I found him that lunchtime in his room, surrounded by boys, as usual. Harry rarely went in to lunch, but spent the time in his form room, drinking tea and listening to records.

He looked up and smiled as I came in. “Aha! Mr. Straitley! Just in time to resolve a discussion. Status Quo or Procul Harum? As a Latinist, you should know.”

“It’s actually procul harun,” I said. “But I know it’s all Greek to you.” I turned to the little group of boys. “Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt such profound and meaningful study, but I need a word with Mr. Clarke. The status quo can be resumed at a later date.”

The boys accorded my lame joke all the hilarity it deserved. Left alone with Harry, I said: “It’s Harrington. I need your advice.”

“Oh.” Harry looked thoughtful. “How is he?”

I shrugged. “He came to me today with a tale about a friend, and demonic possession.”

Harry grinned. “Possession? Doesn’t surprise me. Harrington Senior’s a tough nut. That holy-roller church of his is Old Testament through and through. Fire and brimstone. Death to the queers. Women in their rightful place. Speaking in tongues; mass hysteria; casting out demons from teenagers using nothing but faith and a Gospel choir. It’s a miracle Johnny’s the way he is.”

“And what way is that?” I said.

He shrugged. “I know you’ve had trouble recently. But Johnny isn’t a bad kid. A bit uptight, perhaps, but sound. Has a good head on his shoulders, in spite of his unfortunate parentage.” Harry opened the desk drawer and brought out a tin of Quality Street. “Here. Have one of these.”

Harry maintained that you could tell a man’s character by the chocolates he chose. I took a strawberry cream; soft-centered under a bitter chocolate coating. He took a purple Brazil nut.

“So what exactly did Johnny say?”

I told him. He ate his chocolate.

“Do you think he was talking about himself?”

“Who else could it be?” I said. “It’s not as if he has dozens of friends. There’s only David Spikely and—”

“Charlie Nutter,” said Harry.

“That’s right. Charlie Nutter,” I said. “Do you know anything I don’t?”

Once more, Harry looked thoughtful. “He used to come here every day,” he said. “Now he barely says hello. I got the feeling that maybe he was going through a rough patch, but he hasn’t said anything.”

“What kind of a rough patch?”

Harry shrugged. “Some boys find it hard to come out. Especially the son of a man like Stephen Nutter, MP. Maybe he came out to Harrington. And maybe Harrington didn’t know how to process the facts, except through his father’s preaching. Some people find it easier to believe in demonic possession than to believe a friend might be gay.”