“That sounds nice,” I told him, knowing that I never would. Dementia runs in families. Perhaps that’s why I stayed here so long. An active mind dispels the fog, and I’m glad to say that my memory—in spite of certain incidents of standard absentmindedness—is as good now as it ever was. But now that I look at him closely, I see a change in Eric. Those moods of his; the rages. The unexpected profanity. Does he sense it approaching? I thought. Is that why he wants to retire?

He gave me a smile; a shade too bright. “You ought to think of retiring yourself. See the world before it’s too late.”

I shrugged and put out my cigarette. “Why bother?” I said. “It’s all here.”

We sat for a while in silence; he watching the dawn from the window. I could tell he wanted to ask what Spikely had told me on Friday night. For a moment I thought of telling him. Then I decided against it. After all, what do I know? That business ended years ago. And maybe Winter was right after all—there are things we need not know, even though we may feel them. A man may be good in so many ways, and still carry darkness inside him. Eric is no exception. Nor was Harry—nor am I.

And so we went down to the Common Room, for a look at the morning’s papers and a leisurely cup of tea. The place was already buzzing with news, and rumour, and speculation. I braced myself for a barrage of questions, to which I had only vague answers.

“Any news of the Head yet? I hear he’s out of surgery.”

“Is it true you saw the attack?”

“Any idea of when he’ll be back?”

Well, a head injury is never predictable; for a while, it was touch and go. Bob Strange is delighted; he gets to be Second Master while Ms. Buckfast covers for the Head.

Spikely has not resurfaced, as yet. Harrington remains unclear about what happened on the bridge, and without details of a motive, the police seem disinclined to act. I can see their point, of course. After such a long time, how could I be completely sure that the attacker was Spikely at all? Devine, who recognized him, did not actually see the attack, and so his role as a witness seems rather less than critical—much to Devine’s annoyance, who sees himself as a memory machine of limpid, Teutonic efficiency.