A message pings through from Blake. You need to come to the assistant principal’s office.

“I’m going to find Blake,” Grace tells them. “It could take a while, you could walk home if you like.”

“Blake’s done something wrong, I expect. We’ll wait.” Izzy sounds bored.

Grace calls Dulwich Hamlet to ask them to tell Charley it might be some time before she picks her up, then she walks quickly down the lane, past the bike rack, and across the forecourt to the school. Mr. Richards hurries across the large hall to shake her hand, a quick, firm clasp. She met him two terms ago to discuss Blake’s dyslexia, he seems older already. A good-looking man, his dark hair going gray, a kind face creased with worry.

“Is Blake okay?”

“Let’s talk in my office.”

The stuffy room is crowded with piles of books and papers, a laden desk occupying half the space. Blake is hunched at a table; he looks smaller in these surroundings, much younger. He’s staring at a pair of pruning shears on the table, medium-sized, with a worn-looking wooden handle and blades neatly curved together. The sharp edges shine in the harsh overhead light. Mr. Richards indicates a seat and she sits down slowly.

“I’ll get straight to the point. Blake is here because a boy—let’s call him Tim—saw these in Blake’s backpack. Tim was going through the bag to borrow a ruler, or so he says. When he saw these he told his mum, and she phoned me. We called Blake in, searched the bag, found the shears. It’s straightforward if disappointing.” He pauses as if to give her a chance to reply, but there is nothing to say, though her heart is thudding with anxiety. There will be a plan or punishment of some kind. Blake’s lips tighten; he’s waiting too.

“Blake told us that he was lent them by a friend of the family, a landscaper for whom he does gardening jobs. Blake apparently used these to prune apple trees; he said he’d put them in his bag to keep safe over the weekend and forgot to take them out before returning to school.” Mr. Richards, to his credit, doesn’t sound skeptical, just tired. It has probably been a long day. Blake can’t have been the only child to cause trouble. “Blake says he had no intention of using these shears for any other reason than to prune trees. I’d like to call his gardener friend to find out if what he says is true.”

Grace gives him Eric’s name and his cell phone number; luckily Eric never answers his phone, he doesn’t need this distraction now. She’ll find him herself, have a quiet word . . .

“Ah, Mr. Kershaw, sorry to trouble you, sir . . .”

Eric has answered after all; perhaps he thought this could be news of Sorrel. Grace pictures his face falling and feels a deep pang of guilt. At the end of the conversation Mr. Richards turns to face them both.