But Eric was less outspoken. After nearly a decade of trying for promotion, he had become very sensitive to anything that might damage him. He never talked about politics; never discussed School policy; never mentioned his private life unless he was completely sure which side of the fence to alight on. And now a colleague was under arrest—and I could already see him trying to shift his position.

“Well, there was that Nutter thing,” he said.

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing. But after what happened, I always thought that maybe there was something more to that business than we were told at the time.”

“Ridiculous,” I told him. “This is a storm in a teacup.”

But as the news filtered down to us—as always, from the boys themselves—it became clear that, whatever it was, the affair was not something that would simply blow away. Over the next few days we learned that Harry had been questioned, following an accusation of sexual assault on a boy. The police had opened a hotline, urging pupils to contact them with any information. Harry’s house had been searched, and evidence had been removed, and a young man had been staying there—a young man not unconnected with the investigation. Finally, we heard the news: Harry had been formally charged.

There was still no information on the alleged victim. No one at St. Oswald’s knew, not even Jeffreys, the son of the Chairman of Governors, whose intimate knowledge of everything behind the scenes at St. Oswald’s made him a valuable asset to any Master. As it happened, he was in Harry’s form—and in my Middle School Latin class.

“What kind of evidence?” I said.

Jeffreys shrugged. “Books and photographs and stuff.”

“And who’s making these allegations?”

The boy shook his head. “No one in School. An ex-pupil.”

But who? The School declined to comment, although speculation ran rife. Could we have misjudged one of our own? What kind of evidence could the police possibly have uncovered? More importantly, who was the boy behind these allegations?

Some boys leave School like rats leaving the hold of a sinking ship. Some leave like kings; some leave in tears; some waving their shirts like victory flags. And some boys lodge in the throat like a bone, almost forgotten, but still a source of barely perceived discomfort.

Harrington. It had to be. I could feel it in my gut. Harrington, who had first come to me with his tale of possession; Harrington, whose complacency in the face of any sort of criticism made him completely immune to self-doubt; Harrington, whose Church believed that homosexuality was a demon. And now that those demons were flying again, who else could be responsible?