Frankly, I was a little hurt. After all, we’d been friends all this time, and I’d never revealed his secret. You’d have thought that might count for something, but apparently not to him. Fact is, he was uncomfortable being alone in my house with me.

“Okay. We’ll go to a neutral place. A nice pub in the Village. Somewhere we can both feel safe. I’ll tell Johnny to join us there as soon as he’s done at St. Oswald’s.”

Actually, Mousey, that suited me better anyway. I don’t often go to pubs, as a rule. That meant I wouldn’t be recognized. And even if I were, I thought, what could be more natural than to meet an old friend for a quiet drink?

Then I phoned St. Oswald’s, and asked for the Headmaster. Instead, I got Ms. Buckfast.

“David, how nice to hear from you.”

“I hoped I could talk to Johnny.”

She laughed. “You are persistent, David. Johnny isn’t available. But I’ll take a message, if you like. Is this about Charlie?”

“He’s with me right now. We’re off to the Scholar for a drink.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, I’m afraid Johnny’s going to be working late. But if he can make it, I’m sure he will.”

So Poodle and I headed out toward the Thirsty Scholar. I didn’t need to do much. We talked. We drank (he more than I). I paid. I knew he wouldn’t turn down a free drink. Every hour I checked my phone and said: “He should be here soon.”

But Poodle was growing impatient. “Why isn’t he here?” he kept saying.

“Don’t worry. I think I know.” I explained about Becky Price, Goldie’s girl from the old days. “She’s on his Management Team,” I said. “And she said he was working late.”

Poodle’s face broke into a smile. “The old dog,” he said. “Becky Price? You sure?”

“I’ve seen her,” I told him. “We talked about Harry’s memorial. She’s going to help us set things up. She’s like his deputy or something.”

After that, Poodle seemed to relax. Somehow, the mention of Becky Price had convinced him I was serious. He babbled on happily for a while about Harry and the memorial; what hymns they’d chosen; what poetry. Then, at half-past ten, I said: “Let me walk you home, eh? You never know who’s about these days.”

By then he was drunk. Not senseless, but reeling in the cold air. “We’ll walk through the park,” I told him. “Let you get your breath back.”

Halfway through the park he was sick. I held his head as he vomited. He seemed more lively after that, talking about the memorial again.

“You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?”