‘ ’Ave a good summer?’

‘Bit boring. Uncle James was ill a lot of the time. Glad to be back.’

‘You ought t’ave spent it serving in my dad’s shop. Then you’d know wot boring is.’

Another face appeared in the doorway, a heavily built boy with black hair. He put down an expensive-looking suitcase and leaned against the doorpost with an air of supercilious detachment. ‘Harry Brett?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Sandy Forsyth. New boy. I’m in this study.’ He hauled in the suitcase and stood looking at them. His large brown eyes were keen and there was something hard in his face.

‘Where have you come from?’ Bernie asked.

‘Braildon. Up in Hertfordshire. Heard of it?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘Supposed to be a good school.’

‘Yeah. So they say.’

‘It’s not bad here.’

‘No? I hear they’re quite hot on discipline.’

‘Cane you as soon as look at you,’ Bernie agreed.

‘Where are you from?’ Forsyth asked.

‘Wapping,’ Bernie said proudly. ‘I’m one of the proles the ruling class allow in.’ Bernie had declared himself a socialist the term before, to general disapproval. Forsyth raised his eyebrows.

‘I bet you got in more easily than I did.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’m a bit of a bad lad.’ The new boy took a packet of Gold Flake from his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Bernie and Harry glanced at the open door. ‘You can’t smoke in the studies,’ Harry said quickly.

‘We can shut the door. Want one?’

Bernie laughed. ‘You get caned for smoking here. It’s not worth it.’

‘OK.’ He gave Bernie a sudden broad grin, showing large white teeth. ‘You a red, then?’

‘I’m a socialist, if that’s what you mean.’

The new boy shrugged. ‘We had a debating society at Braildon, last year one of the Fifth spoke for Communism. It got pretty rowdy.’ He laughed. Bernie grunted, giving him a look of dislike.

‘I wanted to lead a debate in favour of atheism,’ Forsyth went on. ‘But they wouldn’t let me. Because my dad’s a bishop. Where do people go here if they want a smoke?’

‘Behind the gym,’ Bernie answered coldly.

‘Right-ho then. See you later.’ Forsyth got up and sauntered out.

‘Arsehole,’ Bernie said as he disappeared.

AND THEN, later that day, Harry was asked to spy on Sandy for the first time. He was in the study alone when a fag appeared with a message Mr Taylor wanted to see him.

Taylor was their form master that year. He had a reputation as a disciplinarian and the junior boys held him in awe. Seeing his tall, thin figure striding across the quad, the habitual severe expression on his face, Harry would think back to the day he had come to Uncle James’s house; they had scarcely spoken since.

Mr Taylor was in his study, a comfortable room with carpets and portraits of old headmasters on the wall; he was devoted to school history. A large desk was strewn with papers for marking. The master stood in his black gown, sorting through papers.

‘Ah Brett.’ His tone was cordial as he waved a long arm to beckon Harry in. Harry stood in front of the desk, hands behind his back in the approved manner. Taylor’s hair was receding fast, the widow’s peak now a separate black tuft beneath a balding crown.

‘Did you have good holidays? Aunt and Uncle OK?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The master nodded. ‘You’re in my form this year. I’ve had good reports of you, I shall expect great things.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The master nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the studies. We’ve put the new boy in with you in place of Piper. Forsyth. Have you met him yet?’

‘Yes, sir. I don’t think Piper knows.’

‘He’ll be told. How are you getting on with Forsyth?’

‘All right, sir,’ Harry said neutrally.

‘You may have heard of his father, the bishop?’

‘Forsyth mentioned him.’

‘Forsyth comes to us from Braildon. His parents felt Rookwood, with its reputation for – ah – order, was better suited to him.’ Taylor smiled benignly, making deep creases appear in his thin cheeks. ‘I’m telling you in confidence. You’re a steady boy, Brett; we think you could be prefect material one day. Keep an eye on Forsyth, will you?’ He paused. ‘Keep him on the straight and narrow.’

Harry gave the master a quick look. It was an odd remark; one of the studied ambiguities the masters spoke in more and more as the boys got older. You were expected to understand. Officially it was frowned on for boys to sneak on one another, but Harry knew many masters had particular pupils whom they used as sources of information. Was this what Taylor was asking him to do? He knew instinctively he didn’t want to; the whole idea made him uneasy.

‘I’ll certainly help show him around, sir,’ he said carefully.

Taylor eyed him keenly. ‘And let me know if there are any problems. Just a quiet word. We want to help Forsyth develop in the right direction. It’s important to his father.’

That was clear enough. Harry said nothing. Mr Taylor frowned a little.

Then an extraordinary thing happened. Something tiny moved on the master’s desk, among the papers; Harry saw it out of the corner of his eye. Taylor gave a sudden shout and jumped away. To Harry’s amazement he stood almost cringing, eyes averted from a fat house spider scuttling across his blotter. It stopped on top of a Latin textbook, standing quite still.

Taylor turned to Harry, his face bright red. His eyes strayed momentarily to the desk and he looked away with a shudder.

‘Brett, get rid of that thing for me. Please.’ There was a pleading note in the master’s voice.

Wonderingly, Harry took out his handkerchief and reached for the spider. He picked it up and held it gently.

‘Ah – thank you, Brett.’ Taylor swallowed. ‘I – ah – we shouldn’t have such – er – arachnids in the studies. Spread disease. Kill it, please kill it,’ he added rapidly.

Harry hesitated, then squeezed it between finger and thumb. It made a faint pop, making him wince.

‘Get rid of it.’ For a moment, Taylor’s eyes seemed almost wild behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez. ‘And don’t tell anyone about this. Do you understand? You may go,’ he added brusquely.

AT WILL’S HOUSE the soup at dinner was tinned, heavy with watery vegetables. Muriel apologized as she passed it round.

‘I hadn’t time to make any, I’m sorry. Of course, I’ve no woman to help now. I have to deal with the cooking, looking after the children, the ration books, everything.’ She pushed back a stray hair and gave Harry a challenging stare. Will and Muriel’s children, a thin dark boy of nine and a little girl of six, sat watching Harry with interest.

‘It must be difficult,’ he replied solemnly. ‘But the soup’s fine.’

‘It’s scrumptious!’ Ronald called loudly. His mother sighed. Harry didn’t know why Muriel had had children; he supposed because it was the done thing.

‘How’s work?’ he asked his cousin to break the silence. Will worked in the Foreign Office, at the Middle East desk.

‘There could be problems in Persia.’ The eyes behind the thick glasses were troubled. ‘The Shah’s leaning towards Hitler. How was your meeting?’ he asked with exaggerated casualness. He had phoned Harry a few days before to tell him some people connected with the Foreign Office had spoken to him and would be in touch but had said he didn’t know what it was about. From his manner now, Harry thought he had guessed who the ‘people’ were. He wondered whether Will had talked about him in the office, mentioned a cousin who had been to Rookwood and spoke Spanish, and someone had passed the information on to Jebb’s people. Or was there some huge filing system about citizens somewhere, which the spies had consulted?

He nearly answered, they want me to go to Madrid, but remembered he mustn’t. ‘Looks like they’ve got something for me. Means going abroad. A bit hush-hush.’

‘Careless talk costs lives,’ the little girl said solemnly.