Chapter 8

It was Wednesday morning and Sam pulled over to park the Wolseley on Calthorpe Road, climbed out and walked along the pavement until she came to the newsagent's shop. Mr. Foyle had given her the street number, described the shop and the proprietor, and sent her off with the half-postcard. She felt a little odd about the errand, but the shopkeeper matched the two halves of the card together and did not hesitate to produce the briefcase, and even demurred at accepting the banknote until she assured him her boss would be displeased if she returned with it.

Back at the hotel, she found him ready to begin work, dressed in the other suit he had brought for the journey, but with waistcoat unbuttoned, sans necktie. Evidently Kenneth McKay had been up to offer his services, for the writing desk had been positioned in front of the wing chair near the hearth, and the remains of a light breakfast lay on a side table. She set his case on the desk.

"No difficulties, then?" He asked, munching gingerly on a piece of toast.

"None at all, sir. Though I must say I felt rather like a secret agent, handing over that bit of card…"

Foyle raised an eyebrow.
"Well, it worked, didn't it?" he said very quietly as he lifted out the files and spread them over the desk. Sam saw that he winced with discomfort, lowering himself slowly and carefully into the chair in preparation to starting his work.

"How can I help, sir?"

"Just, er, don't disappear. You have your book, Sam? Help yourself to coffee."

He set to work, writing out his case notes on a long legal pad, reading from the files and consulting documents. He had been supplied with photographs of every member of the force, and he studied these minutely, some under a small magnifying lens. Sam listened to the steady scratch of his pen, and then grew curious when he switched to a pencil and began describing longer marks on the paper. On the pretence of taking away the breakfast tray, she glanced over his shoulder to see that he was making precise, detailed and draughtsmanlike sketches of a ring design, a distinctive cuff-link and a tiepin.

On her way down the stairs, she puzzled over the possible value of such seemingly inconsequential observations, but reserved judgement on his methods.

She made her way through the dining room to the kitchen, chatted with the cook and the young girl who served as maid-of-all-work, and carried a fresh pot of coffee up to his room - rather a luxury about which she did not inquire too closely.

As she entered, Foyle made a quick, furtive attempt to hide the cigarette he had just lit, but then brought his hand up to the desktop, defying her to remark upon it. With as neutral an expression as she could muster, she set a cup of coffee before him wordlessly and went back to her book.

He examined the broken torch and the folding knife and entered notes into his report; he dispatched her downstairs to borrow the telephone directory. On her way back she stopped at her room and picked up the knitting she had begun in Hastings. Looking over at the book open beside her on the settee, her hands worked the pins as the strand of wool running up from the cloth bag on the floor transformed into a small jumper for a cousin's child.

Foyle glanced up and paused, surprised to see her engaged in such a home-centred activity in what he had come to regard as his office. He frowned at his papers for a moment, then continued writing and searching through various documents in his files.

Sam found herself more and more impressed with his powers of concentration and his attention to details, however she could not dispel her doubts as to the content of his report – what on earth could he have learned from a violent encounter with three thugs in a dark lane?

Foyle worked on as he ate the simple luncheon of sandwiches, tea and biscuits she had arranged to have sent up. While reviewing some points in his own notes, he sat back in the chair and smoked a second cigarette contemplatively. Finally he stubbed it out, checked the time on his wristwatch and spoke to her.

"Sam, I'll need to send you out to do some leg work for me."

"Certainly, sir. I'm always glad to be useful."
She rose and came to stand before the desk.

"Know you are, Sam." He gave her a weary but grateful smile.
"Here's a list of offices to visit – I have the addresses from the directory – and I've noted down the information I need. Any questions?"

She read down the list, frowned a little at the second-to-last, and shook her head.
"No, it's quite straight-forward, sir. Er – this one is a jeweller's, is it?"

"Yes, take these sketches with you; they should be able to identify that ring design and confirm its origin – or send you on to someone who can."

"And, for these offices... I really have no credentials to show if anyone should ask. What name shall I mention?"

"Well, don't think mine will carry any weight – shouldn't mention it in any case – just say you're making inquiries for Chief Constable James, which you are, as my proxy."

"Very good, sir." She smiled brightly and turned to go.

"Er, hang on, Sam. I'll walk down with you." He got to his feet with evident strain, buttoned up his waistcoat, accepted her help with his jacket, and slipped his pen into his breast pocket. Tucking a file under his arm, he said,

"I have several phone calls to make."

Walking slowly on the stairs, Sam matched her pace to his while trying not to look like it. She saw him to the private telephone booth and said good-bye, but he had one last instruction for her.

"And Sam –? Do be back before six, whether you've finished the list or not. The Blackout here is, er, very black."

"Right, sir."

After making his calls Foyle returned to his room, his energy depleted from the effort of climbing the stairs. He decided to give in to his fatigue; he hung his jacket over a chair and walked with halting steps to the bed to lie down. The ache in his side was persistent and sharp, aggravated with nearly every breath he took. He had slept in the bed the previous night, despite Sam's apprehension, but had been kept awake until the small hours by worry over air-raids and by the pain. Now he rolled himself onto his right side and fell into an exhausted slumber almost immediately.

Two hours later, gazing desultorily at the ceiling, he was considering whether his motivation to get back to his report was stronger than his disinclination to inflame his various injuries, when there was a firm knock at the door. Foyle sighed and got himself onto his feet; he went as far as the bedroom doorway and called out a response. The elderly doctor walked in, beaming an encouraging smile.

"Back on your pins, Mr. Foyle? Jolly good. How do you do?" he held out his hand. "I don't suppose you remember me –."

"I remember your darning needle." Foyle eyed the man warily.

"Quite. Sorry about that, but it's deucedly difficult to get hold of anything like morphine, outside of the hospitals and the Army..."

Foyle smiled, stepped forward and they shook hands,
"Not at all; it was very good of you to come. The whisky helped."

"I am essentially retired from practice, but in these times one must be ready at a moment's notice to help where one can."

"And I'm very grateful, Dr. Watson."

"Well, how are things healing? Were you able to sleep?"

As the doctor got his stethoscope out of his medical bag, Foyle scowled to himself and thought of a diversion.

"Air-raids last night were the main problem. Do you have any news as to where they struck?"

"I understand the Small Heath railyard was hit. Locomotives laying about like children's toys; buildings smashed; they're still finding bodies."

Foyle walked over to the desk, pulled out one of his maps and spread it open across his papers.
"Which yard? This one here?"

The doctor abandoned his instruments and came to examine the map.

"Now, let me see... yes, that's the one. Take an interest in these things, do you, Mr. Foyle?"

"As much as the, er… Well, yes I do. Do you know the city well, Doctor? How long have you lived here?"

"Oh, some years now. I know it quite well. I would be pleased to help with any information I can supply you."

"Have a seat, Doctor."

Their conversation lasted for more than an hour, and Foyle found himself giving nearly as much information as he received. The old gentleman's keen interest and appreciation for the more obscure details of the investigation drew him to be far more communicative than was his usual practice. They sat opposite each other, the doctor on the settee with his pipe and Foyle on a chair with a cigarette between his fingers.

"Tell me, Mr. Foyle, what do you consider to be the one salient feature of interest in this case?"

Foyle smiled at the question.
"Well, this is too great an opportunity to pass up, Dr. Watson; I'll turn the question back upon you – do you have anything to suggest?"

The elderly man beamed his approval and delight.
"Hah! This does take me back, sir, indeed it does."

He thought for a few minutes, and then fixed his companion with a bright eye.
"Why did they deliver the body to the police station?"

"Yes."

"Why not dispose of it somewhere else, away from the scene of the crime?"

"Go on."

"Would it not be to their advantage to delay the discovery of the murder?"

"Well, reverse that, Doctor: what was the advantage of ensuring the murder was discovered immediately?"

"Intimidation? A warning?"

"Perhaps. But what sort of warning?"

"Indeed…" The doctor scratched his head in puzzlement. Foyle took up the thread.

"M-might have been a warning... not to interfere with their plans. Do you see any difficulty with that?"

"Well, you say the Chief Constable claims to be unaware of the exact nature of the criminal business that is underway. He had no investigation in hand."

"Exactly."

"Then the warning was not to the Chief Constable – it must have been directed at someone else, someone who is aware of the criminal activity."

"One step further, Doctor – or, erm, the next 'link in the chain' –?" Foyle smiled.

"...To someone who is party to the crime. It was a warning not to expose them! Wait, no... that can't be it."

"Certainly a warning not to do... whatever the dead man did?" Foyle suggested, turning his head and raising an eyebrow.

"A falling out among thieves? Greed, then – the dead man wanted more than his share, perhaps. And there are further members at the station who are party to the crime!"

"That's the direction my thoughts are running. And if you've found your way along the same path, then perhaps we can't be too far afield, Doctor."

The elderly man sat back in his seat with an air of satisfaction.

"Excellent, sir! Allow me to thank you for this most invigorating exchange by offering you a drink – nearly as difficult to come by as morphine, but I have better sources for this commodity. No, no, don't get up; the less movement to those ribs of yours, the sooner they will heal."

He fetched two glasses, retrieved his medical bag and lifted out another bottle; Foyle noted that it was quite a decent scotch.

"Tell me, Mr. Foyle, with whom do you usually discuss your cases – talk out your theories...?"

"My sergeant – chap called Milner – good man, capable man; and, er... my driver, oddly enough. Unavoidable, I suppose."

"Miss Stewart?"

"Yes. She, er... takes an interest; bit too enthusiastic. Occasionally offers unexpected insights."

"A canny young woman."

"Canny? How so?"

"Steady, bright, loyal; don't you find her so?"

Foyle shrugged noncommittally,
"She's young. There have been a... number of suitors... distractions."

"I don't doubt it."

"One of them's bound to take her away." He finished with a tone of inevitability, smiling,

"...and I'll have to find another driver."

He took a swallow of whisky.

A couple of drinks later and the doctor was in a philosophical mood.

"I did not feel it at the time, but in later years I truly regretted that I had not made more of an effort to break through his natural reserve. You see, I really was his only friend, the one person close enough to him to see the heart beyond the brain, the feeling soul hidden within the extraordinary reasoning machine. I believe, now, that I did him a disservice not to have taken that bold and perhaps intrusive course..."

The doctor turned his eye upon the detective.

"I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Foyle, for taking what you may well think an intrusive course now. My life is at its close, and I find it impossible not to speak and to act when it seems right to me.

"It is clear that you pursue your work with determination, dedication and self-sacrifice. You enjoy the challenge, the puzzle and the process of investigation. Holmes used to say, 'L'oeuvre, c'est tout'. But for you, that was never the case, am I not correct?"

Foyle, discomfited, chewed the inside of his lip before answering,

"Well, a man has his hobbies, something to take his mind off his work..."
He lifted the whisky glass balanced on his knee, frowned at the drink, and set it down again untasted.

Watson continued in a voice of quiet understanding,

"You are... discontented; you question the value of your efforts on the home front, and in your thoughts you dwell on the futility of it all.

"That remembrance you keep round your neck – your late wife's ring? Is it a comfort to you, Mr. Foyle, or has it become, perhaps, a sort of penance?"

Foyle looked away, unwilling to answer.

"You may well feel your work has become burdensome to you, for you have lost that strengthening core around which a man, a whole man, centres his life. Holmes never had it; he became... hollow. You... had it once. You must find that centre and that support again, Mr. Foyle."

He glanced pointedly towards Sam's open book, coffee cup and the nearly completed knitting, a small study in domesticity on the side table.

"It may be nearer to you than you know – it may only require... that you reach out your hand to accept it."

He met Foyle's troubled eyes for just a moment, then gazed upwards and declared,

"I am able, now, to look back with some contentment over a full and, I hope, useful life. But I will tell you this, Mr. Foyle: it is not the triumphs, the defeats, nor even the satisfaction of a duty fulfilled and a job well done that remain prominent in the mind. It is the memory of those who loved us and whom we loved. My first wife, my first love, Mary, died very young. For many years I believed I could never love another as I loved her. But I was wrong. My love for Violet was equally strong, as was hers for me. It was not the same, it could not be the same; I was a different man. But our time together was a true blessing. Had I not allowed myself to love again, how small would be my store of memories now?"

TBC...