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“I hated Bishop’s Hill,” said Bobby. “I was only there because of Clifford. It’s an awful place and the people are awful as well.”

Fritz Skander wanted to sue Bobby for breach of contract. “It will mean some additional money,” he told Hawthorne. “Goodness knows, we need it.”

“I have no intention of suing him,” Hawthorne answered.

“Well, he certainly won’t be receiving his November paycheck,” said Skander, “and if he ever asks us for a recommendation, he’ll find he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

The discovery that Scott had been murdered brought a number of police detectives to Bishop’s Hill. Chief Moulton was often on campus as well, even though the state police investigation seemed to have passed him by. Lieutenant Sloan never consulted him and Moulton was allowed to poke around Bishop’s Hill only as a courtesy. A state police lab crew spent much of Wednesday in Gaudette’s apartment and sealed off Scott’s dorm room. Bobby’s small apartment was also taken over.

The psychological effect of the murder was disastrous. All pretense of teaching came to a stop. Larry Gaudette had been well-liked. It was shocking to think of him as a murder suspect. Bobby Newland’s decision to quit heightened the sense of chaos. Four psychologists were brought over from Mary Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, and counseling sessions were expanded. It had already been decided to close the school a week early for Christmas vacation, on the eleventh instead of the eighteenth. Hawthorne would have closed the school even sooner if it hadn’t been for the various difficulties of changing plane tickets and travel plans and the disruption to parents’ schedules. Quite a few kids would have had no place to go. Also, the police were reluctant to have the students who had been at the school over Thanksgiving suddenly taken out of reach.

Hawthorne was constantly on the phone to members of the board, trying to convince them that, despite the huge disruption, the school was continuing to operate. Gifts to the school had increased and the work on the roof of Emerson Hall would be completed by mid-January. Although applications were no higher than the previous year, at least they hadn’t gone down.

Carolyn Forster, the trustee at Dartmouth, assured Hawthorne that he had the board’s full confidence, and Hamilton Burke told him on Friday, “We have no intention of closing the school. We’ll keep it going till the last dime is spent.”

At the moment, it seemed to Hawthorne that he was operating on sheer will, with no thought beyond the Christmas vacation. The next semester remained vague; he needed to hire two new psychologists and he needed to have more of the faculty on his side. But at other times he was overwhelmed by pessimism and wondered why he was wasting his time. There was no guarantee that the school would make it, and really, how could they ever get over Scott’s death?

The police interviewed everyone who had known Scott, which meant the entire school. Kate was questioned about Scott’s call to her on Thanksgiving Day when he had been looking for Hawthorne. Had Scott seemed upset? Was he scared? A hundred times Kate blamed herself for not driving to the school right away and bringing Scott home with her. But how could she have known? Even Hawthorne regretted going down to Krueger’s in Concord; if he had been at the school to receive Scott’s call, then the boy might still be alive.

Hawthorne had coffee with Kate in the Dugout late Friday morning to assure her that she couldn’t blame herself about Scott. Herb Frankfurter and Tom Hastings sat drinking coffee across the room. Hawthorne was aware of their quick looks and knowing expressions. Several students were playing video games and a dozen more were grouped around a few tables. Something by the Spice Girls was on the jukebox, although the volume had been turned down.

“It wasn’t as if I’d been doing anything important,” said Kate, explaining why she hadn’t gone over to the school. “It was just laziness on my part.”

“You didn’t know anything was wrong.”

“I could tell that something was bothering him.”

Hawthorne, who had made many such explanations to himself, felt well acquainted with the if-only-I-had-done-such-and-such type of thinking. “I wonder if Scott called anyone else?”

Kate shook her head. “Do you really think Larry killed him?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe it.” They were silent a moment. Hawthorne sipped his coffee, which tasted burned.

“I’m sorry I said I didn’t want to see you the other night,” Kate said quickly. “I know you’re going through a lot.”

“I didn’t blame you. After what I told you . . .”

Kate lowered her voice. “It wasn’t that. The whole thing is just so complicated.”

“My life
is
full of ghosts.”

“I should never have said that.”

“I’m afraid I still want to come over. I want it more every time I see you.”

Kate reached out her hand and placed it on Hawthorne’s. Looking at him, her eyes flickered across his face as if she were trying to memorize it.

Hawthorne put his other hand over hers. First he looked into Kate’s face, then he glanced away. Across the room, he saw Frankfurter and Hastings watching them. They had faint smiles. Hawthorne began to remove his hand from Kate’s, then he didn’t.

—

Hawthorne planned to call a faculty meeting as soon as the students were gone, and he asked Hilda to put notices in the faculty mailboxes that a meeting would be held in Memorial Hall on the second floor of Emerson at 10 a.m. on Monday the fourteenth—just over a week away. “Say it’s compulsory,” he told her.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Hilda said.

But Hawthorne insisted. He would use the meeting to describe all that had happened: the appearances of Ambrose Stark, the phone calls, the bags of food. He would accuse Bennett, Chip Campbell, and others of lying to Mrs. Hayes and forcing her from the school, of telling Clifford Evings that he was about to be fired. Then there were the criminal offenses: wrecking Evings’s office and supplying Jessica Weaver with tequila. He hoped he could make Bennett and Herb Frankfurter resign. He imagined wiping the slate clean.

Even though the presence of the police was a continual reminder of Scott’s death, there was still the school’s daily routine to take care of. Hawthorne suspended the twice-weekly meetings in which he and the faculty discussed the students. On the other hand, the expanded counseling sessions required careful orchestrating and the teachers needed some advice on how to organize their classes until the eleventh if little or no academic work was being done. In his history class the quizzes he had planned had to be postponed. Hawthorne had meant to talk about Justinian the Great, but if the students wished instead to talk about Scott McKinnon, Larry Gaudette, or the presence of the police, then that’s what would be discussed.

In addition, supplies had to be ordered, bills had to be paid. LeBrun needed help dealing with local food vendors and the bookkeeping. And Hawthorne was still trying to trace certain items that had been ordered and paid for but apparently never delivered. After some searching, the commercial toaster was found in a stockroom off the kitchen. But why it had never been put into use Hawthorne didn’t know.

As for the three-hundred-dollar trombone, there was no trace of it.

“We already have four trombones,” Rosalind Langdon had told him. “Why would I order another? Only two are being played as it is.”

And Skander said, “I always confuse the trombone with the French horn. Do you think the supplier could have made a similar mistake?”

On Wednesday and Thursday nights Hawthorne had searched the attics of Adams, Douglas, and Hamilton Halls. He told people he was looking for the portrait of Ambrose Stark that had been taken from Evings’s office. He made sure his searches were noticed, then he waited for some response. By Friday a number of the faculty were talking about it—their eccentric headmaster prowling the attics with a flashlight. Because of the police investigation, Hawthorne’s actions were thought to be connected to Scott’s murder and Gaudette’s disappearance. Indeed, on Friday morning Hawthorne had even told Hilda that he believed something significant might be hidden in one of the attics.

That afternoon, Skander dropped by the office looking for an explanation.

“What are you really doing up there?” Skander asked. He spoke lightly, as if Hawthorne were involved in some kind of practical joke. “Have you been reading
Sherlock Holmes
? I’m not sure that the role of detective suits you.”

“I’d rather not say right now,” Hawthorne told him. “Wait until the faculty meeting on the fourteenth and expect some surprises.”

Skander looked doubtful. “It seems we’ve had enough surprises.”

“I’d just like to do everything I can to help the police investigation.”

“Ah, so you plan to be a detective after all,” said Skander. He rubbed the top of his head and seemed about to say more, then he abruptly shifted to another subject. “Have you given Bill Dolittle permission to move into that empty apartment in Stark?”

“I told him there was no possibility of such a move until we find someone to take his place in Latham. I’ve been quite clear about that.”

“Well, he’s moving in furniture.” Skander stood in front of Hawthorne’s desk.

“Just a chair.” Hawthorne paused. “And a book.”

“I heard that he also moved in a lamp. I know that Bill’s a great fan of yours but he hardly earns his keep. His two English classes are a disgrace. He does little more than read to his students for the entire period—Raymond Chandler, P. G. Wodehouse, Philip K. Dick. Those are his particular favorites. As for the library, it’s in total disarray. If Bill’s been stuck in Latham for eight years, it’s only because he deserves no better. Old Pendergast absolutely despised him, and in my brief tenure as headmaster I came to share his feelings. I hate to criticize a colleague but I know he’s pulling the wool over your eyes. Really, Jim, you’re too softhearted. Now that Bill’s got his foot in the door at Stark, he’ll be impossible to dislodge.”

Although Hawthorne was beginning to share Skander’s feeling, he at first said nothing. Again, he wondered if he had been blinding himself to Dolittle’s inadequacies out of gratitude for his support.

“I’ll speak to him about it.”

—

Saturday night Hawthorne went through the attic of Emerson Hall. It had been a long day, during which he had met with Lieutenant Sloan, several trustees, the psychologists from Mary Hitchcock, and Ruth Standish, who had been working with them. He had also spoken with Gene Strauss about the effect of Scott’s murder on applications. Strauss apologized for bringing up his concern so soon after the death, but he dreaded the damage that it would inflict on enrollment. Already Strauss had heard from several parents that their children wouldn’t be returning after Christmas vacation. In the evening, Hawthorne had finally been able to sit for an hour in his new chair, just thinking. He had meant to think about Scott and his possible connection to Gaudette. Instead he thought about Kate and how her hand had felt against his.

About 10 p.m. Hawthorne put on his overcoat, fetched his flashlight, and went out into the dark. As he walked over to Emerson, he ran into Floyd Purvis, who had become more active as a watchman since the police had been at the school.

“You want me to come along?” Purvis asked halfheartedly.

Hawthorne said he’d be fine by himself.

“Watch out for rats,” Purvis warned.

Hawthorne climbed the front steps of Emerson and unlocked the door. There had been snow flurries all day and the night was cloudy. He wiped his feet on the mat and flashed his light around the rotunda. In the middle of the floor, the gold letters
B
and
H
of the school crest sparkled as he moved his light across them. Just beyond the rotunda the shadows skittered away, then re-formed themselves. There was no wind and the building was still. Hawthorne pointed his light upward. It was at least fifty feet to the ceiling beneath the bell tower and the light could barely distinguish it.

Hawthorne climbed to the third floor, then unlocked the door to the attic. The stairs were wide enough to accommodate the bookcases, mattresses, and general bric-a-brac stored under the roof. As he began his ascent, he thought he heard a rustling but he wasn’t sure. Reaching the top, he flashed his light down the length of the attic, then located the light switch on the wall. There were three switches: one for the staircase leading to the bell tower, one for the east side of the attic, and one for the west. Hawthorne flicked the switch for the west side and a string of ceiling lights flickered on—dim bulbs that cast shadows into the corners and illuminated boxes of nails and buckets of tar left by the men working on the roof.

Hawthorne again heard a rustling. He expected there were red squirrels as well as rats. He had meant to order traps earlier in the fall but with one thing and another he had forgotten. It was cold and he kept his coat buttoned. The west side of the attic formed a long room cluttered with boxes, broken easels, and music stands, desks, chairs, bookcases, metal bed frames, mattresses, and rolls of paper. Hawthorne told himself that when he had a chance he would see about clearing out some of the clutter. He moved slowly along the passageway that ran down the center, looking behind boxes and heaps of debris. The floors creaked. Hawthorne realized he was breathing rapidly. He stopped and tried to catch his breath. He felt foolish and angry at himself for being frightened. He pushed an old desk away from the wall and looked behind a bookcase. There were papers on the floor—old brochures and school catalogs—and they crinkled as he stepped on them. A chair tipped over with a crash. Hawthorne kept thinking what a firetrap the place was and before he could stop himself he had begun to remember the fire at Wyndham School. Briefly, it absorbed all his attention.

It took Hawthorne twenty minutes to reach the end of the attic. His movements stirred up the dust and he sneezed. Despite the cold, he was sweating. He kept turning quickly, imagining he had seen something out of the corner of his eye—a shadow or a sudden darting.

Hawthorne had just bent down to look behind a dark oak cabinet with two cracked glass doors when the lights went out. It was like being struck blind. He stood up quickly and banged his head against a rafter. Even in the dark, he knew that his hands were shaking.