The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  He was going to have to suffer both.

  Midnight at Giant’s Head. Three youthful figures were huddled around a lantern with its flame turned low. They were indoors, and yet a slice of starry sky shone down upon their circle. They had been together in the observatory for more than an hour. Already, in the interest of thoroughness, they had once again scoured the room in hopes of teasing out its secrets. But the secrets had remained secrets for the time being, and afterward they had dined on biscuits and honey, washed down with milk. Now two of them were concentrating earnestly as the third, with uncanny accuracy, recited key passages from the diary on which their hopes of fortune rested. For dramatic purposes, he was making his voice as deep as he could (which was not very deep), in order to sound at least a little like the grown man who had written the diary.

  “ ‘I have heard from Mr. Booker,’ ” Nicholas intoned huskily, “ ‘and naturally he requires advance payment. Must be careful in handling this. Beanie is a fine and formidable accountant but has little notion of privacy within the household. If I do not record the payment, Beanie will note the large difference in the accounts and ask me about it. If he does so in Di’s presence, I will undoubtedly stammer and arouse her suspicions. She has that effect on me. Likewise, she will be suspicious if Beanie asks her about it, for I am usually quite meticulous in matters of money. And yet I am determined to surprise her.’ ”

  Here the strain of trying to speak deeply sent Nicholas into a coughing fit.

  “Just use your regular voice, Nick,” John suggested when at last the coughing subsided and Nicholas, with watering eyes, prepared to speak again. “I doubt Mr. Rothschild sounded quite so much like a frog, anyway. And we’ll never get anywhere if you keep coughing.”

  Violet nodded her agreement.

  “Well, if you insist,” Nicholas said. “The next entry is from the following day. Ready?” Again he recited from memory:

  “ ‘The solution has occurred to me. Cash will suffice. Beanie has not the least interest in how I spend my money. Even such a sizable bank withdrawal will not trouble him. His only concern is that every penny be accounted for.

  “ ‘On Wednesday we take our train to Stonetown, where on some pretext I shall go out alone to conclude arrangements with Mr. Booker. He is, by all accounts, the best in his profession, so I am hopeful for success. On Thursday we sail for Europe—twelve weeks of travel, and with fair wind and good luck, we shall return from an enjoyable holiday to an even finer surprise.’ ”

  Nicholas paused to interject, “My best guess is that this Mr. Booker was a detective or some kind of hired gun. Either he was good at tracking things down, or he was good at dealing with criminals.”

  What was Mr. Rothschild hiring him to do? Violet signed.

  “Either to locate his wife’s treasure or to get it back from someone,” Nicholas replied, after translating her question for John. “Apparently, it had gone missing, or at least part of it had. Maybe stolen, maybe lost in transit—the diary never makes clear which. This is what I mean when I say Mr. Rothschild is kind of shady about some things. Up to this point he hasn’t even mentioned the treasure.”

  “What about the inheritance?” John asked.

  Nicholas shook his head. “He never mentions it anywhere. Not once. That’s another reason I think there’s something fishy about how they got the treasure. At any rate, they got it, but there was some kind of problem. My guess is that they acquired it through some sort of foreign dealer, or maybe several dealers, and that some of the crates got mislaid or misrouted, possibly on purpose, and Mr. Rothschild hired Mr. Booker to find them.”

  And Mr. Booker did find them? Violet signed.

  “Evidently,” Nicholas said. “I’m pretty sure Mr. Rothschild left his diary at home while they traveled, because the next entry is dated just over twelve weeks later. Are you ready?” The other two nodded eagerly, and Nicholas recited:

  “ ‘Sailed into Stonetown on Friday, after a lovely holiday. Could not wait to meet privately with Mr. Booker, who, for obvious reasons, was unable to communicate with me as we traveled. He had succeeded! And so last night, after months of secrecy and subterfuge, I was at last able to reveal to Di the great surprise—her treasure completely recovered! She was stunned, amazed, overjoyed. Rarely have I seen her so delighted! (And, I must confess, rarely have I felt so pleased with myself.)’ ”

  What’s next? Violet signed. What else does he say about it?

  Nicholas shrugged. “That’s it, unfortunately. After that he writes a few lines about their holiday—lots of museums and bookshops and cafés—and goes to bed.”

  John rubbed his head. “So there’s never any mention of how many pieces the treasure contained? Or how big they were? Or whether they’re all the same kind of thing or lots of different things?”

  Nicholas shook his head.

  Violet gestured toward the cranks on the wall. I’ve been thinking about your combination idea, she signed, and Nicholas translated for John as she did so. Already the three of them had developed such a rhythm that there was scarcely any pause in their conversations. Are the diary pages numbered?

  “No,” Nicholas replied. “The entries are dated. I’ve studied the dates carefully, too. Everything seems to line up, as far as I can tell. No suspicious patterns. But maybe one of you would notice something I didn’t. I should write them down for you.”

  Violet got out an oversized tablet and began flipping through it in search of a blank page. Every page she turned contained a detailed drawing.

  “Wait!” said John. “Can we see those drawings? They look amazing.”

  They’re studies for paintings, mostly, Violet signed. She handed over the tablet, and Nicholas, turning up the lantern, scooted closer to John to look at the drawings. He whistled in admiration.

  “I know,” John said. “These are really swell.”

  The first drawing depicted the main street in Pebbleton, which Nicholas recognized at once. Several figures populated the scene, moving among the market vendors and businesses, but something seemed strangely amiss. After a moment both boys realized what it was. The day had been rendered bright and sunny, but everyone in the drawing appeared to be drenched, with wet hair and soggy clothes. Some carried dripping umbrellas folded under their arms. And yet the streets were dry—there were no puddles, and no water dripped from the awnings over the market stalls.

  The next few drawings were also familiar scenes. At first glance they appeared to be copies of famous magazine covers, illustrations that had been reproduced and framed and hung on the walls of thousands of homes. Both Nicholas and John recognized them at once: There was the one of boys sledding down a hill, there was the one of a grandfather and grandson going fishing, there was the one of a family playing cards at the kitchen table. The scenes had been copied in extraordinary detail; there was no mistaking them. They looked exactly the same as the originals in all but one important respect—the people were missing.

  The snow-covered hill was devoid of life. No one stood at the edge of the fishpond. The playing cards were laid out on a table in an empty kitchen. The effect was altogether unsettling. The boys looked at each other, deeply impressed.

  “These are incredible, Violet,” Nicholas said.

  “I can’t get over how they look so strange,” John said. “I mean, they don’t look strange. Everything looks all normal and familiar, but you definitely feel like something is wrong.”

  “Because something is missing,” Nicholas said. “And you’d never know it if you hadn’t seen the originals. I mean, if you didn’t know the people were supposed to be there.”

  Violet thanked them somewhat solemnly and took the tablet back. I’m doing a series, she signed. I’m calling it Absence.

  “They’re good,” John said in a slightly choked voice. He cleared his throat. “They’re really good. They’re perfect.” Violet looked at him and nodded.

  Only then did Nicholas understand that the drawings were about Violet’s brother. He
felt suddenly foolish. How had he not realized that at once? Violet, meanwhile, had found a blank page, and she handed the tablet and a pencil to Nicholas, who accepted them gratefully. He was glad to have something to do. His friends’ sadness made him uncomfortable. He felt as if he should say something meaningful, but he could think of nothing, and even if he did, it would surely seem less meaningful coming from him.

  As Nicholas wrote down all the dates from the diary entries, John told Violet that he thought she could be a famous artist. “Like Picasso or someone,” he said wonderingly. “I mean, you really have talent!”

  Violet looked at Nicholas expectantly. She wanted to reply to John but needed Nicholas to translate.

  “Oh!” Nicholas said, still writing. “Go ahead, Violet. I can do this and interpret at the same time.” He took his eyes from the page but continued to write, and as Violet signed he said to John, “She doesn’t care to be a famous artist. She’d be perfectly happy if she could just find steady work as an illustrator. She loves to think about people’s stories and re-create them in pictures.”

  Nicholas finished writing the dates and handed the paper to Violet. She and John studied them carefully, but, like Nicholas, they found nothing unusual in them, no hidden codes or patterns. They were only days in another person’s life, a life long since ended, a life that had been lived on that very property.

  A life full of secrets, as all lives are.

  For a long time the three of them pondered the diary’s entry dates, speculating on one thing and another, but never with any definite notions about them. At last Nicholas suggested they take a break to clear their heads. “Here,” he said, going to the cranks, “you two look up at the stars while I give you a spin.”

  So John and Violet lay back on the turntable, both of them grinning, as Nicholas cranked and the sky slowly wheeled above them. Afterward they all took turns at the crank as the others spun. For such a simple form of entertainment, it certainly lifted their spirits.

  “You never run out of ideas, do you, Nick?” John said. “Say, that reminds me! Violet, wait till you hear what he was up to in the basement this morning….”

  Violet was amused by John’s account of the basement incident and impressed by his descriptions of Nicholas’s bicycle-powered phonograph. But she was also somewhat taken aback. This was the first she had heard about Nicholas’s narcolepsy, and she asked him to explain it to her.

  “Don’t worry, it isn’t contagious,” Nicholas said, when Violet yawned during his (admittedly very lengthy) explanation. He grinned. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it isn’t my fault that you’re sleepy.”

  Violet grinned back and argued that it most certainly was his fault, for if not for him she would have gone to bed hours ago. In fact, she said, she sincerely hoped that they found this treasure before the harvest season, which would soon be upon them. She doubted that she could give her father all the extra help he would need and still keep such late hours. She would be too tired to think straight.

  “It’s going to be hard for us, too, Nick,” said John. “School’s going to be starting, you know. We’ll have hours of schoolwork every day, and at the same time we’ll have to work extra hours on the farm, helping Mr. Furrow with the harvest and trying not to get bitten or kicked by Rabbit.”

  Kicked by a rabbit? Violet signed, looking puzzled, and soon the boys had her silently laughing with their anecdotes about the dangerous old mule and his precious carrots. She knew how it was with mules, she said. She had been around them all her life.

  We’re down to just one old mule ourselves, she signed, shaking her head. What my father really needs is a tractor. Without my brother to help, he’s had to work himself to the bone. But my parents have been saving up all their money, hoping to send me to art school.

  “Well, after we find the treasure,” Nicholas said, “your father can buy a tractor and you can go to art school. We can all do whatever we want! Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  John was rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, you two,” he said through a yawn. “I don’t think I can look at any more numbers tonight. I’m so tired I can hardly see straight.” He stood up and stretched. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look at that collapsed mine before we go back. I’ve been curious to see it ever since Nick told me about it.”

  The others agreed. They closed up the roof panels, and minutes later John was kneeling before the narrow tunnel entrance, lantern in hand. He let out a low whistle and looked over his shoulder at Violet. “You really crawled in there? Did you even have room to be up on your hands and knees?”

  Violet shook her head. I had to worm my way back there on my belly. It was too hard to carry my candle, so I put it into my pocket with a matchbox and lit it when I reached the little cave.

  Nicholas looked horrified as he translated this, and John whistled again. “In the dark, no less!”

  There was a little sunlight from the opening here, but, yes, it was really dark. Of course, that first time I was hoping I might be able to tie a rope around the drill. I thought they could use a team of mules to drag it out. I’d be in awful trouble for crawling back in there, but I didn’t care. The drill was much too large, though. It wouldn’t fit through the tunnel.

  “So instead you just started taking care of it?” John asked. “That’s what Nick told me.”

  Yes.

  “What about your brother? Did he help you?”

  My brother had more sense than I did. He would never have let me do something so dangerous, so I never told him.

  They sat quietly for a while. The insects buzzed in the trees. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. All three of them were sleepy, and all three were reluctant to go to bed, to leave one another’s company.

  “Oh, well,” John said at last. “I suppose it’s time to hit the sack. We didn’t find the treasure tonight, but at least we got to know each other a little better.” Then he grimaced, for he had forgotten to face Violet when he spoke, and could see her look of uncertainty. He apologized and repeated himself, looking painfully embarrassed.

  Violet patted his shoulder. You’re right, we have gotten to know each other. And I already know you’re kind, so don’t worry. She paused, her hands still in the air before her. Something had occurred to her. You know, I think that’s what we need to be doing. Not just getting to know each other better but getting to know the Rothschilds better. Knowing what kind of people they were will help us make better guesses, don’t you think?

  “Say, that’s a great idea!” John said, and to Nicholas he added, “Do you hear that? Tomorrow night you have to fill us in on how rich people think.”

  “It does seem like a good idea for you to know more about them,” Nicholas admitted, “but just because they’re rich, don’t expect them to have very rich thoughts. They were grownups, after all.”

  I happen to know some very good and loving grownups, Violet signed.

  Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Parents don’t count.”

  And he turned away before she could make a reply.

  The next two days were maddening. Constant rain and no chance for a meeting at Giant’s Head, nor any opportunities for John and Nicholas to speak in private. Despite the nasty weather, the orphans still had to fetch eggs and milk from the farm and herbs from Mr. Griese’s herb garden, and as a result the Manor floors were always muddy or wet, and someone was always pushing a mop around. Someone suggested to Mr. Collum that the phonograph Nicholas had repaired be brought upstairs so that the children might listen to music and have a dance, but he refused on the grounds that the children were being too noisy as it was. And on the second day, John showed up at breakfast with a fat lip.

  “What happened to you?” Nicholas asked, though he felt sure he knew the answer and glanced instinctively toward the other table, where the Spiders sat. Sure enough, they all looked especially pleased with themselves.

  “I let my guard down,” John muttered, staring miserably at his oatmeal. “When Mr. Collum step
ped out of the dormitory for a minute, Iggy and Breaker jumped me. They grabbed my arms, and before I could fight back, Moray socked me in the face. Then they ran back to their cots just as Mr. Collum was coming back in. He didn’t see a thing. And of course none of the other boys would dare rat on the Spiders.”

  “But they can’t get away with that!”

  “They already did, Nick. If I told on them, Mr. Collum would probably believe me, but he couldn’t punish them—there’s no proof that they did it. It’s my word against theirs. Anyway, I need to remember to take care of myself. I just hope Miss Candace doesn’t notice.”

  Nicholas fumed, but when he started to complain further, John asked him to drop it. He said he didn’t want to talk about it—or anything else, for that matter. He was in a foul mood and just wanted to be left alone. And so Nicholas fell silent. Although as usual the two of them stuck together as much as possible—for company’s sake, as well as protection—they spoke very little.

  The rain let up the following evening. The air outside smelled fresh and fertile, and the clearing sky was a vast palette of blues and greens, with a lovely, glowing streak of orange at the horizon. Nicholas, dispatched by Mr. Griese to fetch parsley from his herb garden, was soaking it all in with a wonderful feeling of gratitude. He was excited about the prospect of another meeting at Giant’s Head that night. But he was also taken in by the sheer beauty of the evening. Knowing that the Spiders had been assigned to help Miss Candace with some task in the West Wing, he allowed himself to dawdle.

  He plucked some rosemary and sniffed it. Nicholas liked rosemary, but he preferred the sweetness of thyme. He was just crossing the garden to pluck some, when he noticed that the wooden cover was off the well. Someone had unlocked it and slid it aside. That was odd, he thought, certainly odd enough to investigate, for it was not like Mr. Pileus to leave such a danger unattended.

  Nicholas was halfway to the well when he heard a clatter of stone echo up from inside, followed by a splash, a scrabbling sound, and a faint, unmistakably human muttering. Someone’s fallen in! he thought, breaking into a run. How long had the person been down there? But upon reaching the well Nicholas saw, just below the rim, the top rungs of a ladder set into the stone. And when he peered down into the darkness, he saw none other than Mr. Collum, clinging to the lowest ladder rungs, his feet submerged in water, the thin metal handle of a lamp clenched between his teeth.