The Chaplain gave me a meaningful look. “A word in my office, Straitley,” he said.

I followed him into his sanctum, lined with rugby-team photographs and predatory with orchids. There was a teapot on the desk, from which he helped himself to a cup of his special formula—the Chaplain famously believed that caffeine was harmful to body and soul, and instead swore by an undrinkable blend of something that looked like grass clippings.

“Been hearing about your form,” he said. “Seems they’re a bit of a handful.”

I shrugged. A bit of a handful covers every Middle School form I’ve ever taught. But that year, there were no characters in my form; no exuberant pranksters. Only that feeling of something sly, just below the surface.

“Has anyone complained?” I said. “And if so, why complain to you? Why not go to the form master?”

The Chaplain cleared his throat. I could see he was uncomfortable. “Delicate nature,” he said at last. “Didn’t want it getting out.”

“Ah.” That meant self-abuse, perhaps, or some other sexual problem. The Chaplain, though priding himself on being friendly and approachable, was peculiarly sensitive to what he called problems of a delicate nature, and took them very much to heart—another reason for the boys to avoid confiding in him.

“Fact is,” said the Chaplain, “one of your boys seems to think that a member of staff—a member of St. Oswald’s staff—” He paused to drink his herbal brew, looking increasingly flustered. “I mean, it’s probably nothing. But the boy seems to think he’s promoting a—homosexual agenda.”

Well, there was only one member of staff who might fit that description. And the pupil . . . “Let me guess. Johnny Harrington, perchance?”

“He came to me in confidence,” said the Chaplain admonishingly. “Of course I wouldn’t reveal the name. But if there’s a Master involved in—well, that kind of activity”—he shrugged—“I’d have to inform the Head. And, of course, the Chairman of Governors. Can’t have a Master corrupting the boys. Letting down the School, and all that.”

“Chaplain,” I said firmly. “I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a practical joke. A couple of boys in this year’s 3S specialize in making complaints. You’re not the first to be taken in, but in future, if you could refer the boy in question back to me, we could save time and embarrassment.”

I thought the Chaplain looked relieved. “You think it’s a hoax?”

I nodded.

“Yes, I mean—I thought it was odd. I mean, respected member of staff—” He sighed. “Nothing in it at all, then?”

I thought of Harry; his innocence; his genuine belief that telling the truth was always the best solution. Then I thought of Harrington, and Spikely, the tattletale. I’ve always hated tattletales.

I squared my shoulders and looked the Chaplain firmly in the eye.

“Nothing in it at all,” I said.