She remembered it had been ajar – very fortunately – the night young Fleming had been walking in his sleep. She had just been in time to remove the headphones and rush out and catch him before he took a header down the stairs. He had awoken, white, sweating and speechless and she had marched him back to his bed with fiercely whispered admonitions never to do it again. As far as she knew he hadn't. She hadn't mentioned it to Roy Hammond and it was certainly much too late in the day to mention it to anyone now – least of all to the accusing figure sitting opposite her.

Fleming had seen David's dormitory on the first visit to the school. He asked to see it again. "Or are the boys about to go to bed?"

Brannigan said that the older ones were still at prep and that the younger ones would be at the first sitting for supper. He explained that the bed-time was staggered. "The young ones won't be up for a while. There's plenty of time to look around."

Normally the dormitory held ten beds. Fleming walked into the large austere room and counted only nine. David's bed and locker had been the second from the door. Both had been removed.

Brannigan noticed that he had noticed, but said nothing. The children in this room were the ten- to twelve-year-olds – old enough to understand and to be shocked and frightened. A tactful rearranging of the furniture had been done for their sakes.

Fleming's voice was quite controlled, only his eyes betrayed him. "Was there any other person in charge?"

Mollie Robbins, quite obviously dismissed by the words as less than useless, coloured but said nothing.

Brannigan answered, "The older boys have their own study bedrooms along the corridor – three are prefects. Mr. Hammond's own rooms are immediately at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. If there was a disturbance Mrs. Robbins would see it. In her absence the duty would fall to the senior prefect. The overall responsibility is Mr. Hammond's." He turned to Mollie and asked her the question that Fleming had decided was a waste of time to ask. "Apart from normal high spirits, was there any bullying – either of David or any other child?"

She gave him the answer that she believed he wanted. "Apart from the occasional pillow-fight – that sort of thing – no."

Brannigan said quietly, "Think a moment. And change your answer to yes if you have the slightest doubt."

As she looked back at him several pictures came into her mind. The Benchley child forced to lie on the bed while three of the other horrors forced toothpaste into his mouth. Young Kitson having his head held underwater in the bath until he almost turned blue. And Fleming – the child Fleming? As high-spirited as the rest at first – fighting like a demon when he had to – and then more recently becoming less noticeable. She couldn't put it to herself any other way. A fading of personality. A withdrawal. No longer a flaming nuisance. She felt a prickle of anxiety wondering what she had missed. In the general noise of battle one's ears weren't attuned to the" whisper of pain.

Brannigan and the child's father were waiting for an answer. This time she gave it quite honestly. "I saw no-one hurt him."

Fleming gave a last glance around the dormitory. Shadows of leaves from a maple tree fingered the wall opposite the window like small curious hands. He saw the room as David had seen it and then abruptly he turned from it and went out into the corridor. The Robbins woman's uncertainty had come through to him like the crackle of static. She had seen no-one hurt him. She had seen bloody nothing. What was Brannigan thinking about in giving a woman like that a position of responsibility? The boys were a meal-ticket for her – nothing more.

The final authority, according to Brannigan, was Hammond. He asked to see him.

Brannigan explained that he was away for the day. It was possible that he had returned in the meantime, but he had no intention of looking in his flat to find out. He needed to speak to Hammond first and explain the deeper implications of the child's death. The circumstances were tragic before, but there had been no disturbing undertones.

Apart from the blindfold.

If the boy's jump had been suicidal he might have used the blindfold.

Or it could have been a game.

An accident.

As he walked down the stairs with Fleming he spoke his thoughts aloud. "I'm convinced David's death was accidental. Hammond is convinced of it, too. I understand that you want to speak to him and I can arrange for you to meet each other tomorrow. Some time in the afternoon. He has his school duties in the morning."

School duties that would include an interview with the solicitor, Tom Lessing, for a general briefing on what line to take.

Fleming said, "Three o'clock tomorrow afternoon at the entrance to the Maritime Museum. He will take me to the ship where David died and he will explain to me exactly what happened."

It wasn't a request mildly put, but a statement that brooked no argument. Brannigan, trying hard to mask his disquiet and failing, agreed.

"And now if you wish to interview any of the other members of staff-or older boys – I'll take you over to the common room."

Fleming said, "No – the others can wait." Hammond, as he saw it, was the protagonist, the others would merely line up in a combined defence of the school. It would take more energy than he had at this stage – and more factual knowledge – to blast them apart. If any of them had contributed to David's death he would discover it in due time.

He had hoped to see Jenny again before leaving the premises, but knew it would do her no good to say so. Brannigan offered to drive him back to The Lantern and he accepted the offer. They drove in unbroken silence, the folder of David's work on Fleming's knee.

Roy Hammond returned to the school just before eleven o'clock and was making his way up to his flat when Sherborne, the science master, met him on the stairs. Sherborne told him that Brannigan Wanted to see him, "But if you don't want to see Brannigan – consider the message not given. It seems the delectable Jenny gave Fleming a drawing by young David which indicates he was suffering the tortures of the damned." He tried to make it sound like a joke, his uneasy eyes embarrassed.

Hammond, who had spent part of the afternoon with his wife in an embittered argument during which she had flatly refused to return to him, stood still for a moment or two as if mentally bracing himself for this fresh blow. He didn't know what Sherborne was talking about. He would dearly like never to know. He should have walked out when Laura had walked out. He had been a fool to let her go with such a bland show of indifference.

Sherborne, expecting a response and not getting one, shuffled off down the stairs with a "Well, I've told you – if you want to know more before you see Brannigan, ask Jenny. One of your lads is with her in the infirmary now."

The infirmary, situated between Hammond 's House and Sherborne's House, was reached by a corridor on the first floor. According to fire regulations there was a right of way when necessary, but the corridor was not normally used as a short cut between the Houses as Sherborne had used it now. Hammond wondered vaguely what he had been doing away from his own quarters.

As he approached the infirmary he could hear a child bawling and identified the sound as coming from Tim Sanders who could bawl louder than most. He was eight and seized upon any legitimate outlet for his grievance at being abandoned and incarcerated.

Jenny had her arms around him at the basin and was shushing him gently. "You've cracked a tooth, that's all. There's hardly any blood. Think what would have happened if it hadn't got jammed at the back of your jaw."

She looked over her shoulder as Hammond came in. "Did Mollie tell you?"