I took it out and stood it on the desk.

“New supply teacher, sir?” said Allen-Jones.

“No. Just a reminder,” I said. “A gnome is where the heart is.”

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

St. Oswald’s Grammar School

Michaelmas Term, November 12, 2005

The Chapel of St. Oswald’s dates back to the sixteenth century. It is a listed building, much to the dismay of the Bursar, a Protestant, who sees its maintenance and repair as an unnecessary extravagance in these times of renewed austerity. I rather like it, however: its small stained-glass windows; its buttery stone; its old oak pews, pitted and scarred by generations of scholars carving their names in secret, in the shadows.

That reminds me. I must see to reinstating those Honours Boards. Maybe somewhere less public than the Middle Corridor, but they belong to St. Oswald’s just as surely as I do. Maybe here in the Chapel itself, next to the war memorial, with the names of our dead boys painted in gold down the panels. Perhaps I’ll talk to the Chaplain, when all of this has settled down.

Tonight, however, the Chaplain has one last duty to perform. Not as publicly as I’d hoped, but I know Harry would understand. Jimmy Watt was my partner-in-crime; he has access to ladders as well as a full set of School keys, and Jimmy has always been helpful to those who treat him kindly. It’s easy enough to open the Chapel after dark on a Saturday night; tomorrow I shall take him for a thank-you drink and a bite to eat at the Scholar. Even Bob Strange’s cameras have been turned off for the evening—I told you the ancillary staff was secretly in charge of the place.

We held Harry’s memorial by candlelight in the Chapel. It wasn’t a large gathering. Eric Scoones; the Chaplain; myself; and, surprisingly, Dr. Devine, his nose twitching with heightened emotion. I spoke a few words. We sang a hymn. And then we played the record that Harry had asked the Chaplain to play—Devine gave an audible sigh as he recognized “The Laughing Gnome,” but there was an odd look on his face, which might have been a tiny smile.

We scattered Harry’s ashes on the rose bed by the Quad; a place with a view of St. Oswald’s and plenty of sunshine in winter. Then we shared the claret that Eric had brought for my birthday, and drank a toast to absent friends—more and more of them nowadays—using the Chaplain’s silverware.

“Well, this was nice,” said Dr. Devine in a slightly mocking tone. “But really, Roy, we have to move on. We can’t keep living in the past.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I told him. “The past feels very comfortable. It’s a favorite armchair, molded to fit my dimensions. I’m getting too old and fat for ergonomic furniture.”

“I hear you’ve decided against retirement?”

I nodded.