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Should he leave Bishop’s Hill? Or do nothing, work hard, and hope that the people who disliked him would be won over? These choices were equally impossible because each was a failure, a surrender. Then why was he hesitating? Was he afraid? The mere possibility shocked him. And without the least hesitation, his mind moved to Wyndham School and the fire. When he had found the key to the window grate and had run back toward his apartment, to what degree had fear dragged at his footsteps? Flames were sweeping across the ceiling and up ahead the fire was worse. Later he told himself that, if he had left Claire just one minute earlier, Meg and Lily would have lived. But though that might be true, it didn’t address the question of his fear. Had he run as fast as he could? Wasn’t he using those minutes with Claire as an excuse? He had been afraid. He had not run his fastest. There were two crimes for which he deserved punishment, not one. And again Hawthorne nearly swerved off the road as he took his hands from the wheel and pressed them to his face.

When he arrived in Plymouth ten minutes later, he felt dazed, as if he had just awoken after a binge. The cars on the streets, the people on the sidewalks—he hardly saw them. His mind was full of the possibility of his fear. Although it was lunchtime, Hawthorne no longer felt hungry. He stopped at the drugstore to buy shampoo, deodorant, and aspirin, then realized he could easily have bought them at the supermarket where he would be going in any case. He walked aimlessly up Main Street despite the cold and intermittent sleet, looking into shops and staring into people’s faces. He bought a
New York Times,
then went into a coffee shop and read it for an hour, letting his coffee get cold. When he was done, he could hardly remember anything—difficulties in Israel and Iraq, drug problems in Mexico. Below the level of consciousness, his mind was furiously engaged in argument with itself. He left the coffee shop, retrieved his car, and drove to the supermarket behind a great orange truck that was scattering salt on the pavement ahead.

Although Hawthorne took his meals in the dining hall, he liked to keep his small kitchen stocked with coffee, soft drinks, and an occasional six-pack of Beck’s. And he usually kept crackers and cheese, nothing too elaborate. His Sunday teas for the students were catered by the dining hall, and the only items he might add were a box or two of chocolates, Jordan almonds, or something mildly exotic like a few tins of smoked oysters.

He was pushing his cart down one aisle after another with his mind hardly focused on his surroundings when he saw Mrs. Hayes standing in the checkout line. She wore a knee-length brown coat that swelled out over her full figure and a matching rain hat made of canvas. A man’s black umbrella hung over her left forearm. Hawthorne knew that she lived in Plymouth but he couldn’t remember where. He hadn’t spoken to her since just after her resignation, and in truth she had nearly slipped from his memory.

Hawthorne watched her pay for her groceries then push her cart loaded with bags through the automatic door. She moved slowly, as if conscious of her fragility, and once outside she put up her black umbrella to protect herself from the sleet. Somewhat clumsily she maneuvered her cart while holding the umbrella. Abandoning his own cart, Hawthorne moved to the front of the store so he could observe Mrs. Hayes cross the parking lot to a green Ford Escort dotted with circles of rust. Hawthorne forgot about his shopping. He left the supermarket and hurried to his car, staying out of Mrs. Hayes’s line of vision. Once in his car, he waited for her to finish loading her groceries through the rusty hatch of the Escort.

Mrs. Hayes drove out of the parking lot and turned left. Hawthorne followed. She drove slowly through the center of town and past the college, with its red brick buildings. She turned right down a residential street, then after three blocks she turned left. The streets were lined with small white Victorian houses. There was nobody else in sight. Hawthorne’s windshield wipers made a steady whap-whap. The day was dim and he began to switch on his lights, then he decided against it.

When Mrs. Hayes turned right into a driveway, Hawthorne pulled to the curb. He knew she lived alone. Her house was small with a gable over the front porch and green shutters. He watched her carry her groceries up the steps and through the front door, turning on the porch light and making several trips. Sleet and wet snow accumulated on his windshield. After Mrs. Hayes closed the door, Hawthorne waited five more minutes to give her a chance to start putting away the groceries. The street was deserted. Not even any dogs were out.

Hawthorne left his car and hurried across the street and up Mrs. Hayes’s front steps. For some reason he decided to knock rather than ring the doorbell. It seemed less intrusive. The storm door had two panels of glass at the top and bottom and the front door itself had a large glass pane. Through it, Hawthorne could see down a short hall to the kitchen, where a light burned.

Mrs. Hayes came out of the kitchen into the hall. She held a dishcloth and was wiping her hands. When she saw who was at the door, she stopped and her face took on a worried look. She stared at Hawthorne from the hallway without moving. Her tight gray curls covered her head like a bonnet. Hawthorne made himself smile and felt intensely foolish. After at least ten seconds, Mrs. Hayes moved forward, still wiping her hands with the dishcloth. She looked at Hawthorne, and with her concern there was also a suggestion of anger. She opened the front door a few inches, leaving the storm door closed.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Hawthorne had nearly forgotten her voice, which was high and elderly. A creaky voice, he had once called it. “I need to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“I think we do. Did you hear that Clifford Evings was dead?”

Mrs. Hayes’s expression softened. “Yes, the poor man.”

“I need to talk to you about what’s going on at the school.”

Mrs. Hayes unlatched the door, pulling it open. “I don’t like you coming here.”

“I’m sorry to bother you but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” Hawthorne wiped his feet on the mat and entered the hall.

“I guess you’d better come in and sit down. Please excuse the mess.”

The living room was as neat as a pin—an old woman’s room with antimacassars and photographs of people who had probably died long ago. On the coffee table were several copies of
Reader’s Digest
and
Yankee
magazine. Mrs. Hayes motioned to a worn armchair. “That was my husband’s chair. You can sit in that.”

Hawthorne sat down. He knew nothing of Mrs. Hayes’s husband, whether he had died or had simply gone away. On a side table was a photograph of a beefy middle-aged man standing in a stream and holding a fishing pole above his head. He was grinning.

“I’d like to have you tell me again about the reasons for your resignation.”

Mrs. Hayes sat down on the couch, perching at the very edge of the cushion. “That’s all over and done with.”

“Did someone say you would be fired?”

She didn’t speak and looked down at the coffee table. Her gray hair had a bluish tint, as if she had recently been to the beauty parlor.

“I’d no intention of letting you go. Therefore you must have heard it from other people.”

Mrs. Hayes straightened up as if she had come to a decision. “Roger Bennett told me you meant to fire me. He said he heard it directly from you and that he’d argued on my behalf. He said you were rude, that you called me ‘old baggage.’”

“Anyone else?”

“Chip Campbell said you’d told him the same, that I was too dumb to learn about computers and the sooner I was out of there the better. People talked. They said they were sorry, they offered their sympathy—Herb Frankfurter, Tom Hastings, Ruth Standish. Ruth offered to help but I felt confused. Of course I was angry, but part of me couldn’t help thinking you were right. I couldn’t make any sense of those manuals.”

“Did you talk to Mr. Skander?”

“He tried to help as well. I asked if you meant to fire me and he said that he didn’t know. He told me we were going through difficult times and some changes were necessary. But Mr. Bennett warned me several times and Mr. Campbell, after he’d been dismissed, called me at home to say he’d talked to the board about my pension, that it was secure. I didn’t feel I had any choice, and Mr. Bennett said that if I made a fuss it could jeopardize whatever I received. Really, my pension was small enough as it was. I was quite frightened.” Mrs. Hayes still held the dishcloth, which she twisted in her hands.

“What about the Reverend Bennett?”

“She never spoke to me at all. Cold, I found her. She never even said hello when I passed her in the hall.”

“And were there others?”

“I can’t remember. Many people were sympathetic. Really, I’d no idea who to believe. I can’t think Mr. Bennett meant me harm. He was always friendly, nothing at all like his wife. And Chip Campbell gave me little gifts at Christmas and would always stick his head into the office to say hello.”

“Did you ever have anything to do with the finances of the school?”

“No, never. Mr. Skander handled all that as bursar—him and the bookkeeper. I ordered supplies but I never knew anything about the billing.”

“Tell me about Mr. Pendergast.”

Mrs. Hayes sat a little straighter and pursed her lips. After a moment she said, “He wasn’t a nice man, especially after his wife died.”

“You mean he had a temper?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what was it?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Were you surprised when he resigned?”

“He’d said nothing about it to me. He made the announcement in early December that he’d leave at the end of the semester. Yes, I suppose I was surprised. He was only in his midfifties or so, and I suppose I thought he was going to stay until he retired.”

“Can you give me any more sense of how he was?”

Mrs. Hayes gave a slight smile, half mocking. “He was very vain. Once he asked me if I thought he was losing his hair. Then he began to tint it. And he worried about his figure. When it was somebody’s birthday and there was cake, he never ate any.”

“Was he good-humored?”

“He had a big, booming laugh and I’d hear it when he was talking on the telephone.”

“Did he have any close friends at the school?”

“He was friendly with everyone, but he was headmaster. He felt he should keep a certain distance. He was friends with Mr. Skander and perhaps one or two others. He also had friends here in Plymouth and Laconia.”

“When did his wife die?”

“About two years before he resigned. In the spring. He was quite distraught, although she’d been sick for some time. It was cancer. After she died, he was barely able to finish the semester.”

“And when he came back in the fall he was different?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I said I’d rather not talk about it.”

“But he wasn’t nice?”

Mrs. Hayes pursed her lips and said nothing.

“Tell me,” said Hawthorne after a moment, “has he ever been back to visit the school?”

“Never. He’s never been back.”

When he left Mrs. Hayes, Hawthorne drove directly to Brewster. He’d forgotten that he hadn’t had lunch and that there was shopping he meant to do. He thought of the basketball game when Roger Bennett knocked him to the ground. He thought of the Reverend Bennett’s insistence that Mrs. Hayes had been fired. And he thought about Pendergast, old Pendergast, as Skander had called him. The sleet was now mixed with snow. Cars were traveling slowly with their lights on.

Hawthorne found Chief Moulton in his office in a small building next to Steve’s Diner. Yellowing Wanted flyers were stuck to a bulletin board with colored tacks. Against a wall were three wooden file cabinets. Moulton was unwrapping two bologna sandwiches from wax paper on the green blotter of his oak desk. He was in his shirt sleeves, and a can of Diet Coke stood between his left elbow and the telephone. A chunky, balding man, he had an oblong face as smooth as a toddler’s knee. He looked up at Hawthorne and raised his eyebrows.

“You caught me eating my lunch,” he said. Yellow mustard had soaked through the white bread of the sandwiches. Moulton folded the wax paper and slipped it into a small brown paper bag.

“I can wait outside.”

“That’s okay. I guess you’ve seen somebody have lunch before.” He bit into a sandwich and chewed slowly as he looked at Hawthorne without speaking. After a moment, he took a drink of Coke and swallowed. “You can sit down if you want.”

Hawthorne took the chair on the other side of Moulton’s desk. The smell of the bologna and mustard made him recall that he had missed lunch.

“If you tell me what’s on your mind,” said Moulton, “that’ll give me time to chew.”

“I wondered if you knew any more about who had vandalized Mr. Evings’s office.”

“You came all the way from Bishop’s Hill to ask that or were you just driving by?” Moulton’s tone indicated that he was making a joke. As he chewed, he continued to watch Hawthorne.

“It was a contributing factor in Evings’s suicide. I wanted to know if you thought the person who did it was someone at the school or from outside.”

“It was someone at the school.”

“How do you know?”

“Firstly, because Evings hardly knew anyone outside of Bishop’s Hill. He didn’t seem to have friends
or
enemies. Secondly, because whoever did it knew the layout of the buildings and had a key. The lock wasn’t picked or forced. And why’d the fellow steal that picture from the frame?”

“Do you think it could have been a student?”

“There was too much cunning in it. It was too worked out.”

“Did you ever know Pendergast,” asked Hawthorne, “the previous headmaster?”

“I met him several times over the years.” Moulton had stopped eating but continued to watch Hawthorne closely.

“What did you think of him?”

“I can’t say I’d formed an opinion. He seemed friendly enough. Hail fellow well met. I was sorry when he lost his wife.”

“Were you surprised when he resigned?”

“I expect I was surprised that I hadn’t heard anything about it before it happened.”