A few of my boys had already arrived and were reading, or talking among themselves. My Brodie Boys, Allen-Jones, Sutcliff, Tayler, and McNair, were exuberantly discussing the weekend’s exploits, which seemed to have involved a great deal of song, and the wearing of several shades of sparkly nail polish, the remnants of which still endured.

“Do boys wear nail polish nowadays?” I said when Allen-Jones pointed it out. My lackadaisical attitude to breaches of uniform protocol usually suits the boys perfectly, but in this case they were aiming to shock, which was precisely why I’d ignored them.

“The girls wear polish,” said McNair. “If they can, then we can too. Otherwise it’s gender discrimination.”

“Alas, the rules of the outside world have yet to make an impact here. If I were you, I’d take it off,” I advised, without looking up from the pile of books I was marking.

It was at this point that Devine arrived, holding the gnome and looking as dangerous as a man can look while holding a garden gnome. I have to admit, my mind had been so fixed on those Honours Boards that I’d almost forgotten Harry’s gift, and how I had deployed it . . .

I stepped out into the corridor. “How can I help you, Devine?” I inquired.

“This,” he said in a damning tone, “was on my porch on Sunday morning.”

“Gnome, sweet gnome,” I quipped—rather ill-advisedly, because Devine’s nose went alarmingly pink.

“Well, of course I’m assuming that you put it there.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “And do you have any reason for this, or is it simply a question of Conlige suspectos semper habitos?”

Dr. Devine gave a kind of hiss. “There are no usual suspects,” he said. “Only you, Straitley, would find this amusing. Besides,” he went on, “I hear Harry Clarke left you some of his effects.”

I nodded. “You heard correctly.”

For a moment Devine peered at me through narrowed eyes. “The Chaplain also tells me you’ve been talking about a memorial.”

Once more I nodded.

He gave a sigh. “That isn’t going to happen,” he said. “You, of all people, should understand why.”

I said: “He should be remembered.”

“He is remembered,” said Devine. “Isn’t that the problem?” He handed me the garden gnome. “Let the past be the past,” he said, in a rather gentler tone. “I know how you felt about Harry Clarke.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” I said. “And I know you weren’t exactly friends. But Harry was part of St. Oswald’s, just as much as you or I. Whatever else you thought of him, he still deserves a memorial.”

Devine shrugged. “It can’t be done. Not under the current Head. Or indeed, under any Head—”

I looked at him. “It isn’t right. You know that as well as I do.”