“I could tell that something was bothering him.”

Hawthorne, who had made many such explanations to himself, felt well acquainted with the if-only-I-had-done-such-and-such type of thinking. “I wonder if Scott called anyone else?”

Kate shook her head. “Do you really think Larry killed him?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe it.” They were silent a moment. Hawthorne sipped his coffee, which tasted burned.

“I’m sorry I said I didn’t want to see you the other night,” Kate said quickly. “I know you’re going through a lot.”

“I didn’t blame you. After what I told you . . .”

Kate lowered her voice. “It wasn’t that. The whole thing is just so complicated.”

“My life is full of ghosts.”

“I should never have said that.”

“I’m afraid I still want to come over. I want it more every time I see you.”

Kate reached out her hand and placed it on Hawthorne’s. Looking at him, her eyes flickered across his face as if she were trying to memorize it.

Hawthorne put his other hand over hers. First he looked into Kate’s face, then he glanced away. Across the room, he saw Frankfurter and Hastings watching them. They had faint smiles. Hawthorne began to remove his hand from Kate’s, then he didn’t.

—

Hawthorne planned to call a faculty meeting as soon as the students were gone, and he asked Hilda to put notices in the faculty mailboxes that a meeting would be held in Memorial Hall on the second floor of Emerson at 10 a.m. on Monday the fourteenth—just over a week away. “Say it’s compulsory,” he told her.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Hilda said.

But Hawthorne insisted. He would use the meeting to describe all that had happened: the appearances of Ambrose Stark, the phone calls, the bags of food. He would accuse Bennett, Chip Campbell, and others of lying to Mrs. Hayes and forcing her from the school, of telling Clifford Evings that he was about to be fired. Then there were the criminal offenses: wrecking Evings’s office and supplying Jessica Weaver with tequila. He hoped he could make Bennett and Herb Frankfurter resign. He imagined wiping the slate clean.

Even though the presence of the police was a continual reminder of Scott’s death, there was still the school’s daily routine to take care of. Hawthorne suspended the twice-weekly meetings in which he and the faculty discussed the students. On the other hand, the expanded counseling sessions required careful orchestrating and the teachers needed some advice on how to organize their classes until the eleventh if little or no academic work was being done. In his history class the quizzes he had planned had to be postponed. Hawthorne had meant to talk about Justinian the Great, but if the students wished instead to talk about Scott McKinnon, Larry Gaudette, or the presence of the police, then that’s what would be discussed.

In addition, supplies had to be ordered, bills had to be paid. LeBrun needed help dealing with local food vendors and the bookkeeping. And Hawthorne was still trying to trace certain items that had been ordered and paid for but apparently never delivered. After some searching, the commercial toaster was found in a stockroom off the kitchen. But why it had never been put into use Hawthorne didn’t know.

As for the three-hundred-dollar trombone, there was no trace of it.

“We already have four trombones,” Rosalind Langdon had told him. “Why would I order another? Only two are being played as it is.”

And Skander said, “I always confuse the trombone with the French horn. Do you think the supplier could have made a similar mistake?”

On Wednesday and Thursday nights Hawthorne had searched the attics of Adams, Douglas, and Hamilton Halls. He told people he was looking for the portrait of Ambrose Stark that had been taken from Evings’s office. He made sure his searches were noticed, then he waited for some response. By Friday a number of the faculty were talking about it—their eccentric headmaster prowling the attics with a flashlight. Because of the police investigation, Hawthorne’s actions were thought to be connected to Scott’s murder and Gaudette’s disappearance. Indeed, on Friday morning Hawthorne had even told Hilda that he believed something significant might be hidden in one of the attics.

That afternoon, Skander dropped by the office looking for an explanation.

“What are you really doing up there?” Skander asked. He spoke lightly, as if Hawthorne were involved in some kind of practical joke. “Have you been reading Sherlock Holmes? I’m not sure that the role of detective suits you.”

“I’d rather not say right now,” Hawthorne told him. “Wait until the faculty meeting on the fourteenth and expect some surprises.”

Skander looked doubtful. “It seems we’ve had enough surprises.”

“I’d just like to do everything I can to help the police investigation.”

“Ah, so you plan to be a detective after all,” said Skander. He rubbed the top of his head and seemed about to say more, then he abruptly shifted to another subject. “Have you given Bill Dolittle permission to move into that empty apartment in Stark?”

“I told him there was no possibility of such a move until we find someone to take his place in Latham. I’ve been quite clear about that.”

“Well, he’s moving in furniture.” Skander stood in front of Hawthorne’s desk.

“Just a chair.” Hawthorne paused. “And a book.”

“I heard that he also moved in a lamp. I know that Bill’s a great fan of yours but he hardly earns his keep. His two English classes are a disgrace. He does little more than read to his students for the entire period—Raymond Chandler, P. G. Wodehouse, Philip K. Dick. Those are his particular favorites. As for the library, it’s in total disarray. If Bill’s been stuck in Latham for eight years, it’s only because he deserves no better. Old Pendergast absolutely despised him, and in my brief tenure as headmaster I came to share his feelings. I hate to criticize a colleague but I know he’s pulling the wool over your eyes. Really, Jim, you’re too softhearted. Now that Bill’s got his foot in the door at Stark, he’ll be impossible to dislodge.”

Although Hawthorne was beginning to share Skander’s feeling, he at first said nothing. Again, he wondered if he had been blinding himself to Dolittle’s inadequacies out of gratitude for his support.

“I’ll speak to him about it.”

—

Saturday night Hawthorne went through the attic of Emerson Hall. It had been a long day, during which he had met with Lieutenant Sloan, several trustees, the psychologists from Mary Hitchcock, and Ruth Standish, who had been working with them. He had also spoken with Gene Strauss about the effect of Scott’s murder on applications. Strauss apologized for bringing up his concern so soon after the death, but he dreaded the damage that it would inflict on enrollment. Already Strauss had heard from several parents that their children wouldn’t be returning after Christmas vacation. In the evening, Hawthorne had finally been able to sit for an hour in his new chair, just thinking. He had meant to think about Scott and his possible connection to Gaudette. Instead he thought about Kate and how her hand had felt against his.

About 10 p.m. Hawthorne put on his overcoat, fetched his flashlight, and went out into the dark. As he walked over to Emerson, he ran into Floyd Purvis, who had become more active as a watchman since the police had been at the school.

“You want me to come along?” Purvis asked halfheartedly.

Hawthorne said he’d be fine by himself.

“Watch out for rats,” Purvis warned.

Hawthorne climbed the front steps of Emerson and unlocked the door. There had been snow flurries all day and the night was cloudy. He wiped his feet on the mat and flashed his light around the rotunda. In the middle of the floor, the gold letters B and H of the school crest sparkled as he moved his light across them. Just beyond the rotunda the shadows skittered away, then re-formed themselves. There was no wind and the building was still. Hawthorne pointed his light upward. It was at least fifty feet to the ceiling beneath the bell tower and the light could barely distinguish it.