reporter.”
“Why?”
“He seldom reads newspapers.”
“But how does he get any news?”
“He doesn’t. He’s a fanatic about history, not current events. He’s also an expert in American education. I doubt there’s a college or prep school he doesn’t know about.”
The elevator stopped at the fifteenth floor, and Pittman knocked on Folsom’s door.
A tall, slender, stoop-shouldered elderly man peered out. He wore a brown herringbone sport coat, a white shirt, and a striped yellow tie. His skin was pale. His short beard and long hair were startlingly white. His trifocal glasses had wide metal frames, which only partially hid the deep wrinkles around his eyes.
“Professor, my name’s Peter Logan. This is my friend Jill.”
“Yes. The doorman explained that you were a reporter.” Professor Folsom’s voice was thin and gentle.
“I’m doing a follow-up on the Whitman manuscript you discovered. At the time, there was a controversy. I’m curious how it was resolved.”
“You honestly believe your readers would care?”
“
“Come in, please. I always enjoy talking about Whitman.” As Professor Folsom led them across a foyer, they passed an immaculately preserved walnut side table. Open doors on each side of the foyer showed similar well- cared-for antiques.
“That’s quite a collection,” Pittman said.
“Thank you.”
They entered the living room, and here there were even more antiques.
“They’re exclusively American,” Professor Folsom explained with pleasure. “From the mid- and late nineteenth century. That secretary desk was owned by Nathaniel Hawthorne. That hutch was Emerson’s. That rocking chair was Melville’s. When my wife was still alive”-he glanced fondly toward a photograph of a pleasant- looking elderly woman on the wall-“we made a hobby of collecting them.”
“Nothing that was owned by Whitman?”
“The old fox traveled lightly. But I managed to find several items. I keep them in my bedroom. In fact, the bed itself belonged to him.” Professor Folsom looked delighted with himself. “Sit down. Would you like some tea?”
“Tea would be nice,” Jill said.
For the next half hour, they discussed poetry and manuscripts with one of the most ingratiating people Pittman had ever met. In particular, the old man’s sense of peace was remarkable. Pittman felt envious. Remembering Folsom’s reference to his deceased wife, he wondered how it was possible to reach such advanced years and not be worn down by despair.
At last, he was ready to ask his crucial question. As he and Jill stood and prepared to leave, he said, “Thank you, Professor. You’ve been very kind. I appreciate your time.”
“Not at all. I hardly get any visitors, especially since my wife died. She’s the one kept me active. And of course, students don’t come to visit as they once did.”
“I wonder if you could answer something else for me. I have a friend who’s looking for a good prep school for his son. Wants him to be on track for Harvard or Yale. My friend was thinking perhaps of Grollier.”
“Grollier Academy? In Vermont? Well, if your friend isn’t wealthy and doesn’t have a pedigree, he’ll be disappointed.”
“It’s that exclusive?” Jill asked.
“Its entire student body is fewer than three hundred. It accepts only about seventy boys as new students each year, and those slots are usually reserved when each student is born. The room, board, and tuition is fifty thousand dollars a year, and of course, parents are expected to contribute generously to the academy’s activities.”
“That’s too rich for my friend,” Pittman said.
Professor Folsom nodded. “I don’t approve of education based on wealth and privilege. Mind you, the education the academy provides is excellent. Too restrained and conservative for my taste, but excellent nonetheless.”
“Restrained? Conservative?”
“The curriculum doesn’t allow for individual temperaments. Instead of allowing the student to grow into his education, the education is imposed upon him. Latin. Greek. World history, with an emphasis on Britain. Philosophy, particularly the ancients. Political science. European literature, again emphasizing Britain. Very little American literature. Perhaps that’s why my enthusiasm is restrained. Economics. Algebra, calculus. And of course, athletics. The boy who goes to Grollier Academy and doesn’t embrace athletics, in particular football and rowing-team sports-will soon find himself rejected.”
“By the other students?” Jill asked.
“And by the school,” Professor Folsom said, looking older, tired. “The purpose of Grollier Academy is to create Establishment team players. After all, noncomformist behavior isn’t considered a virtue among patrician society. The elite favor caution and consensus. Intellectually and physically, the students of Grollier Academy undergo disciplines that cause them to think and behave like members of the special society they’re intended to represent.”
“It sounds like programming,” Pittman said.
“In a sense, of course, all education is,” Professor Folsom said. “And Grollier’s preparation is solid. Various graduates have distinguished themselves.” He mentioned several ambassadors, senators, and governors, as well as a President of the United States. “And that doesn’t include numerous major financiers.”
“I believe Jonathan Millgate went there,” Pittman said.
“Yes, Grollier’s alumni include diplomats, as well. Eustace Gable. Anthony Lloyd.”
The names were totally unexpected. Pittman felt shocked. “Eustace Gable? Anthony Lloyd?”
“Advisers to various Presidents. Over the course of their careers, they achieved so many diplomatic accomplishments that eventually they became known as the grand counselors.”
Pittman tried to restrain his agitation. “What a remarkable school.”
“For a particular type of patrician student.”
18
Outside the apartment building, the shadows were thicker, cooler. Shivering but not from the temperature, Pittman walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and went up steps to a promenade that overlooked the East River.
“Grollier Academy. Not just Jonathan Millgate, but Eustace Gable and Anthony Lloyd.”
“The grand counselors,” Jill said.
Pittman turned. “I had no idea. Do you suppose the others went there, as well-Winston Sloane and Victor Standish?”
“But even if they did, what would that prove?”
“Yes.” Pittman’s forehead throbbed. “What’s so important about Grollier Academy that the other grand counselors were willing to kill Millgate and blame me for his murder and kill Father Dandridge and…? All to prevent anyone from knowing why Millgate was fixated on his prep school.”
“Or maybe we’re completely wrong. It could be Millgate was in fact rambling.”
“No,” Pittman said emphatically. “I can’t believe that. If I did, I’d be lost. I’d have to give up. I wouldn’t know how to keep going.” He shivered again and put on his overcoat, feeling the weight of the gun in each pocket, repelled by the conditions of his life. “Even as it is… what now? What are we going to do about you? It’ll soon be dark. You can’t go back to your apartment, and you can’t use your credit card to rent a room. The name on your card would help the men looking for you find where you’re staying.”
“Where were
