Disclaimer: None of you are somehow under the impression that I own or make money from "Foyle's War," right? I know you'll all recognize where I've copied dialogue from "The Russian House."

Author's Notes: Shakespeare has his "problem plays." Horowitz has "The Russian House," which many of us fans dislike for a good handful of reasons. One of the biggies is what he does with Paul Milner, making him act like a total git towards Mr. Foyle. So, Mr. Horowitz gives us lemons and intrepid fanfic writers like myself do their best to make lemonade.

This batch was stirred and sweetened by my Beta Extraordinaire, GiulliettaC. Many thanks, as always.

Late June, 1945

Christine had behaved like a veritable angel at her christening and the party afterwards. But perhaps being the center of attention had been too much for her infant nerves; following the christening the baby had spent half the night screaming. The only thing that soothed Christine for any length of time was being carried through the house.

Usually, when Christine needed attention at night, Sam insisted on being the one to get up. She reasoned that Paul's need for sleep was of greater priority; he needed to be fresh for work in the morning and wouldn't be likely to have any opportunities to catch a few winks during the day the way that she usually did.

But quieting Christine had never taken so much time or energy before. The baby refused her bottle with as much energy as though she suspected her parents were attempting to poison her. Sam walked about with her daughter, singing lullabies for over an hour, until she felt ready to burst into tears herself. At this point, Paul had gotten out of bed (he hadn't been sleeping in any case) and ordered Sam to lie down while he took a turn at pacing the floor with their daughter. A half hour into Paul's vigil, Christine seemed to have cried herself out and gone to sleep, but the minute he laid her in her cot, she was wide awake and screaming once more.

Christine finally accepted a bottle at about half past four and mercifully fell into a deep sleep. Her parents had managed to scrape together five hours of sleep (though sadly not consecutive), and Paul dragged himself out of bed just after his usual time, feeling decidedly unrefreshed after the stresses of the night.

He got his own breakfast, but was deeply touched when Sam staggered out of bed as he was preparing to head out of the house for the day, and met him at the front door. Since moving to Brighton and assuming his post as Detective Inspector, they had developed a morning routine. Before Paul left the house, Sam would straighten his already straight tie, smooth back the lapels of his suit, and declare with pride, "There. You look every inch the detective inspector." And then after a quick kiss, he would be on his way to the station. This morning, her words were slurred with sleep, but he could still hear her proud happiness behind it.

Walking through the cool morning air helped to dispel some of the fog left behind by his broken night's sleep. As he navigated the now familiar streets of his route to work, Paul thought about his new position and the events of the past few weeks. Sam thought that he looked like an inspector, but although everyone at the new station gave him his title, he didn't quite feel as though he was one. Not quite yet. He knew how to work hard. He was conscientious. He was pulling his weight here in Brighton. But the cases that came his way were mostly petty crimes. A lot of smash and grabs from stores at night. Thefts of five pounds or less. No less important to the victims, whom he did his best to treat with respect. But by their nature, the crimes were all the sort that were either easy to solve or impossible. Nothing different from the sort of thing that he had handled when he was Mr. Foyle's sergeant. He was on his own now, and he badly wanted something more challenging to solve. Something that would really prove that he had deserved the promotion. That he really did have the requisite skills and brains to be a detective inspector in more than name.

As soon as he entered the station, the desk sergeant informed him that there had been a murder. Within a few minutes he was in a car, being driven to the scene of the crime: Redwood Lodge. Perhaps today was the day that his wish for a more challenging case would come true.

...

As soon as Redwood Lodge came into view, it occurred to Paul that people were warned to be careful of what they wished for with good reason. A house this grand suggested that the case could be quite tricky. Not necessarily because it would be difficult to determine the facts of the case, but because the rich and powerful also tended to be impatient and domineering when they were subjected to investigation. Tread on the wrong toes, and your case could be stymied before the photographers had finished documenting the crime scene. This case would require diplomacy in addition to deduction.

As the Wolesley pulled to a stop, Paul took a deep calming breath and recalled old Sergeant Maxwell. Maxwell had been the principal officer in charge of training recruits when Paul had joined the force. Tall and beefy with a walrus moustache of which he was inordinately proud, his voice had been gravelly and resonant, somewhat like Churchill's.

"Pro-ject authority, lads," the man had always instructed them, "Your uniforms will go a long way in that regard, but even when you are not wearing them, act as though you are in charge of the situation and nine times out of ten, you will find that you are, in fact, the man in charge."

Doing his best to act as though he were in charge of the situation, Paul climbed out of the car, where he was met by his junior officer, Detective Constable Perkins.

"Housekeeper found him this morning," Perkins reported brusquely, leading the way inside. Paul followed, listening as the Detective Constable continued relaying information about the deceased: Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones – apparently an important artist, though neither man was familiar with either his name or his work.

Paul was inclined to like Perkins. Some people might have considered the man's distinctly working class accent out of place in the detective branch, but whenever Paul heard it, it put him in mind of Sergeant Brooke, whom he had liked and respected a great deal. Perkins himself seemed eager and enthusiastic about his work, though still rough around the edges, naturally. He needed to hone his diplomatic skills for a start.

...

The late Sir Leonard's housekeeper was a very pretty young woman named Celia Robbins. Miss Robbins appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with a very fair complexion and fiery red hair, which she wore in a severe bun.

"I was gone the whole day yesterday," she explained to the two detectives, her words tumbling breathlessly over themselves in her rush to explain the situation, "My cousin's young man was just de-mobbed and the wedding was yesterday. In Eastbourne. I spent the night at my aunt's – I can give you her particulars – then I came back first thing and found him…" she made a vague gesture with her hand back in the direction of where the body lay, being photographed from all angles. "As soon as I realized he was dead, I telephoned for the police."

Asked if she had noticed anything missing, Miss Robbins went on to describe the general disturbance of Sir Leonard's home. His wallet, which he always left on the hall table, was missing, as well as some other items. When asked whether she knew of anyone with a grudge against Sir Leonard, she explained that a young man had been round the other day. He was just out of the army and had worked for Sir Leonard before the war. He had been promised his old job after the war, but the job wasn't there anymore.

"Now Niko is here, you see," Miss Robbins concluded somewhat elliptically.

"Who's Niko?" Paul prompted.

"Nikolai Vladchenko. He's Russian," Miss Robbins added helpfully.

"I think I could have worked that one out," Paul said with a wry smile. "Who is he?"

According to Miss Robbins, Niko was a very young man, still in his late teens really, who had been fighting in the German army and captured late in the war. He had been assigned to work on the grounds of Redwood Lodge, and he and Sir Leonard had become quite close.

"And do you know where he is?" They would have to interview him as soon as possible.

"He should be here," Miss Robbins said with a worried glance around the room, as though she expected Niko to materialize from behind a potted palm. Paul frowned to himself. It was too early to be really definitive, but it sounded as though Nikolai had just earned himself the top spot on his list of suspects.

Paul, Perkins, and Miss Robbins began to walk slowly through the house, Miss Robbins pointing out further signs of intrusion and destruction. They entered Sir Leonard's studio, in which a number of canvases had been thrown unceremoniously to the floor.

"These will all have to be inventoried," he heard Miss Robbins tsk in annoyance under her breath.

About to ask whether the paintings were considered valuable, Paul's attention was arrested by one of the sketches on display, and he stopped in mid-stride. Perkins peered over his shoulder and was momentarily struck dumb as well. Though the image was still rough and unfinished, there was no mistaking that its subject was Miss Robbins with her hair unbound, cascading around her shoulders. And that, in the picture, Miss Robbins hadn't a stitch on.

"Anything…going on between the two of you?" piped up Perkins to Miss Robbins, "The sort of thing you wouldn't want your mum knowing about?" It was a reasonable enough line of enquiry. Miss Robbins might have a young man who objected to Sir Leonard using his girl as a model. Miss Robbins herself might have gotten cold feet about posing in the nude. Her alibi in Eastbourne would have to be confirmed as a matter of course. Paul was sure that the Detective Constable had meant to sound professional, but there was a distinct leer to his tone of voice that did nothing to endear him to his witness.

Miss Robbins' thus far even-tempered features took on a look of decided disdain as she looked Detective Constable Perkins up and down. Paul had never before seen someone so young deliver such a well-executed "old fashioned look."

"What a nasty mind you have, and no mistake," she began in a voice marinated in vinegar, "I'll have you know, Constable," she continued, "That my mother knows precisely what I do. She was an artist's model before the Great War, working for Sir Leonard and some others, and she's in a painting that's hanging in a big museum in London. She was always a respectable woman and so am I. There was nothing going on between me and Sir Leonard. I was his housekeeper and sometimes his model. He was always a perfect gentleman," the last word delivered with the distinct insinuation that Perkins wouldn't recognize a gentleman if one hit him over the head with a croquet mallet, "And that was that." With the concluding word, Miss Robbins pursed up her mouth in a manner that indicated clearly she had said all that she was going to say for the present.

It was at this juncture that one of the uniformed officers approached Paul with a message. He was delighted to have the awkward moment interrupted until he learned that a DCS Foyle had arrived on the scene and was asking to speak with the detective in charge.

...

Apart from the natural surprise that Paul felt, encountering Mr. Foyle outside the home of the late Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones, the most prominent emotion jockeying for dominance was a kind of blind panic. Yesterday at the christening, amidst the bustle of all their other friends and relations, seeing Mr. Foyle had felt familiar and comforting. Despite how few and far between the occasions had been in the past when they had all seen each other outside of work, there hadn't been any awkwardness. Their social roles were clearly defined and everyone's focus had been mostly directed at Christine in any case.

But Paul wasn't sure how he and Mr. Foyle were supposed to treat each other in the professional sense. What did Paul's own change of status from Sergeant to Inspector mean? They weren't equals, quite obviously, but Mr. Foyle was no longer his superior officer, so what sort of behaviour would be most appropriate? Moreover, Paul reasoned with a sort of sinking feeling in his stomach, since Brighton was well outside of Mr. Foyle's jurisdiction, what was he doing here in the first place? Something that might tie Paul's hands in his first really important solo case? Or even take the case out of his hands altogether?

Project authority, Paul reminded himself, setting his shoulders back as he descended the shallow front steps of Redwood Lodge. I'm the one in charge of this situation, not Mr. Foyle.

"Chief Superintendent," Paul began once they were face to face, "Can I ask what you're doing here?" They'd spent most of yesterday afternoon in each other's company; surely it wasn't necessary to waste time on social pleasantries.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Mr. Foyle replied.

"I'm afraid there's been a murder." As he made the statement, Paul became aware of Perkins joining their tete a tete.

"Well, I'm here to see Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones," Mr. Foyle continued.

"That won't be possible," Perkins said with a cheeky grin before Paul had a chance to reply.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Foyle enquired in surprise, turning his head to look Perkins squarely in the face.

"He's the one who's dead," Perkins answered blithely, relishing his joke.

"Sorry, you're…?" Mr. Foyle's query was deceptively mild, though there were dozens of men and women in gaol who would have recognised it as a sign that the DCS was getting ready to, metaphorically speaking, knock his speaker for six.

"Detective Constable Perkins," came the reply with cheery unconcern. Paul flinched inwardly, sensing what was coming.

"Do you know," commented Mr. Foyle with icy disapproval, "In my day, a Detective Constable wouldn't have dreamed of addressing a Chief Superintendent without permission and certainly not without calling him 'Sir.'"

"That's all right, Perkins," put in Paul, dismissing the Detective Constable with what he hoped came across as compassionate authority. He felt rather sorry for the younger man; two unpleasant tongue lashings in the space of five minutes. Paul's gaze followed Perkins' retreating back for a moment, missing the look of astonishment that crossed Mr. Foyle's face. Once Perkins had moved beyond earshot, Paul turned back towards Mr. Foyle with the concern uppermost in his mind.

"Sir, can I ask why you wanted to see Sir Leonard?" he began with rigid formality, "I should remind you that this matter is in my jurisdiction and if you have any information…"

"I don't need reminding," the DCS cut Paul off in mid-sentence, sounding quite irritated, "and I have no interest in this or any matter within your jurisdiction; I am simply here for information regarding a missing Russian."

"Nikolai Vladchenko?" Paul asked and Mr. Foyle nodded, "We wanted to talk to him too."

"Is he a suspect?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that." Paul felt his earlier panic return in full force. "It's too early to say," he added, feeling his already tenuous control of the situation ebbing away. "I've only just finished talking to the housekeeper, taking her statement."

Mr. Foyle now turned a cool stare on his former subordinate. "Well, if you've finished with her for now, then perhaps I can ask her a question or two of my own." It was a declaration of intent, not a request, which Paul found himself allowing rather than contesting.

Following in the DCS's wake as they both reentered the house, Paul introduced Mr. Foyle to Miss Robbins, and remained present for the duration of Miss Robbins' second interview. Mr. Foyle's queries – as he'd said – related not to Nikolai himself, but to a friend of his, another Russian who had escaped from a POW transport. Miss Robbins was most helpful, explaining that one of Niko's friends had passed through the previous week, and Niko had taken money from the housekeeping to aid his escape. She herself hadn't seen hide nor hair of the man, but Niko had said his name was Ivan.

Though Mr. Foyle left Redwood Lodge well satisfied with the information he had received, Paul spent the rest of the day trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he should have handled the entire encounter differently.