Sam walks along the eastern half of the crescent-shaped drive to where it meets Bohemia Road, crosses to the western half, walks part of the way back to the station, then retraces her steps to the road. When Andrew rounds the road's curve he can see Sam plainly.

'What are you doing out here, Sam?' Andrew asks when reaches the entrance to the drive.

'Stretching my legs and getting some fresh air – everyone seems to think that did me a world of good yesterday.'

'Even my Dad?'

'He didn't offer an opinion – but he didn't object, either. I'm also waiting to see my aunt, though. She sent me a telegram this morning. She's been in Brighton on Women's Institute business and is coming here to visit – just overnight, unfortunately.'

Andrew wants to ask if Sam isn't also waiting for him, but thinks better of it.

'May I wait with you?'

'Yes – if you like. She said that she would telephone,' Sam continues, 'but I suspect that she'll simply come here from her hotel. My Uncle Michael thinks the telephone is a nuisance and won't have one in the house, so she's not in the habit of using it.'

'Is this the black sheep aunt, who married into the Army instead of the Church and organized the campaign to persuade your parents to let you join the MTC? And she and your uncle have a farm in Hampshire, yes?'

'The very one,' Sam says, and she smiles, pleased and surprised. The last time she mentioned Aunt Amy and Uncle Michael to Andrew must surely have been in 1940.

A fat stone obelisk with Hastings Constabulary carved into it marks each side of the drive. The one that faces southeast has a small ledge, wide and deep enough for two people to sit on. They sit down on it now, side by side, not touching.

'They're in a place called Red Rice, aren't they?' Andrew asks. 'An unforgettable name for a village! Where in Hampshire is that, though?'

'Near Andover, in the western part of the county – almost in Wiltshire.'

'When I left Debden in January I was sent first to eastern Hampshire for several weeks, to learn, oh, the strategic part of it.'

'Hill House, in Leavenham,' Sam suggests.

'How did you know that, Sam?'

'I told you yesterday,' she reminds him, 'we've been in communication from time to time with the people who... run the place. And I know Leavenham rather well, actually,' she goes on.

'Oh, I know that you do! That part was fairly miserable. I did attend church there, Sam – it made a change of scene, you know – but under the circumstances I couldn't quite go up and introduce myself to your uncle. "Hullo, Mr. Stewart, I'm in love with your niece, but she mustn't on any account know that I'm here – no one must know that I'm here."'

Sam turns her head away as Andrew says this last part, but then turns to look at him again.

'It would have made a change for Uncle Aubrey as well, I'm sure! When your father and I were there last year he seemed quite uneasy about the people at Hill House. I am glad you found a good use for your spare time, though.'

They both laugh softly.

'I learned something interesting today,' Sam goes on. 'The day sister from when I was in hospital – it seems she thinks that the doctor who cared for me oughtn't to have released me to come back to work so quickly.'

'I wouldn't entirely disagree with that, Sam.'

'Well, she told Milner – he and Sister Ashford grew up together, apparently, and I think that they're walking out. In any case, she told him that on the day before I was cleared Dr Brindley quarreled with a visitor to the hospital.'

She repeats what she learned from Milner that morning, ending with Dr Brindley's sudden departure. Andrew listens uneasily.

'If that was Miss Pierce -' he begins. 'I wonder what it is she knows about him, that she could compel him to do that,' he goes on.

'I was thinking the very same thing! It's quite unsettling, isn't it, to think that a few people in this country know so much about so many of their fellow subjects, and are able and willing to use what they know to... ' Sam trails off.

'To control them for their own ends,' Andrew finishes for her.

'Well... for the war effort. It's for the greater good – isn't it?'

'I really can't see how the greater good can involve the deaths of hundreds, or perhaps even thousands, of innocent civilians who are suffering under occupation by a Fascist power.' Andrew speaks very quietly. There is a bitter edge in his voice.

Sam nods.

'I used to think that it would be terribly glamorous and exciting to be a spy,' she remarks.

'It isn't,' Andrew says flatly. 'There's nothing glamorous about fear, and the only excitement it offers is unpleasant.'

It occurs to Sam that she has just confided in Andrew – not told him a secret as she did yesterday, but simply shared a part of herself – just as easily as she used to do, and that although writing letters became difficult after a while, the two of them have never had the slightest trouble finding things to talk about.

It was never this way with Joe, she thinks.

Joe had never seemed interested in much more than having a pleasant time in her company. Somewhat to her surprise, he had never tried to put his hands anywhere that they didn't belong. Other girls at Mrs Hardcastle's – though not Glenda, Sam has noticed – have reported quite different experiences walking out with American soldiers.

He had quickly formed an idea of what Sam was like and seemed unconcerned with learning anything more about her. He had told her about his family and what he did before being called up – drafted, as he put it – but only when she asked him, and never at any length. He never had shown any interest in hearing anything about her family or her life before the war – unlike Andrew, who seems to have committed her family tree to memory.

The afternoon has grown warm. Sam has put her hands palm down, one on each side of her, on the cool stone ledge. Her left hand lies in the space between herself and Andrew.

Andrew moves his right hand just close enough to let his fingers rest atop hers. He feels the same electrical charge that has always come from touching Sam, different than what he used to feel with other girls; feels the muscles in her hand contract, then relax; and hears her inhale sharply, then exhale. She does not move her hand.

'Did you see Greville today?' she asks.

'I didn't actually see him – you were quite right about Beverley Lodge! They deigned to let me speak with him on the telephone, though. He seems very happy, just as you said – a man of many talents, it seems. It's a real relief to know that, even though he wouldn't tell me anything about what he does now. I felt guilty last year, gallivanting off to Debden while he was still in the burn hospital.'

'That wasn't your choice, and in the end it all worked out for the best,' Sam points out. Then she adds, more seriously, 'It worked out well for Greville, at any rate.'

She turns her left hand over so that her palm faces upward and closes her fingers over his, pushing them onto her palm as she does so, then opens her hand again. He lets his fingers rest there.

'Is that your aunt walking up the road?'

'Oh, yes! Yes, it is!' Sam exclaims. She leaps to her feet and goes over the road, running, to meet Aunt Amy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Oh, how wonderful to see you!' Sam says. 'I've just sent you and Uncle Michael a letter to thank you for the diary, but it's much nicer to be able to thank you in person.'

'And to be thanked in person, I assure you! Let's get a look at you, my dear girl. Bronchitis,' Aunt Amy says thoughtfully, 'severe enough to send you to hospital for the better part of a fortnight! But you don't look too bad.'

'Thank you, Aunt Amy.'

Aunt Amy looks past Sam and across Bohemia Road.

'That airman standing in front of the police station appears to be waiting for you,' she observes. 'Are you going to introduce us?'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Aunt Amy, this is Flight Lieutenant Andrew Foyle. My aunt, Mrs Braithwaite,' Sam goes on, turning to Andrew.'

Mrs Braithwaite smiles, but Andrew can feel himself being sized up.

'It's an honour to meet you, Flight Lieutenant, I'm sure,' says Mrs Braithwaite.

'Likewise, absolutely, Mrs Braithwaite,' Andrew replies. Sam has told me a great deal about you, he is about to go on, but a look from Sam stops him.

'And what is your assignment?' Mrs Braithwaite goes on.

'I flew ops out of Hastings for a time, and now I train other pilots. I've been based in Debden since early last year. I'm on leave this week.'

'Very good! My stepdaughter is in the WAAF,' she tells him. 'Flight Officer Laura Braithwaite. She's stationed at Great Paxton, though, in Cheshire, so I don't imagine you've come across her.'

'I was there earlier this year!' Andrew exclaims before he can stop himself. Blast! 'I, um, I had a sabbatical of sorts from my teaching duties, and was sent up there for several weeks to, um, to receive some additional training myself. Sam has told me about your stepdaughter, but I'm afraid I'd forgotten that that's where she is, and I don't recall meeting her. What is her assignment?'

'Training Command – in a nutshell, she's a sort of housemistress for the newly called-up. And of course it's an awfully big base, so it's hardly surprising that you and she didn't cross paths. How do you and my niece happen to know one another?' she goes on.

'I work for Andrew's father,' Sam puts in quickly.

The fact is that she has never told anyone in her family about Andrew, and now is hardly the time, she thinks.

'Ah – I thought the name Foyle sounded familiar!'

'I ought to be pushing off, really,' Andrew says.

'You haven't met Sergeant Brooke yet!' Sam points out.

'There's tomorrow for that,' Andrew says.

'Oh – yes, well, of course.'

'Thank you for passing the time with me, Sam, and again, I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs Braithwaite,' he goes on, adding, 'I hope we'll see each other again.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'I've arranged for supper for the two of us to be brought up to my hotel room, so we can have a good chat in private,' Aunt Amy tells Sam as they walk up the drive, after Andrew has left. 'I think it's high time that we did that, my dear girl.'

Sam can only nod in agreement.

They don't say so – no point in embarrassing Sam, after all – but everyone who sees Sam and her aunt together that afternoon is struck by their resemblance. Mrs Braithwaite's eyes are grey rather than brown, and it would be hard to guess now what colour her hair might once have been; but if Sam takes decent care of herself and with a bit of luck, all of them think, this is what she'll look like in three or four decades.

'Mr Foyle, my niece has told me many times how fortunate she feels to be doing war her service with the Hastings Police,' Aunt Amy says.

'I remember being told that someone named Sam Stewart had been pulled in from the MTC – at that point I didn't know what the MTC was,' Foyle admits. 'I was pretty thunderstruck, I suppose, when your niece showed up. But she very wisely ignored that. We're all very grateful that Sam is here, Mrs Braithwaite, and not only because I don't drive.'

'Thank you, sir,' Sam puts in.

'Sam has also told me quite a bit about you and everyone else here in her letters, Mr Foyle,' Aunt Amy goes on, 'but it has been three long years since she and I have actually seen one another, and although I have been in Hastings for only the past two hours it has become quite clear that we have a great deal of catching up to do.'

Sam can feel herself blushing; mercifully, Mr Foyle doesn't look at her.

'To that end,' Aunt Amy continues, 'I wonder if I might borrow her for the rest of the afternoon.'

'I think that would be feasible,' says Mr Foyle. "I actually was planning to walk home on Monday, but when it began raining Sam insisted on driving me. I'll do it tonight – ought to make up the exercise I missed.'

'Your father had pretty good things to say about this hotel after he stayed here a couple of years ago,' Aunt Amy notes as she and Sam arrange themselves around the small table in her room, 'but I suppose it simply isn't possible to vouch for the food anywhere these days.'

'They were serving fish cakes then,' Sam recalls. 'Aunt Amy, I know that you want me to tell you about everything that I've been doing, but I wanted to ask you something, as well, if I may.'

'Of course, Sam!'

'Was the last war like this one?'

'In what way do you mean?'

'Nothing left that actually is what it looks like, everyone keeping secrets from everyone else, but lying about it instead of just saying "I'm sorry – I can't discuss this?"'

'Oh, dear,' Aunt Amy begins, but just then there is a knock at the door.

Supper proves to be poor man's goose and boiled cabbage, with carrot pudding for the sweet course. Only after the waitress has served it out and left the room does Aunt Amy take up Sam's question.

'I'm afraid you'd have to ask someone who was actually in the last war about that. All I did was to roll bandages and knit!' she says. 'It's true that people were very wary of spies in our midst, and whenever your Uncle Desmond and your Uncle Alexander Buchanan – if you can think of him that way, since you never knew him.'

'But he was Alex and Teddy's father, of course,' Sam notes loyally of her aunt's first husband, who had survived the war to end all wars without a scratch only to die of influenza a few months after its end.

'Precisely! In any case, they wouldn't talk about the war, but I always thought that was because they couldn't bear to. I never had any reason to think that either of them was involved in intelligence. So no need for lying, I suppose.'

Aunt Amy looks thoughtfully at her niece for a moment.

'Tell me, Sam,' she goes on, 'have you forgiven him?'

Author's notes:
I was unable to pinpoint the war-era location of the Hastings police station while researching this story. After I published this chapter, rosalindfan kindly pointed me to Court in the Act, by Victoria Seymour (Hastings: by the author, 2004), which states that the location was the Hastings Town Hall, a magnificent Victorian pile whose location at a busy Queen's Road intersection (crossroads) unfortunately doesn't suit my purposes. The current station is at the end of a cul-de-sac on the northeast side of Bohemia Road, opposite and slightly northwest of Magdalen Road, with a large parking area in front – a much larger and newer building than the one that first appears in "The Russian House." I have decided to work from the fiction that the pre-1945 building stood on or near the site of the current station, perhaps closer to the road, with parking in the rear.
Conscription of women in the U.K. began in December 1941 with single women and childless widows aged 20 to 30. In 1943 this was expanded to include women from 18 to 43 – or even 50, for those who had served in World War I. Depending on her educational level and perceived skills, a woman might be assigned to one of the armed forces auxiliaries or to some type of civilian war work, including the MTC.
A recipe for poor man's goose can be found at the website Home Sweet Home Front.