“Listen,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He looked surprised. “Sorry for what?”

“We should have talked about Harry,” I said. “I should have told you everything. But I suppose I thought I owed it to Harry to keep the details to myself, especially after what happened. But Harry’s gone, and St. Oswald’s—well, St. Oswald’s badly needs a friend.”

Winter put down his brandy glass and handed me the folder. “I’m guessing you’ve seen most of this,” he said. “But it looks to me like St. Oswald’s has a funny way of treating its friends.”

I opened the folder. Inside, there were some dozen or so sheets of paper—reproductions of newspaper clippings from the time; drawings from the trial; pictures of Harry, looking confused, and of Nutter, lost and distraught. There were even pictures of me, looking unkempt and defiant.

Old Boys’ Club, said the headline. Did This Man Cover for Clarke? Then there were pictures of Harrington, not a hair or a crease out of place. Then, almost an afterthought, right at the bottom, was Spikely.

Looking back at those pictures now, I see why the press was so quick to believe him. Something had happened to Spikely. Something dreadful and lasting. The grinning little boy had grown into a bloated, pale young man who might have been thirty, or thirty-five, instead of barely twenty-one. His hair, always fine, was almost gone; his face was like uncooked pastry. And his eyes were smoky; wild; staring at some distant point on a lost horizon. What happened, on that island of time, half forgotten in the mists? What hidden rage and resentment could have transformed that bland little boy into an avenger?

David Spikely, the tattletale. No one remembered him clearly. A boy who’d stayed less than a year in the School; undistinguished in every way; an average student, with average grades and a less-than-average personality. No misdemeanors; no incidents; no detentions; no House Points. He had been close to Harry, though—in fact, he was the reason we had originally coined the acronym SLF—Special Little Friend—to describe the soulful, adoring way the boy lay in wait for Harry at Break or, more often, at lunchtime, bringing him a cup of tea when he was on duty; watering his plants and tidying his classroom.

It wasn’t really surprising. Harry had many followers. Most schoolmasters, even the least prepossessing, have the occasional SLF, but Harry had had an army of them, trained to collect his books, deliver mail, pick up litter on the Upper Corridor, and report on the outrages of the ever-critical Dr. Devine. He never showed any favoritism, although he had his favorites. Spikely was not among them, however. In fact, I remembered Harry telling me, in that humorous way he had, how David Spikely had followed him all around St. Oswald’s like the Laughing Gnome in the song, grinning beatifically.