“This is no joke, it’s a tragedy,” I said, and walked out of the Common Room, only to meet Eric Scoones coming in with a garden gnome under his arm.

“Did you put this in my locker?” he said.

I’ve known Eric sixty years, of course, which means that I know every wrinkle and crease. I know when he is lying, when he is feeling insecure, and, most of all, when he is feeling guilty. And guilt was in his face then—as well it might be, given the circumstances. A joke, but all the same, I suspect it gave old Eric a nasty shock, much of the kind that Billy Bones received from Blind Pew at the Admiral Benbow.

I assumed a sphinxlike expression.

“Don’t pretend it wasn’t, Straits. I know it was you. And I’m not amused.”

I turned and gave him my most quizzical stare, the one I reserve for first-form boys trying to persuade me that Rover has eaten their Latin book, or that they are allergic to Prep. “Why would I put a garden gnome in your locker, Eric?” I said.

He stepped back into the corridor and pulled the Common Room door closed. “Because you’re vindictive, that’s why,” he said, sounding almost plaintive now. “Because you’ll never let me forget that awful business with Harry Clarke. Do you think it was easy for me?”

“Easier than for Harry,” I said.

“Harry was an idiot.” The plaintive expression hardened. “Fraternizing with the boys—what did he think would happen, eh? Everyone knows you don’t bring boys home. Especially not when you’re—you know.” His voice, already low, now dropped to a baleful hiss. “No one sane runs that kind of risk. We all know what it leads to. Who knows what really happened? But no schoolmaster worth his salt would have put himself in the firing line.”

The invisible finger plucked at my ribs. I felt myself getting angry. “So you’re just fine with what happened, then? You think Harry deserved it?”

Eric took on a stubborn look. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just think that you should let it go, that’s all. I mean, Harry’s gone now. It’s over. There’s no point in the both of us being tarred by association.”

“No chance of that with you, eh?” My voice was sharp, and Eric flinched. Of course, he knew what I meant by that; he’d left St. Oswald’s for eight years, right after the Nutter affair, to teach at King Henry’s Grammar School, where he’d tried for promotion several times without success, before at last admitting defeat and coming home to St. Oswald’s.