“Seven fifteen? He must sleep here.”

Danielle gave me the kind of smile she reserves for boys who have missed their bus, lost their lunch money, or skinned their knees in the playground.

“I know,” she said. “He’s wonderful.”

Oh, gods. Not you too. But I refrained from comment; knowing from past experience that to argue with a School Secretary is as futile as it is dangerous. Instead I went to the Quiet Room to calm my nerves with a cup of tea.

I found Eric at one of the Head’s new workstations, glumly trying to access his e-mails at the computer.

“Bloody Harrington,” I said, filling my mug with tea from the urn. “Who does he think he is, eh? My door’s always open. Yes, as long as you’re here to complain about some poor sap doing his job, but when it comes to a dying man’s last wish—”

Eric looked up from the screen. “You’ve heard about old Harry, then?”

“Yes. And if Harrington—”

He made a hushing gesture. “Please, Straitley. Not so loud.”

“What? You’re taking his side?”

He looked vaguely distressed. “Look, Straitley, it isn’t that. I just think maybe the Chaplain’s right. What good can come of digging things up? Especially now, after all this time.”

“Harry deserves better than this. We owe him that memorial.”

“Now you’re just being stubborn,” he said, still keeping his voice low. “I know how you felt about Harry. But all that was such a long time ago, and we still have a job to do. In medio stat virtus—no? Virtue takes the middle ground. There’s no point in sticking your neck out now. Not for ancient history.”

I should have known. I do know—Eric is no hero. When we were boys, he was always the one who liked to play the percentages, who knew when to fight and when to run, while I always stayed, whatever the odds, whatever the size of the enemy. It has made me the Master I am today—that all-or-nothing mentality, that teaches boys not to mess with Straitley because he’s crazy and never gives up—while Eric, for all his gruffness, has a tenderness inside, a weakness all too evident to boys trained to go for the jugular.

Still, I’d hoped for more loyalty—to Harry, and St. Oswald’s. I’d hoped that, this time, Eric might have chosen courage over self-­interest. I poured another mug of tea and took it back to my form room, once more feeling the imperious digit of my incipient heart condition moving along my rib cage, as if selecting the best place to strike. I tried not to take it personally, but—and not for the first time—Eric had disappointed me.

I found the new cleaner in room 59, watering my spider plants. He looked up as I opened the door.