“I don’t! And even if I did—” He stopped. That legendary self-­control was on the verge of breaking. I am not fooled by his chilly facade. I know Dr. Devine as well as anybody knows him. He is driven by ambition, not love. The gods of progress have claimed him, of course, but his heart is as sound as the Bell Tower. When that business erupted last year, I saw his confidence falter. I know how close he came that term to breaking down completely. We all have our comforts, our touchstones. Mine is tradition—the Honours Boards, the photographs, the scent of books and chalk dust. His are somewhat different: Health and Safety; e-mail; Information Technology. He thinks that if he stays abreast of all the current developments, then he will never have to grow old, retire, or claim his pension.

Though it annoys me, I understand. Both of us share the unspoken fear of a life beyond St. Oswald’s; a life without the discipline of lesson bells or timetables; no Quiet Room; no marking; no Prep; no weekends or holidays. St. Oswald’s Masters do not live long past retirement. Captivity sustains us; too much freedom eats us alive. Devine has no more love for Johnny Harrington than I, and yet he will follow him to the grave, not from loyalty, but fear.

I said: “I think you’ll change your mind once you’ve given the matter some thought. And beware the Ides of Markowicz. I’ve heard the omens are terrible.”

And, tucking the garden gnome under my arm, I went back into room 59, to my little empire, my Brodie Boys, and the comfortable scent of chalk, old books, damp socks, wood polish, and mice.

I kept the gnome in my briefcase. Devine hasn’t heard the last of this. Harry left that gnome to me with the instruction to use it well. Though, short of bludgeoning him to death with it, just how I can bring down Harrington with nothing but ire and a garden gnome, I have no idea for the present. Maybe time will tell. But I will see it done—for my friend; for St. Oswald’s; for myself. Even perhaps for Devine—and for Eric, who has tried his best to forget what happened all those years ago.

Poor Eric. I’m fond of him, and yet I sometimes wish he were stronger. Loyalty was never his strong suit, neither to me nor to Harry. And when we were boys at St. Oswald’s, always getting into scrapes, it was always Scoones who broke under interrogation; who gave up his friends to save himself; who claimed not to have been there.