He must have taken the main road. In any case, I never saw him. And frankly, seeing him standing there like Horatio on the bridge, I almost doubted my sanity. Thirty-four years a Master, and I thought that I was beyond surprise. As it happens, that was because I had never before witnessed Devine in this new, swashbuckling role, brandishing a blunderbuss, or whatever it was that he had concealed behind his St. Oswald’s muffler—

“Devinus, ex machina?” I said.

Dr. Devine gave me one of his looks. “This is no time for humor, Straitley,” he said, with the look of a man exercising tremendous restraint. “Now, Mr. Spikely, put that down, and let’s discuss this reasonably.”

Winter had got to his feet during Devine’s intervention. Now he stood, looking watchful, as Spikely put down the bat. Harrington was moving; I felt an unexpected relief. That too surprised me: I had not thought it in me to care as fervently about his well-being.

“Harrington needs help,” I said. “We need to get to the hospital.”

Spikely gave a dry laugh. “I thought you hated Harrington.”

“He was one of my boys,” I said. “As are you, Mr. Spikely. Now give me Harry’s letter, and we can go our separate ways.”

9:16

One of my boys. I had to laugh. “You’re not in loco parentis. Your authority over me ended in 1982.”

Mr. Straitley shook his head. “Nothing ended. You’re dragging it still. Whatever this is, you can’t fight it. It comes from a place inside you, which means that wherever you go, it goes too. Horace said it best of all—”

“Caelum non animum mutant, qui trans mare currant. They change the sky, not their souls, that run across the ocean.”

Straitley raised an eyebrow. “It’s currunt, Spikely, not currant. Currant is what you’re likely to find in a slice of Christmas cake.”

I had to smile. He hasn’t changed. Oddly enough, his silly joke didn’t annoy me as much as it might have done when I was a boy.

On the other side of the bridge, Dr. Devine was blocking my way. His arrival had startled me, but now I could see that what I’d taken to be some kind of firearm was just a blunt object, wrapped in a scarf, in the tradition of boys everywhere trying to look like gangsters.

I said: “I never liked you, sir.”

“I know,” said Mr. Straitley. “Now give me Harry’s letter.”

I shrugged and handed it over. Straitley glanced down at the envelope. For a moment I saw his expression; his sudden look of blank surprise, as if he’d been expecting to see someone else’s writing.

It was time to go, I thought. Johnny may not die, of course. But even if he doesn’t, I am no longer safe in Malbry. One witness I could have dealt with. But three, including Winter . . .