Historical note:

Between August 1940 and April 1943, the German Luftwaffe dropped 1,852 tons of bombs on Birmingham, making it the third most heavily bombed city in the United Kingdom. 12,391 houses, 302 factories and 239 other buildings were destroyed, with many more damaged.

(From Wikipedia)

Chapter 3

They drove the last miles through checkpoints and roadblocks and streets broken with ragged potholes big enough to swallow a pram, and piles of debris from bombed buildings, the rows of collapsed ones punctuated by the remaining tall, seemingly untouched structures.

The devastation was far beyond what had been reported by official sources, and as they passed further into the centre of the city, Foyle and his driver grew pensive, then sober and finally quite grim. There was an abundance of Home Guard and ARP Wardens about the streets. Overhead, like a vast flock of gigantic nodding sheep, floated hundreds of barrage balloons. Birmingham was paying a high price for its importance as a vital industrial manufacturing centre.

At the hotel on Hagley Road, a red brick Victorian building standing in its own grounds, they were welcomed by a young man with one empty sleeve pinned up. He examined their identification and gave them instructions and directions in the event of an air raid, and ascertained that they had their gas-masks.

Foyle couldn't help noticing, as they were shown to their rooms, how quickly the clerk's cool, official manner began to thaw in the bright warmth of Sam's friendly conversation. From within his own rooms he overheard the man at her door, speaking with a smile in his voice,

"Welcome to Brum, Miss Stewart. Don't hesitate to call on me for anything."

Foyle took his shaving kit down the hall and a short time later returned looking as fresh as if he had just left his own house. After she was settled, Sam came to hear her instructions for the afternoon, but Foyle insisted that his young driver remain behind and rest; he'd walk the few blocks to the location of his initial meeting with Chief Constable Cecil James.

"Are you quite sure, sir? I'm feeling well enough now."

"No, no. I expect you'll be of much more use to me tomorrow, well-rested, than tonight in your… fragile condition." He chided in an attempt at an avuncular manner.

"Fragile? Hardly, sir."

She protested half-seriously, but was really rather relieved that she could stay behind, luxuriate in a hot bath, and slide between crisp, clean sheets. It had been a long and tiring drive. To assuage her guilt over these sybaritic longings, she fussed around him officiously.

Foyle already gripped his briefcase in one hand and had taken up his hat to go.

"You have your luminous arm-band, sir?"

"Yes, in my pocket."

"It has to be exposed to the daylight. Here, let me fix it on."

With some impatience and a twist of his lips, Foyle set down his hat and handed her the white band. She fitted it onto the upper arm of his coat sleeve.

"Thank-you."

He picked up his hat and made for the door.

"Have you your Number 8 torch, sir?"

Foyle stopped, sighed and turned back.

"N-no."

Sam fetched it from the writing desk; he put down his hat again to open the briefcase, and she placed the torch carefully in the bottom.

"Thank-you, Sam."

Before he could take a step away she asked,

"You'll walk facing the traffic?"

"Sam!"

"It's a very big place, sir. Very busy. A lot more vehicles than we're used to, and the whole city in full Blackout. What would I do if you fell under a bus?"

"Drive back to Hastings, I expect."

Snatching up his hat, he turned abruptly and walked out of the room.

It was only after his footfalls had faded down the stairs that she spied the forgotten gas-mask box. She heaved a weary sigh, feeling rather like an exasperated mother over her heedless, headstrong boy.

Sam declined the temptations of the dining room; she wasn't in the least bit hungry as yet, but looked forward to a decent breakfast. After her lovely hot bath - albeit a shallow one, with the water restricted to the 'reverse plimsoll line' - she sat up in her dressing gown, listening to the wireless and studying maps of the city and outlying areas.

By half-past nine she had given up on Mr. Foyle, whom she had expected to brief her on her duties for the next day, and at last had climbed into bed and put out the lamp.

TBC...