrew, you're not serious, are you?"

His son gave him the same raised eyebrow Foyle occasionally saw in the mirror. "Had you going, didn't I? So clearly I have a natural talent. But no."

"That's a relief," Foyle said, starting down the corridor again. "I don't think it would … suit you."

"Neither do I," Andrew said. "Wish I knew what did, though. Maybe I should talk to Alan again, see if he can get me a job on the paper."

"And what's wrong with advertising?" Foyle asked.

"Oh, the money's alright," Andrew said off-handedly. "And the work's not too arduous. But I can't see myself still writing six word slogans for washing powder in thirty years time." He shrugged. "They all take it so seriously, and I just can't. What does it bloody matter what sort of shoes a girl buys? She's got feet to put them on, that's the important thing."

They reached the exit, and Foyle spotted the door marked Classifieds. A sudden impulse slowed his steps. "I spent the war arresting people for selling tuppence batteries at threepence ha'penny," he said, "which often felt about as relevant as the shoe preferences of the demi monde. Hang on a moment, would you? I want to put an advertisement in, and then we'll get lunch."

The clerk at the classifieds desk read Foyle's proposed advertisement, and pointed out that charge was by the letter, and that he could suggest a few ways the gentleman could save himself a little money. Foyle thanked him, but refused, and paid for it to be printed exactly as he'd noted it down, then joined Andrew on the steps outside the office.

"Covering your bases?" Andrew asked.

"Manner of speaking," Foyle said, although he wasn't entirely sure what he'd done, or why. "Look, d'you fancy some fresh air? There's a nice little park along here, if it hasn't been bombed, and we might be able to get a sandwich."

"It's a bit parky," Andrew objected.

"Do you good," Foyle said.

Andrew gave him a sidelong look, and sighed. "Alright then, if you want."

On the way to the park, Andrew filled his father in on the long and occasionally painful courtship of Alan Brayley and the fair Marjorie, a story apparently complicated by torturous shyness on both sides and not made easier by the long separation of the war.

"Alan was always scribbling things for the magazine," Andrew said. "Just a rag, really, we used to type up a few copies and they'd go around all the chaps until they were dog-eared. Funny stories, couple of poems, local colour, for morale, you know? Anyway, I talked Alan into a column called 'Letter Home'. I told him to pretend he was writing to Marjorie, but not really — his letters to her were bloody awful, stilted things about the weather. And he wrote these terrific, funny little pieces, making fun of himself as this lovesick fool too scared to speak up. Had the chaps in stitches. I collected as many as I could and when it was all over last year I sent them to her with a note explaining it was Alan who wrote them."

"Seems to have worked," Foyle observed, turning into the park. It was almost empty, which was not surprising since Andrew's observation of the weather had been accurate.

"I'm bloody glad," Andrew said. "It did occur to me afterwards it might have been a mistake, but rather too late." He stopped in the middle of the path. "What's this about, Dad? And don't pretend you don't want to tell me. We're not in the middle of an empty park for our health."

"No," Foyle admitted. He spotted an empty bench. "Let's sit down." When they were both seated, Foyle took off his hat, rubbed his forehead, and replaced it. "Andrew," he said. "Something I need to tell you." He took a deep breath, and started: "During the war … the first war, I was injured, not badly."

He told the story in almost the same words he had used to James Devereaux. I was young, alone, frightened. There was a volunteer nurse. Her name was Caroline. She was beautiful. Married, but desperately unhappy with the life she was leading, at her happiest when her husband was away. But she chose to pursue that life for the sake of the child she was carrying.

His son listened in silence. "Your child?" he asked at last.

"It seems … likely," Foyle said.

"Do you … is he .. Or she? … Christ!" Andrew stood up abruptly and took a step away, running his fingers through his hair and then scrubbing one hand over his face.

"You've met him," Foyle said. "Last Sunday."

Andrew turned. "That constable?"

Foyle nodded. "Yes. Jack Devereaux. James Devereaux, actually, but he goes by Jack."

"Bloody hell, Dad," Andrew said. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"It was before you were born," Foyle said. He looked up at his son. "It was before I even met your mother. I told her, before we married, and I never saw, I never spoke to or wrote to Caroline again, or had any letter from her."

"Jack wasn't before I was born, was he?" Andrew said sharply. "He was bloody sitting in our dining room with us drinking tea!"

Foyle winced. "Yes," he acknowledged.

"And you've been seeing him?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Foyle said. "I … respected his mother's wishes. Even after she … died. Until last year, when he was in a spot of difficulty. I met him a few times, sorting that out. It involved … arresting Sir Charles for the murder of Caroline. We haven't met since. Until Sunday. Once you'd met, I felt … I owed you the truth."

"Christ!" Andrew flung himself down on the bench again and ran his hands through his hair. "Her husband killed her? Bugger lunch! I think you owe me a drink after that bit of news!"

"I am … sorry, Andrew," Foyle said. "I would never … I was very young. There was never anyone else, after your mother."

"No," Andrew said. "I'm sorry. Poor old Dad. And poor old Jack. What a bloody mess!" He glanced sideways at his father with a rueful grin. "God, no wonder you kept banging on about 'being careful'!" He pulled a face. "And what a complete prig I was, telling you off for it."

"Perhaps … a little," Foyle said judiciously.

"Does he know?" Andrew asked, and at Foyle's nod: "And he knows that you're telling me?"

"I felt he had a right to know that," Foyle said. "There's a … sizable inheritance. And a title. If this were widely known, there'd doubtless be legal challenges. Successful or not, his mother's name would be smeared, and he'd be … tied up in the courts for years. So, yes, he knows I'm telling you. And he hopes, we both hope, you'll be discreet."

"Yes, of course," Andrew said automatically. He rubbed his forehead. "Christ, what an absolute googly. Sir Charles Devereaux? I read about that trial."

"All of England read about that trial," Foyle said dryly.

"Poor bastard," Andrew said. "Jack, I mean. Losing Mum was hard but …" He shrugged. "I can't even imagine what it must have been like for him."

"Yes," Foyle said quietly.

"And there weren't any other children, were there?" Andrew asked. "I remember reading that."

"No," Foyle confirmed. "No other children."

"Would you mind if I sent him a note?" Andrew asked.

Foyle considered. "No-ot sure I have the right to stop you," he said. "Saying what?"

"Asking him for a drink," Andrew said. "Isn't that what one does? In circumstances like these?"

"Not really sure of the etiquette, myself," Foyle said wryly.

"Emily Post might have something," Andrew said. He grinned. "It does seem rather an American situation, doesn't it?"

Foyle paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. "He … mi-ght not fancy accepting the invitation," he suggested delicately.

"That's up to him," Andrew said, and shrugged. "If he doesn't want anything to do with me, well, I can understand that. The news must have been even more of a shock for him. But … I'd feel rather a rotter if I didn't at least make some sort of effort. After all, it's not like he's got anyone else, is it? At least I've got you."

"Oh thank you very much," Foyle said dryly.

"You know what I mean," Andrew said affectionately.

"I do," Foyle said. He touched his son's shoulder briefly. "And I think sending him a note would be a good thing to do. Whatever Emily Post might say. I'm … I've always been proud of you, Andrew, never prouder than right now. Your mother would say the same."

Andrew dropped his head, scrubbed a hand across his eyes, then sat up. "Thanks," he said, and gave his father a sidelong grin. "But don't think that gets you out of the drink you owe me."

Foyle rose to his feet. "Come on, then," he said. "By the time we get to the pub it'll be opening hours."

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A/n: Googly - A wrist-spinner's off-break, bowled with an action similar to that for the leg-break.

Emily Post's guide to etiquette was first published in America in 1922.