“Tempus be damned,” said Devine. “I’m only sixty. I’m in my prime!” He took a rather fraught sip of his brandy. “They’ve spoken to Eric Scoones as well. Apparently, the department needs to be downsized. Downsized! With Markowicz absent half the time, and that Malone woman having hysterics everywhere—” He drank some more brandy. “He’s got to go.”

“Who? Markowicz?”

“No, Straitley. The Head.”

I looked at the man with renewed respect. I had no idea old Devine was such a revolutionary. And for the first time in thirty-four years, I found myself in total agreement with him.

I said: “The thought had crossed my mind. But the man’s untouchable.”

Devine looked morose. “I know. He’s perfect. Even my wife thinks so.” He had the grace to look abashed. “Invited us over for drinks one day. She hasn’t stopped talking about it since.”

“I see.” I tried not to smile. Mrs. Devine is a lady of firm and frank opinions, one of which is a long-held desire to see Devine take early retirement, and accompany her on a world cruise before they’re too old to enjoy it. From what I know of Devine, a world cruise is more or less the definition of l’enfer, c’est les autres. He sees retirement looming with all the unbridled joy of the captain of the Titanic first catching sight of the iceberg.

“In any case, Roy,” he said, downing the last of the brandy, “it goes without saying I’m on your side. What can I do?”

I have to say, I didn’t know. But the thought that Devine could take my side—Devine, of all people—

“It’s too late,” I told him. “I’ve tried. And anyway, my Brodie Boys—” I told him about Allen-Jones, and La Buckfast’s ultimatum.

Devine’s nose went a telltale pink. “So you’re giving up?” he said.

“I can’t see an alternative. If I don’t, they’ll expel Allen-Jones, and maybe the other boys as well.”

Dr. Devine gave a sniff. “So much for your antiestablishment stance. You talk about rebellion, but the moment it comes to a fight, you fold. Typical Classics response.”

He stood up, rather shakily, and took his coat from the peg by the door.

“Thank you for the brandy,” he said. “But I prefer the kind of courage that doesn’t come from a bottle.”

He left, with something approaching a flounce. At a different time, I might have found some comedy in the situation. Devine, taking my side against the higher management. The Suit lying down with the Tweed Jacket. O tempora! O mores!

• • •