Then it happened. A Monday morning around the first of November. Albert and I were trying to wake up for the morning run when Mr. Macpherson pounded on our door.

“There’ll be no run for us this morning, boys. Get yourselves dressed and over to the dining hall straightaway.” Before we could ask questions, he was barreling through the rest of the building, shouting the same announcement.

Tugging on a shirt and his trousers Albert said, “Harry, what the bloody hell is happening?”

“No idea, Albert. Suspect we’ll find out in a hurry.”

As we plodded into the dining hall, some of the boys had not bothered to change out of their sleeping clothes and were stumbling around in a daze. Others were sitting at tables,  chattering about what possibly could have happened. 

Up at the head table, Mr. Perkins was locked in conversation with a dour faced man in a uniform. Finally, over the cacophony, Mr. Perkins shouted for us to be quiet and sit down. 

“Boys, I have some very sad news to announce. Mr. Powell was found shot to death early this morning in his home on the campus.” 

For about thirty seconds there was silence before there erupted a roar of sounds so piercing I could not hear what Albert was saying though I was sitting right next to him. Mr. Perkins again called for quiet. This time the quiet was far slower in coming. Then the official-looking man spoke.

“My name is Jonathan McFardle, and I am the sheriff of this county. It is my sworn duty, and that of my deputies, to investigate this cowardly act and to apprehend the depraved person, or persons, responsible for it.” 

He then scanned the entire room with a suspicious eye before saying, “Each of you will be interrogated sometime during this day by me or one of my men. If you know anything about this matter at all, you must tell us precisely what you know. You are not to leave this room until your name is called. And you are not to discuss this incident with anyone until you have been interrogated. Have I made myself clear?”

I could see from the expression on Mr. Perkins’ face that he was furious. I don’t what he was saying to the man, but his posture and gestures suggested he was scolding him. Several days later, I was to learn from Robert Boudreaux (who had overheard the conversation) that it went something like this:

“Sheriff, let me be abundantly clear with you. This is my school and all these young men are my responsibility. You have no evidence whatsoever that any of them has committed this crime. Henceforth I expect you to address them with a softer and more civil tone.”

“Sir, you have your responsibilities and I have mine. And chief among those responsibilities is finding Mr. Powell’s murderer. If, to achieve that goal, I need to be harsh and direct with suspects, I shall do exactly that.”

After that remark, according to Robert, Mr. Perkins took a moment to collect himself. Then, in a slow and measured voice, he said: “Sir, I am a reasonable and sensible man. But if you don’t alter your manner immediately, you will leave me no choice but to consult some powerful men who are connected with this institution, including a United States Senator and the state’s governor. If you would prefer to deal with them rather than me, that can be quickly arranged.”

Robert did not need to tell me the rest because I saw it. The two men stared at each other for a good thirty seconds and then shook hands. That incident sticks in my mind for at least two reasons. One has to do with the fact there are lots of Sheriff McFardles in the world. They are not necessarily bad people, but they are bullies. They are used to intimidating people and getting away with it. But now and again they confront someone like Mr. Perkins who backs them down. That is a good thing. A very good thing.

Shortly after the handshaking Mr. Macpherson walked around the room and spoke to all of us in huddled groups of twos and threes. When he reached Albert and me, he said, “Lads, some breakfast food will shortly be brought out and placed on a large table near the kitchen door. With as little commotion as possible, go up and get a plate and silverware and load up with heaping portions. You’ll need it. This nasty business is liable to take some time.”

“And if we need to relieve ourselves?” asked Albert.

“Raise your hand and either I or one of the deputies will accompany you to the facilities.” Seeing the scowl on Albert’s face, he added, “I know … I know. I detest it  more than you do, son.”

“And as for what the sheriff said about the talking?” I asked.

With a blank stare he said, “Harry, I don’t recall hearing the sheriff mention anything about talking.”

After Mr. Macpherson had moved away from our table, Albert said, “Harry, I have not a clue as to what’s going on here, but I’ll tell ya this. It stinks to high heaven.”

“I’m in agreement, Albert. Your wheels are turning. What are you pondering?”

“Tell you what. Let’s see how this wretched day unfolds. Then tonight you, me, and Robert can put our heads together and see what sense we can make of this fine mess.” 

That evening, after supper, the three of us convened in Albert’s and my room. Albert was pacing back and forth. Robert was splayed out on Albert’s bed and I was lying on my stomach on mine. I glanced at Robert, who gave me the slightest of nods. 

“Start talking, Albert,” I said.

“Don’t know where to start. So I’ll just start. First of all, the coppers? They don’t know shite. That’s obvious. A lot like the ones from my own neighborhood. Most of ‘em harps like me. Long on brawn, short on brains.

“So … let’s start with the question of a motive for the shooting. Was it a robber rummaging for valuables who got discovered? That’s a possibility, but unlikely. Can’t imagine there was much of anything to steal in the home of a schoolteacher barely paid a living wage.”

“Think you’re right, Albert,” said Robert. “From the way him and the wife dressed, I got the sense they weren’t reach. If people have wealth, they find ways to show it off.”

“All right. We assume it wasn’t a thief caught in the act who then pulled out a gun and shot the man. So where does that leave us?”

“Passion?” I asked. “Jealousy, anger, rage, betrayal … the stuff in Shakespeare and the other great works they make us read here?”

“My thoughts are pointed in that direction, too. How about you, Robert?”

“I’m a Frenchman. That’d be the first thing I’m gonna come up with. Like maybe a jealous husband that caught Mr. Powell en flagrant delit with his wife. I seen it happen more than a few times back home.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But Mr. Powell never struck me as the kind of gentleman who would do something like that. More than a few times on a Sunday, I saw him walking around the campus with his wife and two children. I saw a tenderness among them that makes it hard to see him carrying on with another woman.”

Albert was slowly shaking his head and looking pensive. “It’s a tough knot, gents. I reckon the truth will find its way out of the dark hole it’s hiding in.”

I said. “Sometimes it never does.” But it did.

The official investigation into the murder dragged on for several weeks with no results. A somberness had spread over the campus, but we did not stop being self-absorbed boys, caught up in the rigors of attending classes and studying and playing our games.

Now the last days of November were approaching, and the prospect of a four-day holiday faced those of us living too far from our homes to return there. Would we endure a lonely and barren stay at Exeter, or would we visit the home of a  family who lived nearby?

After supper one evening Albert and Robert and I were walking back to the dormitory building. Albert said, “Robert, you’re not gonna go all the way up to Montreal only to come right back for the Thanksgiving holiday, now are ya?”

“No, I was gonna stay right here. Maybe Harry and me can keep each other company, because he surely ain’t going back to South Carolina.”

“Terrible idea. You both need to come to Boston with me. We’ve got a big house and plenty of room for guests. Plus, you’ll have the pleasure of meeting up with all the members of my crazy family.”

“I don’t know, Robert,” I said. “Might be safer if we stayed put here.”

“Safer, maybe. But no bloody fun. So it’s my house in Boston for the three of us. I’ve already alerted my ma. She’s tickled pink with the idea.”

“And your father?” I asked.

“Even if he had any objections, he knows better than to voice ‘em. She runs the show and he does what he’s told.”

“Pretty much how it works at our house back home.”

“Et la meme chose chez moi.”

And so it was that we three headed into Boston by train on the afternoon of Wednesday before the last Thursday in November. 

The Donnegan home was my first exposure to a large Irish family, where at least half the members had grown up in the old country. I’d already seen from our experience in the tavern in New York and from Albert that the Irish were adept at verbal repartee. But to be seated around a table of eighteen or so of them, all talking at once? That was something to behold.

Mrs. Donnegan, a handsome women of perhaps 50, sat next to me at the Thanksgiving table where she ruled with a firm but mischievous hand.

“Will yas all shut your yaps for just a moment so our guests Harry and Robert can get in a word in edgewise?”

“Nobody’s put a gag in their mouths,” yelled a voice from the other end. “Waiting for the lot of us to be silent is like waiting for the British to get their bloody arses out of Ireland. Yis got something to say, lads, speak up. We’ll give you an ear – at least for a few seconds, before we say why we think yis full of shite.”

I was laughing too hard to offer a word, but Robert had no such problem. “Mrs. Donnegan, first of all, I would like to publicly thank you for this special meal and for all the hospitality you have extended to Harry and me.”

“Well, well,” yelled another voice. “It would seem French Canadians can do blarney every bit as good as us harps.”

“I don’t know if we can measure up to you on the blarney or not, monsieur. But when it comes to the talking, we French got the tongues to go on and on without taking no breath. Back home, this gathering would be considered a somber event.”

“Jaysus,” shouted yet another voice, “I need to get meself up there and do some lookin’ around. My mistake is thinkin’ Canada was just another country the Brits had swallowed up for themselves. And there’s nobody on this good earth as boring as them tossers.”

“All right, now,” said Mrs. Donnegan. “Let’s try to keep a lid on the profanity. And especially, can we not be jawing about the Brits? This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”

“That it is, mother,” said Mr. Donnegan, who heretofore had uttered not a word, but had a smile that never left his face. 

“How about this for an idea? We all clear the table of dishes. If yis is under the age of 14, boy or girl, mother can supervise you in the kitchen with the cleaning and washing. The rest of the lads can follow me into the parlor for some cigars and brandy.”

The parlor discussion turned out to be just as interesting and lively as the discussion in the dining room. But it was a more focused interchange. In spite of Mrs. Donnegan’s request to the contrary, the conversation did home in on the British. The discussion was the sort of live history lesson our sadly departed Mr. Powell had talked about the first day of our class with him. 

It was one thing to read about how the British had tyrannized the American colonies and the original French inhabitants of Canada and (for centuries) the Irish on their island nation. It was quite another to hear the outrage pouring from the mouths of Albert’s relatives over the indignities they had suffered at the hands of their occupiers. Robert was no less forthcoming with his bitterness towards how the British had treated his own people ever since Wolfe had defeated Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham in September of 1759.

However, I was too young and inexperienced to realize one fundamental human tendency. It is so easy for all of us to point accusatory fingers at people we believe have wronged us but completely ignore how we ourselves have wronged others. 

I could not offer a better example than the Deep South where I was raised. Back home there were plenty of white citizens (myself among them) who talked with unceasing vehemence about the “war of northern aggression” and yet gave little thought to the millions of black people whom we had oppressed far longer and with far greater violence than the Yankees had oppressed us.