Others had spoken. Skander told how he and Evings had both come to Bishop’s Hill exactly twenty years earlier. He had little to say beyond that numerical fact except that Evings had become a “fixture” and “one of those quiet people upon whom I had come to depend.” Tom Hastings, stuttering only a little, had spoken of a weekly chess game that he and Clifford played for years. Bill Dolittle had spoken of Evings’s love of books. But in none of these descriptions did Hawthorne see the frightened and desperate man he had come to know in the past two months. There was no mention of someone’s trashing his office only a week earlier or of Evings’s having taken his own life. And Hawthorne asked himself what the students thought of such a veneer of praise or if these pieties were just something they had come to expect.

Tank cleared his throat. “I can’t say that I knew Mr. Evings very well,” he began. He stuck a finger under the collar of his white shirt and pulled. “But he was certainly Shepherd’s main man. Like, he was in charge and he was a pretty good guy and if any of us wanted something, Mr. Evings was usually there to help or he could tell us who to see. And he never got angry. If someone broke something or if there was too much noise, he would come downstairs in his slippers and say, ‘Gentlemen, if you please.’ Then he would go back upstairs. And once when I was wrestling around with Charlie Penrose, he came downstairs and asked us to cool it. Then he sat with us until we’d settled down and asked if we wanted a cup of tea. I don’t know, it’s pretty lousy that he’s dead.”

Although Tank never described Evings as ineffectual, that was the idea that came across: Evings was a nice man who did as little as possible and let the students run Shepherd as they wished so long as they weren’t troublesome and there was no fuss. It seemed clear to Hawthorne and perhaps others that whatever discipline existed in Shepherd came from Tank Donoso and his dope slaps. Hawthorne noticed that several of the faculty were dozing, while a number of students were using the occasion to finish their homework. Scott McKinnon was staring up at the stained-glass image of Isaac and Abraham. Jessica Weaver seemed to be writing something. Then Hawthorne’s eyes came to rest on Kate just a few feet away in the front row. She wore a dark blue dress with a string of lapis lazuli beads around her neck. Her dark hair hung loose and the strip of white shone in the light of the morning sun. Her legs were crossed and as she watched Tank her right foot twitched nervously. Hawthorne thought how attractive she looked and of what he had told her on Tuesday night. His face burned at the memory. He hadn’t spoken to her since and he felt the awful vulnerability of someone who has at last revealed all his secrets. He felt certain she must despise him.

For another five minutes Tank ground on, trying to pick his words and avoid his dated rap-singer slang. He described how Evings had once helped him with an English paper, how he had introduced Evings to his parents. Hawthorne was touched by Tank’s efforts to achieve some level of decorum. A cloud briefly obscured the sun and the light shining through the windows faded, darkening the faces of the faculty and students. Then the light returned as Tank reached the end of his talk and hurried down the stairs out of the pulpit, obviously glad that his ordeal was over. Bobby Newland was waiting at the bottom. His round face expressed an eagerness that caught Hawthorne’s attention.

Bobby wore a dark suit and bright red tie. As soon as Tank was out of the way, he quickly climbed the steps. Then he stood with his hands gripping the lectern as he looked out at the audience with his head slightly tilted back so his goatee seemed aimed at the men and women in front of him. He didn’t speak. Hawthorne began to count the seconds. Slowly, he saw faculty and students alike stop what they were doing and look up. Frank LeBrun was sitting on the top step by the door with his elbows on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands.

After another minute Bobby began to speak, raising his voice and precisely articulating each word. “Clifford was my lover. We met nearly three years ago in Edgartown, where I was working in a restaurant. He brought me to Bishop’s Hill and had me hired as a psychological counselor. He was the kindest man I’ve ever known and you killed him.”

There was an immediate stirring. A few faculty members called out some words of protest. Hawthorne saw LeBrun get to his feet. The Reverend Bennett leaned forward and gasped.

“Whoever wrecked Clifford’s office as good as murdered him,” Bobby continued above the noise, “but that wasn’t the beginning. Ever since September people have been telling Clifford that he was about to be fired. These were men and women who pretended to be his friends. At first I thought it was true, that Dr. Hawthorne meant to get rid of Clifford as soon as possible. Isn’t that what you told me? You, Hastings and Bennett and Chip Campbell? And there were others. You know who you are. I even heard it from students. ‘Old Evings is about to be shit-canned,’ one boy told me. Why did you do it? He deserved better than to be stuck here at this shitheap, but this was the only place he had. You tormented him and terrified him till he couldn’t stand it anymore. Wrecking his office was the last straw. Can’t you see your crime? Can’t you see that you killed him?”

By now Bobby was weeping and Hawthorne was standing below the pulpit. In the back, Bennett was holding onto LeBrun’s arm, as if LeBrun meant to rush down to the altar. Students were on their feet. Chief Moulton seemed calm, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed.

“G-get him out of there,” shouted Hastings from the front row.

The Reverend Bennett crossed in front of the altar to Hawthorne. “Make him stop.”

Hawthorne looked at Skander, who was bent over with one hand across his eyes.

“Bobby,” said Hawthorne, “come down from there.”

Bobby looked down at Hawthorne with surprise. He glanced quickly out into the chapel. “Damn you,” he shouted, “damn each one of you!” Then he hurried down the steps, half stumbling so Hawthorne had to catch his arm. They stood facing each other with Hawthorne still supporting the other man. Bobby’s face was wet with tears. A small door was positioned to the side of the altar under the painting of Ambrose Stark. Bobby pulled away from Hawthorne and left the chapel.

Hawthorne climbed the steps of the pulpit. Looking out, he noticed a range of emotions, from anger to grief, surprise to remorse. Somebody whistled and students banged the pews. Prayer books and hymnals fell to the floor. Several of the faculty were trying to speak; most of them were standing.

Hawthorne held up his hand for silence. He saw LeBrun talking angrily to Bennett. Slowly the noise lessened. “Please sit down,” said Hawthorne. Beneath him the chaplain moved back to her chair, her white robes billowing around her in the breeze from the small choir door that Bobby had left open.

Hawthorne waited a moment, then began to speak. “I don’t know why Clifford Evings committed suicide,” he said. “He left no note. He was about to begin a two-month paid leave of absence. Instead, he chose to kill himself. It’s true he was frightened and his fear had become a sickness. And it’s also true that, intentionally or not, certain people had scared him, and the vandalizing of his office absolutely terrified him. I don’t know who did that, but the police are investigating and whoever is responsible will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

Hawthorne paused again. He could feel the attention of the students and faculty fixed upon him. “I didn’t know Clifford very well. He wasn’t particularly effective at his job and he felt guilt about taking the school’s money and giving little in return. Eventually, I would have urged him to retire, but I wouldn’t have fired him. Whatever his failings, the school had a certain responsibility. I don’t know why people told him he was about to be fired, except that it was one more example of the malice and gossip that I have seen since I arrived at Bishop’s Hill. Most assuredly, Clifford was its victim.