Foyle's Last Case

By ANTHONY HOROWITZ

PUBLISHED: 22 and 23 December 2018 in the Daily Mail. See here and here.

Earlier that evening, it had begun to snow... and the weather would play a large part in what followed. In fact it could have been exactly timed, preparing the ground — in every sense — for murder.

But looking out of the window of her bedroom, Samantha Wainwright saw only that the town was almost empty, what few cars that were still out had slowed down to a crawl and that the pedestrians had been driven into their homes or perhaps the pubs.

She watched the snowflakes dancing in the air, spinning crazily beneath the street lamps, then turned away.

‘Do you think Christopher will still want to go?’ she asked. She always had to catch her breath when she called him that. Not 'sir'. Not 'Mr Foyle'. It had been almost 40 years since the war had ended. She was no longer Sam Stewart, a driver on secondment from the Mechanised Transport Corps and he, of course, was no longer a Detective Chief Superintendent.

She was 60 years old, a mother with a grown-up son living in London. He was that young man’s godfather. The two of them were the closest of friends. And yet she could not quite let go of the old formality between them.

‘I think you worry about him too much,’ Adam Wainwright said, fastening his cufflinks. ‘If he preferred to stay in, I’m sure he’d tell you.’ ‘He is quite old!’ Sam muttered.

‘We’re all quite old and if you want the truth, I’m not sure I want to go out myself in this freezing weather. But it is Christmas. Sir Nigel has an excellent cook and it would be a bit rude to turn him down now.’

Adam came over to the window and gave his wife a gentle kiss. Her hair might be greyer and her figure fuller, but it sometimes seemed to him that she hadn’t changed at all. He loved her as much as the day they had met.

Sure enough, Christopher Foyle was waiting for them in the living room, reading a book beside the fire. Like Adam, he was wearing a suit. It was to be a formal dinner, although the days were long gone when such an occasion would have demanded black tie.

Sam had been worrying about him from the moment she had met him at the station. He was so thin. He moved slowly and, although he tried to pretend otherwise, she was sure he was in pain. He seldom talked about his son, Andrew, who was now in America, or his second wife, Elizabeth, who had died a few years before.

She wondered if he was lonely, living on his own in the same house in Hastings. Foyle was in his late 80s now and it was hard to reconcile this elderly man with all the adventures they’d had together. It had all happened so long ago and in a world that had been so very different.

Foyle had come to the Wainwrights’ home on Boxing Day and would stay with them until after the New Year. He could not walk very far any more, but he still enjoyed strolling, arm in arm with Sam, exploring the town or the banks of the River Lugg. Anyone watching them might have thought they were father and daughter, a thought that amused them both.

‘Are we off?’ Foyle had got to his feet as she entered the room. He was looking at her with the affection and half-amusement that she knew so well. ‘If you’re sure you want to come.’ ‘Well, I suppose I could stay behind and read. But actually, I’m quite looking forward to dinner...’

‘I was just worried because it’s snowing.’

‘Then let’s hope we’re not eating outside!’

They left together, Adam behind the wheel of his Jaguar XJ. He had bought it as a consolation prize after he had finally lost his seat — along with 50 other Labour MPs — in the 1979 election, just three years ago. Although Sam had never said as much, she was glad that he was finally out of politics. She had spent too many days on the campaign trail, too many nights on her own.

Sir Nigel Brennan was also a major figure in Labour politics, despite his wealth and ancestry. He had begun life as one of the Bevin Boys, working in the coal mines. Later, he had graduated from Cambridge and become first a barrister, then a QC.

He lived with his wife, Emily, in a nine-bedroom house that could have easily been described as a stately home. Kenwater Hall had been built and added to over four centuries and stood in nine acres of grounds with gables, sculptured chimneys, mullioned windows, half-timbers and even a family crest above the front door.

As Adam drove up the gravel driveway, through a great swathe of lawns that had turned white in the moonlight, it was as if they had travelled back in time. They passed a smaller building — an odd, twisted cottage that stood on its own about 50 yards from the main house — then pulled in at the front door, which opened at once.

A man in his 50s stepped out to greet them. He was dressed like a butler in a three-piece, grey suit and black tie. He had the manner of one, too; welcoming but not over-friendly. Adam obviously knew him. ‘Good evening, Harkin,’ he exclaimed as he stepped out of the car. Harkin had opened the door for Sam. ‘Good evening, sir.’

‘This is John Harkin who works for Sir Nigel,’ Adam explained as Foyle eased himself out of the back. ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Foyle said. The manservant nodded and gestured with one hand. ‘This way, please.’

The group needed little urging. The snow was falling more heavily now and the temperature had dropped quite suddenly. It must have been close to freezing. They hurried in through the front door and into a hallway where a huge log fire was cheerfully blazing, surrounded by old family portraits.

And yet the welcoming atmosphere was punctured by two voices, coming from behind a half-open door on the other side of the hall. ‘I hate you, Alastair. I can’t stand you.’

‘Yes. Yes. Yes. I’ve heard it all before.’

‘I wish I’d never met you. I wish you were dead.’

‘Well, Christmas with your family! I may die of boredom.’

The first voice was female, young and on the edge of tears. The second belonged to a man. It was languid, slightly sarcastic.

Standing in the entrance hall, Harkin was embarrassed and doing his best not to show it. ‘Sir Nigel is waiting for you through here,’ he said.

He led them into the living room with another exuberant log fire, thick carpets and curtains and a surfeit of comfortable furniture.

Sir Nigel Brennan, in black trousers and smoking jacket, was cradling a glass of champagne. He was a few years older than his butler, white-haired, jovial and yet with a touch of steel in his eyes; a man who made decisions and stood by them.

His wife, Lady Emily, was sitting cross-legged on a sofa as if posing for one of the portraits. A diamond necklace sparkled around her throat, capturing and multiplying the flames.

‘Good evening! How very nice to see you. Do come in. Will you have some champagne?’

Sir Nigel was in a hurry to get over the preliminaries. He kissed Sam on the cheek, shook hands with Adam, then quickly rounded on Foyle. ‘I’ve been very much looking forward to meeting you, Mr Foyle. Sam has told me a great deal about you... and your time together.’

‘That was a long time ago,’ Foyle said.

‘Do you miss police work?’

‘I miss fly-fishing more.’

Foyle accepted a glass of champagne handed to him by Harkin and sat down on the desk chair that had been turned round to face the room. He had learned to accept that the further down he sat, the longer it would take him to get up again. Sam watched him anxiously. Every time she saw him, he was a little more frail.

‘I hope you like fish pie, Mr Foyle.’ Emily Brennan said. ‘We had turkey on Christmas Day and goose on Boxing Day and by the time we get to mid-week I don’t want any more meat.’

‘Mrs Harkin makes the best fish pie in the county,’ her husband added. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Harkin understood that the praise had been directed at him.

The door opened and two more people came in. Foyle knew at once that this was the couple that he had heard arguing when he arrived. Sir Nigel introduced his daughter, Lucy, who had just come down from London. She was in her 20s, slim and pretty with fair hair and childish eyes. She had none of her father’s toughness. Hold her too tightly, you might think, and she would snap.

There was something immediately offensive about the man who was with her. He introduced himself as Alastair Reeve, but did so almost reluctantly.

He was wearing jeans and an open-neck shirt, his only nod to the formality of the evening being a scuffed and faded velvet jacket. He had the long, sweeping hair and dark features of a romantic poet although, as he quickly explained, he was a journalist.

He and Lucy had met at a party a few months ago and were now, as he put it, together. At dinner, Foyle found himself sitting opposite him and realised that he had actually come across the man’s work, glancing through the news.

Reeve was quite a celebrity, writing about politics and people in public life. If he had a trademark, it was that he never had anything very nice to say about anyone. His opinions at the table were equally combative.

Sir Nigel and his wife soon showed themselves to be uncomfortable in his presence and even Lucy felt obliged — nervously, half-jokingly — to apologise several times on his behalf.

There were some who might say that Reeve — cynical and over-assertive — was very much the product of his generation, but Foyle had no animus against the generation growing up in the Fifties and Sixties. He had never believed that people could be judged by the time in which they were born.

During the war, for example, he had met many young men and women who had sacrificed themselves for their country. His own son had flown a Spitfire in the Battle of Britain.

But at the same time, he had encountered thieves, deserters, cowards, profiteers and even murderers. If there was one thing he had learned, it was not to make generalisations.

Curiously, it was the subject of war that marked the low point of the evening... though not the war of Foyle’s experience.

The conversation had, not surprisingly, turned to politics and the likelihood of another election in the coming year. As Harkin cleared the dishes away following an excellent fish pie, Sir Nigel had observed, a little gloomily, that Margaret Thatcher was almost certain to win.

‘Well, that’s because of the Falklands,’ Reeve said, pouring himself some more wine. ‘The whole bloody war was only entered into to boost her own popularity.’ ‘I have no liking for Margaret Thatcher,’ Sir Nigel muttered, looking at his guest with eyes that had suddenly darkened. ‘But I would have said that was a grotesque over-simplification.’

‘She could have prevented the invasion. She knew it was going to happen.’ Reeve was relentless. ‘And when you think about it, who gave a damn about those bloody islanders? Sheep-sh*****s sitting on a miserable lump of rock that didn’t even belong to them in the first place!

‘Make no mistake. All those stupid young boys who were torn apart by Argy machine-gun posts at Goose Green gave their lives simply to keep the Tories in power.’

‘Hold on a minute…’ Sir Nigel began.

But encouraged by alcohol and his own self-importance, Reeve continued. ‘I thought we’d gone past the time when people thought that war, any war, was anything but a disgusting waste of time.

‘And, let’s not forget, it wasn’t just our own boys who died in the Falklands. Some of those Argentinians were teenagers, murdered by British Army thugs. You know a thing or two about murder, Mr Foyle, but as I understand it you were smart enough not to fight in the last world war.’ ‘Actually…’ Sam began but Foyle lifted a hand, warning her not to continue. He had in fact spent years working with the intelligence services, but he didn’t want that discussed. Certainly not here. ‘I think perhaps we should talk about something else,’ he said, equitably.

Later on, Foyle would have clear memories of the scene. Reeve —flushed and self-satisfied. Sir Nigel and Lady Emily both furious. Their daughter embarrassed, emptying her wine glass. Sam and Adam both uncomfortable. And, forgotten as he cleared away the dirty plates, Harkin staring at the guest with undisguised contempt. ‘Has anyone seen ET?’ Sam asked. ‘Everyone says it’s terribly good.’

Foyle smiled. Harkin left the dining room, returning a few minutes later with a steamed treacle sponge. Sir Nigel helped himself to a large slice. At least some of the festive spirit had returned.

Coffee was served by Phyllis Harkin in the living room with Handel playing quietly on the stereo system. She was a plump, matronly woman who beamed as the guests complimented her on her cooking.

Alastair Reeve was slouched in a corner with Lucy next to him and Foyle noticed that the two of them were now holding hands and that he was stroking her arm provocatively in front of her father. It wasn’t easy to work out the relationship. He remembered the words that Lucy had been shouting as he, Sam and Adam had arrived at the house. And yet clearly she was attracted to Alastair Reeve. More than that. She couldn’t escape from him.

Foyle was tired. It was rare these days that he was still up past ten o’clock at night and he was glad when Adam announced that it was time to leave. Sir Nigel showed them to the door. ‘I want to apologise about that conversation at dinner,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid Lucy has poor judgment when it comes to some of her boyfriends. And this latest one…the way he treats her is appalling.’ Something dark flashed in his eyes. ‘If I had my way…’

‘You could ask him to leave,’ Sam suggested.

‘I was already thinking that.’ Sir Nigel lowered his voice. ‘His comments on the Falklands were also extremely inappropriate. The Harkins lost a son in the conflict. Tom Harkin was a corporal with the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment — killed in action. I’ll ask him to go tomorrow.’

But that wasn’t what happened.

Adam took the telephone call in his hallway the following day. It was ten o’clock in the morning and Foyle and Sam had just finished breakfast and were getting ready to leave. The plan was to visit Croft Castle in Yarpole, just a few miles to the north, to look at the art collection.

‘Adam? Look, I’m sorry to interrupt you — but something very bad has happened.’

‘What’s that?’ Adam cupped his hand over the speaker. ‘It’s Sir Nigel.’

‘There’s been a death at the house. Well, not quite the house. The Folly. Reeve was staying there and we’ve just discovered, half an hour ago… He’s dead!’

For a moment, Adam was lost for words. ‘Have you called the police?’ he asked.

Foyle and Sam both heard the word ‘police’ and stopped with their coats half on. ‘Yes, of course.’ Sir Nigel paused. ‘Look, I’m not quite sure why I’m ringing you. I’m one hundred per cent sure it was accident.

‘Reeve went down to the cottage at about midnight last night and it looks as if he went out the back for a last cigarette. There’s a little patio that you can reach from the living room. He slipped, fell, knocked himself out and…’ Another pause. ‘He must have frozen to death.’

‘What a dreadful business,’ Adam said. ‘Was he alone?’

‘Yes. There’s no doubt about that. The point is, the Folly was completely surrounded by fresh snow — you must have seen it coming down — and this morning only one set of footprints led there. They were his.’

Sam had moved closer to her husband, trying to hear both sides of the conversation. ‘I wondered if Mr Foyle wouldn’t mind driving up here. It’s just that I know he’s got more experience of this kind of thing and the truth is, Emily is most desperately worried.

‘It would really set her mind at rest to have someone with his expertise confirming that there was nothing untoward about what’s happened.’

‘He’s with me now, Sir Nigel. I’ll see what he says and get back to you.’

Adam rang off and repeated what he had just been told. ‘A murder!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘How marvellous!’

‘Hold on!’ Adam frowned. ‘You can’t possibly mean that.’

‘Well, it’s obviously not that marvellous for Alastair Reeve. But you must admit, it’s a great deal more interesting than a bunch of dusty paintings in a castle.’ She turned to Foyle. ‘Are you up for it?’ she asked.

‘Sir Nigel seems to think it was an accident.’

‘That’s what he says. But he wouldn’t want you up there if he didn’t think otherwise. You must admit, Reeve was a pretty nasty piece of work.’

Foyle thought for a moment, then sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it can’t hurt,’ he said.

‘That’s wonderful.’ Sam opened the front door, then turned and saluted. ‘Ready when you are, sir,’ she said.

And just for a moment the years rolled away and they were leaving together on yet another investigation, even if it was a Jaguar rather than a Wolseley 14/60 that was waiting for them outside.

With the snow still gently falling, they set off.

The police had already arrived when Foyle and Sam returned to Kenwater Hall. The investigation, if that was what it could be called, had been led by a young man and a woman — DI Middleton and DS Giorgetti.

They had made a brisk examination of the crime scene and they were already presenting their findings over two cups of hot, sweet tea in the kitchen.

‘It’s all pretty straightforward,’ Middleton said. He had not had time to shave that day and the grey stubble around his cheeks along with his dark, tangled hair and crumpled clothes somehow contrived to make him look hopelessly out of his depth.

Sitting next to him, Giorgetti was a squat, dark woman dressed in puffer jacket and jeans. Foyle was not surprised.

He had got used to the fact that modern detectives were more informal than he had ever been.

It was hard, sometimes, to tell the difference between them and the criminals they were pursuing.‘Mr Reeve had clearly had too much to drink,’ Middleton went on.

‘Shortly after midnight, he returned to the Folly on his own. He went upstairs to the bedroom and took a sleeping pill. We found a bottle of temazepam by his bed.

However, he must have decided to have a last cigarette or perhaps a breath of fresh air before he turned in.

‘There’s a patio at the back of the cottage, reached via a set of French windows. He went back downstairs, opened them and stepped outside.

‘That must have been when he slipped on the ice and knocked himself out. I’m afraid he froze to death. A nasty little accident but an accident nevertheless.’

‘Why was he staying in the guest house?’ Foyle asked.

‘Because I put him there,’ Sir Nigel Brennan said. ‘After dinner, he picked my daughter up in his arms and he was actually carrying her up to her bedroom in front of my very eyes!

‘The two of them had both drunk too much. They were giggling, behaving like newlyweds. Well, I wasn’t having any of it and I asked him to move to the guest cottage.’

‘Did your daughter go with him?’ ‘Of course not.’

But Sam wondered how he could be so certain. Had he actually watched Reeve go?

‘Mr Reeve left the house at about ten past 12...’ Middleton continued.

But once again Foyle cut in. ‘Forgive me, Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘You say he was on his own. But as we drove up here, I noticed quite a lot of footprints in the snow between the house and the Folly.’

Middleton took a deep breath. ‘There are actually seven sets of footprints, Mr Foyle, but they can all be accounted for. Two of them belong to DS Giorgetti and myself.

‘We approached the Folly very carefully the moment we arrived and briefly examined the body. We then returned here. You may have noticed she was wearing stiletto heels. My own footprints are the ones with studs.’

‘No forensics?’

‘The team is still on the way. This is Christmas, after all, and the roads are in a bad way after all the snow.’ He coughed.

‘We’ve already established that the fifth set of prints belongs to the late Mr Reeve. They’re deeper than the others — but presumably he was carrying his overnight case and that weighed him down.

‘He was also wearing quite distinctive shoes with a narrow toe cap. These, of course, only go one way. Mr Reeve did not return.’

‘And the last two?’

‘I can explain those,’ Sir Nigel cut in. ‘We have breakfast at nine o’clock. My wife and I were sitting at the table but there was no sign of Reeve.

My daughter came in at ten past but she said she hadn’t seen him. I assumed he had over-slept so I sent Harkin down to wake him up.’

‘Where is Harkin now?’

‘He and his wife have separate accommodation at the top of the house. I imagine he’ll be there. He was the one who discovered the body and he was very shaken. He came running straight back in a pretty bad state. We called an ambulance and the police straight away. I also called you.’

Sir Nigel glanced at Foyle and scowled. ‘In retrospect, that may have been an error on my part. By which I mean, it was wrong to involve you.’

‘Not at all,’ Foyle said, cheerfully. ‘What would Christmas be without a suspicious death?’

‘Absolutely!’ Sam exclaimed.

‘I really don’t see that there’s anything suspicious about it,’ Middleton said, warily.

‘The footsteps are the key to it all. As you’ve just heard, there is absolutely no doubt that Mr Reeve went back to the Folly alone.

'There was no sign of any break-in. No struggle. Nothing has been stolen.

‘This was a Christmas dinner in a private home and no one had any desire to do him harm.

'With the greatest respect, Mr Foyle, I can’t see that there’s any reason for you or for Mrs Wainwright to be here and I would suggest you return home.’

But Foyle was less sure. As he and Sam left the kitchen and went back into the hallway, he turned to her and spoke quietly.

‘Well, it’s nice to see that one thing hasn’t changed in the past 40 years. The police still seem perfectly happy to recruit blithering idiots.’

‘DI Middleton?’

‘Every single person at Kenwater Hall had a very good reason to harm Alastair Reeve. Sir Nigel and Lady Emily loathed him and would do anything to protect their daughter from him.

'As for Lucy, we heard her arguing with him when we arrived. And then there were the Harkins themselves. You’ll remember the way he spoke at dinner.’

‘The Falklands...’

‘They lost a son in the conflict. Reeve described him in one breath as stupid and in the next as a thug. I doubt that either of them would have appreciated that.’

‘Would that be a motive for murder?’

Foyle reflected. ‘All wars have a way of exaggerating emotions and feelings,’ he muttered, at length. ‘Do you remember listening to Churchill on the wireless? That was his genius.

He made us feel intensely proud, intensely British. We would muddle through no matter what the odds. You could argue that the Nazis tapped into something similar, though much more negative, in the German people — a sense of anger and injustice that led eventually to the death camps.

‘There were less than a thousand casualties in the Falklands campaign, but the emotions it arouses — pride, anger, outrage — are just as strong. It may be that Alastair Reeve unlocked something very dangerous with his ill-considered opinions.’

They were still in the hall with the ashes of last night’s fire now lying cold in the hearth. There was a cloakroom next to the front door. Foyle glanced into it, then stepped outside, steeling himself against the sudden cold. It was a brilliant day, the sun a dazzling white against the snow.

The grounds of Kenwater Hall had been transformed into a giant Christmas card, spoiled only by the two parked police cars and the uniformed officers rubbing their hands and shivering, wishing they could go home.

From where he was standing, Foyle could see the tracks that led from the front door to the guest house and back again.

To their credit, Middleton and Giorgetti had been careful to keep away from the immediate crime area, curving round and entering the Folly from the back.

The pointed shoes that Reeve had been wearing were very distinctive. He might have been half-drunk, but he had managed to walk in a straight line.

As Middleton had observed, his prints were deeper than the others and only went one way. The last tracks belonged to Harkin.

He had walked in a straight line to the Folly, almost exactly following the path that Reeve had taken. He had run back. The steps were further apart and more chaotic.

‘What now?’ Sam asked. ‘Are we finished here?’

‘Not quite yet,’ Foyle said. ‘I’d like a word with Lucy Brennan.’

Lucy was in the breakfast room, sipping a cup of tea. She looked up as Foyle and Sam appeared in the doorway. ‘Mr Foyle ...’

‘Miss Brennan.’ Foyle went into the room, followed by Sam. The two of them sat down at the table. ‘This must have all been a great shock for you,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I know Alastair behaved badly last night and you probably think the worst of him. He could be mean. He was paid to write mean things in the newspapers. But that’s only one side of him. He could be kind, too.’

‘You argued last night,’ Foyle said. ‘You heard us?’ Lucy blushed. ‘That was nothing! He didn’t want to come down here, that’s all. Alastair hated Christmas and everything to do with it — roast turkey, Sunday morning service, meeting the parents . . .’

‘He didn’t seem to mind glugging down the Christmas wine,’ Sam muttered.

‘He had too much to drink. We both did!’ Suddenly she was tearful. ‘I shouldn’t have let him stay in the Folly on his own. I asked Harkin to go down with him but Alastair hated having servants fussing over him. And now he’s dead!’

‘Were you aware that he had trouble sleeping?’ Foyle asked. ‘I didn’t know he had those pills.’

Foyle glanced down at Lucy’s feet. ‘I see you’ve been out this morning,’ he said.

Lucy followed his eyes and saw the two telltale pools of melted snow around her feet. ‘Yes. I always have a walk before breakfast.’

‘Did you go to the Folly?’

‘No.’ She pointed. The breakfast room had a view over the back of the house. ‘I went that way. Down to the pond.’

‘And you were here with your parents when the body was discovered.’

‘Yes. Father sent Harkin to check on Alastair, and a bit later he came running in and told us the news.’ She looked up and now she was angry. ‘Harkin wasn’t at all sorry. He’d found Alastair lying there dead and he was glad!’

There was nothing more to add. Foyle and Sam left the room, making their way to the flat on the third floor of the house where John and Phyllis Harkin lived. ‘I’ve had a thought,’ Sam muttered.

‘Oh. Really?’ Foyle glanced at her, apprehensively.

‘It’s just something Sir Nigel said. Alastair Reeve was carrying Lucy to bed when he caught them last night. He had her in his arms!’

‘And you think he carried her to the Folly?’

‘Exactly! That would explain how she got down there without leaving footprints.’

Foyle nodded. ‘But how did she get back again? Without leaving footprints?’ Sam’s face fell. ‘That’s a good question.’ John Harkin and his wife had a cosy, self-contained flat, built into the eaves.

Phyllis insisted on making tea for Sam and Foyle while Harkin, informal for once in shirt and tie with his jacket draped over the back of his chair, glared at them over the kitchen table.

Sam was examining him as if for the first time; his domed forehead, mournful eyes, downturned lips. She had never really given Harkin any thought — but the death of Alastair Reeve had changed everything. Now he reminded her of an undertaker.

‘I’m not glad he died,’ Harkin insisted. ‘What the gentleman said at dinner, it was stupid and ignorant. But it’s none of our business what’s discussed at Sir Nigel’s table and what happened... well, it was a horrible accident and I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone.’

‘Particularly at Christmas,’ his wife added, pouring the tea.

‘Perhaps you can tell me what you found when you went over to the Folly this morning,’ Foyle said.

‘I’ve already told the police.’

‘I’m sure. But I’d still like to hear it from you.’

‘Well, Sir Nigel was worried when Mr Reeve didn’t show up so he asked me to look in. I hurried over — at least it had stopped snowing — and knocked on the door. There was no answer so I went in.

‘I knew at once that something was wrong. The house was freezing cold and I saw that the French windows were open. Then I noticed the body lying on the patio outside. He was dead.

No doubt about it. He was blue with cold and half-covered in snow. I ran straight back to the house and told Sir Nigel who called the police.’

‘I see.’ Foyle hadn’t touched the tea that had been poured for him. He was deep in thought.

‘Is there anything else you want to know?’ Phyllis Harkin asked.

‘Well, yes, Mrs Harkin. There are two things as a matter of fact.’ Foyle gazed directly at her. ‘Did you assist your husband by putting the temazepam into Mr Reeve’s coffee? And whose idea was it, actually, to murder him?’

There was an appalled silence in the room.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Harkin gasped.

‘I’m afraid that’s not true. Alastair Reeve had grievously offended the memory of your son who had died in the Falklands. In fact it seems to have been his life’s work to offend people. But the two of you weren’t having it and you murdered him.’

‘I didn’t see him until Sir Nigel sent me to the Folly this morning.’

‘That’s not true either. You accompanied him to the Folly last night just as Lucy Brennan had asked you although I presume he carried his own overnight case. He didn’t like being fussed over.

‘He’d already been drugged. I doubt he’d have voluntarily taken sleeping pills after all the alcohol he’d consumed.

‘You followed him in — and one punch would have been all it took to lay him out. You then dragged him out onto the patio, leaving the rest of the pills in his bedroom.

You knew there was no chance he would wake up and it was bitterly cold last night. You left him to freeze to death.’

Sam was listening to all this, wide-eyed. ‘But how did he do it without leaving footprints?’ she asked.

‘That was easy. Harkin was in the breakfast room this morning when Sir Nigel asked him to go and check on Reeve. But you can’t see the approach to the Folly from there. All Harkin had to do was cross the hall and hide in the cloakroom for a few minutes.

‘When he went back into the breakfast room, he knew exactly what to describe. And the only set of footprints he had left were the ones from the night before.’

Harkin and his wife exchanged a look which contained a mixture of fear, incomprehension and . . . Sam saw it now . . . guilt. ‘You can’t possibly know that,’ Harkin said. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Well, essentially, I can think of no other explanation,’ Foyle replied. ‘But you also made one mistake. Your footprints were next to Reeve’s.

You made parallel tracks. I could see at once that you must have walked through the snow side by side. If you really had crossed the garden to check on him this morning, taking the most direct route, your footprints would surely have crossed over his.’

Foyle stood up.

‘I feel sorry for you,’ he said. ‘I really do. What Reeve said was unforgivable but so, I’m afraid, is murder.’ ‘He was a disgusting man and he deserved exactly what he got.’ Harkin reached out and took his wife’s hand.

‘If my Tom had been here, he would have done the same.’

‘I wonder.’ Foyle was unperturbed. ‘If it helps, I’ll say nothing more. I’ll leave you to turn yourselves in to Detective Inspector Middleton. At least that way things may go easier for you. Sam?’

The two of them left.

A few days later, at Leominster Station, Sam found herself saying goodbye to the man who had played such a huge part in her life.

Foyle had one suitcase, and she had helped carry it into the carriage.

He had promised her that he would find a porter to help him when he changed trains in London — and also when he reached the other end.

‘I’d love to come and visit you in Hastings,’ she said.

‘You’d be very welcome,’ Foyle said. ‘Maybe in the summer.’

‘Is it very different?’

‘Not really. They’ve demolished the gasometers in Victoria Road and there are new flats going up everywhere. We had the Queen Mother down last year. She opened a new sports centre.’

‘I’ll talk to Adam. It might be fun to revisit some of our old haunts.’

A guard blew a whistle. The train was about to leave. Foyle pulled the door shut and leaned out of the window.

‘I’ve just thought of something,’ Sam exclaimed. ‘The butler did it!’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s the first time it’s ever happened. I’m sure of it. All those cases we investigated together during the war and afterwards... it was never the butler!’

‘Is that true?’ Foyle tried to remember. ‘You may be right. But I suppose butlers must have as much a propensity for murder as anyone else. It was only a matter of time.’

‘Absolutely.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Until next summer, then.’ ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

But even as he spoke, Sam had a strange pre-sentiment that the two of them would not meet again.

The train jerked forward, Foyle raised a hand in farewell and she watched him as he was carried off into the distance, a small, grey figure that became smaller and smaller until he had disappeared altogether.

And when she heard, that spring, that former Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle had quietly passed away in his sleep, she somehow wasn’t surprised.

At the same time she was glad that the two of them had been presented with one last case and that, even if she had done nothing to help, they had solved it together. She wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.