Lowell felt himself standing erect for the first time since Phineas Jennison’s death. This gave him a rush of new strength. “We put a race of men in chains a hundred years ago, and there began the war. America will continue to grow no matter how many minds you chain up now, Manning. I know you threatened Oscar Houghton that if he published Longfellow’s Dante translation there would be consequences.”

Manning returned to the window and watched the orange fire. “And so there shall be, Professor Lowell. Italy is a world of the worst passions and loosest morals. And I welcome you to donate some copies of their Dante to Gore Hall, as some foolcap scientist did those Darwin books. That fire is where it will be swallowed up—an example to all who try to turn our institution into a shelter for ideas of filthy violence.”

“Never shall I allow you,” Lowell responded. “Dante is the first Christian poet, the first one whose whole system of thought is colored by a purely Christian theology. But the poem comes nearer to us than this. It is the real history of a brother man, of a tempted, purified, and at last triumphant human soul; it teaches the benign ministry of sorrow. His is the first keel that ever ventured into the silent sea of human consciousness to find a new world of poetry. He held heartbreak at bay for twenty years, and would not let himself die until he had done his task. Neither shall Longfellow. Neither shall I.”

Lowell turned and started to descend.

“Three cheers, Professor.” From the platform, Manning glared impassively. “But perhaps not everyone shares the same views. I received a peculiar visit from a policeman, a Patrolman Rey. He inquired after your work on Dante. Did not explain why, and he left abruptly. Can you tell me why your work attracts the police to our revered ‘institution of learning’?”

Lowell stopped and looked back toward Manning.

Manning steepled his long fingers above his breastbone. “Some sensible men will rise up from your circle to betray you, Lowell—I promise that. No congregation of insurgents can stand together for long. If Mr. Houghton shall not cooperate to stop you, someone else will. Dr. Holmes, for instance.”

Lowell wanted to leave, but he waited for more.

“I warned him many months ago to disassociate himself from your translation project or suffer severe damage to his reputation. What do you think he did?”

Lowell shook his head.

“He called on me at home and confided in me that he agreed with my assessment.”

“You lie, Manning!”

“Oh, so Dr. Holmes has remained dedicated to the cause?” he asked as though he knew much more than Lowell could imagine.

Lowell bit his quivering lip.

Manning shook his head and smiled. “The miserable little manikin is your Benedict Arnold awaiting instructions, Professor Lowell.”

“Believe that when I am once a man’s friend I am always so—nor is it so very hard to bring me to it. And though a man may enjoy himself in being my enemy, he cannot make me his for longer than I wish. Good afternoon.” Lowell had a way of leaving a conversation with the other person needing more from him.

Manning shadowed Lowell down to the reading room and caught him by the arm. “I do not understand how you can put your good name, everything you’ve worked for your whole life, on the line for something like this, Professor.” Lowell jerked away. “But don’t you wish to heaven you could, Manning?” He returned to his class in time to dismiss his students.

If the murderer had somehow been monitoring Longfellow’s translation and was racing them to completion, the Dante Club had little choice but to complete the thirteen remaining Inferno cantos with the utmost speed. They agreed to divide into two smaller camps: a company of investigators and a company of translators.

Lowell and Fields would labor in reviewing their evidence while Longfellow and George Washington Greene toiled over the translation in the study. Fields had informed Greene, to the old minister’s great delight, that the translation had been placed on a strict schedule, in view of its immediate completion: There were nine previously unreviewed cantos, one partially translated, and two with which Longfellow was not fully satisfied. Longfellow’s servant, Peter, would deliver the proofs to Riverside as Longfellow finished and take Trap for his constitutionals while doing so.

“It makes no sense!”

“Then move on from it, Lowell,” said Fields from his place in the library’s deep armchair, which had once belonged to Longfellow’s grandfather, a great Revolutionary War general. He watched Lowell carefully. “Sit down. Your face is bright red. Have you slept at all lately?”

Lowell ignored him. “What would qualify Jennison as a Schismatic? Particularly in that pouch of Hell, each of the shades Dante chooses to single out is unequivocally emblematic of the sin.”

“Until we find out why Lucifer would have chosen Jennison, we must cull what we can from the details of the murder,” said Fields.

“Well, it confirms Lucifer’s strength. Jennison had climbed with the Adirondack Club. He was a sportsman and a hunter, yet our Lucifer grabs him and chops him up with ease.”

“No doubt he took him at the point of a weapon,” said Fields. “The strongest man alive may fall to fear of a gun, Lowell. We know also that our killer is elusive. Patrolmen were stationed on every street in the area, at all hours, since the night Talbot was killed. And Lucifer’s great attention to the details of Dante’s canto—this too is certain.”

“Any moment as we speak,” said Lowell absently, “any moment as Longfellow translates a new verse in the next room, there could be another murder and we will have been powerless to stop it.”

“Three murders and not a single witness. Precisely timed with our translations. What shall we do, roam the streets and wait? If I were a less educated man, I might begin to think it’s a genuine evil spirit thrust upon us.”

“We must narrow our focus to the murders’ relationship with our club,” Lowell said. “Let us concentrate on tracking all those who might somehow know of the translation schedule.” As Lowell flipped through their investigative notebook, he absently stroked one of the library’s collectibles, a cannonball fired by the British onto Boston against General Washington’s troops.

They heard another knock at the front door but ignored it.

“I have sent a note to Houghton asking that he ensure that no proofs from Longfellow’s translation have been removed from Riverside,” Fields told Lowell. “We know all the killings were taken from cantos that at the time were not yet translated by our club. Longfellow must continue to hand in the proofs to the presses as if all were normal. In the meantime, what of young Sheldon?”

Lowell frowned. “He has not yet replied and has been seen nowhere on campus. He is the only one who can tell us about that phantom I saw him talking with, with Bachi gone.”

Fields stood up and leaned down next to Lowell. “You are very certain you saw this ‘phantom’ yesterday, Jamey?” he asked.

Lowell was surprised. “What do you mean, Fields? I told you already—I saw him watching me in Harvard Yard, and then another time waiting for Bachi. And then again in a heated exchange with Edward Sheldon.”

Fields couldn’t help but cringe. “It is only that we are all under much apprehension, much anxiety of the mind, my dear Lowell. My nights are passed in uneasy snatches of sleep as well.”

Lowell slammed down the notebook he was reviewing. “Are you saying I’ve imagined him?”

“You told me yourself that you thought you saw Jennison today, and Bachi, and your first wife, and then your dead son. For Heaven’s sake!” Fields shouted.

Lowell’s lips quivered. “Now look here, Fields. That is the last turn of the thumbscrew—”