And yet, Winter’s suspicions, however unlikely they may be, have reawakened my sense of revolt. The hemlock bowl, so inviting only a couple of days ago, can now no longer be considered. At least, not until my current duties have been suitably discharged. Charlie Nutter deserves the truth. Harry Clarke deserves justice. St. Oswald’s deserves a Headmaster who will not dismantle it piece by piece to further his ambition. And my boys deserve something more than lessons stripped of all character. No, I cannot afford to flinch, or take the easy option. Whatever Winter tells me tonight, that door is closed forever.

I went into St. Oswald’s today feeling somewhat the worse for wear. Too many sleepless nights, perhaps; too many glasses of brandy. As a result, although I’d taken greater care than usual over my appearance, I sensed an odd atmosphere this morning in the Common Room. A rather too solicitous greeting from the Chaplain. A pitying smile from Kitty Teague, in the corner with Penny Nation. Could the grapevine have already spread news of my impending retirement? Or is it something more sinister?

Dr. Devine was pretending to ignore me, but the nose expressed disapproval. I have to say, I’m still surprised at Devine’s sudden volte-face vis-à-vis the management. Were it not for my Brodie Boys, I think I’d enjoy his collusion in a potential mutiny. But for the sake of Allen-Jones, Benedicta Wild, and the rest, I suppose I must keep my thoughts to myself. Eric too was watching me from his chair in the corner. Thinking that this might be an attempt at reconciliation (he still hasn’t spoken a word to me since the thing with the garden gnome), I poured myself a cup of tea and came to sit beside him.

“All right, old man?” I said affably.

To be honest, I’ve missed him. He’s often rather difficult, but I’ve known him sixty years. Most marriages don’t last as long. That ought to count for something.

Eric gave me a sideways look. I noticed he didn’t look too well. Perhaps there’s something going round. Or maybe he has missed me too.

I passed him the biscuits. He took one. Harry’s method of judging personality according to one’s choice of sweets also applies to biscuits, I’ve found; in this case, Eric’s choice (a plain digestive) revealed his essential fragility. Eric’s stomach, like Devine’s nose, tends to reflect his state of mind; and when he is upset, it tends to adopt a position of sympathy.

“I heard you were taking the hemlock,” he said, between two careful mouthfuls of tea.

“Who told you that?”

Eric shrugged. Of course, it could have been anyone. But Dr. Devine is high on my list. That, or maybe La Buckfast—unless he has been talking to the boys. “Well, your informant is premature,” I said. “I still haven’t decided.”