“As did Grifone Lonza when he killed himself at the station house,” said Lowell. “The poor soul saw Dante in everything. This time he happened to be right. I have often thought, in like manner, of Dante’s own transformation. The mind of the poet, left homeless on earth by his enemies, making its home more and more in that awful otherworld. Is it not natural that exiled from all he loved in this life, he would brood exclusively on the next? We praise him lavishly for his skills, but Dante Alighieri had no choice but to write the poem he did, and to write in his heart’s blood. It is no wonder he died so soon after he finished.”

“What shall Officer Rey do with his knowledge of our involvement?” Longfellow asked.

Holmes shrugged. “We withheld information. We obstructed an investigation into the two most horrendous murders Boston has ever seen, which now have become three! Rey may very well be turning us and Dante in as we speak! What loyalty does he have to a book of poetry? How much should we have?”

Holmes pushed himself to his feet and, pulling at the waist of his baggy pantaloons, paced nervously. Fields raised his head from his hands when he realized Holmes was gathering his hat and coat.

“I wanted to share what I have learned,” Holmes said in a soft, dead voice. “I cannot continue.”

“You’ll rest now,” Fields began.

Holmes shook his head. “No, my dear Fields, not just tonight.”

“What?” Lowell cried.

“Holmes,” Longfellow said. “I know this seems unanswerable, but it behooves us to fight.”

“You can’t just walk away from this anyhow!” Lowell shouted. With his voice filling their space, he felt powerful again. “We’ve gone too far, Holmes!”

“We had gone too far from the beginning, too far from where we belong—yes, Jamey. I’m sorry,” Holmes said calmly. “I know not what Patrolman Rey shall decide, but I shall cooperate in any fashion he wishes and I expect the same from you. I only pray we are not taken in for obstruction—or worse—accessory. Isn’t that what we have been? Each one of us had a role in allowing the deaths to continue.”

“Then you shouldn’t have given us away to Rey!” Lowell jumped to his feet.

“What would you have done in my place, Professor?” Holmes demanded.

“Walking away is not an option here, Wendell! The milk is spilt. You swore to protect Dante, as did we all, right under Longfellow’s roof, though the heavens cave in!” But Holmes fitted his hat and buttoned his overcoat. “ ‘Qui a bu boira,’ “ Lowell said.” ‘He who has once been a drinker will drink again.’ “

“You didn’t see it!” Every emotion pent up inside Holmes erupted as he turned on Lowell. “Why has it been I who has seen two horribly shredded bodies instead of you brave scholars! It was I who went down into Talbot’s fiery hold with the scent of death in my nostrils! It is I who have had to go through it all while you can analyze from the comfort of your fireside, filtering it all through alphabets!”

“The comfort? I was assailed by rare man-eating insects within an inch of my life, you oughtn’t forget!” Lowell shouted.

Holmes laughed mockingly. “I’d take ten thousand blowflies for what I’ve seen!”

“Holmes,” Longfellow entreated. “Remember: Virgil tells the pilgrim that fear is the main impediment to his journey.”

“I do not give a copper for that! Not any longer, Longfellow! I yield my place! We are not the first to try to liberate Dante’s poetry and perhaps ours shall always be the losing end! Did you never once think that Voltaire was right—Dante was but a madman and his work a monster. Dante lost his life in Florence, so he avenged himself by creating a literature with which he dared make himself into God. And now we have unleashed it on the city we say we love, and we shall live to pay!”

“That’s enough for now, Wendell! Enough!” Lowell yelled, standing in front of Longfellow as though he could shield him from the words.

“Dante’s own son thought him delusional to believe that he had traveled through Hell, and spent a lifetime trying to disown his father’s words!” Holmes went on. “Why should we sacrifice our safety to save him? The Commedia was no love letter. Dante did not care about Beatrice, about Florence! He was venting the spleen of his exile, imagining his enemies writhe and beg for salvation! Do you ever hear him mention his wife, just once? This is how he got even for his disappointments! I only wish to protect us from losing everything we hold dear! That’s all I’ve wanted from the beginning!”

“You don’t want to find out that anyone is guilty,” Lowell said, “just as you didn’t ever want to think Bachi was culpable, just as you imagined Professor Webster blameless even as he dangled from the end of a rope!”

“Not so!” Holmes cried.

“Oh, this is a fine thing you’re doing for us, Holmes. A fine thing!” Lowell shouted. “You’ve stayed as steady as your most rambling lyrics! Perhaps we should’ve drafted Wendell Junior into our club all along instead of you. At least we’d have a chance of victory!” He was ready to say more, but Longfellow restrained him by the arm with a tender hand, unbreakable as an iron gauntlet.

“We could not have come this far along without you, my dear friend. Pray do get some rest and give our affection to Mrs. Holmes,” Longfellow said softly.

Holmes made his way out of the Authors’ Room. When Longfellow released his hold, Lowell stalked the doctor to the door. Holmes hurried into the hall, looking over his shoulder as his friend trailed behind with a cold stare. Reaching the corner, Holmes smashed into a cart of papers being pushed by Teal, the night shop boy assigned to Fields’s offices, whose mouth always worked in a grinding or chewing motion. Holmes went flying to the floor, the cart tipping over and spilling papers across the hall and on the toppled doctor. Teal kicked away some papers and with a look of great sympathy tried to help Oliver Wendell Holmes to his feet. Lowell rushed to Holmes’s side too, but stopped himself, renewed in anger because he was ashamed at his moment of softness.

“There, you’re happy, Holmes. Longfellow needed us! You’ve betrayed him finally! You’ve betrayed the Dante Club!”

Teal, staring with fright as Lowell repeated his charge, lifted Holmes to his feet. “Many apologies,” he whispered into Holmes’s ear. Though it was entirely the doctor’s fault, Holmes could barely reciprocate an apology. He was not experiencing his heaving, wheezing asthma any longer. It was the tight, cramping kind. Whereas the other felt like he needed more and more air to fill himself, this made all air poison.

Lowell burst back into the Authors’ Room, slamming the door behind him. He found himself facing an unreadable expression on Longfellow’s face. At the first sign of a thunderstorm, Longfellow would close all shutters in his house, explaining that he did not like such discordance. Now he wore the same look of retreat. Apparently Longfellow had said something to Fields, because the publisher was standing expectantly, leaning forward for more.

“Well,” Lowell pleaded, “tell me how he could do that to us, Longfellow. How could Holmes do that now?”

Fields shook his head. “Lowell, Longfellow thinks he has realized something,” he said, translating the poet’s expression. “You remember how we took on the canto of the Schismatics just last night?”

“Yes. What of it, Longfellow?” Lowell asked.

Longfellow had begun to collect his coat, and was staring out the window. “Fields, would Mr. Houghton still be at Riverside?”

“Houghton’s always at Riverside, at least when he’s not at church. What can he do for us, Longfellow?”

“We must leave for there at once,” said Longfellow.

“You’ve realized something that will help us, my dear Longfellow?” Lowell filled with hope.

He thought Longfellow was considering the question, but the poet made no answer on the ride over the river into Cambridge.