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institution you were relying upon to educate you. There was nothing to be done except swallow pride and bear disappointment like a man. Arthur accepted this appeal to a manliness he had yet to inhabit. But the calming phrases he pretended to find persuasive were mere breath in his ear. Everything within him festered and burned and stank, like a tiny corner of the Hell he no longer believed in.
    George
    It is unusual for George’s father to speak to him after prayers have been said and the light turned out. They are supposed to reflect upon the meaning of the words while yielding themselves to the bosom of God’s sleep. In truth, George is more inclined to carry on thinking about the next day’s lessons. He does not believe God will count this a sin.
    “George,” his father suddenly says. “Have you noticed anyone loitering near the Vicarage?”
    “Today, Father?”
    “No, not today. Generally. Recently.”
    “No, Father. Why would anyone be loitering?”
    “Your mother and I have been receiving anonymous letters.”
    “From loiterers?”
    “Yes. No. I want you to report anything suspicious to me, George. Somebody pushing something through the door. People standing around.”
    “Who are these letters from, Father?”
    “They are anonymous, George.” Even in the dark he can sense his father’s impatience. “Anonymous. From the Greek, then the Latin. Without a name.”
    “What do they say, Father?”
    “They say wicked things. About . . . everyone.”
    George knows he is meant to be concerned, but finds it all too exciting. He has been given authority to play the detective, and does so as often as possible without interfering with his school work. He peers from behind the trunks of trees; he obscures himself in the cubbyhole beneath the stairs to watch the front door; he examines the behaviour of those who come to the house; he wonders how he might afford a magnifying glass and, perhaps, a telescope. He discovers nothing.
    Nor does he know who starts chalking up sinful words about his parents on Mr. Harriman’s barn and Mr. Aram’s outbuildings. As soon as they are washed off, the words mysteriously reappear. George is not told what they say. One afternoon, taking a circuitous route like all the best detectives, he creeps up on Mr. Harriman’s barn, but all he espies is a wall with some wet patches drying.
    “Father,” George whispers after the light has been put out. He assumes this is the permitted time to talk about such matters. “I have an idea. Mr. Bostock.”
    “What about Mr. Bostock?”
    “He has lots of chalk. He always had lots of chalk.”
    “That is true, George. But I think we may safely eliminate Mr. Bostock.”
    A few days later George’s mother sprains her wrist and wraps it in muslin. She asks Elizabeth Foster to write the butcher’s list for her; but instead of sending the girl with it to Mr. Greensill, she takes it to George’s father. After comparison with the contents of a locked drawer, Elizabeth Foster is dismissed.
    Later, Father has to go and explain things to the magistrates at Cannock. George secretly hopes he might also be asked to give evidence. Father reports that the wretched girl claimed it was all a foolish joke, and has been bound over to keep the peace.
    Elizabeth Foster is not seen again in the district and a new maid soon arrives. George feels he could have done better at playing the detective. He also wishes he knew what was chalked on Mr. Harriman’s barn and Mr. Aram’s outbuildings.
    Arthur
    Irish by ancestry, Scottish by birth, instructed in the faith of Rome by Dutch Jesuits, Arthur became English. English history inspired him; English freedoms made him proud; English cricket made him patriotic. And the greatest epoch in English history—with many to choose from—was the fourteenth century: a time when the English archer commanded the field, and when both the French and Scottish kings were held prisoner in London.
    But he also never forgot the tales