Nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge.
Nicholas took a deep breath and tried again. Still nothing. He took another deep breath, then jiggled the key. He felt it slide the tiniest bit deeper into the keyhole, and this time when he turned the key, it met with no resistance at all. The lock sprang.
He was in.
And the ledger was in the desk drawer.
Nicholas did not read the ledger in Mr. Collum’s office. It might take him only a few minutes, but those minutes would be risky indeed. What if Mr. Collum woke up and thought of something he needed from his office? Nicholas took the ledger into the library. He closed the door and stuffed his blanket into the crack beneath it so that no light could escape. He checked the curtains—closed. Only then did he light his candle.
In the candle’s flickering light, the library’s thousands of books emerged from their shadows, and for a moment Nicholas could not help admiring them again. During free time he had almost never looked up from the pages he was reading, but now he saw the books anew, from without rather than from within, and was reminded of how beautiful they were simply as objects. The geometrical wonder of them all, each book on its own and all the books together, row upon row. The infinite patterns and possibilities they presented. They were truly lovely.
Perhaps one day, Nicholas thought, he would make a book himself. Certainly he would have a library.
But first he must find his treasure.
Fixing his candle in a candlestick and settling on the floor, Nicholas opened the ledger. He saw at once that it had not been used as a ledger at all. There were no figures and sums, no records of expenditures and income. The pages were filled with handwriting that disregarded the printed columns on the paper. Instead it was divided into blocks of text, each of which began with a date. Why, it was a diary! And even before Nicholas had turned the first page, he knew that the diary had belonged to none other than Mr. Rothschild.
He kept turning pages, his excitement mounting, and in a matter of minutes he had read them all.
Nicholas closed the diary and sat considering it. Part of him thought he should put it back immediately and return to his room, where he could contemplate in safety what he had learned. Another part resisted this idea, though at present his mind was too busy to identify why. He decided to grant himself a little more time. Crossing his arms, he stared intently at the diary. What have you told me, he thought, and what are you keeping hidden?
Nicholas thought about what he knew for certain. The diary was eighty-six pages long (not including a few pages torn out and a few left blank at the end), and with the exception of several dark scribbles in the margins (Mr. Rothschild appeared often to have used the margins to blot extra ink from his fountain pens), it was written in a light-handed, elegant script. The entries covered a span of almost forty years, beginning in the first year of the Rothschilds’ marriage and ending shortly after Mrs. Rothschild’s death. The diary was, in essence, a record of the Rothschilds’ life together—a haphazard record, for sometimes months or even years passed between entries—but more particularly it was Mr. Rothschild’s admiring record of his wife.
Diana (or “Di,” as he usually referred to her) was the only reason the diary existed. After she died, Mr. Rothschild had made only one more entry, in which he stated his intention to establish the orphanage in her honor and declared, in increasingly shaky handwriting, that the best chapter of his life had now closed. It was also the last chapter of his life, Nicholas knew—or the next-to-last, anyway, for according to Mrs. Brindle, Mr. Rothschild had only briefly outlived his wife.
One could see why Mr. Rothschild would have been despondent at the loss of Diana. His diary entries painted a portrait of a witty, scholarly woman, always reading, a clever problem-solver. She was warm and affectionate to Mr. Rothschild, kind and generous to others. She had endearing quirks: She was unusually careless in her clothes, always preferring old things to new ones, regardless of fashion; she was afraid of heights and even more so of crowds—indeed, she was amazingly shy and disliked going into town, though according to Mr. Rothschild, she charmed everyone she met. In a word, she was lovely. The diary, with its carelessly torn-out pages, its many gaps in time, and its narrow focus, left much to the imagination, but it did make one thing abundantly clear: Mr. Rothschild adored his wife.
Nicholas, for his part, was entirely skeptical.
The sort of love Mr. Rothschild expressed was the stuff of storybooks, as were the wonderful qualities his wife was said to possess. In real life Nicholas had never seen anything like them. He strongly suspected that such things were fantasies that people desperately wished to believe in, for the truth—that humans were generally a selfish and greedy lot—was so disagreeable. That was why storybook writers invented such admirable qualities for their characters, and Nicholas believed that Mr. Rothschild had written exactly that—a storybook, not a diary. It might be based upon facts (Nicholas certainly hoped it was, for the facts included a treasure), but the virtues and emotions described in it were surely exaggerated. Perhaps the endless admiration Mr. Rothschild expressed made him feel good, not just about his wife but about himself as well. Who wouldn’t wish to think himself such a devoted husband?
True, Mr. Rothschild had established the orphanage, which seemed decent enough. But Nicholas would not have been at all surprised to learn that the truth was something more cynical. For example, Mr. Rothschild might have had a poisonous relationship with some distant relative whom he had not wished to inherit his estate. And so rather than be remembered as a vindictive old curmudgeon who had written his only living relative out of his will, he founded the orphanage and directed the remainder of his fortune to charity. After such a remarkable act of generosity, Mr. Rothschild would be remembered as a kindly prince, while the distant relative would be left stewing in private resentment.
It was a possibility, anyway. But Nicholas did not really care about imagined acts of spite any more than imagined virtues. What he really cared about was the treasure—and after reading the diary, he was convinced the treasure existed.
Mr. Rothschild referred to it quite specifically as his wife’s treasure, which pointed to the explanation John had offered about Mrs. Rothschild’s inheritance. Nicholas did not believe, however, that an actual bundle of money was hidden somewhere in the Manor. His guess was that Diana Rothschild, at her husband’s insistence, had used her inheritance to purchase a rare and spectacularly valuable treasure for herself. After all, a single glance at Rothschild’s End made clear that Diana never would have needed a penny of those millions, and it would seem characteristic of Mr. Rothschild, with his love of storybook touches, to encourage such an extravagant indulgence.
The exact nature of the treasure remained mysterious. Nicholas had deduced that it consisted of multiple items—it might be precious jewelry, antique gold, a collection of Ming vases, a combination of those things, or something else altogether—and certain details in the diary suggested that it had been obtained in secret. If so, perhaps the stealthy transaction had been arranged to avoid public notice. (The shy Diana would have been horrified at the idea of curious strangers turning up all the time, asking for a look at it.) Or perhaps the treasure had not been acquired in a strictly legal manner—the Rothschilds were rich enough to pay their way through any obstacle. Perhaps both reasons pertained. Regardless, Mr. Rothschild was no more specific about the treasure’s contents than he was about its location.
Nicholas did know one important thing for certain: The treasure occupied a room unto itself, a room Mr. Rothschild rather overdramatically called the “treasure chamber.” This knowledge alone was enough to make Nicholas want to go knocking on walls and peering behind paintings right away, in search of a hidden door or secret panel. Obviously that was exactly what Mr. Collum had felt upon reading the diary, too.
Unlike Mr. Collum, however, Nicholas could not move freely about the Manor, nor did he have as much time at his disposal. He had to be quiet—no knocking on wal
ls for him—and he had to sleep sometime. He could not go poking about at random, hoping to stumble upon the solution. He needed a plan. He needed to think. And he needed to be careful.
Being careful, Nicholas chastised himself, probably doesn’t include sitting down here with an off-limits diary you’ve already read and memorized. You ought to have returned it the moment you finished reading it.
Yet when he moved to pick the diary up, Nicholas was once again aware of a nagging feeling that he had not finished with it. This time he concentrated on the feeling, trying to understand it—and suddenly he did. Had he not, only minutes earlier, been thinking about seeing books differently from within and without? He had read this diary intently focused on the content of its writing, but had he not noticed other things about it that might be important?
Nicholas considered. Yes, he most certainly had.
Without really meaning to, he had formed the opinion that Mr. Rothschild was rather careless with his diary—a surprising attitude, considering its emotional importance, so why had he come to think that? Nicholas thought he knew why. Those dark scribbles in the margins had led him to assume that Mr. Rothschild did not much care about the diary’s appearance, a notion strengthened by the fact that some of the diary’s pages had obviously and crudely been torn out, each one leaving behind a jagged fringe of paper. Nicholas had suspected that the pages had disclosed the location of the treasure chamber, and that Mr. Rothschild had eventually thought better of leaving such information where it might be discovered. But what if it was not Mr. Rothschild who had torn out the pages? What if it was Mr. Collum? What if those missing pages contained important clues, and Mr. Collum had hidden them in a different place?
There might be other explanations, of course. And of course Mr. Rothschild might be responsible for the missing pages, after all. But if he wasn’t, then those dark scribbles might not be his doing, either.
Nicholas opened the diary again and fanned the pages until he came to one with scribbles in the margin. Ever so carefully, he moved the book closer to the candle flame, squinting at the scribbles in the improved light. They were not scribbles at all. They were words. Words composed of such tiny, closely printed letters that they were almost completely illegible. They must have been written with a very fine pen and a very careful hand. He put his face as close as he could to the page, but his long nose presented a problem. He turned his head and brought the diary up to his left eye. Now he could make out the letters—that was an A, that was an M—but it was difficult and uncomfortable, and it would take him forever. He needed a magnifying glass.
Nicholas’s mind suddenly conjured an image of Mr. Collum peering through his jeweler’s loupe. Of course! These were Mr. Collum’s private notes! No doubt he made them so small because he didn’t want someone glancing over his shoulder and seeing what he was up to.
Too bad, Mr. Collum, thought Nicholas as he scrambled to his feet. I’m going to read your notes, and I’m also going to find those missing pages.
His bravado was short-lived. A thorough search of Mr. Collum’s desk drawers turned up neither jeweler’s loupe nor loose papers with jagged edges. Were the papers in the filing cabinets? No, Nicholas seriously doubted Mr. Collum would keep them where John might come across them. If he had them at all, he probably kept them on his own person, tucked away in a pocket along with his jeweler’s loupe and his skeleton key.
Nicholas found himself hoping that the pages had been hidden away long ago—hidden away or even destroyed. At least then Mr. Collum wouldn’t have that advantage over him. In the meantime, he needed something to help him read those notes.
Use your brain, he told himself, and so he did, and by the time he had locked the office door again, he had hit upon his answer.
He headed for the kitchen.
Soon Nicholas had collected what he wanted—a glass filled with water—and returned to the library. He shoved the blanket back into place, lit his candle again, and looked at the diary through the glass. The minuscule letters swelled into view as he passed the glass slowly over them. Nicholas grinned. He ordered his hands to be steady. He was making use of paper’s two greatest enemies—fire and water—and an accident would be disastrous. Yes, he would be extremely careful.
Now, if he could just stay awake…
Look at him!” Nicholas heard Iggy muttering. “He really loves this stuff!”
“Yeah, he thinks it’s swell!” Breaker muttered. “Ha!”
It was another dreary afternoon at the Manor. The orphans were all crowded into the hot and stuffy drawing room, enduring another group activity. This time it was a session in papier-mâché led by Miss Candace, the third such session of the week. Most of the children’s projects were almost finished, having been shaped and dried over the preceding days. They were now laid out on long makeshift tables, and the children were lined up shoulder to shoulder, painting their creations. The paint fumes and the stifling heat were making Nicholas dizzy. Still, he worked doggedly on.
As usual, no one was speaking to him, but the Spiders had noticed him taking a special interest in his project, and naturally this had earned him special derision. The Spiders believed arts and crafts to be pastimes for girls and toddlers; they were completing their own projects with as much disdain as possible. Besides, as anyone could see, Nicholas had not the least talent for papier-mâché. He had put much painstaking work into a completely nondescript gray block that he claimed (when Miss Candace asked him) to be Plymouth Rock, but which to everyone else resembled a boring chunk of wall.
“He’s a dunce!” Nicholas heard Moray say, not for the first time. (Everyone except Miss Candace heard him say it, though he pretended to be whispering.) “What kind of a moron thinks Plymouth Rock was a square?”
Titters and snickers broke out among the group. Nicholas noticed a couple of the haggard older girls looking at him with expressions of pity, though it was difficult to tell whether they pitied him for being mocked or for being so misinformed about Plymouth Rock. He didn’t see what John’s reaction was. He had purposely stationed himself as far from John as possible, and he tried never to look directly at him. It bothered Nicholas enough when the others averted their eyes; when John did it, he felt even worse.
Nicholas applied more carefully mixed gray paint to his brush and kept working. If everyone truly believed he was hopeless with papier-mâché, that was all the better. They would be even less likely to suspect the true nature of his project. For his part, he was looking forward to being able to open the window in his room without having to disassemble it stone by stone.
The papier-mâché project was not the only sneaky thing Nicholas was up to. Ever since he read Mr. Rothschild’s diary (almost a week ago now), he’d been constantly on the lookout for secret passages, hidden panels, trapdoors—anything that might lead to the treasure chamber. At that very moment, though he made a show of concentrating on his project, Nicholas’s eyes were once again roving over the drawing-room walls, searching for any odd features. And every single time he had crossed the room to gather more materials, he had studied the floorboards and listened carefully to the sounds they made beneath his shoes. They all appeared to be securely nailed in place, no loose or shifting planks. In fact, they seemed uncommonly solid and well made. The walls seemed perfectly normal, too.
Nicholas looked back down at his work, disappointed. He had thought the drawing room a good place to search. For three days he had imagined how exciting it would be to spot an unusually wide seam in the paneled wainscoting, or hear a certain hollowness beneath the floor, or notice a bookcase that seemed curiously askew. An ill-mortared stone in the fireplace would have made him positively giddy. But he had to accept it: There was nothing unusual about the drawing room; and, with a sigh, Nicholas crossed it off his mental list.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Moray, watching him from across the table. “Doesn’t your dumb rock look dumb enough for you?”
The other Spiders snorted and elbowed each other.<
br />
Nicholas didn’t look up. “I wouldn’t know,” he replied with a shrug. “You’re the expert on dumb stuff.”
Moray’s smug look vanished. “What was that? What did you just say?”
Nicholas smiled sweetly at him—Moray couldn’t touch him with Miss Candace around—and went back to his thoughts.
Since he had finally eliminated the drawing room, Nicholas returned once again to Mr. Rothschild’s diary. How many times had he gone over those treasure-related entries in his mind, hoping to stir up new insights, to notice something hidden between the lines, something he had previously overlooked? Hundreds? Thousands? And yet this time, as every time, he returned to them with the keenest sense of urgency, for he knew that Mr. Collum was doing exactly the same thing.
Not surprisingly, it was mostly in the margins alongside those particular entries that Mr. Collum had written his tiny notes. Like Nicholas, Mr. Collum had been especially struck by the entry in which Mr. Rothschild wrote, “I honestly think Di could spend hours simply admiring her treasure, simply glorying in its presence. Indeed she has spent hours luxuriating in it—countless hours—yet I’ve seen her go out of her way to visit that treasure chamber just to glance in upon it for a few seconds, such is the pleasure it brings her.”
In the margins next to this entry Mr. Collum had written: Does “go out of her way” merely suggest taking an inefficient path to another room, or does the chamber lie in some far-flung corner?
Nicholas had wondered the same thing. Perhaps to reach the treasure, Mrs. Rothschild had needed to pass through a part of the Manor she never would have visited otherwise. The kitchen, for example. The Rothschilds had employed a private cook, whom Mr. Rothschild referred to as Toasty (he had nicknames for almost everyone), and Mrs. Rothschild seldom even boiled an egg. Evidently, she was a cheerful but careless cook—she was always burning her fingers or wounding herself with the grater—and early in their courtship Mr. Rothschild had begged her to stop preparing meals.
The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict Page 12