“Bob explained,” Devine went on. “He said it was because of last year. Said having cameras in School might have averted a tragedy. Told me if I let people know, I might be in breach of contract. The bastard. As if I would—”

I was impressed. In thirty-four years, I have never heard Dr. Devine refer to a senior colleague in such unbridled terms. I thought back to the first day of term, and the altercation I’d overheard between them. Roy Straitley knows—

Roy Straitley knows what? Knows what he owes to St. Oswald’s? Knows how the management has failed in its duty toward the staff? Knows how the likes of Bob Strange will always manage to serve themselves?

“What I’m saying is,” said Devine, “you’ve been keeping tabs on the Head. And if there is a rebellion, I want to be part of it.”

I have to say, I was impressed. In all my years at St. Oswald’s, I’d never seen Devine like this. It occurred to me that for thirty-four years I actually might have misjudged the man, and for a moment I almost considered filling him in on Winter’s research. Then I remembered his lack of support, both for Harry, during the trial, and now, for poor, grieving Eric, and decided I was better alone. Besides, I thought, I had nothing to lose. Dr. Devine still had a career. And what was the point in risking that, on a simple intuition?

“Dr. Devine. I have to go,” I said, reaching for my coat. Ten minutes’ walk along the canal—ten minutes’ run—and I could be there in time.

The tumblers were falling faster now. Harry’s letter to Eric. Gloria’s denial of ever having seen it—even with the promise of a significant reward. Winter’s mysterious double life. Harrington’s expression when I saw him in the Scholar. And Eric saying: How well do we really know our friends? How do we know what they’re hiding?

“You’re not going there alone,” said Devine. “Not after what happened last year.”

I shrugged. I suppose he had a point—last year’s Bonfire Night brought not only gunpowder, treason, and plot, but also the murder of Colin Knight, a near-fatal stabbing, and, of course, that ill-timed heart attack, smugly described by my doctor as “your body’s last warning to lay off the pies, the pasties, the cheese, and the Gauloises.”

I said: “Oh, lightning never strikes in the same place twice, Devine.”

He huffed. “Statistically incorrect. In fact, this kind of lightning is likely to strike whenever a silly old fool sticks his neck out above the parapet.”