Sunday 8 March 1942, 9:30 AM

Foyle snapped the twin locks of his case closed and turned to his son, leaning against the doorframe with hands buried in his pockets. "That's it," he said. "Taxi here?"

"Not yet," replied Andrew, "Sure you won't change your mind and let me give you a lift?"

"Hardly. Once on that contraption was enough, thank you." Foyle pulled a wry face and Andrew grinned. "Sure you don't need any cash?"

"No, Dad, I'm fine, thanks." His son straightened up and reached for the case. "Listen, thanks a lot for coming all the way up here. Sorry it was such a mess, but - well, it was good to see you, anyway. Wish I could get home more often. It's hard to find anybody up here to give me a good game of chess."

"Well." Foyle fingered his tie, touched. "I'll be sure to have the board ready when you do get home. No idea, I suppose, when you might manage enough leave?"

"Afraid not. But - look, I'll write, Dad. I really will."

"Seems to me I've heard that before," replied his father with a smile as a car horn sounded in the road below. "Ah, there's my taxi."

His son accompanied him down to the car, where he surprised the older man with a brief, tight hug. After a moment Foyle broke the embrace with a firm pat or two on the back. "Goodbye, Andrew. Look after yourself. And - " his eyes flashed, telegraphing all the paternal admonitions he had refrained from putting into words - "do be careful, won't you?"

Monday 9 March 1942, half-past seven in the morning

Sam raised a hand to the brass doorknocker, then let it fall back, her courage faltering. Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. It'll be fine! Just like any other day … She drew in a deep breath and then reached up and rapped firmly on the shiny black door.

She heard his step approaching and the door swung inward. "Sam," Foyle acknowledged her. "Come in." She stepped into the hall, returning his greeting politely as he closed the door against the cold.

He wasn't completely ready for the day, she saw, as he usually was when she arrived to collect him - coatless, tie knotted loosely, waistcoat hanging open. "Won't be a moment," he promised. He looks tired, she thought as she watched his fingers move nimbly up the row of buttons, restoring his usual immaculate appearance, then dropped her eyes to the carpet lest he catch her staring. Please, don't let him talk about it, she prayed silently. I don't want things to be any more awkward than they already are …

He cast a quick glance at her as he shrugged into his coat, noting the downcast eyes, the hands fidgeting with her gloves. She looked hesitant and a bit forlorn, standing in her accustomed spot under Rosalind's watercolours, her usual morning sparkle nowhere in evidence. Damn, he thought inwardly, cursing Andrew afresh for his callous behaviour. I just hope she doesn't blame me for all this … "Sam," he began, but she had started to speak at the same moment.

"How was your journey, sir?"

"Tiring. Trains were overcrowded, kept stopping. Didn't get in until past midnight." She gave a sympathetic little nod as he reached for his hat; it was a typical description of wartime travel conditions. "Listen, Sam. About this business … I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

She coloured slightly, lifting her shoulders in an unsuccessfully nonchalant gesture. "It's all right, sir. Nothing to do with you anyway."

He relaxed a bit; at least she wasn't upset with him. Not that he had expected it, but still, it was a relief to hear her say so. "I know, but … still. I wish things hadn't worked out this way. Utterly unfair to you. I told him so."

Her lips twitched in a tiny smile. I just bet you did, she thought. "Well, these things happen. Best to just put it behind us, as my father says. Water under the bridge. I hope they'll be very happy together."

Foyle fingered his hat uncomfortably. "Well, as to that …" he hesitated. This was the question he had wrestled with all during the long homeward journey: should he tell Sam that the marriage hadn't come off? Or would that be interfering? How in God's name had he found himself in the middle of this situation when that was the very last place he wanted to be? "About the wedding, Sam …"

"Don't," she broke in, her voice unexpectedly sharp. This was exactly what she'd been dreading as she stood on his doorstep. I don't want to hear about how beautiful she is, about how happy they are together. I'd really rather not know. "Please. I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind, sir."

His eyebrows went up in surprise. Guess that settles that, he thought. Perhaps it's better this way. "Right," he replied gently. "Fair enough. Ready to go?" He reached for the door, holding it open for her, and was rewarded with one of her quick smiles as she passed him on her way to the car.

FINIS