In short, I have a Special Little Friend to accompany me wherever I go. Two Special Little Friends, in fact: Ms. Buckfast and Dr. Blakely now take turns to shadow me, much as Harry’s Laughing Gnome shadowed the narrator of that jaunty little song. Once more, I suspect that Harrington is trying to put pressure on me to drink the hemlock. He’ll have to do better than that if he means to dislodge this old barnacle from the deck. Still, it’s going to be hard to keep a sunny disposition.

Ten days have passed since the hearing. Meanwhile, Kitty Teague is being disappointingly correct. She has made no comment so far on the Allen-Jones/Gunderson affair, but goes over the departmental paperwork every day with Thing One (or Thing Two, whichever of them happens to be on duty at the time). So far, however, I have given them no further cause for complaint. My teaching of Aeneid IX proceeds as efficiently as usual. My lessons are marvels of blandness. My Brodie Boys have noticed this, but their efforts to liven up the show have been met with a stony reception.

La Buckfast watches developments with a look of distant irony, like a Vestal Virgin at a Bacchanalia, while Dr. Blakely adopts the look of a rabbit in the headlights, as if afraid that I will involve him in any form of teaching; a prospect that clearly fills him with dread. Next door, in Dr. Devine’s room, Markowicz is present, if not entirely functional. The department is eerily silent, but for the occasional cry of the Foghorn from the Middle Corridor. Even the mice have gone to ground. Of course I know it cannot last. This is the calm before the storm.

Today it was Ms. Buckfast’s turn to perform the Honours. I introduced her to my form as a Special Visitor; which works all right with the younger boys, but cuts no ice with the likes of Sutcliff, Allen-Jones, and McNair.

“Are you taking trainees, sir?” asked McNair at lunchtime. “It’s just that we couldn’t help noticing the elephant at the back of the room.”

I raised a quelling eyebrow. “Ms. Buckfast has expressed a desire to improve her Latin,” I said. “And, though not petite, by any means, Ms. Buckfast is hardly an elephant.”

Allen-Jones, still on report himself, gave me a long and measuring look.

“How’s Rupert Gunderson?”

Allen-Jones shrugged. “I’m keeping away.”

“Probably for the best,” I said. “But if he moves in, please tell me.”