L'Aimant – Chapter 32

Summary:

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

Chapter 32: Anselm meets the Hastings wildlife. Foyle presses on with the Messinger investigation.

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Notes:

Sergeants Hill and Dale belong to Wolseley37 and are mentioned in her story FW 1941: In Uniform. The character of Sergeant Dale was further developed by Sunshine on the Quietly Enigmatic Michael Kitchen forum.

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dancesabove de-loused this.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

She fixed him with her toughest stare. "Look here, Christopher. I need to get my bike repaired. Have you got my nuts?"

Foyle's face was the picture of wide-eyed innocence as he bent over his toast. "Do I look like a squirrel?"

"Oh, very funny. Wheel nuts. And I know you've got them."

"Nnnn—er—well... Can't recall where I put them. Whydontyou... um... let me find 'em for you... next week?"

There was a loud rap-rap at the front door, and Foyle rose abruptly, smoothing down his waistcoat in a sudden, telling gesture. "Must just get the door. John Ansell's here to pick me..."

He had reckoned without the agility of youth, as Sam bolted from her seat with sprinter's speed and pinned him to the kitchen doorframe, hands snaking round and down him in a frisking motion, invading one pocket after another. Finally they came to rest upon his silver pocket watch, and their eyes met. Foyle's were sheepish, Sam's triumphant. In the next moment Sam's hand closed round her prize: the wheel nuts, slung together on a key-clip, hanging from the watch-chain like a fob.

"Ah-hah! Miserable fibber, Christopher. Hand them over this minute, unless you want your driver to know how girlish and undignified you sound when tickled to within an inch of your life."

Chapter 32

Still Tuesday Morning, 16th January 1945

As it happened—and in fact it happened fairly smartly after Sam had frisked her husband and relieved him of the nuts—John Anselm was admitted to 31 Steep Lane that morning by a triumphant-looking—stunning, he thought—honey-blonde in uniform.

If he hadn't heard a fruity mix of chucklings, "ow's" and giggles through the front door just a short moment before, he might have taken her for the boss's daughter.

"You must be John," she beamed, and led him down the hall into the kitchen. "Why don't you help yourself to tea? My husband will be with you in a moment."

Anselm noticed that, before she left the kitchen, she stopped to slide a steel key-clip underneath her tie and in between the buttons of her khaki shirt, then let the object drop inside her clothing. If the guvnor's door key was attached to that, mused Anselm, he was going to have some bloody good fun rooting round in search of it.

As ever though, John Anselm was a man who kept his mouth shut while his eyes were open.

Left to his own devices in the kitchen, Anselm drank his tea and entertained himself by mentally devising ways to stun, or otherwise immobilise, a putative assailant in a well-equipped confined space such as this one. By the time his cup was empty, he had thought up thirty-nine inventive ways. And number forty would've been to hang the bugger by his braces from a meat-hook in the pantry.

But before he'd got the details and the angle of the last manoeuvre absolutely straight, his boss was standing on the threshold smartly turned out ready for the off, and fingering his tie. Very smart. Except the lucky dog had got a trace of lipstick on his chin. Because the giggling young missus had been giving him the private treatment in the next room, hadn't she?

Anselm rose and parked his hands behind his back. "Sir."

"John." The boss nodded, giving Anselm that quizzical half-smile of his. "Enjoy your early morning run?"

Foyle doubted he could crack that stony countenance, but it was worth a try.

Except that he was wrong, for Anselm's features softened just enough to advertise what passed for definite contentment.

"I did, Sir. Stopped off at a place down on East Beach Street and had a fry-up. Chap who cooked it used to be a policeman, so he told me."

Foyle's smile was genuinely warm. "Well, if you ate your fry-up where I think you did, his name is Neil."

"Correct, Sir. And if he used to be as good at catching crooks as he is at frying breakfasts, I should think you prob'ly miss him on the Force."

Foyle grinned, acknowledging both the dry wit and its subject. "Dead right I miss him. So, you finished here?" He nodded at the empty teacup.

"I am, Sir."

"Good." Foyle settled his trilby on his head. "In that case, our first stop today will be the Hastings Constabulary." He rubbed his temple, watching Anselm carefully. "My wife will sit up front with you and show you where to point the vehicle."

Anselm's stance grew ramrod-straight. "Know where the station is, Sir. Learnt the layout of the streets before we came."

"Mmyeah, well." Foyle dipped his knees and gave a quick roll of his eyes. "Only telling you what's going to happen. Doesn't mean you need it to."

A pungent smell hit Foyle square up the nostrils as he walked into the station foyer behind Sam. Halting, he pivoted and sniffed experimentally. There'd been a similar whiff around the place before he'd left for London, but in his absence, the odour seemed to have increased.

Sam registered her husband's wrinkled nose without surprise, and weighed in sympathetically, "I know exactly what you're going to say, Christopher. I've been smelling it myself. And worse than ever since getting back from London. It's quite a loud smell, isn't it? As if somebody's been... oh, I don't know... painting preservative on a fence. Or else... well, there's a... what's the word? A base-note of mothballs."

She made for the front desk. "What do you think it is, Brookie?"

Brooke's face was innocence itself. "Couldn't say about the smell, Mrs Foyle. Blocked nose, you see. Think I've got a cold coming on." He broke off and pasted on his brightest smile for Foyle. "Morning, Sir! Nice to have you back."

"Sar'nt Brooke." Foyle nodded a brief greeting. "See if you can't..." He flipped his wrist back, pointing to the station doors. "Let's have some ventilation, shall we? Soon as you can bear it."

"Righty-ho, Sir!"

Brooke watched from the corner of his eye, and as soon as Mr and Mrs Foyle had disappeared through the inside doors, he nonchalantly addressed his constable.

"Davis, prop the front doors open and let a bit of air in 'ere, will ya?"

Constable Davis gathered up the papers on his desk and placed a paperweight on top of them. "Right-oh, Sarge."

"And while you're at it, 'ave a good long stroll around the outside of the building."

Davis paused, confused. "A stroll, Sarge?"

"Yeah. A stroll... Er... Check all the window frames for woodworm."

A look of puzzlement invaded Davis' features. He left his chair to make his way across to Brooke, and sure enough, the instant that he rose, the smell racked up a notch. "All the window frames is metal, Sarge."

Unhurriedly, Brooke finished up the entry in his log. "Check 'em for ironworm, then. Can't be too careful."

Davis blinked. He hadn't really heard of ironworm, but didn't want to sound more ignorant by admitting it. Instead, he started in with his trademark whine: "Do I 'ave to do it now, Sarge? It's cold enough to freeze me bollocks off out there."

Brooke snorted, laid his pen beside the log, and levelled him a look. "You should be so lucky, Davis. All yer troubles would be over, then."

He gestured with his thumb. "Now 'op it. 'Fore I lose me temper."

As Davis passed around the front desk, Brooke added, barely audibly, "And get some fresh air round 'em. Give us all a break."

Davis reached the door, but dawdled there, so Brooke tried his own brand of bluff encouragement. "Wotchoo waitin' for then, Eddie? Spring?"

A worried frown from Davis. "Sarge, it ain't 'alf cold."

Brooke sighed wearily, taking pity on the lad, and delved under the counter, fetching out a heavy Fair Isle sweater and a long, grey woollen scarf. He bundled them together, then threw them to his constable. "Here, Mate. Pull this on over your uniform and tie this round yer neck." He paused. "And just your neck, mind. No tucking of the ends in yer trousers."

Davis donned the Fair Isle sweater so it hid his tunic, and he wrapped the scarf around his neck and head. Then he propped the front doors open with a pair of fire buckets, shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and, casting a hurt look at his sergeant, shuffled out of the station.

Brooke turned back to his paperwork.

He had been supervising the treatment for Davis' 'little problem', like the big brother Eddie hadn't got. Half of him was sorry for the lad and the other half felt like knocking the daft blighter's block off. Another day of gunge around his louse-infested groin before we all can breathe clean air again, he grumbled to himself. What was it with the Hastings Nick just lately? He shook his head in disbelief. Trouble—always trouble brewing in the passion stakes. Only a couple of months ago he'd thought it was a huge joke with the boss and Miss Stewart—and that had blown up in his face all right. Now, here was Davis in a fix because of some old drunken tart, and as usual, Brooke was slap bang in the middle of it all.

Brooke tutted in exasperation. And in all that time, the action on his own Home Front had been a big resounding NIL—thanks to a healthy fear of Florrie's Navy pugilist brother, Vic. The sad fact was that Brooke himself had had to keep his nose clean, 'cos he didn't want it flattened, did he?

Speaking of which... Bloody 'ell! The sound of heavy footfalls on the front steps of the station through the open door had brought his eyes up from the desk.

There in the doorway stood a well-built, dark-haired figure, six-foot-two, a glint of hard steel in his eye. Slung insensible over his left shoulder was Davis, and the grey wool scarf round Eddie's neck was dangling almost to the floor.

"Found this character trying to break into the station," said the figure. "Poking at a window frame with this." He brandished a metal letter-opener. "In broad daylight, too. He's got a screw loose, this one, if you ask me."

Half-stunned, Brooke nevertheless managed to retrieve his hanging lower jaw in time to say, "Got to agree with you there, Mate. So, who are you, then?"

"Anselm. Mr Foyle's driver."

"Right..." Brooke gestured, dazed, towards a bench across the foyer. "Right, well. You... might have jumped the gun a bit. But put 'im over there for now."

"Jumped the gun? You think?" Anselm snorted, crossed the floor and heaved Davis unceremoniously onto the wooden form. Then he turned and strolled up to Brooke. "I asked him what in hell he thought he was playing at, and he came out with some yarn about testing the frames for... ironworm? I mean. I ask you!"

Brooke swallowed, ran a finger round the collar of his uniform, then managed a weak, "Oh. Did he really?" There was a pause while the sergeant struggled with a catch in his voice. "But did you 'ave to knock him out, though?"

"Wasn't taking any chances." Anselm flexed his fist, absently. The knuckles cracked. "The beggar reeks of naphthalene. I reckon he's been handling explosives."

Sitting in Foyle's office, Milner's expression was both grave and incredulous.

"Suicide, Sir? It's hard to credit. I mean, DCS Fielding was... well seemed, that time I met him... touchy, yes. Gruff, even. But also... tough. I'm very sad to learn of this, Sir. Had he any family?"

"Wife's been dead for five years. And his son; well, let's just say there wasn't any love lost there. Apart from that, I couldn't say who he was close to. Back when we served together, he used to speak occasionally of a sister."

"I see, Sir. Have you spoken yet to anyone at Hythe?"

Foyle shook his head. "Been caught up with these other matters." He pursed his lips. "And the way things have been going, it doesn't look as if I'll make the funeral, either."

Milner saw where he might be of help. "I'll find out when it is, Sir. Perhaps I could attend in your place? Represent the Hastings area."

Foyle weighed up the suggestion, then gave a short, approving nod. "Good idea. You'd better speak to Sergeant Hill at Hythe. And when you're over at the funeral, see if you can't identify someone from amongst the mourners who gives a damn, would you? A relative or friend? I'd like to write a letter of condolence. Some gesture, anyway, to show respect."

"Happy to do that, Sir."

"Milner..." Foyle nibbled on his lower lip, building up to ask a favour. "This... other work... it could drag on a while. I wonder if you'd mind..."

"Keeping an eye on Sam?"

Foyle rested his hands on the desk. "Pretty much the size of it. Till she finishes here, or I'm back. Whichever happens sooner."

"Rely on it, Sir. It's been quite quiet, actually, so far."

Privately, Milner wished the opposite were true. As he saw things, his opportunity to make a mark was directly limited by the date of Mr Foyle's return. Whenever that might be.

"Where to this time, Sir?" Anselm turned in his seat, tucking in his left arm so he could face his boss.

"Whitehall, please, John." Foyle was settled with his papers once again strewn across the back seat of the Lanchester.

"Sir." Anselm threw the car into gear. "Miss Pierce's office, is it?"

"Nnnup. Take me to the Department's vehicle yard? I want to have a quick word with Sir Giles's driver."

"That would be... Mitchell, Sir?"

Foyle nodded. "As I understand it, yes." He rubbed his hand back and forth across his brow. "John?"

"Sir?"

"From what you heard from Lady Messinger's cook when you were downstairs in the kitchen... do you think the Messinger marriage was a happy one?"

"Mrs Andrews, the cook's name, Sir," supplied Anselm. "'Cording to her, they were devoted." His tongue crept to his cheek, on the side he knew his boss couldn't see. "But it's not my thing, though; sussing out marriages. I mean... appearances deceive. Very ticklish subject at the best of times, Sir."

Foyle looked up sharply from his paperwork and shot him an incisive look. How much had Anselm actually caught of the exchange that morning when Sam had cornered and then teased him in the hall? He began to seriously suspect this young man had the hearing of a bat.

His eyes narrowed, levelling a curious glance at his driver.

But in the rear-view mirror, Anselm's gaze was as steely and inscrutable as ever.

That afternoon, Milner put in a call to Hythe, with the intention of expressing his condolences and discovering the arrangements for DCS Fielding's funeral. Sergeant Hill had been the man in post the last time he and Mr Foyle had been out at Hythe, but he now learnt from the constable on the desk that Hill had been transferred, and his replacement was a Sergeant Dale.

When his call was put through, the voice that answered was a woman's.

"Hello?" said Milner, taken momentarily aback. "Some misunderstanding. I've been misdirected. Would you hand me on to Sergeant Dale, please, Miss?"

The answer came back brightly. "Actually, you're speaking to her, Mr Milner. I'm Patricia Dale."

He sensed that she was pre-empting his apology when she added, with an air of weary habitude, "Oh, it's all right! Rome wasn't built in a day. But while we're waiting for the next stone to be laid, what can I do for you today, Sergeant?"

Back in London, Foyle sat across from Messinger's temporarily redundant aide-cum-driver in a quiet office off the Whitehall vehicle yard, and asked Colin Mitchell to cast his mind back to the last time he had seen Sir Giles alive.

"It would have been around half-past-seven the previous evening, Mr Foyle. Mind if I smoke?"

Foyle nodded mute assent, and Mitchell shook out a cigarette from his packet, offering one to Foyle, which he declined with a wave of the hand. The man lit up, and after he'd taken a long drag, he screwed his eyelids tight, both against the smoke and to aid his recollection.

"He came up to me in reception—said he needed to find something in the boot, and asked me for the keys. I would've fetched whatever it was for him, only he was often independent like that. So I let him be."

"Did you eventually see what it was he went to get?"

"No, Sir."

"Did he have anything with him when he went out to the car?"

"Let's see." Mitchell rubbed his nose. "He was carrying a small white parcel of sorts. 'Bout the size of a paperback novel. Wrapped in... cloth, as I recall?"

"And when he came back in again, was he carrying anything?

"Only that parcel he went out with. I didn't see him holding anything else, if that's what you mean. Fairly sure of that."

"Fairly sure. Hmm. Anything left in the boot now?

Mitchell hesitated, mildly embarrassed. "To be honest, Sir... the boot hasn't been opened since Sir Giles. His... stuff was... well, I'm sure you know that it was brought back separately. And when it came to driving back here on my own, I just dropped my own luggage in the passenger-well next to me." He knocked his ash into the ashtray. "The car's been lying idle for a week."

"I see. And you?"

He gave a rueful grimace. "Well, not exactly idle, Sir. Reports and other paperwork, you see. It's been a busy time."

Foyle observed the strain in Mitchell's eyes, and the hint of tremor in his fingers as the man dragged on his cigarette.

"I'm vexed that it didn't strike me to take a look before," Mitchell went on. "But if you'd care to come and see for yourself, Sir, we can soon find out what's in there."

He made to rise, but Foyle waved him down.

"Yeah. It'll do in a minute. Finish your smoke."

Foyle wondered how it must feel to a Whitehall "minder" to lose the dignitary placed in his charge. He leant back in his chair and crossed his ankles. "Been with him long, had you?"

"Nine years, Sir. Can't say I warmed to him at first. But I came to like—well, anyway, respect him, in the end. He wasn't what you'd call a friendly boss. But very... what's the word? Well, let's just say you knew exactly where you stood with him. If you fell short of the mark, he wasn't shy to let you know."

"And did you? Fall short of the mark, at all?"

A sheepish smile from Mitchell. "Lucky for me, no." He gave a snort of resignation. "Not till now, anyway. But I've been around to see when plenty did. And it wasn't a pretty sight to witness."

Foyle's mouth barely twitched at that.

"Of course, he got particularly bloody-minded when his son died," continued Mitchell.

"Yeah. So I understand." Foyle would bet his tongue still bore the teethmarks of his last encounter with Sir Giles. Miss Pierce still owed him large for his judicious reticence in service of the SOE.

Shortly afterwards the two men sauntered amiably out into the yard, where Mitchell unlocked the staff car's boot flap, lowering it so that Foyle could look inside. To all appearances, the luggage space was empty.

Foyle stood a moment, blinking at the empty, dark interior, and sucking at his teeth while he compared it to the inside of the Wolseley. As he recalled, there was a slight depression just behind the wheel arch in his own car, and he reached inside to feel around and see if there were something similar in this boot.

Sure enough, there was a niche tucked just behind the left wheel, and when he moved his hand across to check the same position on the right, his fingers brushed against what felt like a cylindrical glass object with a lid. He immediately withdrew his hand without the object, and dug into his trouser pocket for his handkerchief, then reached inside again to pick the object out.

He held the object up, holding it carefully in the handkerchief. It was a small, clear jar, containing some variety of creamy substance. As he turned the jar, he saw there was a neatly handwritten label stuck to the glass. It read: "Horseradish – Dec. '44".

A questioning look passed from Foyle to Mitchell, who promptly stretched his eyes and shrugged. "It must've rolled out of Sir Giles's bag—the open-topped one he always uses—used—for carrying odds and ends."

Foyle, carefully regarding the jar, reconstructed the most likely scenario in his mind: Messinger's sandwich arrives minus horseradish, prompting Sir Giles to rifle through his bag for his emergency supply. Failing to find the jar, and confident he has not forgotten to pack it (Foyle smiled: Messinger had been nothing if not confident in himself), he goes out to the car to hunt it down. The parcel in his hand is therefore... his sandwich... wrapped in a white napkin? Perhaps it contains a small knife, too? And outside, Messinger locates his jar of sauce... unfolds the napkin on the floor of the boot to expose the sandwich, applies the horseradish—Foyle held the jar up to the light—probably liberally—re-wraps the sandwich in the napkin, and returns to his hotel room.

So far, so plausible.

But did any of it matter? Foyle imagined that it did. Insofar as he resisted the temptation to stick his finger in the jar and taste the contents, he had an inkling that, at best, the flavour wouldn't agree with him, and at worst it might be deleterious to his health. But of course, he had no proof of that. As yet.

Pocketing the evidence, he took his leave of Mitchell.

As Foyle exited the yard and struck out along Whitehall, a vision of Lady Messinger's garden hung in his mind: luxuriant herbaceous borders, bright with flowers. The memory, he realised (vivid though it was), came not from life, but from the enormous painting on the wall of the Messingers' sitting room: all manner of blooms were depicted there. He fancied he had seen delphiniums amongst them. Purple, blue and white varieties, growing in abundance, interspersed with hollyhocks. Every bit the archetypal English country garden display.

For some reason, the make-up of that border bothered him. But the essence of the quandary eluded him. There had been many instances, in the course of his career, when facts not consciously of relevance would suddenly lock neatly into place to solve the puzzle of a case. Years of applying deductive reasoning in the call of duty had wired Foyle's brain in such a way that it could effortlessly process facts and cross-refer them in the background, whilst the forefront of his mind was still engaged in more mundane endeavours.

Or as Sam had put it—more succinctly, and in eminently practical fashion: "Keep on going over the little that you do know, until you realise you know a lot more than you think you do."

Except with him, the process was unconscious.

And so it was that Foyle's steps veered away from Whitehall, towards Victoria Street and the nearest public library. Once inside the building, he inquired after directions at the desk, and found himself soon afterwards ensconced in the botanical section, amidst a pile of volumes full of colour plates.

There he remained for nearly three hours.

Back in the Department office, Foyle delved into the linens bag containing every item taken from the scene of death, and once again withdrew the dinner napkin he had earlier examined in the hotel room in Staines. Now that he looked more closely through its light, transparent cover, he could see that there were grease-marks on the cloth.

He picked his way along the bustling corridor to the Medical Officer's cubbyhole and leant against the door jamb, knocking pointedly on the open door.

"Anybody think to test this thing for noxious substances?" he asked, by way of introduction, holding up the cellophane-bagged napkin and the green report submitted by the Hendon lab. "Can't see any mention of it from forensics."

The MO glanced up at his visitor. "Ah. Foyled again!" He smirked at his half-witticism, then donned his spectacles, holding out his hand to receive the document. "Let's have a look," he frowned. "Abbreviations on these things can be impenetrable." He scanned the page for the line pertaining to the napkin, then nodded, mumbling to himself, "K-M Neg..."

"There," he announced, letting his finger rest on the single-line result for Foyle to see. "Kastle-Meyer presumptive test." Noting Foyle's raised eyebrow, he expanded on the information. "Tested for presence of blood. But nothing found."

"No other tests done?"

"Nope." He pursed his lips in disapproval, and raised his eyes to meet his visitor's. "Indeed it would appear not, Mr Foyle."

Foyle stretched his eyes sardonically. "Right. Suggest you send this napkin back to Hendon and re-test for aconite." Foyle reached into his pocket. "Also, I'd like the contents of this jar identified."

"Aconite." The white-haired man pulled off his glasses and began to nibble on the temple tip. "Aconite would certainly induce asphyxia. But how'd you come around to that particular suspicion?"

Foyle shrugged, and pushed out his bottom lip. "Couple o' things. Just an idea, at this stage. Last time we spoke, you reckoned there were substances involved, so... humour me. Just get it tested, would you?"

****** TBC ******

More Author's Notes:

Well, my promised new Foylefic, 'Victory Roll', debuted last week on fanfiction dot net. I hope you will take a detour from 'L'Aimant' to start reading it. Particularly those of you ladies who hail from across the Pond, since one of your sisters gets a crack at Foyle!

…

A word in, too, for dancesbove's romantic epic 'The Crash'. It would have been finished long ago if not for, well, Real Life, and, latterly, her selfless devotion to beta-ing my crap. But there are 20 delicious chapters of it for you to enjoy, and she will shortly be returning to the story, so as to lead it to a sweet conclusion. It was one of the first Foylefics that I ever read, and it is still amongst my absolute favourites.

...

More soon.

GiuC