Today, the theft of the Honours Boards was finally announced in the Common Room. I was conscious of Devine watching me as Dr. Blakely made the announcement, calling it a “despicable crime,” and urging us to be vigilant in our search for the culprit. His implication was that someone in School must have been privy to the theft, possibly a pupil, and that the boards would probably turn up in a local lumberyard or garage sale. Alternatively, opined Dr. Blakely, the theft may have been intended as a prank of some kind—here I felt Eric’s eyes on me—in which case, it was likely that they would turn up sooner, rather than later.

Sooner, rather than later, repeated Dr. Blakely, with a sinister emphasis, and once more I felt Eric’s eyes shift—oh, so briefly—toward me. Devine said nothing—in fact, Devine might have been stone—and I found myself feeling grateful for my colleague’s Teutonic composure. Eric could never keep a secret, not even when we were boys, and if I give him the tiniest hint, my crime will be public property before you can say carpe diem. I see that I’m going to have to be very careful around Eric, at least until the Honours Boards are safely hidden somewhere else. It shouldn’t be too difficult. That garden gnome still rankles, and he barely says a word to me.

After morning Break, I was called into the Headmaster’s office. Thing One and Thing Two were both there, as was the Chaplain. Thing One—Dr. Blakely—was looking rather smug, I thought, and the Chaplain slightly put out, which I thought boded ill for me. Ms. Buckfast was sitting by the window, in a linen dress that managed to be at the same time demure and obscurely provocative, her red hair caught into a loose bun. My immediate thought was: This is it; they’ve found me out. But if so, why was the Chaplain there?

“Roy,” said the Head. “We’ve had a complaint.”

For a moment I was back there, in Shitter Shakeshafte’s office, the smell of old leather and cheese as strong as if it were only yesterday. It was a surreal feeling, that of being flung backward in Time, to find myself as an old man summoned before the boy who was.

“Let me guess. Rupert Gunderson.”

“Almost,” said Harrington. His expression was serious, and yet I could see him smiling. “Rupert Gunderson’s girlfriend. Her name is Chanelle Goodman. I believe you’re teaching her Latin group.”