“Don’t worry yourself at all, my dear Mr. Teal,” Fields said, and took his arm as they started up the imposing stone staircase that led to the boardrooms and classrooms in University Hall. “We just need a peek at some papers and then shall be on our way, with nothing changed for the worse. You’re doing a good thing.”

“That is all I wish,” Teal said sincerely.

“Good boy.” Fields smiled.

Teal had to use a ring of keys—they had been entrusted to him—to negotiate the series of bolts and locks. Then, having gained entrance, Lowell and Fields lit candles packed in a case for the occasion and relocated the Corporation’s books from a cabinet to the long table.

“Hold your peace,” said Lowell to Fields when the publisher started to dismiss Teal. “Look at the number of volumes before us we must go through, Fields. Three would do it more efficiently than two.”

Although he was nervous, Teal also seemed enthralled by their adventure. “Guess I can help, Mr. Fields. Anything at all,” he offered. He looked on the mess of books in confusion. “That is, if you explain to me what it is you wish to find.”

Fields began to do just that but, remembering Teal’s wobbly attempt at writing, suspected his reading would be little better. “You’ve done more than your share and should have some sleep,” he said. “But I shall call on you again if we need further assistance. Our united thanks, Mr. Teal. You shall not regret your faith in us.”

In the uncertain light, Fields and Lowell read through every page of minutes of the Corporation’s biweekly meetings. They came upon the occasional condemnation of Lowell’s Dante class, sprinkled throughout more tedious university business. “No mention of that ghoul Simon Camp. Manning must have hired him on his own,” said Lowell. Some things were too shady even for the Harvard Corporation.

After sorting through endless reams, Fields found what they were looking for: In October, four of the six members of the Corporation had eagerly sanctioned the idea of engaging the Reverend Elisha Talbot to pen critiques of the upcoming Dante translation, leaving the matter of “appropriate compensation for time and energies” to the discretion of the Treasury Committee—that is, to Augustus Manning.

Fields began pulling the records of the Harvard Board of Overseers, the twenty-person governing body, annually elected by the state legislature and one step removed from the Corporation. Speeding through the overseers’ books, they found many mentions of Chief Justice Healey, a loyal member of the board of overseers even until his death.

From time to time, the Harvard Board of Overseers elected what it called advocates in order to thoroughly consider issues of particular importance or controversy. An overseer so anointed would offer a presentation to the full board, using the extent of his abilities of persuasion to argue the case for “conviction,” as it were, while a counterpart overseer presented a contending basis for exoneration. The chosen overseer-advocate did not have to possess a personal belief in line with his side in the argument; indeed, the individual was to present a clear-thinking and fair evaluation to the board without influence of private prejudices.

In the Corporation’s campaign against the various Dante-related activities by persons prominently affiliated with the university—that is, James Russell Lowell’s Dante class, and the translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow with his purported “Dante Club”—the overseers agreed that advocates should be chosen to present both sides of the issue fairly. The board selected as the advocate for the pro-Dante position Chief Justice Arte-mus Prescott Healey, a thorough researcher and gifted analyst. Healey had never claimed himself a litterateur and so could evaluate the matter dispassionately.

It had been several years since the board had asked Healey to advocate a position. The idea of choosing sides in a venue outside the courtroom apparently made Chief Justice Healey uncomfortable, and he declined the board’s request. Taken aback by his refusal, the board let the matter pass and did not follow through that day on the fate of Dante Alighieri.

The story of Healey’s refusal occupied a mere two lines in the Corporation record books. Having understood its implications, Lowell was the first to speak:

“Longfellow was right,” he whispered. “Healey wasn’t Pontius Pilate.”

Fields squinted over gold-framed glasses.

“The Neutral that Dante calls only the Great Refuser,” Lowell explained. “The only shade Dante chooses to single out while crossing through Hell’s antechamber. I’ve read him as Pontius Pilate, who washed his hands of deciding the fate of Christ—just as Healey washed his hands of Thomas Sims and the other fugitive slaves brought before his court. But Longfellow—nay, Longfellow and Greene!—always believed that the Great Refuser was Celestine, who turned away a position rather than a person. Celestine abdicated the papal throne conferred on him when the Catholic Church needed him most. That led to the rise of Boniface and ultimately to Dante’s exile. Healey surrendered a position of great importance when he refused to argue on behalf of Dante. And now Dante’s exiled again.”

“I’m sorry, Lowell, but I shan’t compare refusing the papacy to turning down a boardroom defense of Dante,” Fields replied dismissively.

“But don’t you see, Fields? We don’t have to. Our murderer has.”

They could hear cracking noises in the thick crust of ice outside University Hall. The sounds came closer.

Lowell ran to the window. “Hang it, a blasted tutor!”

“Are you sure?”

“Well no, I can’t make out who it is… there’s two of them…”

“Have they seen our light, Jamey?”

“I can’t say—I can’t say—clear out!”

Horatio Jennison’s high-pitched, melodious voice rose above the sounds of his piano.

It was one of his finer renditions of Shakespeare’s song, but then his bell rang, a most unexpected interruption, for his four invited guests were already sitting around the parlor, enjoying his performance so thoroughly that they seemed on the verge of complete entrancement, Horatio Jennison had sent a note to James Russell Lowell two days ago, asking him to consider editing Phineas Jennison’s journals and letters in memoriam—for Horatio had been named literary executor, and he would settle for nothing short of the best: Lowell was the founding editor of The Atlantic Monthly and now editor of The North American Review, and, along with all this, had been his uncle’s close friend. But Horatio had not expected Lowell to simply appear at his door unceremoniously, and at a terribly late evening hour.

Horatio Jennison knew immediately that the idea presented in his note must have impressed Lowell, for the poet urgently requested, or rather demanded, Jennison’s most recent journal volumes, and had even brought along James T. Fields to suggest his seriousness about publication.

“Mr. Lowell? Mr. Fields?” Horatio Jennison sprang to his front step when the two callers conveyed the journals, without further exchange, out the door and into their waiting carriage. “We will arrange the proper royalties from the publication, I trust?”

In those hours time became immaterial. Back at Craigie House, the scholars waded through the almost indecipherable scrawl of Phineas Jennison’s most recent journal volumes. After the revelations surrounding Healey and Talbot, it was no surprise for the Danteans, intellectually speaking, that the “sins” of Jennison punished by Lucifer would revolve around Dante. But James Russell Lowell could not believe it—could not believe such a thing of his friend of so many years—until the evidence drowned his doubts.