During the afternoon the Reverend Bennett told Hawthorne that Bill Dolittle was moving furniture into the empty apartment in Stark Hall. “And I hear him pacing above me,” she said. “I didn’t realize that you had given him permission to move in. I hate to think of the racket he’s going to make.”

Hawthorne went to look for Dolittle in the library and found him organizing the bookshelves. Dolittle’s face lit up when he saw Hawthorne. “Have you heard something from the board?”

Hawthorne said that he hadn’t. “I’ve heard you’ve been moving furniture into the apartment.” They stood among the stacks. All the books looked dusty and old.

“That’s not quite accurate. I only took a single chair, not even a comfortable chair.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, there’s no furniture in the apartment and after I clean I like to sit a little and look out the window. There’s a wonderful view, especially at sunset. Did you know there are three rooms as well as a kitchenette: I can walk from one side to another. It’s not roomy, of course, but there’s lots of space.”

Hawthorne thought of Dolittle living in his small apartment in Latham for eight years. “Really, Bill, none of this is settled. We’ve no idea what the board will say. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t move anything else up there.”

Monday night Hawthorne telephoned Kate around eight-thirty, asking if he could come over. He had seen her during the day but they had exchanged only a few words. It had even occurred to Hawthorne that she was avoiding him.

He listened to her breathing. And he could hear a television somewhere in the background—a burst of artificial laughter.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” said Kate. “I’m still trying to think through some stuff.”

“Is it what I told you when I was at your house?”

“I’m just not sure how much I want to complicate my life.”

“I’d like to see you.” Hawthorne meant to say that he needed to see her, but he couldn’t let himself be that explicit. He stood in his living room and thought how empty it was. There were still small feathers on the chairs and rug.

“I’d rather you didn’t. At least that’s what I think right now. I don’t know, it’s all very confusing. Your life’s full of ghosts.”

After hanging up, Hawthorne put on his boots and heavy coat, grabbed a flashlight, and walked for several hours through the snow until he felt exhausted. He thought of the ghosts that populated his head. And wasn’t one of them the person he used to be, the ambitious and self-confident clinical psychologist who believed he could do no wrong?

On Tuesday Hawthorne worked steadily in his office except for the hour he taught his history class in the afternoon. There were parents he had to write to and accounts he had to go over. In class, Scott’s absence made everybody somber and little attention was paid to the Byzantine emperors. Hawthorne also had to telephone the trustees, and it seemed there might be a meeting. The school was supposed to close for Christmas vacation on Friday the eighteenth, and several trustees thought it might be wise to close earlier so that students could deal with their grief at home.

One of the trustees was a dean at Dartmouth, Carolyn Forster. Hawthorne had met her a few times at conferences when he had lived in Boston and it was Dr. Forster whom he had called from San Diego to say that he was interested in the position at Bishop’s Hill. She was a humorless woman in her early sixties who had never married. Her father had graduated from Bishop’s Hill in 1924 and she had worked hard to keep the school open.

After talking to her about Scott’s death and the possibility of closing the school early, Hawthorne asked, “When the board decided to initiate a search for a new headmaster, I gather it wasn’t a unanimous choice. What were the other alternatives?”

Dr. Forster was silent for a moment. “It wasn’t certain that the problems at the school could be solved by a new headmaster, no matter how good, or by an increased financial commitment. Some of the board felt we were merely putting off the inevitable.”

“And what did they suggest instead?”

“They believed we should look into the possibility of selling the school.”

“Who thought this?”

“I expect many of us, though those members of the board who are alumni were the ones most solidly against it. And several others believed the school could still be saved.”

“Do you remember who in particular wanted to sell the school?”

Dr. Forster cleared her throat. She had a deep voice for a woman and the practiced manner of someone with more than thirty years of experience in academic meetings. “You realize, of course, that once we decided to go ahead with the search and you were selected, then the board was entirely unanimous in your behalf.”

“Yes, but earlier, who spoke in favor of selling?”

“There were three, maybe four. I don’t know how strongly each one felt, but the most critical, I expect, was Hamilton Burke. He said that you don’t treat a terminally ill patient with Band-Aids and Mercurochrome.”

After his class on Tuesday Hawthorne spent several hours on the computer in his office going over school expenses and revenues. There seemed to have been payments for purchases that hadn’t been received, or at least there was no sign of their having arrived—a commercial toaster for the kitchen, athletic equipment, office materials, even a trombone for the band. Hawthorne tried checking the paper files in the file cabinet but he still couldn’t find an answer. Three times he called Skander to ask about certain discrepancies, but Skander was in conference or had gone home. When he finally called back, he said he would check his records and talk to the bookkeeper in the morning.

“I must say that I’m pleased that you’re such a stickler for detail,” said Skander, cheerfully. “It makes me far more optimistic that we’ll all still be here in ten years’ time.”

“That’s a five-hundred-dollar toaster. What do you think happened to it?”

“Oh, it will turn up,” said Skander breezily. “Things always do.”

Not for the first time Hawthorne regretted the absence of Mrs. Hayes, who had known so much about the workings of the school. Even though she hadn’t handled school finances, very little had escaped her notice. Hilda Skander, while she knew about computers, didn’t know much else, although she took calls, answered letters, and made sure that the office was stocked with Bishop’s Hill stationery.

Shortly after five o’clock on Tuesday Hawthorne went looking for Roger Bennett, first going to his office, then checking the teachers’ lounge, then the Dugout, and finally Stark Hall, where the Bennetts’ apartment took up five rooms on the first floor. It was already dark and the sky was clear. The moon was cresting the mountains to the northwest.

Hawthorne waited in the small vestibule at the bottom of the stairs. After a minute or two, Roger opened the door. If he was surprised to see Hawthorne, he gave no sign of it. He put a finger to his lips. “My wife has her Bible study class.”

“I need to talk to you,” said Hawthorne. “We can go into the chapel.” A door in the vestibule connected to a changing room off the choir.

“Can it wait? I hate to miss her classes. I find them so comforting.” Bennett wore a gray sweater, khakis, and brown penny loafers. He leaned back against his door with his hands in his pockets. A lock of hair formed a blond fishhook across his forehead.

“Let’s do it now,” said Hawthorne as he opened the door to the changing room and continued on to the chapel. After a slight pause, Bennett followed him. Rosalind Langdon was practicing the organ. Hawthorne didn’t think it was Bach. Perhaps Handel. It was muted and continuous like water flowing. Hawthorne saw a light in the organ loft. The rest of the chapel was lit by the golden chandeliers, which were turned down low, putting the far corners in shadow. Hawthorne sat down in a pew in the first row and waited for Bennett to join him. In the dim light the ceiling was nearly invisible.