Whenever my Teutonic friend approaches the moral high ground, the judicious use of a Latin phrase can usually be relied upon to bring him back into the fray.

This time he looked up sharply and snapped: “For God’s sake, Straitley, if you think that because I didn’t learn Latin at school I don’t understand every single one of your little bons mots by now, then you’re living in a dreamworld. Someone else can fight the war. Isn’t that right? Well, yes, they can. I’m not going to jeopardize my career for the sake of a man who, for all we know, really did—” He quickly bit off the rest of the phrase. “Well. I can’t sit around here all day. I have Health and Safety reports to look through.” And he made his dignified exit, rather more quickly than usual.

I took another biscuit.

“Looks like you rattled his cage, all right,” said Robbie Roach from across the room. “What was it this time? Lebensraum?”

“A matter of honour,” I told him.

“Really? How quaint,” said Roach, and went back to his Daily Mirror.

Chapter 9

9

September 13, 2005

You can tell as much by a boy’s school bag as by the inside of his locker. Little Johnny Harrington’s was what they called an attaché case, a term that has gone out of vogue since laptop computers have replaced the need to carry such things as paper files.

Twenty-four years later, Dr. Harrington, MBE, still carries the same kind of case: sleek black leather; expensive and with a combination lock to keep the contents secure. An old style for the young Harrington, whose contemporaries of ’81 mostly had sports bags, or battered canvas satchels bought from the School Supplies shop, and one that set him apart from the rest in yet another intangible way.

Now, of course, most of our boys carry messenger bags or backpacks emblazoned with various rock bands, comic-book characters, and computer games. These are against School regulations, but like the rule on School socks, I make no attempt to enforce it. The outside appearance of bags and boys are of far less interest to me than their contents, which is why, when young Allen-Jones came to find me today just as the bell rang for Lunch Break, I ignored the Wonder Woman satchel and went straight for the crux of the problem.

“Anything wrong, Allen-Jones? You’re usually first in the lunch queue.”

He gave the ghost of his usual smile. “I just wanted a word, sir.”

“Latin or English?”

“Both, sir.”

I reached into my top desk drawer and brought out the licorice allsorts. “Allsort?”

“No, thanks.”

“Now I’m getting worried,” I said. “No one ever turns down an allsort except for Dr. Devine, who, as we know, has issues.”

“Okay.” He took a pink one. “Let’s call it preventative action.”

“I think that’s very wise,” I said.