“You heard about Clifford Evings?” asked Hawthorne.

Burke’s eyebrows went up. “No. What happened?”

“He’s dead. He took pills. They found him this morning. Everyone’s very upset.”

Burke shook his head, then patted his silver hair with one hand, smoothing it down. “What a shame.” He continued to regard Hawthorne with his pale blue eyes.

Hawthorne wondered what accounted for Burke’s expression if it hadn’t been Evings’s death. “The police were here. We’ll have a memorial service later in the week.”

“My office can deal with the police.” The lawyer’s mellifluous baritone had a practiced sound to it. He spoke as if the problem had already been solved.

“Didn’t you see Clifford yesterday?”

“I did. Everything seemed fine. He was delighted about the leave.”

“Had you meant to see him again?” Hawthorne didn’t understand why Burke had driven back up to Bishop’s Hill. They stood in the rotunda looking at each other.

“Actually I wanted to talk to you about some other business.”

The lawyer’s response to Evings’s death seemed so detached that Hawthorne wondered if Burke truly understood that he was dead. Then Hawthorne found himself thinking about finances and building repairs. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Burke lowered his voice. “I heard that you had a girl in your room Thursday night.”

Now it was Hawthorne’s turn to be surprised. Their voices echoed slightly in the open space.

“A girl came to my apartment late in the evening. She was drunk. I called the nurse and another faculty member. Surely you don’t believe there was any impropriety?”

“I also heard she was naked.”

“Topless,” said Hawthorne. The word came out almost as a bark.

Burke looked at him skeptically. “Perhaps we’d better talk about this in your office.”

They turned down the hall. Burke’s rubber boots squeaked on the marble floor. A few times Hawthorne began to speak, then he remained silent. He was surprised by how he felt, as if he had been caught doing something that he shouldn’t. When they reached the administration office, he held the door open for the other man.

Hilda Skander was watering the plants along the windowsill. Hawthorne wondered how many people had some garbled idea about Thursday night—a naked girl in the headmaster’s rooms.

“Has anyone phoned?” he asked.

Hilda kept her back to him. “Chief Moulton would like you to call him.”

When Hawthorne shut the door of his office, he didn’t even give Burke a chance to sit down. “So what are you accusing me of?”

“I’d rather hear your explanation.”

“There is no explanation. Jessica Weaver came to my apartment. She was drunk and wasn’t wearing a top. She said she wanted to dance for me. I called the nurse and left her a message. Then I called Kate Sandler.”

“Why didn’t you send the girl away?” Burke stood by a table on which there was a stack of brochures about the school.

“As I say, she was drunk. She was unwell. I wanted to find out what’d happened.”

“You should never have let her into your apartment.”

“I suppose I should have called the police.”

“Don’t be ironic with me. This is a serious matter. Lots of people know about it. If it gets to the ears of the county prosecutor, we could be looking at a grand jury investigation.”

Hawthorne walked to his desk. Because of Evings’s death, he had temporarily forgotten about Jessica. Even at the time, Ambrose Stark and the sweet tones of the clarinet playing “Satin Doll” had diminished the shock of her appearance. Alice had taken Jessica to the infirmary and stayed with her. The girl remained there all Friday, hung-over and unhappy. Alice asked where she had gotten the tequila but Jessica refused to say. Saturday afternoon Jessica returned to her room. Hawthorne had seen her in the dining hall over the weekend but hadn’t spoken to her. Several times he had noticed her looking at him, but when he looked back, the girl had turned away. As for the fact that the incident had become general knowledge, Hawthorne wondered who it had come from. He was almost positive that none of the people involved would have spoken of it.

“You’re mistaken,” said Hawthorne, leaning back against his desk, “this is not a serious matter. A girl got drunk and came to my room. I called the nurse and another faculty member. The girl was then taken to the infirmary.”

“People say you had sex with her.” Burke spoke slowly, as if weighing each word.

“That’s preposterous.”

“They say you called the nurse after the girl had already been with you for an hour or more, after you had already had sex with her.” Burke began to remove his overcoat.

“Who says that?”

“The night watchman saw the girl before ten o’clock, an hour before you called the nurse. The Reverend Bennett also saw her going toward your quarters around that time.”

“Then why didn’t she do something?”

“She didn’t realize that the girl was going to you.”

“Even if she was naked?”

“She wasn’t naked then.” Burke held his coat over his arm.

“What does the girl herself say?”

“I’m told she can’t remember.”

“Can’t remember having sex?”

“That’s what I gather.” Burke spoke less certainly.

“Who else has been making accusations?”

Burke laid his overcoat on the arm of the couch and sat down. “They’re worried about their jobs. They feel if they accuse you, then you’ll fire them.”

Hawthorne approached the couch. “Good grief, Burke, you’re a lawyer, how can you keep up this slander? If there’s the slightest chance of this being taken seriously, then I want a hearing immediately. If people have charges, they must be brought into the open. If you refuse, I’ll have to get a lawyer of my own. But I suggest you talk to Alice Beech and Kate Sandler before you take this any further. And you’ll have to talk to the girl as well.”

Burke no longer looked as sure of himself as he had a few minutes before. “Of course I’ll talk to them. Perhaps I’ve been hasty. You know that woman’s ex-husband has called my office four or five times—George Peabody? He objects to your involvement with his wife. It’s certainly not my concern, but it’s no pleasure to have to interfere and frighten him away.”

“There is no affair,” said Hawthorne, “but if I were seeing Kate, then it would be nobody’s business but our own.”

The sides of Burke’s mouth turned downward as his look of disapproval returned. “There’s always been a tacit rule at Bishop’s Hill that people’s friendships should be no more than platonic.”

Hawthorne walked back to his desk. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper. He sat down in his chair and looked at Burke over a stack of papers. “There’s no way the school can regulate relationships among consenting adults. What about Evings and Bobby Newland, for Pete’s sake? And there’re others. Midge Strokowski has been having an affair with Jennings on the grounds crew for years. Just what did you tell Evings yesterday?”

“I obviously said nothing about his relationship with Newland. I told him the board had given him a two-month paid leave of absence, that he could leave as soon as he wanted.”

“And you told him that his position was safe?”

“I said that he could come back in January and pick up where he left off.”

“You’re certain that he had no doubt about what you were saying?”

Burke stared back at Hawthorne with his pale eyes. “Completely.”

Hawthorne frowned. “And what was his reaction?”

“He seemed grateful. We talked about the details of money and benefits. He spoke of going to Florida until January.”

“That far away?” Had Evings ever said anything about Florida?

“It was only a possibility.”

“And he didn’t seem depressed?”

Burke spoke without a trace of doubt. “Not at all.”

“Then I don’t understand it.”

The telephone rang. As he picked up the receiver, Hawthorne assumed the call was from Chief Moulton or had something to do with Evings. Instead it was a woman’s voice.