I am enjoying the process of writing this story so much! Thank you for the comments that I have received thus far. Please do comment if you noticed any other Americanisms or anachronistic bits - I try to be really careful but, like everyone, I am bound by my own time and place. And please bear in mind that I have only watched up to the end of this episode, so I'm basing my characters on the first season alone.

-Emma

Foyle arrived early for his meeting with Reverend Stewart at the Royal Victoria Hotel. Samantha had told him that her father wanted to talk to him about her work, but he presumed that the real reason for the meeting was that the vicar wanted to make sure that his daughter's boss wasn't the kind of man who would sully her reputation. Foyle, who so often found himself on the other side of an interrogation, thought that he was prepared for a subtle, yet thorough, inquiry from the vicar. What he had not anticipated, however, was that the vicar would be as ignorant as he was of the purpose of the meeting.

"You wanted to see me about your daughter, Mr. Stewart?" Foyle asked, greeting the other man.

"It was Samantha who wanted me to talk to you, Mr. Foyle. I really have nothing to say," the vicar responded. Foyle looked confused, just for an instant. We were set up!, he thought. Damn clever girl!

He composed himself before the vicar.

"Well, I've come over here because Samantha hoped I might be able to change your mind, but if I'm wasting your time—"

"No," Rev. Stewart interrupted. "Sorry, I spoke rather rudely just now. Please, sit down."

Even as Foyle carried on a conversation with Sam's father, agreeing with him that domestic crime-solving seemed unimportant compared with the war effort, he kept thinking back to Samantha herself. He felt a mixture of annoyance and admiration towards her: annoyance, because she had lied to him about the purpose of the meeting, and admiration, because she had managed the both of them so well, to get them together in the same room. That woman will make a capital detective one day, he thought. If only her father lets her stay on with me.

Now the vicar was saying something about Sam taking a liking to her work with him. Foyle hoped that the liking had to do with something more than the regular satisfactions of solving crimes and tramping around town. He wanted to let her father know that her help was valued, but that he had no personal stake in having her stay—which wasn't true, of course, but he thought that it would be easier for the vicar to accept his daughter working for him if he believed that it was beyond either of their control. Masterfully, Foyle turned the conversation to the inconveniences of wartime assignments, his own desire to be doing something more important than detective work, and, finally, to the mention of his own son's service. He caught the other man's attention when he mentioned that Andrew was a pilot in the R.A.F. Despite what men like the vicar thought of women in the forces, they had no end of admiration for the young men who served.

The conversation ended with the two on good terms, as one father speaking to another, but Foyle felt deceitful nonetheless. His true feelings towards Sam were far from those of a father, though he was determined that neither she nor her own father would ever learn of that. After so many years alone, the opportunity to spend his days besides a vibrant young woman was satisfaction enough. He had come to look forward to her arrival in the morning, to see her open face and hear her bright chatter as she discussed the latest war news with him or gave him her opinion about a case. He secretly stole glances at her as she drove, admiring the physicality of her driving, the way her arms held the steering wheel or how she bowed her head as she looked down to shift the gears. There in the small cabin of the car, he was closer to her than he would ever be outside of the Wolesley; in the office, or across from each other at dinner, there would always be more space between the two of them. But next to Sam in the car, Foyle could smell the roses of her soap and notice the soft white down at the base of her neck. He valued those moments more than she would ever know, and he hoped that her father would change his mind and let her stay.

It was a split-second decision that Sam made, to follow Alistair Graeme into the pub and ferret out his identity. She was thrilled that Foyle agreed to her half-baked plan, but couldn't help but wonder why he had assented. Could it be that he trusted her to do a good job? She had just said how much she was going to miss this kind of work, the fun of the chase. And she had also admitted to him that she had enjoyed working with him, in particular. Could it be that he wanted to give her the chance for one last hurrah, while she was still working for the police?

They had been sitting together in the Wolesley, waiting for Alistair Graeme to leave his house.

"Why don't we just go in?" Sam asked.

"Maybe he hasn't done anything," Foyle replied. "And if I was to ask him about Andrew, he wouldn't tell me anyway, and why should he?"

"Well, we could follow him back to where he's based," Sam suggested. She loved following suspects in the car. But Graeme was no ordinary suspect; he was an R.A.F. officer, and this was no ordinary case, but a very personal matter: finding Andrew. But Foyle appreciated his driver's enthusiasm and hoped that she would get the opportunity to confront Graeme.

"We'd get arrested as spies," he said ruefully, turning to smile at Sam.

"I'm going to miss all this," she said, keeping her face forward so that he wouldn't see her expression.

"Are you?" Foyle asked, genuinely curious as to what she would say.

"I've enjoyed working with you, Sir," Samantha said, formally. She hoped that her voice didn't betray her emotion. If she weren't about to leave, she didn't think that she ever would have dared to say this to Foyle. But she also felt some regret at how she had hassled him from time to time. "I'm sorry I've been—" she started, then grew silent.

"Been what?" Foyle asked. He wouldn't let her stop there; this conversation was too interesting to him. What could she be sorry for? That she had asked him too many questions? That she had invited herself places where she shouldn't have gone? That she had looked at him a bit too closely on occasion? That she had made him fall in love with her? Foyle was not sorry for any of this.

Sam said, "You know," swallowing hard and looking at him from the corner of her eyes.

"Yeah," Foyle said. "No, you've been fine, Sam." More than fine, he thought. I couldn't have asked for a better driver or a finer companion. She blushed at his compliment. Foyle wasn't one to flatter needlessly.

Graeme came out of his house, looked briefly at the car, and strode down the street. "Is that him there?" Sam asked.

"Could be," Foyle said. "Looks like it. Shall we go?" Sam started the motor and they followed the man up the street, keeping a good distance back.

"You wait here," Foyle said, once they saw Graeme enter the pub.

"Sir," Sam dared. "Why don't you let me do it?" Foyle gave her a hard stare. She was impressive, this one. "Isn't there more chance he'd talk to a girl?" she asked. "If we can catch him alone, having a drink, he might give me a clue." She looked him straight in the eyes.

"All right," Foyle assented. "Be careful." He'd never see her again if her father heard about this one. But he was curious to see what she would do. He smiled to himself as he watched her leave the car.

The meeting in the pub was a disaster, as far as Sam was concerned. Although she could say that she genuinely enjoyed the company of most men, Graeme made her squeamish. The way he pushed himself close to her as he offered to buy her a drink, the lascivious look in his eyes as he asked her which corps she worked for, his obvious pleasure at her discomfort—all of this made her very uneasy. And then, the way that he found her out, the sinister words he whispered in her ear:

"You know, my dear, when a good-looking, well-developed young girl like you comes into a bar on her own, that's one thing. But when she starts asking questions—name, rank, serial number—that's when a chap has to start asking himself, 'What's her game?' Especially when that girl seems to have deliberately followed him in." He leaned close to her, his breath smelling of old smoke.

"I did no such thing!" Sam protested.

"I'm sure you didn't," he purred. "But that's a loose tongue you have. A very loose tongue. And I think you should be careful what you do with it." She didn't like the implications behind his tone. She would tell Foyle about this later—about all of it. Perhaps it would provide some important information about Graeme's character. "So," he continued, "It was very nice to meet you, and I hope you enjoyed the drink, but I think it's time you were on your way."

She looked away from him and was not prepared for what he did next. He reached behind her and quite roughly and painfully grabbed her between the legs, putting his hand where no stranger should have touched. She was outraged. How dare he! she thought, giving out a small shriek before walking away to leave the pub. What an insolent, disgusting man! I hope Foyle's son has nothing to do with him.

Sam came back to the car where Foyle was waiting for her. He could tell by the expression on her face that things had not gone well. "What happened?" he asked.

Sam shook her head. "I didn't get anything out of him, Sir," she said, chagrinned. "He rumbled me straight away." She looked distressed and Foyle suspected that there was more to her story.

"What is it?" he asked. "You all right?" His driver looked pale.

"Actually, he pinched me," she explained, somewhat embarrassed. Better to say it was a pinch, that didn't sound as bad as the violent way he had forced his hand between her legs and pulled upwards. She didn't want Foyle to know the whole of it; he might wonder at what she had been doing to provoke that reaction.

"He did what?" Foyle asked, shocked. I shouldn't have let her go in there by herself, he thought. She convinces me so easily that I let her do exactly what she wants—but this was my mistake.

"You know," she said significantly. Then, forgetting her embarrassment, she emphatically complained: "He pinched me quite hard! It really hurt!" He wanted to laugh but he knew that he shouldn't. This was a serious matter.

"I'm going to have a word with him," he said. Foyle moved to open the car door. There's a reason these kinds of people are our suspects, he thought. We cannot ever forget that we're dealing with unsavory characters. But I'll have a word with him, even if it means that he'll keep mum about Andrew. Hang Andrew anyway! He's a grown man. He should have learned to solve his own problems by now.

"No, no," Sam said, shaking her head. She was touched that Foyle wanted to defend her honor, but she reminded herself that it would ruin the case if they were to confront Graeme outright. "It will only confirm his suspicions," she said. "Maybe Dad was right." Foyle looked concerned. "Perhaps I ought to write to the Association for Moral Hygiene," she joked lightly.

Sam started up the car again as Foyle pondered what she had said. If Graeme had treated her so coarsely, what else might the officer be willing to do? His thoughts wandered to the story that Andrew had told him, about the female plotter who had gone missing, whom no one was allowed to talk about. What there a connection between her and Graeme? All of this was getting so complicated: Andrew, Graeme, Anne, the Smith murder, now Sam. He needed time to think things over. Thank God for Sam's driving; that would give him the time to calm down and work out the case—or cases, as it was becoming apparent that there were several mysteries to solve here.

Sam's first attempt at spy-work left her rather discouraged. She was quieter than usual for the rest of the day, and made no motion to hang around the station or delay Foyle's good-night, as she usually did. Instead, as the car climbed up the hill to Foyle's house shortly after six, Sam began to say a rather formal good-bye to him. When she stopped the engine to let him out, though, he stayed in his seat.

"Would you like to come in for a minute, Sam?" he asked. He had never invited her inside his house before, except for the few minutes she spent in the foyer when she picked him up in the morning. "Unless something has changed, I don't expect we'll see Andrew here tonight. And I have the feeling that there's more to say about what happened at the pub this afternoon. Besides," he said, smiling, "you look like you could use a stiff drink." Sam looked down at her hands, blushing, avoiding his eyes.

"Please, Sir," she said. "I am all right." She swallowed hard.

"I know you are, Sam. But won't you come in for a drink anyway? Humor me for once," he said, then: "I promise I won't pinch you." He winked at her and Sam almost choked, and then put her hand against her mouth to hide her smile.

"Fine," she said, opening her door. "I'd much rather share a drink with you, anyway, than with that ratty R.A.F officer." Foyle felt his pulse rise as he watched her walk round the car and walk up his stairs, waiting for him to bring the keys and let her in.

Foyle brought her to his study, the same room where he and Andrew had chatted just a few nights before. She looked around at the books and the writing desk, wondering if it was Foyle or his late wife who had decorated the space. She had already noticed Rosalind's paintings, hanging in all the rooms of the house, on another occasion. But this room seemed to lack the feminine touch. It had probably always been Foyle's own room, the place where he could bring his colleagues or sit back and read the newspaper. It was not a woman's room.

It was not a woman's room, and yet Foyle did his best to make Sam feel at home, pulling out a chair for her to sit on and offering her a scotch. She took off her hat and placed it on the desk, then sat and folded her hands primly on her lap while Foyle poured them each a drink. He went into the kitchen to retrieve some ice, then came back and handed her the glass. He sat down across from Sam, looking straight at her.

"So, Sam, now that you've had your first taste of spying-" he started. But Sam interrupted him.

"It wasn't what you think, Sir," she said, looking away.

"What exactly do you mean?" he asked her pointedly. "What do you imagine I was thinking about it?"

"You might think that I was being too brazen—that I was trying to seduce the man. But I wasn't! I know spies don't do that kind of thing except in books. I was just talking to him, trying to sound interested and impressed, but nothing more. I hardly knew what to say to him. But he was simply dreadful. The way he looked me up and down, the way he leaned in close to me, and then when he pinched me!—frankly, Mr. Foyle, he disgusted me."

"That is precisely what I wanted us to talk about, Samantha," he said seriously. "I should not have let you go in there by yourself. I should have known better. You are not a detective-yet." She looked up, a bit hurt. "Don't feel bad about it, Sam, I'm just stating the truth. You can't be more than you already are." He sighed and took a sip of his drink. She thought he might be disappointed in her, but she was also interested to hear what he would say next. "One thing you'll learn, as we do more of this work together, is that oftentimes the people we are investigating are just the kind of people you would want to stay far away from in ordinary circumstances. There's a reason that men like Alistair Graeme make it onto a list of suspects. Plenty of times they are innocent of any real crime, but there are lots of bad deeds that can't be prosecuted." He looked at her pointedly.

"I wish we could!" Sam said eagerly. "I'd lock that man up in an instant for a moral misdemeanor. I wasn't entirely joking when I said that I would report him to the Association for Moral Hygiene." She crossed her ankles and sat back in her chair, relishing the feel of the whisky on her tongue. It had been a good idea of Foyle's to have a drink together. She didn't know if she would ever have another opportunity. And it was kind of him, as well, to be concerned about her after the incident in the pub. She noted these kindnesses of his, stored them up like secret treasures to mull over when she was by herself.

"So it looks like we have learned something about Alistair Graeme, after all," Foyle remarked. "We learned, for example, that he likes young women." He raised his eyebrow at her.

"That may not be a discriminating feature, Mr. Foyle," Sam pointed out. He smiled at her comment.

"Right you are. But listen: we also learned that he is clever. He knew that we were following him. He is a worthy adversary. And now we know that he is not above intimidating people—I imagine that his pinching you, for example, was not so much about the pleasure of touching you, as it was about showing you who was in command. Alistair Graeme is a sadist. And I'm only sorry that I did not realize this sooner, or I would have never have let you go in there by yourself."

Sam looked at her drink. She felt so many things. After his brief speech, Sam felt grateful for the detective's friendship and for his concern for her. She was touched that he had wanted to protect her once he had found out what had happened to her, and curious about how he viewed her. He had implied that touching her would be a very pleasant thing; had he ever thought as much?

"Sir," Sam ventured, "May I ask you a question?"

"You may." Foyle smiled at her.

If she hadn't already drunk the whisky, she would never have said what she did next.

"What would you have done, Mr. Foyle, if you had been in a pub and I had come in by myself?"

"I know you already, Sam," Foyle said, a bit patronizingly, "so it's hardly the same thing."

"But let's say you didn't know me. What would you do if you were there by yourself, and then I came in?" Oh, God, he thought to himself, Whatever possessed her to ask this particular question? And how am I supposed to answer this without getting in trouble?

"I suppose I would notice that—notice that a young woman had come in, and wonder what she was doing there. I'm a detective, after all." He smiled tightly.

"Is that all?" Sam asked.

Foyle cleared his throat and said, matter-of-factly, "Despite your experience today, Sam, I can assure you that not all men of my generation feel the need to physically accost young ladies in uniform." He laughed wryly. "I hope I have never done anything to indicate otherwise."

"No, no," Sam assured him. "I didn't mean that at all."

"Then what did you mean?" he asked directly. Sam looked away from his stare. He examined her face, noticing the look of guilt that had spread across her features.

Sam took a deep breath before answering.

"I wanted to know—if you had ever considered—I mean—How do I say it? Have you ever considered what you would do if you ran into me at a pub?"

Foyle smiled. "Why would I need to consider that?" he asked her back.

"Well," Sam stumbled, "you invited me here, and I wondered—in other circumstances—if you would buy me a drink."

"Ah, Sam," he said rather condescendingly, "You want to know what I think of you, is that it?"

"Yes, Sir. In a word."

"While I would never turn down the opportunity to have a drink with a young woman—" here he held his glass up to her—"inviting strangers to a drink is not something I am accustomed to doing."

"Too bad," Sam said. "I would have liked an invitation!" She smiled at him and he smiled back, enchanted by her frankness and her youth.

"You should know, that while I might treat you to supper—" he looked at her meaningfully, remembering the night when she invited herself to Carlo's—"it wouldn't be professional to meet my driver at a pub."

"And so you invite me here instead, Mr. Foyle?" Sam said, coyly. He was caught.

"This is different." If anything, he thought, it is worse. Imagine what her father would do if he saw her here with me, drinking my best whisky and putting her feet up on my ottoman. She probably doesn't even know that I can see her legs, and I now know that she wears knee-high stockings and no garters. He smiled at his newfound knowledge.

"How so?" Sam asked him.

"You're here as a guest in my home," he said. Sam readjusted her skirt, hiding her knees again. Foyle felt a twinge of disappointment.

"Well, I don't see as how there is much difference between us having a drink at a pub and having a drink here together, but perhaps what you mean is that as long as we're here, no one will see us together. Is that it?" Sam closed her eyes slightly, liking the excitement of the word play and the whisky, and most of all the proximity to Foyle. If Graeme had made her feel dirty and low, around Foyle she felt like a woman. Not a lady, not like some fragile thing that he had to protect, but like a woman, like someone who could be moved by him. She wanted him to treat her like a companion, to confide in her, to trust her. Even though she knew that it was poor manners, she could hardly keep her eyes from him, wondering what he was thinking about her and when he would get around to asking her to leave.

For his part, Foyle was in quite the predicament. It had been a long time since he had spent an evening with a young woman, but even with his limited experience he could tell when someone was interested in him. Samantha Stewart, while not being outright seductive, was certainly coy. And this was what had Foyle so tangled up: if he responded to her subtle invitation to get to know her better, then he would be no better than Graeme. Foyle did not care for the image of himself as a licentious employer; he had always been strictly above board in his dealings with his subordinates. He reminded himself that this situation was entirely different: for one, in contrast to the others under his command, Samantha Stewart was most certainly not a man; for another, she wasn't likely to be his driver for much longer, if her father had anything to say about it. How ironic it would be if she leaves because her father is suspicious of me, and I won't even have had the pleasure of matching up to my reputation.

Just as Sam had been direct with him, he decided to be direct with her. This was a tactic that often was useful in a police interrogation, and perhaps it would help him to navigate the current situation. He took a deep breath and proceeded.

More to follow soon...I have been working on it crazily all day! Probably will post it tomorrow. Until then, Emma.