Dr. Blakely recoiled a little. “I sent you an e-mail,” he began.

Briefly but pungently, I expressed what I thought of his e-mail. “We have a pastoral system,” I said. “The form master is the first port of call. And if one of my boys misbehaves—which, in this case, I question—then I expect to be informed in person, not by a program on a machine.”

Markowicz gave me a look. Close up, his resemblance to Devine is not as marked as I’d previously thought. Devine, for all his faults, remains a Suit, not a Jackass.

“The boys were wearing nail polish,” he said. “I asked them to take it off. They refused. After that I had no choice but to refer them to Dr. Blakely.”

I shook my head, pained by his ignorance. “And what did you expect?” I said. “You allowed a group of fourth-form boys to draw you into a ridiculous—and public—confrontation. It’s the classic beginner’s mistake. Trainees do it all the time.”

The Head gave an admonishing cough. “I think there’s more to it than that,” he said. “I’m looking into the incident. Besides, as you already know, I believe there’s something unwholesome about Allen-Jones’s influence over the boys in your form. Perhaps this needs a different approach. After what happened with Gunderson—”

“Gunderson’s a bully,” I said.

“That’s not what the Chaplain says.” He smiled, and once again I saw a glimpse of that troubling, dangerous charm. “Listen, Roy, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shall be looking into this myself, and I promise I’ll keep you informed throughout. In person, not by e-mail.”

Oh yes, he sounded reasonable. But all my instincts told me that I was being sidelined, maneuvered, cajoled into acquiescence. Little Johnny Harrington was always used to getting his way, and he still knows how to manipulate people into doing exactly what he wants. I can understand his trying to get back at me—a Master he’d never liked as a boy, and who will never accept him. But what does he want with Allen-Jones, a bright, articulate student—perhaps a little impertinent, but certainly no troublemaker? What does Harrington think to achieve by targeting my Brodie Boys?

It annoyed me—perhaps more than it should. Or perhaps I was still feeling nervous about the theft of those Honours Boards. At the end of afternoon school I marked some books, had my tea in the Common Room, then went in search of Winter, my partner-in-crime of the other night, hoping for reassurance.

But Winter was talking to Jimmy Watt outside the School furnace room, where Jimmy spent most of his time in cold weather. I wondered what they were talking about. Jimmy must have noticed the theft of the Honours Boards by now. Did he suspect my accomplice? Or did he suspect me?