Rey stood up when two men entered the room. One had a flowing beard and a dignity that made him appear quite tall, although he was of average height; his companion was a stout, confident man, with walrus tusks swinging as though to introduce themselves first. This was James Russell Lowell, who paused for a long gaping moment, then rushed forward.

He laughed with the smugness of advance knowledge. “Longfellow, wouldn’t you know I’ve read everything about this chap in the freemen’s newspaper! He was a hero in the Negro regiment, the Fifty-fourth, and Andrew appointed him to the police department the week of President Lincoln’s death. What an honor to meet you, my friend!”

“Fifty-fifth regiment, Professor Lowell, the sister regiment. Thank you,” Rey said. “Professor Longfellow, I apologize for taking you away from your company.”

“We have just finished the serious portion, Officer,” Longfellow said, smiling, “and Mister shall do nicely.” His silver hair and loose beard lent him a patriarchal manner befitting someone older than fifty-eight. The eyes were blue and ageless. Longfellow wore an impeccable dark frock coat with gilt buttons and a buff waistcoat fitted to his form. “I wore out my professor’s gown years ago now, and Professor Lowell has taken it up in my stead.”

“But I still cannot get used to that confounded title,” muttered Lowell.

Rey turned to him. “A young lady at your house kindly directed me here. She said you would not be caught in a gunshot of anywhere else but here on a Wednesday evening.”

“Ah, that would be my Mabel!” Lowell laughed. “She did not throw you out, did she?”

Rey smiled. “She is a most charming young lady, sir. I was sent to you, Professor, from University Hall.”

Lowell looked stunned. “What?” he whispered. Then he exploded, his cheeks and ears baked a hot burgundy and his voice scorching his own throat: “They sent a police officer! With what possible justification? Are they not men who can speak their own minds without pulling the wires of some City Hall marionette! Explain yourself, sir!”

Rey remained as still as the marble statue of Longfellow’s wife by the fireplace.

Longfellow draped a hand on his friend’s sleeve. “You see, Officer, Professor Lowell is kind enough to assist me, along with some of our colleagues, in a literary endeavor of sorts that does not presently meet with the favor of members of the College government. But is that why…”

“My apologies,” the policeman said, allowing his gaze to loiter on the first man who had spoken, whose redness drained from his face as abruptly as it had appeared. “I called on University Hall, not the other way around. You see, I’m in search of an expert in languages and was given your name by some students there.”

“Then, Officer, my apologies,” said Lowell. “But you are lucky you’ve found me. I can speak six languages like a native—of Cambridge.” The poet laughed and rested the paper that Rey passed to him on Longfellow’s rosewood marquetry desk. He ran his finger across the slanted, scrawled lettering.

Rey saw Lowell’s high forehead furrow into creases. “A gentleman said some words to me. It was softly spoken, whatever he meant to communicate, and all rather sudden. I can only conclude it was in some strange and foreign tongue.”

“When?” Lowell asked.

“A few weeks ago. It was a strange and unexpected encounter.” Rey allowed his eyes to shut. He remembered the whisperer’s grip stretch across his skull. He could hear the words form so distinctly, but was without the power to repeat any of them. “I fear mine is only a rough transcription, Professor.”

“A choke-pear, indeed!” Lowell said as he passed the paper to Longfellow. “I’m afraid that little can be made from this hieroglyphic. Can you not ask the person what he meant? Or at least find out what language he purports to speak?”

Rey hesitated to answer.

Longfellow said, “Officer, we have a cabinet of hungry scholars locked away whose wisdom might be bribed with oysters and macaroni. Would you be kind enough to leave a copy of this paper with us?”

“I greatly appreciate it, Mr. Longfellow,” said Rey. He studied the poets before adding, “I must request that you not mention to anyone outside yourselves my visit today. This deals with a delicate police matter.”

Lowell raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“Of course,” Longfellow said, and bowed his head in a nod, as though that trust were implicit inside Craigie House.

“Do keep the good godson of Cerberus away from the table tonight, my dear Longfellow!” Fields was tucking a napkin into his shirt collar. They were settled in their places around the dining room table. Trap protested with a quiet whine.

“Oh, he is quite a friend to poets, Fields,” Longfellow said.

“Ah! You should have seen it last week, Mr. Greene,” said Fields. “While you were holed up in your bed, that friendly fellow helped himself to a partridge from the supper table when we were in the study with the eleventh canto!”

“That was only his view of the Divine Comedy,” Longfellow said, smiling.

“A strange encounter,” said Holmes, vaguely interested. “That is what the police officer said of it?” He was studying the policeman’s note, holding it under the chandelier’s warm lights and turning it over before passing it on.

Lowell nodded. “Like Nimrod, whatever our Officer Rey heard is like all the gigantic infancy of the world.”

“I partly wish to say the writing is a poor attempt at Italian.” George Washington Greene shrugged apologetically and yielded the note to Fields with a windy sigh.

The historian returned his concentration to his meal. He grew self-conscious when, the Dante Club having shelved its books in exchange for supper-table banter, he had to compete with the bright stars that inhabited Longfellow’s social constellation. Greene’s life had been cobbled together of small promise and great setbacks. His public lectures had never been strong enough to secure him a professorship, and his work as a minister never denfined enough to allow him to gain his own parish (his lectures, detractors said, were too sermonizing and his sermons too historical). Longfellow watched his old friend faithfully and sent choice portions across the table that he thought Greene would prefer.

“Patrolman Rey,” said Lowell admiringly. “The very image of a man, isn’t he, Longfellow? A soldier in our greatest war and now the first colored member of the police. Alas, we professors just stand on the gangway, watching the few who take the voyage on the steamer.”

“Oh, but we shall live much longer through our intellectual pursuits,” said Holmes, “according to an article in the last number of the Atlantic concerning learning’s salutary effects on longevity. Compliments on another fine issue, my dear Fields.”

“Yes, I saw that! An excellent piece. Make much of that young author, Fields,” said Lowell.

“Hmm.” Fields smiled at him. “Apparently, I should consult with you before letting any writer put pen to paper. The Review certainly made short work of our Life of Percival A stranger might well wonder that you don’t show me slightly more consideration!”

“Fields, I give no puffs for mere mush,” said Lowell. “You know better than to publish a book which is not only poor in itself but will stand in the way of a better work on the subject.”

“I ask the table whether it is right for Lowell to publish in The North American Review, one of my periodicals, an attack on one of my house’s books!”

“Well, I ask in return,” Lowell said, “if anyone here has read the book and disputed my findings.”

“I would venture a resounding no for the entire table,” Fields submitted, “for I assure you that from the day Lowell’s article appeared, not a single copy of the book has been sold!”