The thing is, no parent can possibly have the objectivity of a Master. No parent really believes, deep down, that their son could be a liar; a bully; a cheat; a thief—or worse still, just an average boy, unexceptional in every way. Masters know the truth, of course. Few boys are exceptional. All boys are lazy. All boys lie. And parents, however progressive or realistic in theory, have a ridiculous blind spot where their particular boy is concerned, making them unreliable at best, and at worst, a downright liability.

“Lack of progress?” I said. “I don’t think that’s entirely—”

“With respect, Mr. Straitley. You’ve known my son for less than a term. I have known him for fourteen years. And I know when he is not working to his full capacity.”

I gave an inward sigh. Oh, gods. An educator. Some parents are not content to let a mere Master teach their son. They have to teach him by proxy, poking a thumb into every pie, making themselves unbearable, proffering opinions on all subjects, from PE to School dinners. I suppose I should have expected this; the fact that the parents had home­schooled the boy should have warned me that they were not yet ready to relinquish control over their son’s education.

“Johnny’s very bright,” I said. “Well above the class average. Top marks in Latin. Top marks in Maths. He can’t be top in everything.”

Mrs. Harrington waved aside her son’s achievements in Latin and Maths.

“We’re quite aware of how bright he is,” she told me. “But, as you already know, he’s finding it hard to fit in here. He isn’t used to being in such a large school environment, and, of course, he’s extremely sensitive.”

Sensitive. Now, there’s a word that strikes unease into a Master’s heart. Parents and psychologists use it when combating instances of inappropriate behavior, where it acts as a get-out-of-jail-free card whenever the boy in question feels the need to assert his personality.

“But Johnny has been to school before,” I said. “Two years in a junior school. Did he have the same problems there?”

I saw Mrs. Harrington’s face twitch. “That place wasn’t good for him,” she said. “Too many negative influences. That’s why we sent him here, Mr. Straitley. A good, traditional boys’ school. We thought that would make things easier.”

“What kind of negative influences do you mean?” I was curious. The file I had on young Harrington from his previous school contained nothing untoward. Certainly, nothing to suggest that he had left under a cloud, or that any kind of incident was connected with his departure.

Mrs. Harrington twitched again. Her husband put a hand on hers. She dropped her gaze immediately.