‘Maybe not. But life isn’t fair, is it, Tom? For instance, I have been told by the senior tutor at your college that my chance of getting a place at one of the big medical schools is precisely zero. Our good friend Rupert Weir said much the same, though rather more kindly. And do you know why? Because I am married and I have a child and I am in my thirties. Oh, and because they will be awarding almost all the places to young men returning from the war. So it seems my useful life is now over. I can bring up children and that’s about the size of it.’

‘I’m sorry, Lydia. Truly I am.’

‘He did suggest, however, that if I was very lucky, even with my advanced years, I might be accepted into the London School of Medicine for Women. Of course I had already thought of that, but I always had my sights set on Bart’s.’

‘What about Addenbrooke’s?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I was avoiding Cambridge because I’ll just find myself looking after hearth and home. Edinburgh was a thought, though. They have been accepting women since the last century. Again there’s that question, however – will my age be held against me?’

‘Try, try and try again.’

‘The senior tutor did suggest I might be qualified to teach children at elementary school or a local prep school.’

‘That’s a useful career, Lydia.’

‘Yes, it is. But it’s not what I wanted.’

For a moment he thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she threw the trowel into the soft earth, and put her arms around her husband and her son.

‘You owe me, Mr Wilde.’

She smelt earthy and he instantly felt aroused. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Not like that,’ she said. ‘I mean you owe me big time. I’m talking nights out dancing, holidays in far-flung exotic locations.’

‘Then we’ll talk to Thomas Cook. By the way, you mentioned the Russian. Where is Borisov?’

‘Gone. Went this morning. He thanked me, handed me a bunch of flowers and kissed me on both cheeks and walked away. I’ve no idea where he went.’

‘What about Eaton? Does he know he’s gone?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I suggest you call him. Anyway, I thought you two had progressed to first-name terms.’

Wilde felt that chill of unease again. This wasn’t right. Sergei Borisov, otherwise known as Boris Minsky, senior officer in Stalin’s lethal intelligence service SMERSH, should not be on the loose in Britain without a minder. The war might be over, but only a fool or a naive innocent would think that all was well with the world and that everyone was friends.

He would make that call to Philip Eaton, and follow up with another one to Allen Dulles.