Sadly, he too liked to arrive in School at seven thirty, and would sit at his desk, drink a single cup of black coffee (using the School china, of course), and mark books until the boys came in. That late-October morning, however, I found him with his back to me, standing on the lid of his desk, holding a garden gnome in one hand and looking both furtive and furious.

He turned, startled, as I came in. “Straitley!”

“Oh. Hello,” I said.

He looked at me with annoyance. Dr. Devine as a young man looked much the same as he does now—the eyes a little brighter, perhaps; the nose a little more sensitive. We had disliked each other on sight, with the instinctive recognition of two antagonistic species. Everything in his form room was the antithesis of my own: the neatness of his bookshelves; the gown that hung on a clothes hanger behind the door; the pristine blackboard, wiped with a sponge rather than a messy board-rubber; the posters of famous Germans neatly pinned to the bulletin boards.

In such Teutonic surroundings, I was surprised to see the gnome. One of those painted plaster affairs, wearing a dissipated grin and what looked like an Amadeus House tie. Dr. Devine climbed down from the desk and put the gnome in his briefcase.

“It isn’t mine, of course,” he said. He sounded annoyed at having to explain. “I found it there this morning.” He spoke in a sharp, percussive tone, like a talking typewriter. “In fact, I’ve been finding it around every day for the past two weeks. It’s someone’s silly idea of a joke. And when I find out who’s been doing it—”

I grinned. I couldn’t help it.

“Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he said. “Because clearly you have no idea how disruptive it can be, when you’re trying to teach a class, to open a cupboard, or to pull out a dictionary from a shelf, or to look inside a desk drawer and see that thing grinning out at you. Today it was balanced above the door. It could have caused an injury.”

I bit my lip. “Of course,” I said. “But—couldn’t you just throw it away?”

“You think I haven’t tried that?” said Devine impatiently. “Whoever it is keeps retrieving it. Last week I found it outside my door—on my doorstep, Straitley—holding a German sausage. Someone actually came to my house. This has gone beyond a joke. And when I find out who’s doing it . . .”

I schooled my countenance to reflect nothing but solemnity. “Quite right.” I stifled a cough. “Er, have you discovered a motive?”

Devine looked affronted. “A motive?”