After Hawthorne and Kate had been up in the bell tower for nearly an hour, he opened the trap door and they descended the spiral staircase to the fourth-floor attic, going around and around in the dim light that filtered through louvers on the tower windows. At the bottom was the door separating the staircase from the attic. It had two dead-bolt locks so students couldn’t go into the tower and “fool around,” as Skander said. Hawthorne had locked one of the bolts behind them before going up into the tower, he was certain of it, but now as he inserted the key he found the door was open.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kate.

“I thought I had locked this. I must have been mistaken.”

“Who has keys?”

“I thought I had the only set. Maybe there are others in the office.”

They ducked through the low door. Hawthorne locked it and they descended to the third floor, where they stood for a moment at the low wall of the rotunda, looking down. Hawthorne wondered again about the unlocked door and what it might mean. A student hurried across the open space with a backpack slung over his shoulder, carefully stepping around the blue-and-gold crest with the letters B and H. Then the bell rang, signaling the end of fifth period. Doors began opening and voices rose toward them. Hawthorne and Kate continued down to the first floor to resume the business of their day.

—

When Hawthorne got back to his office he found Hilda Skander standing at the door waiting for him. She put a finger to her lips and pointed toward his inner office. “Reverend Bennett would like a word with you,” she said. “I told her to go in. I hope you don’t mind.” Hilda wore a denim skirt and a green sweater. The air around her reeked of peppermint.

“Of course not.” Hawthorne took off his overcoat, which Hilda hung in the closet.

“She seems very businesslike,” said Hilda. “You know, on a mission.”

Entering his office, Hawthorne found the chaplain studying the photograph of Meg and Lily posed in front of the Christmas tree.

“They were very pretty,” she said somewhat stiffly, as if annoyed to be caught snooping. She put the photograph back on the desk.

“Yes,” said Hawthorne, “they were.” He couldn’t think of more to say beyond that. “You have something you want to talk to me about?”

The chaplain sat down in the chair by the desk. She wore a gray blouse with a clerical collar and a voluminous skirt of a darker gray. She took off her rimless glasses and polished them on a handkerchief as Hawthorne sat down at his desk.

“It’s this business about Clifford. The students are quite worked up about it. And that policeman from Brewster has been asking questions. I can’t help but think that Clifford brought this on himself.” She tucked her handkerchief back in her breast pocket, then fussed with it for a moment to make sure that the point stuck up in the exact center.

“In what way?” asked Hawthorne, watching her straighten her handkerchief.

The chaplain gave him a forced smile. She spoke slowly, as if she felt that Hawthorne would otherwise have difficulty understanding. “Well, certainly he’s unpopular and there have been stories in the past about him being involved with students, though quite a few years ago. True or not, these get handed on. And you have to admit that he’s ineffectual: from what I hear he regularly falls asleep in your group therapy sessions. Then there’s his homosexuality.”

“What about his homosexuality?” Hawthorne had had few dealings with the chaplain. Her wish to control whatever came within her circle of influence, her air of disapproval—Hawthorne felt his task would be easier if he stayed out of her path. He knew she worked hard and was popular with some students. She taught a class in biblical history and another in comparative religion. And she led a weekly Bible study group that was attended not only by students but also by a few faculty and staff.

The chaplain touched her hair. Its wispy gray strands reminded Hawthorne of smoke and he observed the pinkness of her scalp beneath it. She wore no makeup and her face had a claylike pallor. On her left wrist was a gold Omega watch.

“It gets in the way of his effectiveness. Of course, Clifford makes no secret of being gay. That seems to be the current fashion. But unfortunately the students think of him as a homosexual before they think of him as a psychologist. And his manner is so . . . unattractive. Believe me, you’ve done very well at Bishop’s Hill, but now we have prospective students visiting with their parents. And this business of his office being vandalized is simply the last straw. Who knows what he did to cause some student to react so violently? I think it would be wise if you did for him what you did for Mrs. Hayes.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“I think you should let him go.”

“I didn’t fire Mrs. Hayes, she resigned.”

“I know that’s what you’ve been saying . . .”

Hawthorne nearly lost his temper. Reaching into the drawer of his desk, he withdrew a copy of Mrs. Hayes’s resignation letter and handed it to the chaplain.

The Reverend Bennett glanced at the letter and returned it. “You must know, of course, that copies of this have been circulating. Some people say that she wrote it after she had been promised a retirement package.”

Hawthorne hadn’t realized the letter had become public. “Good grief, Reverend, if I say she resigned, she resigned. Why do you insist on thinking I’m not telling the truth?”

The chaplain became red in the face. “Do you deny you fired Chip Campbell?”

“That’s very different. He gave me cause. I twice caught him being violent to students. And I’ve since learned of other incidents.”

“It can easily be argued that Clifford’s ineffectuality is cause. He doesn’t do his job. The students have no respect for him—he’s a joke to them. As for the vandalism of his office, many think he deserved it.”

It occurred to Hawthorne that the chaplain had no belief in psychology. She believed in morality alone—right and wrong without gray areas or gradations. The God that occupied her heaven was a harsh divinity who toted up a person’s sins and after a certain number booted the unfortunate sinner down to hell.

When he spoke again, Hawthorne tried to soften his voice. “I can’t fire Clifford and I have no wish to. The board of trustees makes the ultimate decision on all firings, just as it did with Chip. We’re going through a difficult transitional period. This requires patience. Right now Clifford has a great deal of anxiety and the gossip doesn’t help. But soon I hope he’ll settle down. The person who deserves punishment is whoever wrecked his office. Not Clifford.”

“You know, of course, the vandalism could occur again.”

“We’ll be on the lookout. And if the person is caught, then he’ll be punished.”

But when the chaplain finally left, Hawthorne knew she hadn’t believed him. She took it for granted that he had unlimited power. And Hawthorne knew that if she herself had unlimited power, Evings would be gone in a shot. She would have no qualms about dismissing him. Mercy wasn’t a quality that the Reverend Bennett valued. And me too, thought Hawthorne, I’d be gone as well. But he felt troubled about Evings. He didn’t much like the man and Evings was doing a bad job. On the other hand, he was also suffering—both from his guilt at his failure as school psychologist and his anxiety about being fired. Then there was the destruction of his office.

Hawthorne looked forward to hiring a second psychologist, someone who could take over the burden of the work. Already ads had been placed. Once the new person arrived, Evings could be left to drowse in his overheated office with his novels. Next fall, if the school was still open, Hawthorne would talk to him about early retirement. In the meantime, Hawthorne again had to reassure Evings that his job was safe. He had to reduce the man’s panic.