I took a licorice allsort and tried not to care about the noise. Discipline within the German Department falls to Devine to enforce. Whatever the provocation, I knew that I could not intervene, not without breaching etiquette. Still, if the new man can’t handle a first-form German class without having to resort to glove puppets and juggling, just think what he’ll be like with my 4S.

As for the two new additions to the French staff—only time will tell, I suspect. Miss Smiley, a wispy blonde, seems to have only Lower School boys, which accounts for her nursery manner in class—I’ve heard her bleating through the wall. Miss Malone is more of a foghorn, better suited to cutting through the riotous Friday afternoons, but I’m beginning to suspect that she may be all noise and no substance. In any case, the Foghorn was ringing out all today from various parts of the Upper Corridor, and by the end of School she seemed all too eager to leave the premises. The fact is that, although our boys are generally sound, they are also unusually spirited. Their values—such as they are—instilled by many years of rebelling against the management, are more on the lines of questioning authority than submitting to the yoke. This is why St. Oswald’s boys go on to achieve so many diverse and impressive things, but to teachers like the Foghorn they do present a challenge. From this afternoon’s performance, I suspect that my 4S have found themselves a new toy.

As for Johnny Harrington—

I never liked him as a boy, and as an adult, even less. But I never imagined that even he could be as callous as to deny Harry Clarke his dying wish—to rest in peace in the place he’d loved most—

The Chaplain had warned me to let it go. To rake up that old business again would only harm St. Oswald’s. I knew that, of course. I knew he was right. And yet I couldn’t take his advice. I couldn’t let Harrington win again. Harry deserved better than that. And so, at the end of School today, I went to see the Headmaster.

I found his office door shut, in spite of his having promised us that it would always be open. Danielle, who forms the first line of defense between the Headmaster and the outside world, looked at me with sympathy.

“He’s in there with Dr. Markowicz,” she said, consulting her diary. “Could you see Dr. Blakely instead? He’s free after School on Thursday.”

I informed her in cogent terms that I had no desire to deal with Thing One.

“In that case, he could do Friday Break,” said Danielle. “Unless it’s really urgent—”

“It is.”

We finally agreed that the Head might see me tomorrow morning. “He comes in very early,” she said. “If you could get here at seven fifteen—”