Lucas doubled his scarf round his neck as he set off for his Saturday evening drink with Ralph. Almost overnight, high summer seemed to have lurched into a fierce early autumn, eye-watering winds and temperatures low enough to make your bones ache. Despite two days of total rest, his calf muscle was tighter than ever, and he had a hint of a raw throat too, which he badly wanted to see off before Heidi’s return the following weekend. He would have cancelled Ralph were it not for the Master’s grenade of an email, landing in his inbox that morning, explaining that Moira, despite the best efforts of the Chaplain to persuade her into a conversation between all parties, still ‘did not feel comfortable being in the same space’ as him. Official mediation had therefore been agreed as the ‘way forward’, which meant Ralph getting sucked into the vortex. The Senior Tutor had already been apprised of the situation, the Master had added in her final paragraph, and next steps would be settled on shortly.

Lucas ploughed up the heaps of wet leaves as he walked, trying not to limp because doing so seemed to be causing an ache in the hip on the same side as his poorly calf. One pain seemed to lead to another, he brooded, feeling as if he had become like some kind of sinking ship. But maybe Ralph had some good ideas, he consoled himself, stooping under the low lintel of the entrance to The Swan. Like all senior tutors, the man wielded considerable power within the student and fellowship communities of the college. He was universally liked and had a cool head. Most importantly, he knew and respected Lucas.

It immediately transpired, however, that Ralph, too, had almost cancelled their drink. Not because of a sore throat, but because of his new knowledge about the Moira allegation and the Master’s plans for resolving it. ‘I’m just not sure we should be talking about it,’ he admitted bleakly, when they were still leaning on the bar, having just taken receipt of their pints. ‘Sorry, Lucas, it must be hellish for you, but there is the question of impartiality and so forth.’

‘Impartiality? I am being accused of a heinous crime, Ralph, which I did not commit.’ Lucas, took a long swig of his beer and set the glass down firmly. ‘You’ve seen my statement. That bloody child presented herself that day, wheedling for my attention and help on something I had no desire or qualification to give—’

‘Don’t say that at the mediation session, for Christ’s sake,’ Ralph growled, leading the way to an empty corner table. ‘At least, don’t say wheedling. The power of language…’