‘If he’d been given treatment immediately, then yes, almost certainly. However, the likelihood of him being able to call for help in the couple of minutes before falling unconscious were slim. It’s understandable no one found him until next morning.’

Robert paused, feeling a small trickle of relief enter his veins. ‘So, what happens next?’ he asked.

‘Well, we know how he died. The question is, why? His parents have confirmed Charlie knew he was allergic to aspirin; he’d always known.’

‘He must have swallowed the tablets by mistake. There’s no other explanation, is there?’

‘It’s not my job to speculate without the full facts, Headmaster, but there are one or two unanswered questions. And I’m afraid there’s going to be a police investigation.’

Robert felt the blood drain from his face. ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘How will that affect the day-to-day running of the school?’

‘You’ll have to discuss it with the detective in charge.’

‘When will the police come?’

‘Sharpish, I would think. They’ll be in touch with you shortly to make the arrangements. Goodbye now.’

‘Goodbye.’

Robert switched the speakerphone off, feeling dizzy. He took three or four long, deep breaths.

A police investigation . . . He shook his head. It was the worst possible news.

And then it struck him: for the past few days, all he’d been able to think about was the school’s reputation. But if the police were involved, then the coroner must have doubts about Cavendish taking the aspirin by mistake.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Surely they couldn’t think it was murder?

Robert shook his head again. No, it was probably just a formality. In fact, come to think of it, Charlie’s father would have the clout to insist on it. He thought back to the number of times Cavendish had stood in front of his desk, gazing down at him insouciantly as he was reprimanded. It was always the same routine: Robert would remind him that the ancient pastime of using the boys as servants had ended years ago and that he was not to bully them into subservience if they didn’t co-operate. Charlie would accept his punishment, then carry on as if nothing had happened.

Charlie, originally down for Eton, had failed the entrance exam. From the day he’d arrived at St Stephen’s he’d made it clear he considered the school, its headmaster and his fellow pupils beneath him. His arrogance had been breathtaking.

In search of inspiration, Robert stared at the painting of Lord Grenville Dudley, the sixteenth-century founder of the school, then, looking at his watch, realised it was almost lunchtime. He jabbed at the intercom button.

‘Yes, Mr Jones?’

‘Jenny, could you come through, please?’

The comforting form of Jenny Colman appeared through his door a few seconds later. She’d worked at the school for the past thirty years, initially as a dinner lady, then, after a secretarial course, as an admin assistant in the bursar’s office. When Robert had arrived fourteen years ago and found his secretary about to retire, he’d chosen Jenny as her replacement.