Foyle’s final and most baffling case: ANTHONY HOROWITZ writes exclusive mystery for Daily Mail as famous sleuth tries to solve ‘impossible’ murder at grand Christmas party
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.
Anthony Horowitz has written an exclusive short story for the Daily Mail this Christmas
‘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.
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‘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.
He brings back the much-loved characters played by Honeysuckle Weeks, left, and Michael Kitchen, right, in the ITV drama series Foyle’s War
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.
In the popular drama, Honeysuckle Weeks played Michael Kitchen’s driver and loyal friend Sam
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.’
In this exclusive story for the Daily Mail, Foyle is now in his 80s and long-retired
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.’
Sam, his loyal driver, is now in her 60s with a grown-up son
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.
This final outing for Foyle occurs in the aftermath of the 1982 Falklands War
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.
Anthony Horowitz’s latest novel, The Sentence Is Death, is published by Century, £20. The fee for this story has been donated to the anti-bullying charity Kidscape, kidscape.org.uk
‘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.
- Anthony Horowitz’s latest novel, The Sentence Is Death, is published by Century, £20. The fee for this story has been donated to the anti-bullying charity Kidscape, kidscape.org.uk
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