Devine gave his percussive sniff. “I thought you’d cut up over those Honours Boards. But face it, we’ve been stuck in the past. The page has turned. And I, for one, am far from ready for the scrap heap just yet.”

Rather a speech for old Devine, whose nose had gone quite pink again. I found myself feeling almost sorry for him—at sixty, he is far too old for the post of Second Master, although, with typical arrogance, he has never considered this. The Crisis Team, as well he knows, is only a temporary measure. Once Harrington has established his rule, the deputies will be sent elsewhere. Which is when old Devine believes his chance for high office will emerge—a chance that has eluded him repeatedly over the years, like a glimmer of gold at the end of a cruel, fleeting rainbow.

“If you think the New Head will give you a sniff at any kind of promotion,” I said, “then you’re just as deluded as Bob Strange. He’ll be looking for a younger man, someone he can pull from the ranks and fast-track with courses and IT. Someone like your new man—what did you say his name was again?”

“Markowicz,” said Dr. Devine.

The topic of the new man is rather a sore spot for Devine. Appointed by the doctor himself, he comes so well recommended that he has not seen fit to appear as yet, leaving Devine to cover for him.

“Of course, if you think that toadying will earn you a place at the Headmaster’s side, feel free to get in line,” I said. “But the fact is, you, like the rest of us, come with too much baggage.”

That was putting it bluntly indeed—more bluntly, perhaps, than kindness allowed—but I was still feeling the outrage of those Honours Boards pulled from the walls, like the stripes from the faded uniforms of soldiers deserting in battle, and the prospect of our School fields being sold to pay for new IT facilities had filled me with a newly militant spirit.

Dr. Devine did not reply, but the nose was pinkly eloquent. Instead he poured a cup of tea—he still uses the School’s own china, disdaining those domestic mugs that most of our staff bring from home, reflecting their personalities—rambling roses for Kitty Teague; Homer Simpson for Robbie Roach; Padre Pio for the Chaplain; and Princess Diana for Eric Scoones. No, Dr. Devine’s tea remains steadfastly corporate, balanced on a saucer too narrow to hold a biscuit. This time, it wobbled a little, as if his hand were not quite steady.

I said: “It’s Johnny Harrington. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“That was twenty-four years ago,” said Devine, avoiding my eye.

“No one changes that much. Look at you. Look at me.”

“I wasn’t involved,” he said.

“Bella gerant alii.”