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Hawthorne hoped for information about Bennett, Chip Campbell, Herb Frankfurter, and a few of the others in the years before he came to the school. And there were also certain aspects of Pendergast’s departure from Bishop’s Hill that Hawthorne was still hoping to understand.

“What was your relationship with them?”

“Cordial, businesslike—I felt as headmaster it wouldn’t do to make close friends.”

“You left rather abruptly.”

“I’m not sure that it was all that abrupt.”

“It was in the middle of the school year.”

Pendergast’s anxiety seemed to increase. He half turned toward his desk and seemed unwilling to speak. Then he shrugged. “Sometimes the thought suddenly strikes you that it’s time for a change. I wasn’t happy at Bishop’s Hill after my wife died, all by myself in that apartment. It seemed right that I leave when I did.”

“You gave them hardly a month’s notice.”

“I really don’t have a lot of time this morning, Mr. Hawthorne—or is it Doctor?” The heartiness had gone out of Pendergast’s smile. He looked suspiciously at Kate. “I simply believed I could do better elsewhere.”

Hawthorne felt that Pendergast was lying. The realization led him to recall Mrs. Hayes’s remark that the former headmaster wasn’t a nice man, especially after his wife died. And she had spoken of his vanity, that he had tinted his hair and worried about his figure. Hawthorne glanced at Kate, who was unbuttoning her jacket. Her head was tilted and she seemed to be listening to Pendergast with all the care that she might listen to someone speaking in a language she barely understood.

“Did Fritz Skander put any pressure on you?” asked Hawthorne.

“Why on earth would he have done that? Has Fritz been saying anything about me?”

“You resigned in early December. I’m trying to understand why.”

Pendergast’s red face grew a little redder and he stuck out his lower lip. “I’m not quite sure where you are going with this, Mr. Hawthorne, nor do I welcome it.”

On impulse, Hawthorne asked, “Can you tell me about Gail Jensen?”

“What was the name again?”

“Gail Jensen—she died two weeks before you resigned.”

“Yes, yes, I do remember something,” said Pendergast. “A student, isn’t that correct? She died of a burst appendix . . .” He stood very still as his eyes moved back and forth between Hawthorne and Kate. The sound of Christmas music could faintly be heard through the window.

“She helped out in your office,” said Hawthorne. “You must have seen her every day.” He didn’t understand why Pendergast wasn’t telling the truth.

Pendergast spoke quickly. “Hardly that, and it doesn’t mean I had anything to do with her. I don’t care what Fritz told you.”

There was a pause as they looked at each other.

“Why should Fritz have said anything about Gail Jensen?” asked Kate. Hawthorne noticed the chill in her voice.

“I don’t mean just about her. Why should he talk about me at all? The girl was just someone who occasionally worked in the office. There were several students who did.”

Hawthorne again thought about Mrs. Hayes’s unwillingness to talk about the ex-headmaster. He decided to bluff a little. “That’s not what Mrs. Hayes told me. Let me use your phone and I’ll give her a call.”

Pendergast stood as if rooted to the floor. Hawthorne watched different emotions pass across his face: anger, fear, despair.

“You’re trying to trap me.”

“I think you’ve trapped yourself,” said Hawthorne. “You made her pregnant.” Glancing at Kate, he knew that she had reached the same conclusion.

Pendergast made one last attempt at indignation. “You got the whole thing from Fritz, didn’t you? You’ve been leading me on.”

“She had an abortion and died. For Christ’s sake, she was only fifteen!” Hawthorne paused. “Shortly after that, you resigned. I expect you were forced to resign.”

Pendergast moved to his desk and stood with his back to Hawthorne and Kate. His gray tweed jacket had flecks of blue and purple. He put his hands on the edge of his desk and leaned forward as if resting. Then he turned back to Hawthorne. “What if I deny it?”

Kate spoke up first. “Then we’ll go to the police.”

Nodding, Pendergast raised a hand and rubbed his forehead. “Oddly enough, I’ve been expecting a visit like this ever since I left Bishop’s Hill, but I thought it would be someone wanting money.”

“I want to know what happened,” said Hawthorne.

Now that what he had done was out in the open, Pendergast began to relax. He raised a shoulder, then let it drop. “One thing just led to another. She’d been doing work in the office. One night I got her to stay late. We’d been a little chummy all along. My wife had died, I don’t know . . .” He seemed ready to excuse himself, then changed his mind. “I had sex with her once. She wasn’t a virgin, I can tell you that much. Anyway, she got pregnant. She told me I was the father. Of course I had no idea if it was true or false, but I found her a doctor. She told him that the father was a boy her own age. She was frightened that her parents would find out. You have to believe me, I was devastated when she died. Fritz knew about it. He always knew about everything. And a few other people suspected. Fritz said that if I resigned, he’d keep quiet and make certain it went no farther.”

“Aren’t you trying to shift the blame?” said Kate, still with the anger in her voice.

“I’ve no excuse for what I did,” Pendergast said wearily, “but Skander’s no angel. He and Roger Bennett had plenty of little tricks.”

“Like what?” asked Hawthorne.

“Fritz was bursar—I guess he’s still bursar unless you’ve fired him. I was sure he’d been embezzling money. Not much. A few hundred here and there. Then in my last year he and Roger hit upon a particularly lucrative scheme. They pretended that we had one less student than we actually had, which meant the boy’s tuition went into their pockets.”

“How do you know this?” asked Kate.

“I was rather inattentive toward the end. It made them greedy. Actually, it was Mrs. Hayes who asked if there hadn’t been a mistake in the figures. I confronted Fritz and he tried to blame Roger. Finally, they both admitted it.” Pendergast held out his hands as if offering Hawthorne their very emptiness. “Sad to say, I had far more to lose. The Jensen girl had died and I was in no position to stand up to them. So we forgave each other, as it were. I took my retirement and departed.”

“What was the student’s name?” asked Hawthorne.

“Peter Roberts. He was a freshman. As far as I know, he’s still there. And they might have had other hidden students, unless your presence scared them.”

Hawthorne wondered whether Pendergast was just trying to get even for what he believed was Skander’s betrayal. Then he thought of the trombone, a missing computer, a slide projector that had been ordered but had never arrived, the peculiar billing of his chair, the uncertainty about Chip Campbell’s salary. And there was more—a variety of apparent oversights and clerical errors.

“And no one suspected?” asked Hawthorne.

“Fritz handled the books and he did it with a certain casualness, an affable sloppiness that was very cunning. He could conceal a lot. And the embezzlement, if it was discovered, he could blame on a sort of harmless negligence. But this business of hiding students could send him and Bennett straight to jail.”

“What you did was even worse,” said Kate, her voice rising. “It was statutory rape and the girl died.”

“That’s perfectly true, young lady. It was a criminal act, and I feel terrible about it. But imagine what would happen if it became public. Charges and countercharges. The Boston papers would have a field day. Everyone’s reputation would be tarnished, even your own. Who knows who would wind up in court, or if the school could remain open.” Although Pendergast remained watchful, he began to recover a bit of his former heartiness. He moved around his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle of Martell cognac. He held it toward Hawthorne and Kate. The color was returning to his face. “I find these discussions utterly exhausting,” he said. “Like a snoot?”

—

When Hawthorne and Kate got back to Bishop’s Hill about two-thirty, Hawthorne wanted to see Skander right away. But Kate said he should wait. Hawthorne was angry and he needed time to calm himself. They had talked about Pendergast’s accusations all the way back from Vermont: whether they were true, whether they were exaggerated, whether they were even worse than Pendergast had said. Hawthorne hadn’t recognized the name Peter Roberts; Kate found it familiar. Not only did Hawthorne feel betrayed by Skander, he felt he had been made a fool of.

They were standing in the parking lot by Kate’s small green Honda. The sky was overcast and it seemed to be already getting dark. “I’m as upset as you are,” Kate said. “They should all be in jail. Not just Pendergast—Fritz and Roger, too, if he’s telling the truth. But it makes more sense to wait till you have enough to take to the police. You don’t know what Skander might do if you frighten him.”

“I’d still like to hear his reaction to some of this. Anyway, I’m glad you came with me to Vermont.”

She stared back at him without speaking. He thought how large her eyes looked. Without any plan, he reached out and pressed his hand to her cheek. It was Kate’s own face he felt, not anyone else’s. He was almost sure of it. She continued looking at him and he could see the question forming in her dark eyes.

—

Hawthorne returned to his office and spent an hour going over the student files. There was no trace of Peter Roberts, but then, why would there be if Pendergast was right? Hawthorne would have to ask the other teachers if they had heard of him. Then he studied the other names and tried to recall the names of students that he knew. Were there others who weren’t listed? He couldn’t tell. Then he went over the accounts, adding up items that had apparently been ordered but were nowhere to be found. Had Fritz really faked the order for a three-hundred-dollar trombone?

Students were leaving. Several parents wanted to talk to Hawthorne and he spoke to them in his office. Hilda showed them in with little trace of her former good humor. She glanced nervously at the stacks of papers on Hawthorne’s desk and tried to see what was on the computer monitor before he shut it off.

Parents were concerned about the school and their children’s safety. Hawthorne said he expected that the police would soon make an arrest. He talked about the two new psychologists who would be joining the staff in January. He felt as much a hypocrite as Lloyd Pendergast, trying to be hearty and full of optimism, but Bishop’s Hill would have no chance of surviving if half the student body withdrew over Christmas vacation. That would be playing into Hamilton Burke’s hands. And Hawthorne was sure an arrest would be made shortly, though he still found it hard to believe that Larry Gaudette was the killer. Beyond that, however, was the possibility of other scandals—Pendergast and Skander and Roger Bennett. Pendergast was right, the papers would have a field day.

Later in the afternoon Hawthorne taught his history class. Only four students showed up. They discussed fear and how fear could increase without there being any real cause. They talked about their feelings and their grief.

“All I know,” said Tommy Peters, “is that I’ll be awfully glad to get on that bus on Friday.”

After class Hawthorne returned to his office. He tried to go over the accounts once again but he couldn’t keep his mind on anything. Hilda had left early and there was only the faint smell of peppermint drops to indicate that she had been there at all. Before dinner he visited the dormitory cottages, chatting with the students and trying to keep their spirits up. Then he went to the library, which was empty except for Bill Dolittle.

“We might as well have sent them home days ago,” said Dolittle.

Hawthorne still hadn’t talked to him about moving more furniture into the empty apartment in Stark Hall. Even if Dolittle was ineffectual, he was at least friendly.

“It will be over soon,” said Hawthorne.

“Storms must be weathered,” said Dolittle. “At least that’s what they say.”

Fewer than sixty people were at dinner, half the usual number. Gene Strauss and Alice Beech joined Hawthorne at the headmaster’s table, along with two students. Usually during dinner there was talking and laughter, but tonight it was quiet. Hawthorne wished there were at least music and he imagined funereal organ music and almost smiled. Neither Skander nor Bennett came to dinner, although Bennett’s wife, the chaplain, sat at the head of one of the student tables. From the kitchen came the sound of pots crashing and once a broken plate. The student waiters were jumpy and moved too quickly. Hawthorne restrained himself from going into the kitchen and speaking to LeBrun. About ten minutes after dinner had begun, Jessica Weaver came in and sat at a table with Tom Hastings and two girls. Students were expected to be on time for meals, but no one seemed even to notice Jessica’s arrival. Hawthorne tried to make conversation with his colleagues and the students, but he kept thinking about Pendergast’s accusations and what he would say to Fritz Skander. Toward the end of the meal a state trooper looked into the dining hall, then went out again.

After dinner Hawthorne decided to visit Skander. He still couldn’t quite reconcile the Skander he thought he knew with the one in Pendergast’s stories. Even if he didn’t tell Fritz all that Pendergast had said, he might form some idea of the truth. After all, he was a clinical psychologist, a trained listener. Therefore, around seven, he walked over to Skander’s house. The paths had been shoveled but there was still a foot of snow on the ground. It was cold and no stars could be seen. A small road curved past the dormitory cottages and faculty houses, with lights every ten yards. Skander’s house was about a hundred yards past the farthest cottage, just fifty yards from the woods.

Hawthorne climbed the steps. The porch light was out and he felt around for the doorbell. The air had that damp feeling it gets before snow.

Hilda answered the door. She was hesitant about letting Hawthorne come in. “Fritz is working.” She appeared to hope that Hawthorne would apologize and say that whatever he wanted could wait until morning. A dog was barking in a farther room.