I shrugged. “Long live the King,” I said. “He’s had me in his sights from the start. I suppose I ought to be grateful. I get to choose my final farewell. The hemlock bowl, or the razor blade. Socrates, or Seneca.”

Devine gave an irritated kind of sigh. “Always so dramatic,” he said. “I don’t know why I bother. Look, Straitley,” he went on. “I’ve heard a rumour that Harrington’s been in touch with Survivors.”

“Really?” I said, listlessly.

“Of course, he’s one of the founders, and Blakely’s one of its shining lights. But he thinks that after what happened last year, it might be a good idea to offer some of the boys trauma counseling. And now, with this ridiculous Mulberry girl thing, he thinks there might be what he calls a toxic learning environment—”

“I suppose he means the mice,” I said.

“He does not mean the mice,” snapped Devine. “He means the School. Our department. Blakely’s been delving into our files: the Harry Clarke affair; Fabricant’s book on the Marquis de Sade; even that ridiculous thing with you illustrating the First Declension with merda instead of mensa.”

I was impressed. “You knew about that?”

“Of course I did. Everyone did. The thing is, it was a harmless joke. But now if they’re going to scrutinize every joke, every chance remark for signs of subliminal messages—” He looked at the gnome on the mantelpiece. “It’s bad enough Markowicz badgering me every time he’s been at a workshop. It’s bad enough having to waste my time obsessing about mousetraps, and name tags, and writing out departmental policy documents on things that any half-decent Master would already know how to deal with—”

He paused, and I could see he looked tense. The nose, always an indicator of high emotion, twitched alarmingly.

“But, Sourgrape—I mean, Dr. Devine—I thought you worshiped Markowicz. I thought that angel voices sang, and bluebirds flew wherever he went. I thought he was exactly what the department needed; a new broom, a breath of fresh air.”

Devine made a percussive noise at the back of his throat. “Hck! That may have been—premature.” He glanced at the garden gnome again, then said, with irritation: “I have to say, Straitley, I would have thought you could at least ask me to sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day—”

“I thought you didn’t want to stay,” I began as he handed me his coat.

“And a cup of tea would be nice. Earl Grey, if you have it.”

In all my years, I’d never seen Devine looking so jumpy. I gestured him to a place by the fire and poured him a glass of brandy. He took the glass without comment, and sniffed.

“I’ve been approached,” he said at last. “Regarding my early retirement.”

Ah. The point emerges. “Tempus fugit, non autem memoria,” I said, lighting a Gauloise.