“I’d still like to hear his reaction to some of this. Anyway, I’m glad you came with me to Vermont.”

She stared back at him without speaking. He thought how large her eyes looked. Without any plan, he reached out and pressed his hand to her cheek. It was Kate’s own face he felt, not anyone else’s. He was almost sure of it. She continued looking at him and he could see the question forming in her dark eyes.

—

Hawthorne returned to his office and spent an hour going over the student files. There was no trace of Peter Roberts, but then, why would there be if Pendergast was right? Hawthorne would have to ask the other teachers if they had heard of him. Then he studied the other names and tried to recall the names of students that he knew. Were there others who weren’t listed? He couldn’t tell. Then he went over the accounts, adding up items that had apparently been ordered but were nowhere to be found. Had Fritz really faked the order for a three-hundred-dollar trombone?

Students were leaving. Several parents wanted to talk to Hawthorne and he spoke to them in his office. Hilda showed them in with little trace of her former good humor. She glanced nervously at the stacks of papers on Hawthorne’s desk and tried to see what was on the computer monitor before he shut it off.

Parents were concerned about the school and their children’s safety. Hawthorne said he expected that the police would soon make an arrest. He talked about the two new psychologists who would be joining the staff in January. He felt as much a hypocrite as Lloyd Pendergast, trying to be hearty and full of optimism, but Bishop’s Hill would have no chance of surviving if half the student body withdrew over Christmas vacation. That would be playing into Hamilton Burke’s hands. And Hawthorne was sure an arrest would be made shortly, though he still found it hard to believe that Larry Gaudette was the killer. Beyond that, however, was the possibility of other scandals—Pendergast and Skander and Roger Bennett. Pendergast was right, the papers would have a field day.

Later in the afternoon Hawthorne taught his history class. Only four students showed up. They discussed fear and how fear could increase without there being any real cause. They talked about their feelings and their grief.

“All I know,” said Tommy Peters, “is that I’ll be awfully glad to get on that bus on Friday.”

After class Hawthorne returned to his office. He tried to go over the accounts once again but he couldn’t keep his mind on anything. Hilda had left early and there was only the faint smell of peppermint drops to indicate that she had been there at all. Before dinner he visited the dormitory cottages, chatting with the students and trying to keep their spirits up. Then he went to the library, which was empty except for Bill Dolittle.

“We might as well have sent them home days ago,” said Dolittle.

Hawthorne still hadn’t talked to him about moving more furniture into the empty apartment in Stark Hall. Even if Dolittle was ineffectual, he was at least friendly.

“It will be over soon,” said Hawthorne.

“Storms must be weathered,” said Dolittle. “At least that’s what they say.”

Fewer than sixty people were at dinner, half the usual number. Gene Strauss and Alice Beech joined Hawthorne at the headmaster’s table, along with two students. Usually during dinner there was talking and laughter, but tonight it was quiet. Hawthorne wished there were at least music and he imagined funereal organ music and almost smiled. Neither Skander nor Bennett came to dinner, although Bennett’s wife, the chaplain, sat at the head of one of the student tables. From the kitchen came the sound of pots crashing and once a broken plate. The student waiters were jumpy and moved too quickly. Hawthorne restrained himself from going into the kitchen and speaking to LeBrun. About ten minutes after dinner had begun, Jessica Weaver came in and sat at a table with Tom Hastings and two girls. Students were expected to be on time for meals, but no one seemed even to notice Jessica’s arrival. Hawthorne tried to make conversation with his colleagues and the students, but he kept thinking about Pendergast’s accusations and what he would say to Fritz Skander. Toward the end of the meal a state trooper looked into the dining hall, then went out again.

After dinner Hawthorne decided to visit Skander. He still couldn’t quite reconcile the Skander he thought he knew with the one in Pendergast’s stories. Even if he didn’t tell Fritz all that Pendergast had said, he might form some idea of the truth. After all, he was a clinical psychologist, a trained listener. Therefore, around seven, he walked over to Skander’s house. The paths had been shoveled but there was still a foot of snow on the ground. It was cold and no stars could be seen. A small road curved past the dormitory cottages and faculty houses, with lights every ten yards. Skander’s house was about a hundred yards past the farthest cottage, just fifty yards from the woods.

Hawthorne climbed the steps. The porch light was out and he felt around for the doorbell. The air had that damp feeling it gets before snow.

Hilda answered the door. She was hesitant about letting Hawthorne come in. “Fritz is working.” She appeared to hope that Hawthorne would apologize and say that whatever he wanted could wait until morning. A dog was barking in a farther room.

“This won’t take long.” Hawthorne stamped his feet and removed his gloves.

When Hilda showed Hawthorne into the study, Skander hurriedly got up from his desk and came to shake Hawthorne’s hand. “What a pleasant surprise.” One whole wall was a bookcase. Several of the shelves displayed golf and bowling trophies.

Hawthorne was struck by how genuine his smile appeared. He began to think that Pendergast hadn’t been entirely truthful. “I met Lloyd Pendergast today,” said Hawthorne, after Hilda had left them alone.

Skander’s smile widened. “Dear old Pendergast. You must tell me how he is.”

“He told me you forced him to resign after Gail Jensen’s death.”

At first Skander made no response. Then he raised his eyebrows and leaned forward as if he weren’t sure he had heard correctly. “And why would I have done that?”

“Because he believed you were embezzling money, pretending to order things for the school and keeping the money for yourself. Was that what happened to the trombone? Did you pocket the three hundred dollars?” Hawthorne had remained by the door. He kept his voice calm but his fists were clenched in the pockets of his overcoat.

Skander massaged his brow. For a moment he stared down at the rug, and when he at last looked up, he appeared concerned, though not for himself. “Jim, this is really embarrassing. You understand, of course, that I wouldn’t be popular with Pendergast. He was terribly afraid of going to jail. I felt if I went to the authorities it would do great harm to the school. Even then we were barely keeping our heads above water. It seemed that if Pendergast resigned, if he simply went away, we would have a chance of hiring someone truly qualified. Someone like yourself. I promised him that I would keep quiet and I kept my word, even though it’s hurt me to do so.”

“You frightened Mrs. Hayes into quitting and you frightened Clifford Evings. Did you pay somebody to wreck his office or did you do it yourself? You or Roger got Jessica Weaver drunk and sent her over to my apartment so you could blackmail me in the same way you blackmailed Pendergast. And that business with the painting and the phone calls from my dead wife and all the gossip and slander . . .” Hawthorne stopped himself. Out of anger he was saying more than he had intended.

Skander continued to look stricken. He held out a hand toward Hawthorne as if imploring him to stop. “Jim, I don’t know what to say. What painting are you talking about? Roger certainly hasn’t confided in me about what he might or might not have done. And if you feel there’s the slightest irregularity with the accounts, then I really demand that you have an audit immediately.”