The victim was William Norman. Do you know the name? He went exploring and never came back. Only it was a poor man who worked for the school whom we dressed as William Norman and sent to sea with the promise of a return ticket two weeks after he landed. For our sins, he died of a fever instead and never came home. I blame myself for that as well.

William Norman was a schoolmaster who hurt people for his own pleasure. Sadistic and clever, he forced his boys to make choices. Lie about a friend or he would tell the headmaster a worse lie in its place. Steal money and swear that it was one of the servants, who would then be sacked without a reference. Or he would fail someone we liked whose marks were already poor, and see that he was sent down. When it was my turn, the choice was particularly heinous. I refused, I said I’d die first, and he told me he could arrange for me to die, and showed me the knife. He also told me who would be blamed for my death. I didn’t know where to turn. He told me he’d leave me for a quarter of an hour, to make my decision. I did. I took the only course I could see. I picked up the weapon from his desk and then bent over it as if weeping. He came in, took my hair in his hand and pulled my head up. I drove the sharp blade into his body. By some fluke, it nicked the great artery and he died. I don’t know where I found the strength or the courage to watch it happen. I cleaned up as best I could and went to find my housemaster. He and one of the younger masters and I sat there and decided to cover up the crime. I asked if William Norman’s family would suffer, and they thought not. He’d been estranged from them for some years. That was all I needed to know.

If I survive this war, I’ll burn the letter. Don’t blame the others, will you? They hadn’t known what he was doing, but when I told them, they believed me and did their best to save me. I was always grateful.

And below Reginald’s signature was a postscript.

Forgive me, Ian, for exacting a promise once I discovered you were a policeman. In truth, our friendship was genuine. And I have tried to make up for that night, short of confessing. Does that mean William Norman won after all?

Rutledge read it again, then folded it and returned the sheet to the envelope.