She gave her Mona Lisa smile. “We parted on more amicable terms than I would have expected,” she said. “Perhaps, if he ever comes back, there’ll be a job for him after all.”

I said: “Really? I would have thought that with your history—”

For the first time, the smile reached her eyes. It made her look suddenly beautiful.

“History,” said La Buckfast, “is nothing but the story of whichever side kept the best accounts. The victors write the history books. The victors paper over the truth. The early history of Europe exists almost exclusively from the perspective of the Romans. But imagine if Bou­dicca had had a Livy or a Plutarch on her side.”

She saw my puzzled expression and laughed. “Oh, Mr. Straitley,” she said. “If you’re going to be here at all, at least sit down and have some tea.” She poured me a mug—that’s right, a mug. I noticed the Headmaster’s china set was on the top shelf of the bookcase, where Dr. Shakeshafte had once kept his collection of signed rugby photographs.

“Any more news of the Head?” I inquired as I drank my tea. It was surprisingly good, I thought; just strong and sweet enough to stick to the ribs.

“Not much, so far,” said La Buckfast. “I’m putting together a strategy. We’ve made so much progress already this term. Pity to lose momentum. Still, Bob Strange is being very helpful. I think there may be a permanent job for him somewhere on the Crisis Team.”

I said: “You seem very calm about all this. I thought you and Harrington were close.”

She looked at me serenely. “Johnny keeps his enemies close,” she said. “Besides, I’m very good at my job—which is, of course, to make Johnny look good.”

“And now?”

“I’ll continue to do so,” she said. “Johnny will get disability pay, and probably a settlement too—and then, who knows? An adviser’s job in London, perhaps. Something not too stressful.”

“You don’t think he’ll come back, then?”

She shrugged. “We’ll manage without him. Besides, it’ll give him more time with Liz. You know they couldn’t have children? Liz was devastated at first. Tried all kinds of treatments. But nothing worked. So now she’s a family counselor, helping childless couples come to terms with their situation.”

She smiled again and sipped her tea. Her mug, I noticed, was one of those you can have made at the print shop: a photograph of a smiling infant, with the caption WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA.

She saw me looking. “My grandson,” she said. “Amos. He turned three in July.”

“I didn’t know you had children,” I said. “You must have had them very young.”

“My daughter was born when I was sixteen. Her father was even younger.”