“But that’s what you mean,” I told her. “That’s why you’ve been shadowing me, studying my methods. I’m an old part that doesn’t fit. And I’m a bad influence on the boys.”

If I’d thought to disarm her with my candor, I was wrong. She simply smiled again and said: “Oh, Roy. You’re so funny. And I’ve genuinely enjoyed our little classroom sessions. But it’s time to bring this to an end before it gets ugly—for you, and for your pupils. Don’t you agree?”

I took a deep breath. “Are you asking me to leave?”

“Not to leave, Roy, but to retire,” said La Buckfast gently. “You’ve given such loyal service. But now you’re a thorn in the Headmaster’s side—no, don’t deny it. You know it’s true. Everything he’s tried to do, you’ve tried to undermine it. The Mulberry girls; Benedicta Wild; that silly garden gnome; plus banging on to all and sundry about Harry Clarke—and then, of course, there’s the Honours Boards—”

I looked at her. “You know about that?”

“Of course,” said La Buckfast. “We’ve known all along. Do you think anyone’s on your side? Do you believe any secret can be kept for long in a place like St. Oswald’s?”

It must have been Winter, I realized. Only he knew about the Honours Boards. Winter, whose intervention had seemed so wonderfully well timed; whose knowledge of the Internet had seemed so providential. Could this have been a setup? A trap? Was I their target from the first?

I felt the old, familiar stab of the invisible finger, and sat down heavily on my chair. What a fool I’d been, I thought. What else did La Buckfast know? What had she told Johnny Harrington?

La Buckfast patted my shoulder. “I think you’ve been overdoing it, Roy,” she said. “You’re looking tired and not very well. Why don’t I get you a coffee from the Headmaster’s office?”

I shook my head. “The hemlock bowl.”

“Nothing so dramatic, Roy. Retirement. By the end of this term. You could claim ill health, perhaps; no mention of anything untoward; no scandal, no unpleasantness. You’ll have a nice pension, a holiday, even a farewell party. And maybe Allen-Jones and those other disciples of yours will get another chance to settle down properly at St. Oswald’s, instead of following you over the cliff. Are you sure you won’t have a coffee? It’s good. It’s the Headmaster’s personal blend.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I like the Headmaster’s blend. Dishonesty with cowardice always turns the stomach.”

She gave me a look of reproach. “Oh, Roy. All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Antigone?”