A parachute drops at night.

French Agent (offscreen): C'est l'Anglais. 

Two French agents with bicycles are watching the parachute descend.

French Agent: Merde! Il est alle trop loin. 

They grab their bikes.

The parachutist, Facteur, drops to the ground.

CAPTION: NORTHERN FRANCE, FEBRUARY 1941

He reels in his parachute.

The two French agents are riding along through the woods.

Facteur frees himself from the parachute. He checks his compass and a map with a torch, then sets off through the woods.

The French agents are now riding along a dirt road.

Facteur checks his compass again, then leaves the trees to head out across open ground. A mine blows up under his feet.

Back on the road the two French agents come to a halt. They see the evidence of the expl*si*n up ahead.

French Agent: Putain! 

OPENING CREDITS

A London street. Foyle enters the Admiralty building. He approaches the receptionist.

Foyle: Good morning. Here to see, er, Commander Howard?

Receptionist: Mr Foyle? 

Foyle: Yes.

Receptionist: The Commander sends his apologies. He's still in a meeting. Would you like to take a seat?

Foyle: Right. Thank you. 

He walks over to the waiting area.

Conference room. A group of officers are having a meeting, including Lieutenant Colonel James Wintringham, Admiral Francis, Sir Giles Messinger and Commander Charles Howard.

Wintringham: We need a ship. I don't care what sort of ship, but how else am I to get my agents into Brittany? 

Francis: Well, I would thought that have air drops would have been more effective, Colonel Wintringham.

Wintringham: Yes, but just about all the Special Duty flights are reserved by the Secret Intelligence Services. 

Sir Giles: We were here first. And why should we give any more flights, any more fuel, any more men, when after seven months you've absolutely nothing to show for it? 

Wintringham: If you didn't block every single one of our operations, Sir Giles, perhaps we would have made more progress. 

Sir Giles: My view of the so-called Special Operations Executive has been clear from the start. A bunch of upstarts and amateurs wasting valuable time and resources. 

Francis: We are aware of your views, Sir Giles.

Sir Giles: Requests for ships, planes, receiving stations and all the rest of it are simply deplorable, given the total lack of results. 

Wintringham: We've had results. We made contact with the Polish Home Army. 

Sir Giles: And lost it again. Your two agents have vanished. 

Wintringham: Who told you that? 

Sir Giles: Two agents lost in Poland, another in Czechoslovakia. 

Wintringham: You're spying on us. You have absolutely no right.

Francis: Gentlemen, please, this is going nowhere. Commander Howard? 

Howard: We have a French training ship that might fit the bill, sir. A 60-foot yawl. She's lying idle in Portsmouth. 

Francis: Send me the details and I'll pass them on. Sir Giles? 

Sir Giles: One more mistake, I'll prove they should have listened to me in the first place. 

Reception area. Foyle is pacing as Howard comes down the stairs.

Howard: Christopher. Come on up. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. 

Foyle: Charles. 

They shake hands.

Howard: It's been a bloody day. Departmental infighting. You wouldn't believe it. Sometimes it's hard to believe we're all on the same side. How's Andrew? 

Foyle: He's very well, thank God. 

Howard: I keep meaning to write to him, see him, drop him a fiver in the post or something, I don't know. I'm not much of an uncle. 

Foyle: Only one he's got. 

They reach the top of the stairs.

Howard: Here.

Howard's office.

Howard: I may be able to help you. I've been putting the word out and I may have something for you. 

Foyle: Go on. 

Howard: It would mean moving to Liverpool. 

Foyle: Go on. 

Howard: Reporting to Admiral Sir Percy Noble. And he's a good man. Popular, clever. Heading up this Western Approaches Command Centre down on the docks. He's got a huge intelligence operation up there. 

Foyle: And he'll see me? 

Howard: With my recommendation. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Howard: And it couldn't be more important, I can tell you that. Well, if we lose much more shipping, we'll all starve to death. 

Foyle: Well, I want to help. 

Howard: I know, but there is one thing I, I have to ask you this. You're doing a bloody good job where you are. Everyone speaks very highly of you. Why are you still so determined to leave? 

Foyle: Andrew flies Spitfires. I know the work you're doing here. This morning, I arrest a man for speculating in breach of the 1939 Prices Of Goods Act, selling batteries at ten pence ha'penny a time. 

Howard: I'd better speak to Sir Percy. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Sam and Foyle are driving along a street.

Sam: Everything all right, sir? 

Foyle: I think so. 

Sam: You're not really planning to leave, are you? 

Foyle: Where did you get that from? 

Sam: You can't leave the Force, sir. I mean, what would I do without you? 

Foyle: You'd easily find another job. 

Sam: It wouldn't be the same. You could take me with you, make me an honorary Wren. 

Foyle: Listen, nothing's been decided yet. Just keep all this under your hat, you understand? 

Sam: Mum's the word. 

St Mary's church, Levenham. The vicar, Aubrey Stewart, is greeting people as they arrive.

Man: Morning. Morning.

Aubrey: How are you? Well? 

Man: Fine, thank you. 

Aubrey: Good. Mrs Hollingworth. 

Hollingworth: Hello.

Aubrey: How's your son?

Hollingworth: My son's fine.

Aubrey: Good. Good. Hello.

Man: Morning.

Man: Hello. Good morning.

Aubrey: Welcome. Welcome to St Mary's. Hello. How do you do? Hello. Nice to see you. How are the family? Are they well? 

Later. Hilda Pierce walks at head of a large group of people approaching the church, some in unform.

Aubrey (offscreen): Welcome one and all, both to the old... 

Lieutenant Colonel Wintringham comes up behind Pierce.

Wintringham: I need to talk to you, but not now. 

Aubrey (offscreen): And to those new faces who have recently come amongst us. Welcome. St Mary's is a very old church and a draughty one, but we hope you feel at home. We will start with our usual hymn. 

The organ begins playing inside the church. Out in the churchyard, a bald man stands writing something in a notebook, then walks away. He passes the freshly dug grave of an Edward Harper.

Later. The congregation are filing out of the church.

Aubrey: Well, it's been very nice to see you again. I hope you'll soon be better. Yes, indeed. Thank you. See you soon. Goodbye, Mrs Hooper. Hello, Captain. Afternoon.

Wintringham: Very good sermon. 

Aubrey: Nice of you to say so, Colonel. Perhaps we'll see you again next Sunday. 

Pierce catches up to Wintringham outside the church.

Wintringham: We've had some news from France. 

Pierce: When? 

Wintringham: Last night. 

Pierce: Facteur? 

Wintringham: He's d*ad. 

She stops walking.

Pierce: What happened? 

Wintringham: It doesn't matter. All that matters is we keep this to ourselves. If Sir Giles hears so much as a word of it-

Pierce: Yes, yes, of course. So, what are we going to do? 

They start walking again.

Wintringham: I have an idea. 

Pierce: You have too many ideas. Do they know? 

She eyes other people in their group.

Wintringham: Unfortunately, yes. But they only know he was k*lled, nothing more. 

Pierce: For the time being. 

Wintringham: We have a snake in the grass. Sir Giles virtually boasted of it when I was in London. But which one of them is it? Maccoby? Nicholson? Dumont? That's your job, Hilda. I have to know which one of them it is. 

She nods.

Police interview room. Jack Fenner lights a cigarette while Milner sit silently watching him.

Fenner: So? How much longer are you going to keep me here? 

Milner: I don't know about you, Mr Fenner, but I've got all day. 

Fenner: Well. Well, I've got a shop to run. 

Milner: Yes, the shop on Alberry Street. It's getting to be well-known. 

Fenner: Yes, well, I like to do my best by my customers. 

Milner: That's certainly true. Batteries. Razor blades. Spare parts for radios. Even Thermos flasks. 

Fenner: Oh, one Thermos flask, and she had a special permit. 

Milner: Providing, of course, you're willing to pay. 

Fenner: Oh, look, what is this? It's a penny here and tuppence there. I mean, things come my way and I pass 'em on. 

Milner: At a profit. 

Fenner: Well, so, who's counting? Frankly, Sergeant Milner, I'm surprised you haven't got something better to do. 

Milner stands up.

Milner: I'm doing my job, Mr Fenner. There are men losing their lives every day to keep the supply lines open. "A penny here"? "Tuppence there"? Is that all you think they're worth? 

Fenner: Look, if you want to put me up in front of the magistrate, I shall get a £5 fine and be sent home again. So, if that's what you want to do, then do it, but just don't waste my time. 

Police station entrance. Sergeant Rivers is behind the desk as Sam and Foyle come in.

Rivers: Morning, sir. 

Foyle: Sergeant. Anything? 

Rivers: Er, not really, sir, except you haven't bought your raffle tickets. 

Foyle: How much are they? 

Rivers: Tuppence, sir. Proceeds to the WVS. 

Foyle: What do I win? 

Rivers: This. 

He brings out a large onion from under the desk.

Foyle: That's quite a beauty. I'll have a bob's worth. 

Rivers: Very good, sir. I'll make a note of it. 

Milner comes out from the back.

Milner: Sir. 

Foyle: Any luck? 

Milner: No, sir. Fenner's a rat, but until I can find out who's supplying him, there's not much I can do. 

Foyle: Right. Let him go. 

Milner: Yes, sir. 

He starts to head off into the back.

Foyle: You all right? 

Milner: Yes, sir. 

He leaves, and after a moment Foyle does too.

Sam: Could I have a smell? 

Rivers: What? 

Sam: The onion. I haven't seen one since Christmas. 

She picks it up and sniffs it.

Sam: Mmm! 

Rivers: That'll cost you a penny. 

Alberry Street. Fenner comes out of his shop and locks the door behind him. He lifts some boxes into the back of his van and goes round to get in, but stops at the sound of an engine. A car pulls up next to the book repository at the corner of the street. Fenner moves closer to take a look. Two men get out of the car and lift what looks like a wrapped body out of the boot.

Man: Get the door open, will you? 

As Fenner stands watching them, a third man comes up behind him and whacks him across the back of the neck.

Police station. Sam is just on her way out when she hears a noise from Milner's office and goes to investigate.

Sam: You still here? 

Milner's at his desk. He checks his watch.

Milner: I thought you'd gone. 

Sam: I've just dropped Mr Foyle home. I'm leaving the car here tonight. D'you want to buy me a drink? 

Milner gets up.

Pub. The two of them are sitting at a table together.

Milner: Just wasn't working. So she's gone back to Wales. 

Sam sighs.

Sam: It's all the w*r. You try and go on as normal and you just can't. It's mucking us all up. I don't know what will happen if it goes on much longer. 

Milner: There's something else. I'm thinking of leaving Hastings. 

Sam: Oh, not you, too? 

Milner: Who else? 

Sam: Er, nobody. Why do you want to leave? 

Milner: A fresh start, I suppose. 

Sam: Mr Foyle will be very disappointed in you. 

Milner: Well, don't mention it to him. Not yet. 

Sam: I won't. I wouldn't dream of it. D'you know what you two need? Something to take your mind off things. A jolly good m*rder. That'd do it. 

Alberry Street. A warden patrols the dark street. As he's passing the book repository, it explodes, and he's thrown to the ground.

Daylight. A police cordon has been set up around the scene. A uniformed officer lifts it to let Foyle and Sam through.

Policeman: Sir. 

Milner meets them on the other side.

Milner: An expl*si*n last night, sir. A warden got caught in the blast. 

Foyle: Is he all right? 

Milner: Er, he's in hospital. Minor injuries. Which is more than you can say for the man who was inside. We haven't moved him. I'm afraid it isn't very pleasant. 

Sam: Don't worry, sir. I'm staying outside. 

Foyle and Milner enter the building. Foyle uncovers what's left of the body.

Milner: The MO says he was a young man. There's not much more he can add. 

Foyle: Not much of him left. 

Milner: It looks like a grenade, sir. He must have been holding it right up to his head. Incidentally, both doors were locked and the key was in his pocket. And the warden said he didn't see anybody else around. So it looks like it might have been su1c1de. 

Foyle: Anything else? Identity card? Ration book? 

Milner: No, sir. Just this. It was in the same pocket as the key. 

He unwraps and hands Foyle a gold pocket watch.

Foyle: It's gold. 

Milner: Plate? 

Foyle: Solid, I'd say. 

Milner: There's an inscription on the inside. 

Foyle: "WRM. Congratulations. April the 5th, 1938." Congratulations on what? 

The two of them leave the building and head towards the car, parked in front of Fenner's shop.

Foyle: Strange place to do away with yourself. 

Milner: It's been closed for a while.

He nods at the sign for Fenner's shop.

Milner: Sir. Jack Fenner, bang opposite. That's his van, apparently. 

He points over at where a policeman is peering into the van.

Foyle: Right. Worth having another word with him, then. Release the, erm, date and the initials on this to the press. Say it was an accident for the time being. See if we get a response. 

Milner: Yes, sir. I'll find out if it was bought locally. 

Foyle: Good idea. 

Jeweller's shop. The watchmaker is showing the watch to Milner.

Watchmaker: You can see. It's signed and numbered. 

Milner: Swiss? 

Watchmaker: Mm-hmm. This is a very nice gold pocket watch. Keyless gilt-bar movement. Arabic numerals. 

Milner: Expensive? 

Watchmaker: Mmm. Undoubtedly. Ah! I see it's been engraved. 1938? That's strange. 

Milner: Why is that, sir? 

Watchmaker: Well, I don't quite understand. The watch has obviously been heavily used. There are quite a few scratches. And it's been repeatedly taken in and out of the pocket. Look here, you see? It wears smooth after a time. And another thing... It needs a clean. 

Milner: So, it's an old watch? 

Watchmaker: That's what I mean. It looks like an old watch, but this is a very recent model. 

Milner: How recent? 

Watchmaker: A year? I would certainly say it was made after 1938. 

Foyle's office. Sam reads aloud from a newspaper.

Sam: "An expl*si*n two nights ago in Alberry Street. The police have removed the body of a man in his mid-twenties, following what appears to have been a tragic accident. A Swiss pocket watch was recovered from the scene with the initials WRM."

She lowers the paper to look at Foyle where he's sitting at his desk.

Sam: I thought he committed su1c1de. 

Foyle: Perhaps. 

Sam: Can't believe anything you read in the papers these days. If it's not the Ministry of Information cutting everything out, it's all just propaganda. 

She sighs.

Sam: Won't you miss it, sir? 

Foyle: The Chronicle? 

Sam: All this. Police work. 

The phone rings and he picks it up.

Sam: I mean, if you join Naval Intelligence it's all just paperwork. 

He holds up a finger for silence while he answers the phone.

Foyle: Yes. Right. Thank you. On our way. 

He hangs up the phone as he stands up.

Sam: I mean, you see what I mean? Here we go ahead. You never know what's round the corner in this job. 

Foyle: That's enough. End of conversation. The subject's off limits. Thank you. 

Sam and Foyle drive along.

d*ke (voiceover): William Messinger. That's it. That's his name. 

Milner and Foyle are interviewing landlady Mrs d*ke at her house.

d*ke: And he had a gold watch. I saw him with it. That's what made me think it must be William. 

Milner: And is this it? 

d*ke: Yes. It's lovely, innit? Valuable, I'd have said. 

Milner: So, what can you tell us about him, Mrs d*ke? 

d*ke: Well, not a lot, I'm afraid. He only started renting a room here six months ago. 

Milner: Do you know what he was doing in Hastings? 

d*ke: He didn't say. He kept himself to himself, really. I think his parents live in the town. He certainly mentioned he had family here somewhere. 

Foyle: If, erm, he had a family, why would he need the room, do you think? 

d*ke: Ah, now, I can tell you that. Would you care to sit down? 

Foyle: No, thanks. 

She takes a seat on the sofa.

d*ke: There was a young lady he was seeing. A nice girl. I imagine he didn't want to take her home. 

Foyle: D'you know her name? 

d*ke: Erm... Now... Greenwood, that's it. Marion Greenwood. I only saw her two or three times. 

Foyle: How long have you lived in Hastings, Mrs d*ke? 

d*ke: Oh, a long time. I lived here with my husband, Ernest. He died last year. He was only 63. 

Foyle: Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Was he a Hastings man? 

d*ke: Born and bred, yeah. 

Foyle: Was he at school here? 

d*ke: Yes, yes. 

Foyle: Where was that, then? 

d*ke: What d'you want to know that for? What's that got to do with anything? I thought you wanted to know about Mr Messinger. 

Foyle: Yes. Er, would you mind if we, er, took a look at his room? 

Upstairs bedroom. Mrs d*ke opens the door for them. Milner picks up an identity card from the nightstand. There's a framed photo of a young woman there as well.

Milner: Identity card. Money. He seems to have left everything behind. 

He picks up an envelope addressed to Marion.

d*ke: Sir. "Marion, my darling, by the time you read this, I will have made my choice. I told you I can't live without you. Now you will know that I meant what I said."

He hands the letter to Foyle, who reads it then shows it to d*ke.

Foyle: This his handwriting? 

d*ke: Yes. It is. 

Foyle: How d'you know? 

d*ke: He used to leave me notes. 

Street. Foyle and Milner are walking along together.

Milner: You don't think it was su1c1de, do you? 

Foyle: Don't I? What do you think? 

Milner: Well, a man locks himself in a room with the key in his pocket, blows himself up with a hand grenade, he has a motive, he's just bust up with his girl, and he leaves behind a su1c1de note in his own handwriting. No, I don't think so, either. 

Foyle smiles.

Hill House, Levenham. Pierce bursts into Wintringham's office.

Pierce: So, you- 

He's on the phone and holds up a hand for silence.

Wintringham: Hampstead. 

He puts the phone down.

Pierce: You went ahead with this plan of yours against my advice and without further consultation. 

Wintringham: I think you should remember, Miss Pierce, you may run this section, but I am Director of Operations and I don't think I need to come asking permission from you. 

Pierce: It's sheer madness. You can't believe it'll work. 

Wintringham: Why not? It's exactly the sort of operation we were put in place to achieve. If we win, we survive. If we lose, we don't deserve to. 

Pierce: Well, you may already have a problem. Have you seen this? 

She sets a newspaper in front of him.

Wintringham: Yes. 

Pierce: You've been very unlucky. The case is being investigated by a man called Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle. 

Wintringham: Do you know him? 

Pierce: Met him last September. He is not the provincial policeman you expected, Colonel Wintringham. He won't leave this alone and he may even find his way to you. 

Wintringham: I rather doubt it. 

Pierce: I'm telling you, he's dangerous. 

Wintringham: This whole situation is dangerous, Miss Pierce. That's why I took the action I did in the first place. "Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle, Hastings Constabulary."

He drops the newspaper into a wastepaper basket.

Wintringham: Forget him. 

Police station. Milner and Foyle arrive together

Foyle: You speak to Fenner? 

Milner: No, sir. It's rather strange. I went to his home last night and spoke to his wife. She thought he was still with us. 

Foyle: Where's he gone, then? 

Milner: I don't know, but he wasn't at home, and he didn't open the shop, either. 

As they walk through into the back Sergeant Rivers stops them.

Rivers: Mr Foyle, sir. There's a young lady been waiting to see you. Says her name is Marion Greenwood. 

The woman from the photograph on a chair outside Foyle's office.

Foyle: Right. 

Rivers hands some raffle tickets to Milner.

Rivers: Your raffle tickets. 

Marion stands up as Foyle approaches her.

Marion: Um, you're the policeman investigating the death... well, the expl*si*n in Alberry Street? 

Foyle: Yes. Come in. 

He leads her into the office.

Foyle: Sit down. 

Milner follows them in and closes the door as they both sit down.

Marion: Are you sure it's William? 

Foyle: Not exactly. Er, because I'm afraid whoever it was has suffered rather extensive injuries. 

Marion: Yes. 

Foyle: In fact, all we've got to go on is a watch. 

Marion: A gold watch? 

Milner takes it out of an envelope and shows it to her.

Marion: It's W- it's William's. 

Milner: Do you know where he got it? 

Marion: No. He always had it. I think it was a birthday present. 

Milner: We also found a letter addressed to you in the room he was renting. 

He gives her the letter. She reads it.

Marion: Oh, God. But this is so stupid. He's telling me he k*lled himself because of me. What, what am I meant to do? Am I meant to feel guilty? Is that what he wanted? It isn't fair. It wasn't like that between us. 

Foyle: How did you meet? 

Marion: Erm... I was working in a bookshop. Well, it was more of a book depository, if you know what I mean. It's closed now. 

Milner: The one on Alberry Street? 

Marion: Yes. We bumped into each other one lunchtime and just sort of clicked. 

Foyle: What was his job? 

Marion: No idea. Erm, he was in London a lot of the time. It was all very hush-hush. 

Foyle: Did you ever meet the family? 

Marion: No. No, his father is a major general or something. Sir Giles Messinger. Um, they've got a mansion somewhere outside Hastings, but I was never allowed anywhere near. Not good enough, I suppose. 

Foyle: So, what exactly were things like between you? 

Marion: We were friends. Well... We were more than that. We used to meet at the bookshop. It was the only place we could get any privacy. 

Foyle: He had a key? 

Marion: Mmm. Yes, we both did. I had copies made. Look, I know what you must be thinking, but it was all just a game, really. I liked him, but I didn't love him. And then I met someone else, who's... 

Milner: And you told him? 

Marion: He was terribly upset. He couldn't live without me. He said that. Oh, I didn't believe him. I thought it was all just words. I never thought he'd... 

She starts to cry. Foyle watches her.

Later. Foyle and Milner walk through the hallways of the police station.

Milner: Who is Sir Giles Messinger, sir? 

Foyle: He's fairly big in Whitehall. Ministry For Economic Warfare, something like that, but also rumoured to be associated with Military Intelligence. 

Milner: Like father like son, perhaps. Both in the cloak-and-dagger business? 

Foyle: Quite possibly. 

Messinger estate. Sam paces outside the house, smoking while she waits.

Lounge. Foyle and Milner are with Sir Giles and his wife Anne.

Foyle: And I'm very sorry to have had to be the one to break this to you, sir. 

Sir Giles: It can't be. 

He sits down beside his wife and clasps her hands.

Sir Giles: Are you sure there's no mistake? You... You said there was a, a problem of identification. 

Foyle: Yes, but a pocket watch was, er, found on the body. 

Sir Giles: My son had no pocket watch, not that I knew of. 

Foyle: With his initials and a date, the 5th of April, 1938. 

Anne: That was his birthday. His 21st. 

Foyle: Look, we can, er, We can come back another time, if you'd rather? 

Sir Giles: No. No. Let's get this over and done with. 

Foyle: Is this, er, his handwriting? 

Milner brings out the letter and Messinger puts his glasses on to read.

Sir Giles: Yes. What is this? 

Foyle: It's a letter he seems to have written to a young woman he was apparently seeing. 

Anne: What was her name? 

Sir Giles: Marion. 

Milner: Marion Greenwood. 

Anne: He never mentioned her. We never met. He never brought her here. 

Foyle: When did you last see him? 

Sir Giles: Hmm? Oh, about two weeks ago. He came for luncheon. He was in a strange mood. Excitable. He never talked about any girl. We didn't, er... We didn't really see as much of him as we would have liked to. Er, we weren't close. Particularly recently. Both had our work. 

Foyle: What was it that he did? 

Sir Giles: I'm afraid I can't discuss that. 

Anne: Giles. 

Sir Giles: It's classified, Anne. You know that. I will, of course, report his death to his superiors. Seems fairly clear that it's got nothing to do with his work. 

Foyle: Can we be sure of that? 

Sir Giles: Well, you, you told me yourself. It's all because of some girl. Oh, I, I take it you have spoken to her? 

Milner: Yes, sir. 

Sir Giles: Beggars belief. Look, erm, if you have nothing more to ask me, I'd prefer it if you left. 

Foyle: Yes, of course, but, er, your son's death isn't as clear to us as it seems to be to you and, er, I'm afraid there may be, er, more to ask you. 

He and Milner leave.

Outside. The two of them emerge from the house.

Milner: Well, they raised more questions than they answered. They didn't know his girlfriend, and if they didn't give him the watch for his 21st, who did? 

Anne comes out of the side gate to intercept them.

Anne: Mr Foyle! I shouldn't be speaking to you, but there's something I think you should know. William was here two weeks ago, as Giles said. He was excitable, it's true, but it was more than that. I thought he was afraid. 

Foyle: Of what? 

Anne: I don't know. He and his father talked about the w*r and what they were doing, but they never included me. He was here with a young man, a Pole by the name of Jan Komorowski. Er, it, it was clear they were working together, in a place called Hill House in Levenham. Um, I shouldn't know this, but I heard them talking when I was in the kitchen. 

Messinger (offscreen): Anne? 

Foyle: Levenham? 

Anne: I can't tell you any more, but, please, Mr Foyle, if something did happen to William, if things aren't as they seem, you will let me know? 

She heads back through the gate, and meets Giles coming out.

Sir Giles: What did you tell them? 

Anne: Nothing. 

There's the sound of the car driving away.

Sir Giles: This was all my fault, you know. 

Anne: No. 

Sir Giles: Yes. I was never a good father to him. He was determined to spite me. 

Anne: No, Giles. 

Sir Giles: Oh, God, poor William. Yes, I drove him to it. It's my fault. 

Howard (voiceover): Well, it's good news, Christopher. 

Foyle and Charles Howard are sharing a restaurant table.

Howard: It's completely unorthodox, you know. Normally, they'd be looking inside the Navy, but times are hard, beggars can't be choosers. 

Foyle: Oh, thanks for that. 

Howard: What I mean is, to hell with the protocol. They need a first-class mind and it might as well be yours. 

Foyle: Well, Charles, thank you. I appreciate it. There's something I want to ask you. 

Howard: Go ahead. You're paying for lunch. You might as well get your money's worth. 

Foyle: What can you tell me about Giles Messinger? 

Howard: Sir Giles Messinger? Not much. Not without getting sh*t. He's SIS. Secret Intelligence Service. Very senior, very influential. He used to run Section D, but they took half his men away from him and since then he's been like a- like a wounded tiger, mauling anyone who gets in his way. If you want a word of advice, you'll steer well clear of him. 

Foyle: Bit late for that. I was there this morning. 

Howard: Why? No, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know. But I'm serious, Christopher. Be careful. You don't want to get on the wrong side of a man like Messinger, not unless you want to spend the rest of your career back on the b*at. 

Foyle's office. He's speaking with Milner.

Foyle: And Messinger was working with a man called Jan Komorowski in Levenham somewhere. 

Sam steps into the room.

Sam: Levenham? In Hampshire? 

Foyle: Which is where you and I are off to. 

Sam: Well, that's where my uncle lives. He's the vicar at St Mary's. 

She points out Levenham on the wall map.

Milner: The same as your father? 

Sam: Yes. We've got quite a few vicars in the family. My grandfather was a bishop. 

Foyle (offscreen): You carry on here, Milner. 

Milner: Yes, sir. 

Foyle: Get back to the landlady. See if, erm- see how long she's really been living in Hastings, er, and somehow find out where her husband went to school, though she doesn't really seem to want to tell us, does she? 

Milner: No, and she identified this pocket watch without so much as glancing at it, and we still don't know where it's from. 

Foyle: Have another word with the, um, the girl as well. Marion Greenwood. Has Fenner turned up yet? 

Milner: Er, we're still looking. 

Foyle: Well, keep at it. 

Milner: How long will you be gone, sir? 

Foyle: Day or two. 

They all leave the office.

Messinger estate. A military vehicle is parked outside.

Wintringham: I felt I should see you as soon as I heard the news, Sir Giles. 

He's in the lounge with the Messingers. Giles has his back turned, looking away out of the window.

Wintringham: I know you and I have had our differences, but this is a tragedy. I can't tell you how sorry I am. 

Anne: When did you last see our son? 

Wintringham: Last week. He'd been pulled out of an operation and he was disappointed. I gave him a few days' leave to get over it. I assumed he'd come here. 

Anne: We didn't see him. We didn't even know he'd taken a room in Hastings. 

Wintringham: He was a first-class member of my team, Lady Messinger. You have all our condolences. None of us could have seen this coming. 

Sir Giles: We had a policeman here this morning. A man called Foyle. 

Wintringham: Oh, yes? 

Sir Giles: He was implying there are some loose ends, concerning my son's death. 

Wintringham: Loose ends? 

Sir Giles: He wasn't very specific, but his whole approach suggested some sort of criminal investigation. 

Wintringham: I'm afraid Mr Foyle is something of a troublemaker, sir. He has quite a reputation for... how can I put it? Extending his authority into places where it has no right to be. 

Anne: He seemed a very honest man to me. 

Sir Giles: I want you to know something, Colonel Wintringham. I don't need to tell you my views of your organisation, and if Churchill had listened to me, you'd never even have had a chance. 

Wintringham: Sir Giles, I don't think-

Sir Giles: That my own son chose to defy me and join you is still a matter of profound disappointment. But if I find that you were, in any way, responsible for his death, if, in some way, you drove him to take his own life... I will destroy you. I want you to know that. 

Wintringham: Yes, sir. I understand. 

Sir Giles: Now I'd ask you to leave. 

Wintringham gets up and straightens his uniform before leaving.

Prison cell. A German officer is shouting at Jan Komorowski, who sits on a bed with his hands bound.

Interrogator: Aufstehen! 

Mark Nicholson, previously seen in the group with Pierce at the church and now also dressed in German uniform, pulls Komorowski up and manhandles him out into the corridor.

Interrogator: Vorwarts! 

Nicholson: Mach schon! 

They bring Komorowski into a larger room and force him down into a chair. There's a bathtub full of water behind him. Another German officer sits watching from a chair.

Interrogator: Hinsetzen. Du heisst Jan Komorowski. 

Komorowski: Nein. 

Interrogator: Du bist ein Spion. 

Komorowski: Nein. Meine Name ist Franz- 

Interrogator: Nein! Nein. Lug mich nicht an. Jetzt bekommen wir die Wahrheit. Pack ihn an! 

The two men drag him up and hold his head under the water in the bathtub for several seconds.

Interrogator: Halt! 

They let him come up for air.

German Officer: Noch mal. 

Interrogator: Unter! 

They hold his head under again.

Later. Nicholson and the interrogator emerge from the cell block and head up some stairs into a large manor house. They stop in front of a window overlooking an as*ault course in the grounds, and both light cigarettes.

Nicholson: I think that went rather well, don't you? 

His accent now sounds entirely English.

Country road. Sam and Foyle are driving along.

Foyle: Is Milner all right? 

Sam: Sir? 

Foyle: Always in early, last to leave, seems very quiet. Anything the matter? 

Sam: Not that I know of, sir. Nothing I'd care to repeat. 

Foyle: Oh, I see. 

Sam: We're nearly there, sir. That's Old Parkin's farm. I used to go scrumping there when I was visiting Uncle Aubrey. Old Parkin once chased me for a quarter of a mile. 

Foyle: What, around the orchard? 

Sam: No, I was nowhere near the orchard. Used to chase me everywhere. Oh, there's the church! 

She points.

The car pulls up outside St Mary's church. Aubrey, working in the garden, comes over to meet them as they get out.

Aubrey: Samantha, my dear, what a treat. It's been far too long. How are you? 

They embrace and he kisses her on both cheeks.

Sam: Uncle Aubrey. 

Aubrey: And you must be Mr Foyle. Iain's told me all about you. A pleasure. 

They shake hands.

Foyle: Mr Stewart. 

Aubrey: Oh, Aubrey, please. Er, come in, have a glass of wine. Er, I make it myself. Greengage this year. Particularly good, even though I say it myself. Er, are you going to stay? 

Foyle: Well, it-

Aubrey: No, no, I insist on it. There's plenty of room. And, er, in any case, it's strange you should be here. Divine providence, one might almost say. Come. Come in. Come in. 

He leads the way into the church.

Aubrey: Samantha, take Mr Foyle's coat, would you? Ah. So, what brings you to this neck of the woods? 

Sam: You know that place Hill House, Uncle? 

Aubrey: Ah. Yeah, I had a feeling you were going to ask me about that. Yes, it's less than a mile away. It used to be a sanatorium, but it was requisitioned. 

Foyle: Who by? 

Aubrey: Oh, the military. Ministry of Information, propaganda, that sort of thing. Nobody really knows. There you are. 

He gestures for them to take seats in the lounge.

Aubrey: Er, we see quite a few of them in the church from time to time, but it's best not to ask too many questions. 

Foyle: Nothing else you can tell us about the place? 

Aubrey: Well, yes, there might be. Hmm. As a matter of fact, there is, yes. Look... I, I suppose it's nothing worth investigating, but... I've been growing increasingly uneasy about these new people. 

Sam: The Hill House lot? 

Aubrey picks up a bottle of wine to pour the three of them glasses

Aubrey: Yes. There was a rumour going around the whole lot of them were German spies. Some of them certainly behave that way. One chap in particular. He's always loitering around the place. And then... there have been incidents. Couple of nights ago, I was called out to one of my parishioners. Mrs Richards. She's very elderly. There you are. 

He hands Foyle a wineglass.

Foyle: Thank you. 

He gives one to Sam as well.

Aubrey: There you are, darling. The caller claimed to be her son. He said she was dying. So, of course, I set off at once. Even though, God knows, it meant cycling six and a half miles, in the dark, most of it uphill. 

Sam: Cycling? 

Aubrey: Yes, yes. We don't get petrol coupons for that sort of thing, Sam. Cheers! 

The three of them drink.

Aubrey: Hmm. So, when I got there, it was a hoax. Mrs Richards was already in bed when I arrived. I mean, she was perfectly well. Her son's in Africa. So we had a cup of tea together and I cycled all the way back home again. How's the wine? 

Foyle: It's, erm-

Sam: Very... green. 

Aubrey chuckles.

Aubrey: Yes. 

Foyle: What else has happened, then? 

He sets his glass down on the side table.

Aubrey: Well, the next day, someone smashed a vase on one of the graves. What makes it worse, the grave was only one or two days old. 

Sam: Who died? 

Aubrey: Oh, Jenny Harper's boy, Ted. 

Sam: Ted Harper? 

Aubrey: He was a young man, a builder. Fell off a roof, broke his neck. 

Sam: Oh. I liked him. That's, that's terrible. 

Foyle: And the vase? 

Aubrey: Scattered over the grass in the graveyard. A wanton act of vandalism. 

Foyle: And you think all of this is connected to Hill House? 

Aubrey: I don't know, it might be, it's just that I have a feeling. I may be quite wrong, but this sort of thing never happened before they arrived. 

Foyle: Well, I'm going up there later. I'll do my best to find out. 

Aubrey: You're actually going there, to Hill House? Well, that's marvellous. Mind you, I doubt they'll let you in.

Sam and Foyle are driving towards a roadblock.

Sam: What I don't understand, sir, if William Messinger k*lled himself because of a girl in Hastings, what makes you think it's got anything to do with whatever's going on here? 

Foyle: Well, I don't know yet. That's why we're here. Just curious. 

They stop at the roadblock and Foyle gets out.

Foyle: Afternoon. 

Guard: I'm afraid there's no entry here, sir, not without authorisation. 

Foyle: Oh, right. I'm a policeman, er, looking into the death of someone who may have worked here. 

Guard: And who might that have been, then? 

Foyle: A man called William Messinger. 

Guard: Don't know anyone by that name, sir. 

Foyle: Right. What about a Pole called Jan Komorowski? 

Guard: No one here by that name either, sir. 

Foyle: No? Anyone here who might be able to help me with this? Someone, er, more superior, less obstructive, maybe? 

Guard: And what's your name, then? 

Foyle brings out his ID to hand the guard.

Guard: Wait here. 

He goes into the guard hut and dials the phone.

Wintringham's office. He puts the phone down. Pierce is standing in front of his desk.

Wintringham: It's him. 

Pierce: I told you he'd find us. 

Wintringham: I can't see how. The Messingers. William's parents. 

Pierce: He saw them? Well, Sir Giles won't have said anything. 

Wintringham: Then how? 

Pierce: I told you. He's clever. 

Wintringham: Maybe we can find out. Maybe we should ask him. 

He stands up.

Pierce: You're not going to let him in? 

He goes over to the window to look out.

Wintringham: Why not? You know what they say about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.

Pierce: Yeah, well, I'm not sure he's either. 

Wintringham: If we bring him in here, we can control him. Official secrets and all that. Outside, he's a loose cannon. 

Pierce: We've still got an agent working against us.

Wintringham: Messinger's man, you mean? What about him? 

Well, he may tell him that Foyle was here. 

Wintringham: That's too bad. More to the point, we still don't know who he is. Maybe your Mr Foyle can help us. 

He goes over and picks up the phone.

Pierce: James, if you'll take one piece of advice from me, it will be not to invite him in. 

Wintringham: Advice rejected. 

He speaks into the phone.

Wintringham: Send him up. 

Mrs d*ke's house. There's a knock at the front door. d*ke hurries to answer it, carrying a suitcase.

d*ke: Oh. Mr Milner. 

Milner: Mrs d*ke. 

d*ke: Come in. 

Milner: Thank you. 

He enters the hall and sees her suitcases.

Milner: Are you going somewhere? 

d*ke: Yes. I have a sister in Slough. I'm going there for the weekend. How can I help you, Mr Milner? I've told you everything I know. 

Milner: Well, there are still a couple of questions. 

d*ke: Oh, yes? 

Milner: About your husband. 

d*ke: Ernest? What's he got to do with anything? 

Milner: You didn't mention which school he went to. 

d*ke: What? 

Milner: Just for the record. 

d*ke: It was St Anthony's in the Hillborough Road. You know, Mr Milner, I have to say I don't understand this. You're treating me like a common criminal. 

Milner: I'm not treating you like a criminal, Mrs d*ke, but I would like to know why you're lying to me. 

d*ke: I beg your pardon? 

Milner: There's no record of an Ernest d*ke ever having lived or died in Hastings. And you said that you've lived here a long time. This house was rented by a local solicitor's office just one year ago. 

d*ke: I didn't say I'd lived here a long time, you misunderstood me. I've lived in Hastings twenty years. That's what I meant. 

Milner: How long do you plan to be away? 

d*ke: I told you, two days. 

Milner: Make sure it isn't any longer. I will need to speak to you again. 

He leaves.

Hill House. Foyle sits in a large office, waiting. Pierce enters.

Pierce: Mr Foyle. 

Foyle: Miss Pierce. What a surprise. 

They shake hands.

Pierce: Not for me. I rather expected I'd see you again. 

Foyle: Did you? Still with the, um, the same organisation, the Special Operations...? 

Pierce: Executive. 

Foyle: Executive.

Pierce: Yes. 

Foyle: Oh. You based here? 

Pierce: This is one of many houses we use. 

Foyle: Mmm. What do you do here, then? 

Pierce: Well, I'll tell you. With great reluctance. You understand this information is classified? No one in the country knows who we are. No one knows what we do. We were created as a final resort, Mr Foyle. At present, the way things are going, we may be all that stands between England and defeat. We are what you might call the Department of Dirty Tricks. We're here to break all the rules of w*r as they were known. We've only one aim. To win. Follow me.

She leads him through the building. 

Pierce: The SOE was created last July to coordinate subversion and sabotage against the enemy overseas. The arts of ungentlemanly warfare. That's what we teach here. 

Foyle: William Messinger was one of your, um, agents? 

Pierce: He was one of our students, yes. The SOE has a number of finishing schools across the country. 

Foyle: Oh, is that what you call them? 

Pierce: Well, they're training centres where we teach Morse, demolition, resistance to interrogation. Silent killings. We deal in m*rder as well, Mr Foyle. 

They enter a classroom where Leo Maccoby is lecturing a group of students.

Maccoby: You have to know how to make people work for you. We've looked at patriotism, religious and/or political motivation, personal sympathy, greed. 

He stops as he spots Pierce and Foyle.

Pierce: Oh, please excuse us, er, Mr Maccoby. Do carry on. 

Maccoby: I want to move on now to open and covert bribery, but always remember the first lesson. A man that can be bribed, by his very nature, is untrustworthy. 

He and Foyle eye each other as Pierce leads Foyle through the room. The two of them emerge into the grounds.

Foyle: Where d'you get your instructors from? 

Pierce: From many places. 

Stafford (offscreen): The reason we do this is quite simple. 

Major Eric Stafford holds a g*n on another man in uniform as he speaks to a group of others.

Stafford: It's to k*ll. See, one sh*t may k*ll him, but it's always better to make absolutely certain with two. Good day, Miss Pierce. 

Pierce: Major Stafford. Do carry on. 

Stafford: When you put one sh*t into a man, it's rare that it drops him immediately. His nervous system doesn't collapse for several seconds. So two sh*ts in quick succession is the answer. Bang. Bang. 

Pierce and Foyle head back into the building and approach a staircase leading up.

Pierce: Major Eric Stafford. He's quite a remarkable man. He was a policeman, like yourself. 

Foyle: Was he? 

Pierce: Yeah. Spent ten years with the Municipal Police in Shanghai. 

Foyle: Well, William Messinger is the, er, the reason I'm here. 

Pierce: Let me introduce you to my commanding officer. 

Wintringham (voiceover): We were all shocked to hear of the death of poor William. 

He stands in his office, looking out of the window.

Wintringham: And by his own hand. What a terrible waste. He was bright, he was intelligent, deeply committed to the SOE. I can't think of any student more determined to succeed. 

Foyle sits listening while Pierce stands in the corner of the room.

Foyle: Strange he should have taken his own life, then, don't you think? 

Wintringham heads back towards the desk.

Wintringham: Well, there was another side to him. He was immature. He was passionate, sometimes even foolhardy. An unhappy love affair. I agree with you. It's a waste. It may also have been that he was disappointed. We were about to send him on a mission overseas. 

Foyle: Where was that? 

Wintringham: That's not relevant. William was keen to prove himself, but, in the end, I decided he wasn't ready. Another agent from another station went in his place. Maybe that's what threw him. Even so, k*lling himself like that? I find it hard to believe. 

Foyle: Jan Komorowski I understand was a friend of his. Is he here with you? 

Wintringham: I'd be interested to know how you've come by that name. 

Foyle: Not relevant.

Wintringham chuckles briefly.

Wintringham: He's from Warsaw. Fought with the Polish Resistance. Good man. We have quite a few Poles here. Also French, Canadian, even one or two Germans. Would you like to meet them? 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Wintringham: Miss Pierce will be delighted to arrange it. 

Aubrey Stewart's house. Sam is attempting to glue the pieces of a broken glass vase together. Aubrey enters the room.

Aubrey: Samantha, my dear, what are you doing? 

Sam: This is the vase from Ted Harper's grave. I'm fixing it. 

Aubrey: Why? 

Sam: Well, I was thinking about what you were saying about all the strange things that have been happening here and I thought maybe I could help. 

Aubrey: Ah, yes. You always did want to be a detective, didn't you? Even when you were a little girl. I remember you always reading those terrible books by Edgar Wallace. 

Sam: Well, I am a detective now. I've been with the police a whole year now, you know. 

Aubrey: Mmm. Why the vase? 

Sam: Well, I have a theory. It occurred to me that your hoax telephone caller must have wanted to get you out of the way, which means he must have been looking for something. 

Aubrey: Yes? 

Sam: Something valuable. Like this vase, for example. Maybe he tried to steal it and he dropped it, and I'm trying to fix it so I can figure out if it's worth anything. I mean, it, it could be an antique. 

Aubrey: Yes, of course. The trouble is, actually it came from Woolworths. 

Sam: Did it? 

Aubrey: Yes. 

Sam: How do you know?

Aubrey: Mrs Harper told me, erm, Ted's mother. 

Sam: Oh, I see. 

Aubrey: Sorry. 

She puts the pieces of the vase back down and sighs.

Sam: Uncle Aubrey, you mentioned something about a loiterer, a man. in connection with a German spy. 

Aubrey: Oh, I didn't exactly mean that. It's just that I noticed him around the church. I don't think he's from Hill House. He, he always seems to be watching from the side. 

Sam: Well, what does he look like? 

Aubrey: Well, he's as bald as a billiard ball, he's mid-forties, rather thin. 

Sam: And he's from the village? 

Aubrey: Well, I've seen him around quite a few times, yes. 

Sam: I don't suppose you know where? 

Aubrey: No. 

Hill House grounds. Wintringham, Pierce and Foyle are walking along.

Wintringham: I do want to make one thing clear, Mr Foyle. This house, these grounds, they come under my jurisdiction and, while you're here, so do you. 

Foyle: What would that mean, exactly? 

Wintringham: You don't ask my men about... 

Someone aims a r*fle at the three of them from a window up above.

Wintringham: You'll restrict your investigation to Messinger, and before you leave, you'll report back directly to me. Is that clear? 

Foyle: Certainly is. 

Wintringham: You'll join us for dinner, I hope. I'll get you a bed for the night. Miss Pierce will arrange for your things to be sent on. 

Up above, Leo Maccoby looks through the r*fle sight. He aims at Foyle, lightly drawing back the trigger, but lowers the r*fle without sh**ting.

Police station, evening. Sergeant Rivers sits typing and looks round as he sees Milner come in, heading for his office.

Rivers: Mr Milner! 

Milner: Sergeant? 

Rivers: It's bad news, I'm afraid. Mrs d*ke. 

Milner: You lost her.

Rivers: I had two of my men follow her, like you said, Sykes and Hodges. They're good lads, they've got their heads screwed on the right way. 

Milner: What happened? 

Rivers: She went into the railway station, went into the ladies' convenience. That's one place they couldn't follow. They waited outside, but, er, she never came out. In the end they got the supervisor to take them in, but there was no one there. 

Milner: "The Lady Vanishes."

Rivers: It was a bit like that. That's what they said. 

Milner: There was no Ernest d*ke at St Anthony's, either. 

Rivers: Who's he? The husband? 

Milner: Deceased. Did your men check which trains were leaving at that time? 

Rivers: There were two. The main train to London, and one heading west, calling at Brighton and Levenham. 

Milner: Levenham? 

Rivers: I've got one bit of good news, though. Your Mr Fenner has turned up again. 

Hospital ward. Milner is there questioning Fenner, who lies in a bed with a bandaged head and neck brace.

Fenner: You want to know about crime? What happened to me, that's a crime. It's an as*ault. 

Milner: Can you tell me what happened, Mr Fenner? 

Fenner: Somebody h*t me. 

Milner: A customer? 

Fenner: From behind. I didn't see who it was. It was like a bloody tree coming down on the back of my neck. Then I woke up in here. 

Milner: Did you see anything at all? 

Fenner: Listen, a car pulled up outside the bookshop and three men got out. They were carrying something. 

Milner: What? 

Fenner: A sack of potatoes? I don't know. It was heavy. It took three of them to manage it. 

Milner: They were carrying it into the bookshop? 

Fenner: Well, I didn't find out, did I? 'Cause somebody crept up behind me. Doctor said I was lucky not to have my neck broken. 

Milner: Thank you, Mr Fenner. 

He stands up.

Fenner: Hey! Hey, I hope you're gonna do something about this. I'm in pain, you know. I can hardly move. 

Hill House. Night. In a large shared lounge, someone sets a gramophone playing Maurice Chevalier's La Mer, while a woman sets out plates on a dining table. Maccoby is at a chess board in the corner. Wintringham enters with Foyle.

Wintringham: Gentlemen! Let me introduce you. This is Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle. Jan Komorowski. Major Stafford. Jacques Dumont. Leo Maccoby. 

Maccoby: We've already met. 

Wintringham: Mark Nicholson. I've leave the others to introduce themselves. Mr Foyle is here investigating the death of William Messinger. He has my full authority in this matter. Please. 

He gestures Foyle forward.

Foyle: Thank you. 

Wintringham: I'll leave you to it. 

Nicholson: A glass of wine, Mr Foyle? We're not actually used to company here, or perhaps you don't drink when you're on duty? 

Stafford: Don't be such a fool, Nicholson. Cigarette? 

He stands up, approaching Foyle.

Foyle: No, thanks. I don't.

Stafford: You really here about Messinger? 

Foyle: Why else would I be? 

Stafford: They don't tell us the truth here. As for Messinger, a waste of time. 

Komorowski: You shouldn't speak about him like that. 

Stafford: All that work, that training and he wastes it by k*lling himself. 

Foyle: Did they tell you that? 

Stafford snorts and turns away.

Foyle: Er, Mr Komorowski, I was told that, erm, you and he were friends. 

Nicholson: Oh, we're all friends here. 

Nicholson brings Foyle a glass of wine.

Maccoby: Some more friendly than others. 

Foyle looks over at Maccoby before taking the wine.

Foyle: Thank you. There's a writer called Mark Nicholson. Are you Mark Nicholson the writer? 

Nicholson: Oh, you flatter me. In another life, I used to write crime stories. Did you read them? 

Foyle: Er, one or two. 

Nicholson: Yeah, I suppose it'd be a waste of time for you. You'd always guess the ending. 

Stafford: If you bothered to get that far. 

Nicholson: To hell with you, Stafford. Anyway, there you are. I've given up m*rder and intrigue. Traded it for the real thing. 

Dumont: I do not believe you are really a police officer. 

Komorowski: If he's not a policeman, who is he? 

Dumont: This is a test. 

Komorowski: Oh. It's true, there are always tests. You meet a girl. She makes eyes to you. You feel lonely. You want to talk with her. She asks you what you do, where you're from. And you tell her. 

Nicholson: But she's an agent. The next thing you know, you're out. Happens all the time. Have you, er, you seen the bar? You'll find it unusually well stocked. 

Dumont: Yeah, that, too, is a test. 

Nicholson: They watch how much you drink. You can't do anything without somebody watching. 

Maccoby: Oh, he's who he says he is, all right. Mr Foyle and I know each other. You know, I hoped I'd never see you again. 

Foyle: The feeling's entirely mutual. 

Nicholson: Oh, this all sounds very intriguing. Are you going to tell us what, er, passed between you? 

Maccoby: You're a bloody nancy boy, Nicholson. You can forget it. 

Komorowski: So, Mr Foyle, would you care to join us for dinner? 

Dumont: Oh, I wouldn't recommend it. The food here is disgusting. 

Stafford: Prefer the cuisine in Paris, do you? 

Dumont: Of course. 

Stafford: Well, we'll have to see if we can, er, drop you on Maxim's, eh. Without a parachute. 

Nicholson: Don't worry about us, Mr Foyle. We may seem like we hate each other's guts, but actually we're a perfect team. 

Stafford: And I'm a monkey's uncle.

Nicholson: Oh, don't bring your relations into this, old chap. 

Wintringham's office. He brings Pierce a drink where she's sitting at his desk.

Wintringham: Oh, I got a letter this morning. From Admiral Francis. He's finally come through on his promise. We've got a ship. We can start thinking about Brittany. 

He shows her the letter.

Pierce: I think we should wait. 

Wintringham sighs.

Pierce: Have you already forgotten Facteur? 

Wintringham: Of course not. 

Pierce: We k*lled him, you know. If you'd only waited for the right information, it never would have happened. 

Wintringham: We had the transport. We had no choice. 

Pierce: We should have waited. 

Wintringham: The transport wouldn't wait. You know, I sometimes wonder how long you and I can carry on working together like this. 

Pierce: So do I. Perhaps we should let London decide. 

Staircase. Maccoby comes down as Foyle is passing.

Maccoby: Oh, you never give up, do you, Mr Foyle? A man blows himself up in Hastings and you follow the pieces all the way here. 

Foyle: What are you doing here, Mason? 

Maccoby: They need me. And it's Maccoby now. 

Foyle: Well, you can change the name, but you can't change the man. They really need a brothel owner? 

Maccoby: I don't care what you think about me, I was providing a service and I never did anybody any harm, and you put me away for seven years. 

Foyle: Well, according to my reckoning you should still be in there, shouldn't you?

Maccoby: They got me out. I know about people, you see. I understand them, their weaknesses. The Germans are just the same as us. You want to know all their secrets, wait till they're in bed. The w*r's changed everything. I'm useful now. I do my bit. You're the one who's redundant.

Foyle moves to go and Maccoby stops her.

Maccoby: Er, I'd watch my step, if I were you, Mr Foyle. You could get hurt here. You could get k*lled here. There are hundreds of ways to k*ll a man and we know them all.

Foyle: One of them used on William Messinger? 

Maccoby laughs.

Maccoby: He k*lled himself. Nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with anyone. Just one of those things. 

Foyle walks on.

Village. Sam is riding along on a bicycle. As she approaches the Red Lion pub, the publican Cooper comes out.

Cooper: Samantha! What are you doing down here? 

Sam: How are you, Mr Cooper? 

Cooper: Getting by. I heard you were working with the police over in Hastings. 

Sam: Actually, I'm on an inquiry right now. Uncle said you might have someone staying here. 

Cooper: No, I've no one in at the moment. 

He turns to speak to a man unloading crates from a lorry.

Cooper: There's two more of those. 

Then he turns back to Sam.

Cooper: What name were you looking for? 

Sam: We don't have a name, but I can give you a description, though. He's a completely bald man, in his forties, rather thin. He may have something to do with Hill House. 

Cooper: Nope, I've no one in. You could try Parkin's place. 

Sam: Farmer Parkin? 

Cooper: He's got a lodger. Came about the same time as the rest of them. I've seen him a couple of times, and he hasn't got much on top. What are you after him for, then? 

Sam: I'm afraid it's hush-hush. 

Cooper: I'm sure old Parkin'll be pleased to see you. Always had a soft spot for you. 

Sam: Don't I know it. Thanks, then. 

She wheels her bike onwards.

Cooper: Bye, Sam. 

Hill House library. Nicholson is shuffling cards as Foyle walks by his table.

Nicholson: Name a card. Any card. 

He spreads the deck out on the tabletop.

Foyle: Queen of spades. 

Nicholson picks it out from the deck.

Foyle: Do anything else here apart from card tricks, Mr Nicholson? 

Nicholson: Let me show you something. 

He brings out a coin.

Nicholson: A thrupenny piece. 

He makes it disappear.

Nicholson: Gone. 

Foyle: Well, if we can't b*at the Germans, we can always, erm, entertain them. 

Nicholson chuckles a little.

Nicholson: The, er, the move I just showed you is called "The French Drop". See how the coin drops? 

He demonstrates how he seems to take the coin from his left hand into his right, when in fact it just falls into his left palm.

Nicholson: But it's the movement of the right hand that draws the eye. Classic misdirection. Bit like you and this business with William Messinger, perhaps. 

Foyle: What does that mean? 

Nicholson: The only reason anyone would make a... such a fuss about William is because of his father. Is he the one who sent you? 

Foyle sits down opposite Nicholson, but says nothing.

Nicholson: Sir Giles Messinger. I worked for him briefly at Section D, before I was recruited here. And that's the whole point, you see. We've stolen his turf. He feels undermined and now he'll do anything he can to see us shut down, just to ease his own wounded vanity. 

Foyle: His son ever talk about him? 

Nicholson: William, er, didn't really get on with his father. And you, er, you can see why, can't you? William k*lled himself because of some girl, and now Sir Giles is trying to use his death, trying to pin the blame on us. I take it that's why you're here. 

Foyle: Well, I've told you why I'm here. 

Nicholson: Then maybe I do you a disservice. But I'll tell you one thing. All this may just seem like party tricks to you. Misdirection, sleight of hand. But think what would happen, if we can make the Germans think there are 100 Spitfires in a field when, in fact, there are none. Suppose we can make an advancing army look like an empty street?

Outside. Stafford is giving another demonstration, showing his group a b*mb.

Stafford: Battery, expl*sives, timer. Remember colour-coding. Blue, ten minutes. Now, I think the ten minutes are just about up. Here comes the train. 

He points at a cordoned-off area. There's a small expl*si*n, and then a slightly larger one.

Stafford: Now, if we come across one of our German friends, you can always offer him your pencil. 

Foyle stands in the background, watching this from a distance. Komorowski approaches him.

Komorowski: Mr Foyle? 

Foyle: Yes?

Komorowski: Can I have a word? 

Foyle: Yeah. 

They move away together as Stafford tucks a pencil into the pocket of a cloth dummy.

Stafford: Let's stand well back. 

He takes a few paces away, and the pencil explodes.

Foyle and Komorowski walk along a path through the grounds.

Komorowski: Why did you say that about William? Is there any doubt about his su1c1de? 

Foyle: What do you think? 

Komorowski: I don't know. He would have said something to me. I was his friend. 

They sit down on a bench overlooking a pond.

Foyle: Did you meet his girlfriend? 

Komorowski: No. He never spoke of a girl. 

Foyle: Met his parents. You went to his home. His mother said he was, erm, in a state about something. What was that? 

Komorowski: He was excited about going to Rouen, in Northern France. But, in the end, he didn't go. The Colonel said he wasn't ready. At the last minute, he changed his mind. If William k*lled himself, it was because of that, not because of any girl. Anyway, it would have made no difference. 

Foyle: Meaning? 

Komorowski: They sent another person in his place, someone from another station. An agent called, erm, Facteur. But I hear that the mission was not a success. The agent was k*lled. So, see what I'm saying, Mr Foyle? If William had not taken his life, he would still have died. Maybe it was his time. 

Village. The bald man is walking along. Sam wheels her bike along slowly behind him, watching. He goes into a telephone box and picks up the phone. Sam stops to watch him for a moment, then moves on.

Hill House lounge. Dumont is doing a newspaper crossword at the breakfast table. He looks up and puts his pen away when he sees Foyle coming, stacking his pile of books on top of the paper.

Foyle: Morning. 

Dumont: Good morning, Mr Foyle. 

Foyle picks up a cup to pour himself some tea.

Foyle: Are you missing home? Whereabouts in France are you from? 

Dumont: Er, Paris. 

Foyle: Oh, really? Which part? 

Dumont: Er, Montparnasse. Do excuse me, Mr Foyle. I have a class in a minute. 

He gets up, picking up his stack of books but leaving the newspaper behind.

Foyle: Monsieur Dumont. Paper?

He indicates the newspaper.

Dumont: Thank you. 

Foyle: Did you, um, did you know William Messinger? 

Dumont: I met him a few times, yes, but, er, no, I can't say that I knew him. 

Foyle: Knew he was going to France? 

Dumont: Well, I heard he had a mission, yes, but, er, it was cancelled at the last second. 

Foyle: Was he angry about that? 

Dumont: Angry? No. He was, er, he, he was upset. He thought he was ready, but, er, well, it seems he was not. I'm sorry, Mr Foyle, there's not much I can tell you. I really didn't know him so well. 

Foyle: Why did you, erm, throw your cap into the ring, so to speak? 

Dumont: I'm sorry, my "cap into the ring"? 

Foyle: Erm, to be a part of this. 

Dumont: Ah! Well, that's easy. You ask any Frenchman what he believes, he will tell you the same. To see h*tler and his n*zi parading in the heart of Paris, it is disgusting. Treading their filthy boots all over our culture, the Louvre, Notre Dame, can you imagine? And now, er, Le Stade De Colombes. I remember, Mr Foyle, when we b*at you there at, er, football, maybe ten year ago. 

Foyle: 5-2. Yeah, I remember that. That hurt. 

Dumont: Well, no apologies. 

Foyle: Thank you for your time. 

Dumont: Oh, it's my pleasure. 

Foyle: I hope it's not long before you see Paris Montparnasse play again. 

Dumont: Yes. I hope so, too. 

Outside. A woman, Evelyn Cresswell, approaches the building.

Inside, Foyle and Wintringham are walking along together.

Foyle: I understand, er, Giles Messinger wanted to close you down, is that right? 

Wintringham: Someone's been speaking out of turn. 

Foyle: Recruiting his son, er, would seem odd on the face of it, then, wouldn't it? 

Wintringham: It was William who came to us. Of course, he may have been trying to spite his father. I couldn't say. Why d'you ask? 

Foyle: Just curious. 

Wintringham: You know, Mr Foyle, it occurs to me you would fit in very well here. I understand you're looking to do more for the w*r effort. 

Foyle: Where d'you get that from? 

Wintringham: Why end up pen-pushing for Sir Percy Noble when we can use you here? I don't suppose you speak French? 

Foyle: D'you know, I have a feeling I wouldn't get on with the sort of people you employ here. 

Evelyn Cresswell enters the hallway behind them.

Wintringham: Oh? You mean Leo Maccoby. 

Foyle: I know him as Leo Mason. 

Wintringham: You put him in prison. Waste of a good man. 

Foyle: Oh, you think so? He's a pimp. He was, er, employing girls of fifteen. 

Wintringham: A waste of a bad man, then. 

Cresswell catches up to them.

Wintringham: Miss Cresswell. I wasn't expecting you so soon. 

It's the landlady, d*ke, though she's completely changed her mode of dress and way of speaking.

Cresswell: I'm early, sir. 

Wintringham: This is Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle. Miss Evelyn Cresswell. 

Cresswell: How do you do?

Wintringham: My secretary. 

Foyle: We've met. 

Cresswell: No, sir. I don't think so. 

Wintringham: Miss Cresswell, I have some letters ready to be typed. 

Cresswell: Yes, sir. 

She leaves.

Wintringham: And we must call you your driver. 

Foyle: Thank you. 

Hastings police station. Rivers hurries to Milner's office.

Rivers: Mr Milner! She's on the move. 

Milner: Marion Greenwood? 

Rivers: She took a taxi to Hastings station. She's waiting for the Brighton train. 

Milner: Same train as Mrs d*ke. What time does it leave? 

Rivers: Twenty minutes. I've got a car for you at the front. 

Aubrey Stewart's house.

Sam (voiceover): I think I'm on to something. 

She's sitting at the breakfast table as Aubrey clears away dishes.

Sam: The bald man. 

Aubrey: Don't tell me you've found him? 

Sam: He's got a room at Farmer Parkin's place. I followed him this morning. 

Aubrey: I think you should be very careful, my dear. 

Sam: He didn't do anything dangerous. He just made a call from a telephone box in Beeches Lane and then he went home to bed or something. I was hoping he'd come out again, but he never did.

Aubrey: Well, at least you know where he lives. 

Sam: It's a start. 

Aubrey: Did you say Beeches Lane? 

Sam nods.

Aubrey: Well, he couldn't have made the call from there. The telephone box is broken. 

Sam: I saw him. 

Aubrey: No, it's been down for weeks now. The- some soldiers cut through it on a training exercise. I'm sure it hasn't been repaired. 

Sam: Hmm. 

Hill House storages area. Maccoby takes a canister of powder from a shelf and opens it. Stafford passes by and sees him. 

Stafford: Maccoby? What are you doing in there? 

Maccoby: Nothing. 

Stafford: You shouldn't be in there. 

Maccoby: Get lost, Stafford. I don't take orders from you. 

Stafford: He's got you rattled, hasn't he, Mr Foyle? 

Maccoby: No. 

Stafford: Past catching up with you? 

Maccoby: He's nothing to me. Nothing. 

He leaves and Stafford closes the doors of the storage area behind him.

Beeches Lane. There's a man in the telephone box with the phone to his ear. Sam wheels her bike along slowly, watching him. He puts the phone down and leaves. She waits a moment to make sure he's gone.

Phone box. Sam enters and picks up the phone. There's no dialling tone. She searches the box, feeling around above eye level and looking in between the telephone directories. Then she opens the pull-out drawer in the base of the telephone. Inside is an envelope stamped 'Official' and 'Private & Confidential'.

Hill House reception area. Stafford sits at the reception desk in the corner as Foyle comes in with a travel bag and sets it down, turning to go back out.

Stafford: Mr Foyle! I hear you're leaving us today. 

Foyle: That's right, yeah. 

Stafford: I'm sorry we didn't get more of a chance to talk. 

Foyle: Oh, well. You, erm, you were a policeman, too, I believe, is that right? 

Stafford: Yeah, Municipal Police, Shanghai. A tough crowd, the Chinese. k*ll you as soon as look at you. 

Foyle: So, you know a lot about k*lling, then? 

Stafford: That's what we do here. 

Foyle: Enjoy it? 

Stafford: These people may seem mad to you. And when I first came here, that's how they seemed to me, but hundred years from now, people won't believe some of the things they came up with. Hidden radios. Exploding rats. Perfect forgeries of letters and IDs. Itching powder. It's true. They're going to put it in the n*zi's underwear. I mean, maybe they are mad, but you can't blame them for trying. 

Foyle: Did you train, er, William Messinger? 

Stafford: You know they've got a powder that can make a car's wheels lock? They've invented that, too. 

Foyle: I'm sorry? 

Stafford: I'm not going to talk about poor William. I was a policeman and you're a policeman, but we're from different worlds, really. And the honest truth is you don't belong here. 

Foyle scoffs.

Foyle: I'd agree with that. 

Stafford: Leave us alone, Mr Foyle. Don't tar us all with the same brush. 

Staircase. Maccoby stands up from a desk at the bottom as Wintringham is coming down.

Maccoby: Why did you invite him here? 

Wintringham: I presume you're talking about Mr Foyle. Apparently, the two of you had a run-in in the past. 

Maccoby: He robbed me of seven years. 

Wintringham: Four years. We got you out. 

Maccoby: You shouldn't have had him here, Colonel Wintringham. He's been asking questions about William Messinger. He's gonna find you out. 

Wintringham: I have nothing to hide. 

Maccoby: No? Well, tell me this. Little William k*lled himself because of some girl? That's what we heard. But I knew him. He wasn't that sort. He didn't like girls. You know what I mean? Maybe I should have a word with Foyle about that. 

Wintringham: Maccoby, you- 

Maccoby: Or maybe... we should just get rid of him. Get him out of here. Permanently. You think about that. 

He walks away.

Outside. Sam is waiting as Foyle comes down the steps.

Sam: Good afternoon, sir! 

Foyle: Glad to see you. 

Sam: I was rather worried they weren't going to let you out. 

Foyle: So was I. 

They reach the car.

Sam: So, what do they actually do here? 

Foyle: You wouldn't believe me if I told you. 

Sam: Are you going to? 

Foyle: Nope. 

They get into the car.

Sam: Well, I won't ask, then. 

As they drive away, Pierce watches them from the balcony above.

Sam and Foyle are driving along.

Foyle: Did you speak to Milner? 

Sam: No, sir. I'm sorry, I've been rather busy. 

Foyle: Oh, yeah? 

Sam: Trying to help my uncle work out what's been going on. As a matter of fact, I may have found something. It was hidden in a telephone box. A letter, with a map. Someone must have left it there to be picked up and I took it. 

Foyle: And where is it now? 

Sam: I've got it with me. 

Sam veers left to avoid a car coming the other way along the narrow road. Marion Greenwood is in the back.

Sam: Sir, wasn't that- 

Foyle: Marion Greenwood. Yes, it was. 

Sam: D'you want me to turn round and go after her? 

Foyle: No. Keep going. 

Sam struggles with the steering wheel.

Sam: D'you know, there's something wrong. Er, sir, it's... sir-

Foyle: Sam.

Sam: The, the wheel, it- the steering, I can't-

Foyle: What's going on? 

Sam: I can't get it to... 

Foyle: Right.

Sam: Oh. 

A lorry coming the other way honks at them and Sam wrenches the wheel to the right.

Sam: Oh! Oh, damn! 

They go off the road and crash into a wooden shed.

Sam: Ah.

The lorry drives on past without stopping.

Inside the car, Sam takes her hat off. She's bleeding from a small cut above her right eye.

Foyle: You all right? 

Sam: Yes, sir.

He opens his door.

Sam: I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. 

Foyle: Hmm. We should get out. Can you manage?

Sam: Mmm.

She follows him out through the passenger-side door.

Aubrey Stewart's house. He brings a cup of tea over to Sam where she sits in an armchair.

Aubrey: There you are. Feeling any better? 

Sam: Much better. Thank you. 

She looks up at someone behind him.

Sam: When did you get here, Milner? 

Aubrey: Sergeant Milner arrived about half an hour before you. 

Milner: I came down by train. And I wasn't alone. I was following Marion Greenwood. 

Foyle is sitting opposite.

Foyle: Know where she went? 

Milner: She jumped in a taxi at the station, and guess where it took her. 

Foyle: Hill House? 

Milner: Yeah.

Sam: Is this any help, sir? 

She holds out a map of Rouen.

Foyle: Yes. 

Sam: A map of Rouen. 

Foyle: Well, it seems it's a copy of a map of Rouen, used by an agent, according to this letter. 

Sam: "101040". That's a map reference, isn't it? 

Foyle: Is it? Did you see who left this? 

Sam: Erm, I didn't see his face, but it wasn't the bald man. 

Aubrey: This is all Hill House, isn't it? That's what it all comes down to. 

Foyle: That and your church, sir. 

Aubrey: I'm sorry? 

Foyle: The young builder who died. 

Aubrey: Ted Harper. 

Foyle: I'm very sorry to have to do this, but I'm afraid, erm, we're going to have to disturb the peace and quiet of your churchyard. 

He stands up.

Churchyard. The four of them stand and watch as a man digs up Ted's grave.

Aubrey: Poor Ted. I christened him, you know. I remember seeing him play hide-and-seek out here with the other boys, ducking behind the gravestones. Couple of weeks ago, he came to see me. He was going to marry his girl, Mary Thompson. Do you remember her, Samantha? 

Sam: Oh, yes. She used to work at the village shop. 

Aubrey: He was going to get married, start his own family. Then he has a stupid accident, falls off a roof and breaks his neck. Sometimes, you really have to ask what he's thinking of up there. 

The gravedigger sets his spade aside and reaches for a crowbar.

Milner: Sir! 

Aubrey: Mr Foyle, you haven't told me what you expect to find. I don't expect we'll find anything. 

The gravedigger lifts the lid of the coffin. It's empty.

Hill House. Foyle walks across the grounds to the house.

Inside. Maccoby is being led away by military police.

Maccoby: You bloody bastard, Foyle. Damn you to hell for this! 

Foyle: Nice to see you again, Mr Mason. Bye. 

Foyle reaches the reception area, where Stafford is talking with the receptionist.

Foyle: Major Stafford. 

Stafford: Mr Foyle. 

Foyle: "A powder that can make a car's wheels lock"? 

Stafford: Carborundum powder. That's the technical name for it. 

Foyle: You knew, didn't you? 

Stafford: A man like Leo Maccoby or Mason or whatever his name his has no place here. I mean, there's dirty tricks and dirty tricks, but you have to decide how dirty you want to be. 

Foyle: Well, thank you, if you were trying to warn me. I just wish you'd been less covert about it.

He walks on.

Wintringham's office. He's looking at a map together with Dumont, Nicholson and a man in uniform.

Wintringham: Now, how well do you know the area around Caen? 

Dumont: Er, not personally, but I have many friends I can reach. 

Wintringham: Good. 

The door opens.

Foyle (offscreen): Good morning. 

Wintringham: Mr Foyle. I'm afraid this isn't a very good moment. 

Foyle approaches the map table, passing Pierce where she sits at another desk.

Foyle: Well, not for you, perhaps. Perfectly good one for me. 

Wintringham: What can I do for you? 

Foyle: Er, you can start by apologising for wasting my time and perhaps explain how you manage to achieve the, er, levels of incompetence you regularly do. 

Pierce joins the group at the table.

Wintringham: I think we'd like to hear you explain yourself. Incompetent? How? 

Foyle: Er, you are, firstly, directly responsible for the failure of the organisation's recent operation in France. 

Wintringham: Firstly, really? How? 

Foyle: You sent an agent, er, who was k*lled as a result of being supplied with out-of-date information. 

Wintringham: What is that? 

Foyle: It's a map of Rouen and environs, dated the, er, 10th October last year, which gives no indication of current local occupied territory and which led to him being dropped into an area mined by the Germans. 

Wintringham: And secondly? 

Foyle: Secondly, even assuming, er, you must know that there's a spy in your midst...

He pauses for a brief moment, and Nicholson looks over at Wintringham.

Foyle: Allowing him to, erm, leak this sort of information is peculiar, to say the least. 

Wintringham: A spy? 

Foyle: Well, apparently MI6, since he left the map and this letter, which gives classified information pointing directly to MI6, er, lying about in a disused phone box, presumably to be collected. You're as bad as each other. 

Wintringham: And would you feel able to go so far as to reveal the identity of this spy? 

Foyle: Well, it's not part of my brief and, since you've wasted my time, I don't see why I should be helping you with yours, particularly. But, since you ask, if I were you, I'd be looking for someone, erm, posing as a Frenchman, with a passable accent, who is an accomplished Times crossword solver and yet claims not to understand basic English idioms, and who believes that, er, Paris Montparnasse is a football team and not a railway station. You dropped these. 

He gives Dumont the papers from the phone box. Dumont looks at them for a moment, then speaks in an English accent.

Dumont: Well, that rather puts paid to it, doesn't it? Amazed I was able to get away with it as long as I did, actually.

Wintringham nods to the uniformed man and he stands up, as does Pierce.

Pierce: Who are you? 

Dumont: I'm afraid, Miss Pierce, you'll have to address any questions to my commanding officer. 

Wintringham: Giles Messinger. 

Dumont: Yes. My apologies, Colonel, nothing personal. 

Wintringham: Nicholson, escort whoever this is to the security wing and don't let him out of the building. 

The uniformed man has returned with a group of military police.

Dumont: Excuse me, My Foyle. I'd like to have heard some more, but I'm sure you understand. 

Foyle: Perfectly. 

Dumont leaves along with Nicholson and the military police. Wintringham looks at the papers from the phone box.

Foyle: It would seem he doesn't know. 

Wintringham: Doesn't know what, Mr Foyle? 

Foyle: As much as you think he might, Colonel. 

Wintringham: And how much do you know? More than him, apparently. 

Foyle: Well, he knows, at least as much as we talked about and as much as anyone else here might know, that the agent Facteur, who died as a result of the map, was a, er, replacement for William Messinger. 

He sits down at the table.

Foyle: I know that Messinger wasn't replaced, that Facteur, French for "postman", everybody's messenger, was, in fact, William Messinger, who did not commit su1c1de in Hastings, but died in France, in a German minefield. 

Pierce: Tell him. 

Wintringham: No. 

Pierce: If you don't, I will. You're right, Mr Foyle. We had a Special Duty flight, but we had no up-to-date information about the area around Rouen. All the same, Colonel Wintringham decided to go ahead. We dropped him in a wood, near a village called St-Etienne. 

Flashback to Facteur making his landing and checking the map, then the expl*si*n.

Pierce (voiceover): He was k*lled almost at once, before even making contact with the French. 

Wintringham's office.

Pierce: Sir Giles Messinger was waiting for us to make one last mistake and we dropped his son in a minefield. How were we going to tell him that? 

Foyle: Why send him in the first place, him of all people? 

Wintringham: He wanted to go. He persuaded me. If he came back a hero, his father would have to change his opinion of us. He'd have been neutralised. It was a high-risk strategy, but it might have worked. 

Pierce: If he'd come back. 

Foyle: Well, look, I don't care about your inter-departmental squabbles, but leaving aside the moral issue, what I have to care about, not least because I'm paid to, is the law. 

Wintringham: Nothing illegal. Nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing we can't justify. 

Foyle: Desecration of a grave, illegal. 

Flashback to the opening of the empty coffin.

Foyle: How would you like to justify that?

Flashback to Wintringham's men removing the vase from the grave and throwing it aside to smash against a tombstone.

Foyle (voiceover): If whoever you got to do this hadn't broken a vase, nobody would even have known you'd been there. 

Foyle: The body you stole to substitute for Messinger blown out of all recognition by a grenade. 

Flashback to the book repository expl*si*n.

Foyle: How would you like to justify that? A whole history fabricated.

Flashback to the watchmaker examining the watch.

Foyle (voiceover): The watch. 

Watchmaker: That's what I mean. It looks like an old watch, but this is a very recent model. 

Foyle: The rented room. The Hastings landlady who never lived in Hastings. 

Flashback to Mrs d*ke's house.

d*ke: Yes. It's lovely, innit? Valuable, I'd have said. He never went anywhere without it. 

Flashback to Foyle meeting her again as Evelyn Cresswell.

Wintringham: Miss Evelyn Cresswell. 

Cresswell: How do you do?

Wintringham: My secretary. 

Foyle: We've met. 

Cresswell: No, sir. I don't think so. 

Wintringham's office.

Foyle: Professional actress or just a versatile secretary? Whatever she was, she wasted police time. The su1c1de letter, forged. 

Flashback to Marion being shown the letter.

Foyle (voiceover): The girlfriend, Marion Greenwood works for you and perverted the course of justice. 

Wintringham's office.

Foyle: Added to which, one of your men tried to k*ll me. 

Flashback to the car going off the road and crashing.

Foyle: Illegal. All morally unacceptable. How would you like to justify it? 

Wintringham: Necessities of w*r, Mr Foyle, in which there is no morality. You fail to grasp this. In truth, I don't like it any more than you do, but it's part of our existence. It's what we're for. 

Outside. Foyle and Pierce walk through the grounds together.

Pierce: Mr Foyle, may I plead with you? Colonel Wintringham... how can I put this? He, he overreaches himself, and he will not survive in this position for long, that I promise you. Nor, perhaps, will I, but we don't matter. This organisation does. You may doubt many things, but not the courage of these people, what they're prepared to do for their country. It was a mad scheme. We should never have considered it. But at the end of the day have we done any great harm? 

Foyle: You don't feel the Messingers have a right to know how their son died?

Pierce: You think it would make them happier to know he died as the result of a stupid mistake? 

Foyle: Well, they might like to remember him as a w*r hero rather than a su1c1de. 

Pierce: Well, tell them. But not yet. Wait until the w*r's over. Give us our chance. Until now we've been fighting this w*r using conventional methods and we're losing, Mr Foyle. But I swear to you, one day, we will make a difference. 

Foyle: I won't lie for you. 

Pierce: I'm not asking you to do that. I'm asking you to wait before you reveal the truth. 

A car pulls up on the drive and the Messingers get out.

Foyle: Did you know they were coming? 

Pierce: I invited them. They've come to collect William's things. Sir Giles? 

Sir Giles: Ah, Miss Pierce. Ah, Mr Foyle. What are you doing here? 

Foyle: I was just leaving, sir. 

Sir Giles: Er, when you visited my house, you led me to believe there were certain circumstances surrounding my son's death. 

Foyle: That's right. 

Anne: Is it true? Have you found something? 

Foyle: It seems I was misinformed. 

Sir Giles: You haven't heard the last of this, Foyle. It seems to me you've grossly exceeded the limits of your authority. Percy Noble at the Admiralty was speaking to me about you. You may put any idea of joining the service out of your mind. 

He turns and walks away. Foyle exchanges a look with Pierce.

Sam and Milner wait beside the car.

Sam: You know, you can't really leave. 

Milner: What d'you mean? 

Sam: Hastings. I mean, what will we do without you? 

Milner: I don't know. 

Sam: We're a team, aren't we? All for one and one for all or whatever. 

Milner: Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you. 

He opens the back of the car and brings out an onion.

Sam: Where did you get it? 

Milner chuckles.

Milner: I won the raffle. 

Sam: Mr Rivers? 

Milner: Mm-hmm. I thought we'd have half each. 

He hands her the onion, and she tosses it up in the air and then kisses it.

Sam: What a corker! You are a dream. 

He chuckles as she gives him a kiss on the cheek.

Milner: Thanks. 

Aubrey (voiceover): So, it looks as if you won't be leaving the police force, after all. 

He and Foyle walk through the churchyard.

Foyle: Seems so. 

Aubrey: I'm very glad to have met you, Mr Foyle. Good luck. 

They shake hands.

Foyle: Thank you. 

He reaches the car where Sam and Milner are waiting.

Foyle: Let's go. Long way back. 

Sam: Bye, Uncle Aubrey. 

They all get in the car.

Aubrey: Bye, Samantha. Take care. 

Sam: See you at Easter. 

He nods and then waves as they drive away.
{"type": "series", "show": "Foyle's War", "episode": "03x01 - The French Drop"}