The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  True, Mr. Collum had been anything but pleased. “A blatant disregard for property and rules!” he’d said angrily as Nicholas stood trembling before him. “To say nothing of your own safety! Why, when Mr. Pileus found out what you’d done, he had to take a seltzer and lie down! Do you realize that you could have slipped and broken your neck?”

  “Oh yes, sir!” Nicholas cried emphatically. “And I didn’t want to climb down at all, only when I heard those boys outside my door—they were taunting me, telling me they had your key and were about to come in and knock me around—why, I just panicked! I know I was wrong to have opened up that window again, and I’m really sorry about that. I was just worried about what would happen if I had an emergency and Mr. Pileus wasn’t in his room—when he’s on duty in the dormitory, for instance—and so I made arrangements for escape, just in case. But I hoped never to use them, and I hadn’t, either, until this morning.”

  Mr. Collum listened to this speech, some of which was true and some of which wasn’t, with an uncharacteristic degree of patience. He seemed to want to believe Nicholas—and Nicholas thought it likely that he did. Mr. Collum wanted to let him go on this trip. Because he needed the information Nicholas would bring him, and he needed it soon.

  “Be that as it may,” Mr. Collum said at length, “rules were broken, and for that you must be punished. The other three boys are certainly going to be punished, and punished extremely, for stealing my key and entering your room. As for you—” Mr. Collum cleared his throat. “Well. I agree that these were unusual circumstances, and I do dislike interfering with school projects. Therefore I shall let you accompany Mr. Pileus, and you may serve out your punishment when you return.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Collum!” Nicholas cried, even though he was slightly dismayed. (He had cherished a small hope that he might avoid punishment altogether.) “Thank you, sir! You won’t be disappointed!”

  Mr. Collum arched an eyebrow. “I am already disappointed, Nicholas. It is now for you to make amends. Your report had better be thorough and well organized. Dismissed!”

  Nicholas had flown from his office before he could change his mind, and out in the entranceway (much to his delight) he had come upon a sleepy Mrs. Brindle informing the dejected and sullen Spiders of the extra chores they must do before breakfast. Already each boy held a mop or broom. Their eyes popped in disbelief as Nicholas sauntered past them, grinning.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Brindle!” he said, tipping an imaginary hat to her. “And a good hard day of work to you, fellows! I’m off on my special trip to Stonetown!” And with a wink, he’d skipped upstairs to fetch his suitcase.

  Most of the half day’s journey to Stonetown followed the same tracks that had carried Nicholas to Pebbleton in the first place. (His previous residence, Littleview Orphanage, had been located in one of Stonetown’s suburbs.) The farmland and small towns passing by were all familiar to him, therefore, and yet they seemed remarkably changed. For Nicholas had read so many books in the last weeks, had learned so much about so many things, that he felt as though he were looking out through entirely new eyes.

  He recognized, for instance, the different styles of architecture in the buildings, and understood the workings of the tractors and farm equipment in the fields, and knew what sort of crops were being readied for harvest. In fact, Nicholas knew a great deal about almost everything that he saw, and he stared out the window as if spellbound. He felt as if he’d been given X-ray vision, or something rather like X-ray vision yet even greater, for he could see all the hidden details of everything. The effect was quite thrilling.

  He spent no time talking to Mr. Pileus, who was furious with him for having behaved so recklessly. (Not that Mr. Pileus would have been talking, anyway.) And so much of the journey passed this way, with Nicholas gazing out at a changed world, while at the same time he gazed inward, thinking over the most significant event of his eventful morning: After he had climbed down from his room, he had headed straight for the farm to have a conversation with Mr. Furrow.

  The extremely groggy Mr. Furrow had been surprised to see him, of course, standing in pajamas outside the farmhouse door, upon which Nicholas had been knocking most energetically. Scratching his chest through his long johns, the farmer had squinted down at him and asked if he was lost. Because the man was still so sleepy and was, as usual, speaking around a dead cigar stub, his question sounded like this: “Woss a madder, you loss?” Nicholas knew what Mr. Furrow had meant to say, however, even though it was a silly question, considering that he had seen Nicholas many times by now.

  “Oh no, Mr. Furrow—it’s me, Nicholas Benedict, the new boy at the Manor. Why, just last week you were showing me how gentle and obedient Rabbit gets after you’ve shown him a fresh carrot. Does that ring a bell?”

  Mr. Furrow shook his head, though only to indicate his bemusement. With some difficulty, he muttered, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t care. Why are you here? Why are you standing there in the mud in your bare feet?”

  “It’s sort of an emergency,” Nicholas said quickly, and relying on the fact that he had never seen the farmer speaking with Mr. Collum (or with any of the orphanage staff, for that matter), he went on. “You see, Mr. Furrow, I’m leaving this morning on a trip to Stonetown. I’m working on a very important project about the Rothschilds for Mr. Collum. And I only just discovered that you knew the Rothschilds! I wondered what you could tell me about them—anything you say would be useful for my report, and I’d be ever so grateful!”

  Mr. Furrow stared at Nicholas for several seconds. Then, with a groan, he sat down in the doorway, rubbing his face with his hands. “Tell me again,” he said, “why this is an emergency.” He blinked at Nicholas with bloodshot eyes.

  “Oh, it’s a long story, and I don’t want to bore you, but I thought I could make it up to you by doing some extra chores around your house. When I get back from Stonetown, I mean. After I finish my report—the one I’m doing for Mr. Collum,” Nicholas stressed again, hoping it would make a difference.

  “Isn’t much to tell,” Mr. Furrow mumbled. “Rothschild was a good man, hired me when I was young, kept me up with a good team of mules, Rabbit being the last of which. We didn’t talk much. He gave me what I needed and left me alone, which is how I like it, and I kept his larder good and supplied.”

  “What about Mrs. Rothschild, then?” Nicholas pressed. “I suppose you know about her missing inheritance. Any ideas about that?”

  “Not a one,” Mr. Furrow said with a frown, “and I don’t much care. She didn’t need an inheritance any more than a mule needs extra stubbornness. They had more than plenty.” He coughed, took the cigar stub from his mouth, and studied it, as if perhaps he could see the past in it. “Nice lady, though. Very generous, always asking me over for dinner. I went once or twice, just to be polite, and they treated me like a prince. But I hate socializing; I just like my animals and my fields, and I think Rothschild understood that. I think he finally got her to quit asking, which I appreciated. Still, she was most kind. Brought me gifts on my birthday, that sort of business.”

  Nicholas heard all this without much surprise. It made sense for the Rothschilds to treat Mr. Furrow well, contented employees being much more productive and easy to work with than discontented ones.

  “Didn’t you want to write down some notes or something?” Mr. Furrow asked suspiciously.

  “I have an excellent memory,” Nicholas said. “You were just saying that Mrs. Rothschild brought you gifts on your birthday.”

  “Nothing unusual in that,” Mr. Furrow grunted. “Never wanted anything for herself, always giving things away. Ask any of the staff, they could tell you. Mr. Rothschild often had to put his foot down, as well he should—else they might’ve had nothing left for themselves.” He turned his cigar stub left and right between his fingers, still examining it thoughtfully. “To tell the truth, I think she was as shy as me. That’s what the staff said, anyhow. She didn’t like socializing any more than I do. I reckon it migh
t’ve been hard on her just asking me to dinner. I don’t know. Didn’t show it, though. Very friendly, funny lady when she was around you. You could just ask the staff.”

  “You keep saying to ask the staff, Mr. Furrow,” Nicholas observed, “but aren’t they all gone now?”

  Mr. Furrow sighed. “Oh, I suppose they are. Very true. It’s just gotten worse and worse over there,” he muttered, with a nod in the direction of the Manor. “Stayed pretty good for a while after the Rothschilds died, may they rest in peace. Still had good staff at the place, and the director was a solid fellow, an old friend of Rothschild’s. But after he left and that Mr. Bottoms came, oh, it all went downhill fast. That fellow was about as inclined to work as Rabbit is, and not half so smart.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Nicholas said, and he cleared his throat. He had another question for Mr. Furrow, one he’d had to work up nerve to ask, as he was somewhat afraid of the answer. “But to get back to the Rothschilds—which of them was the amateur astronomer? Or was it both?”

  Mr. Furrow looked up from his cigar stub. “Now, how do you know about that?”

  “Oh, various sources,” Nicholas said vaguely.

  Mr. Furrow shrugged. “Well, it was both. They were both brainy types, both of them interested in everything. Rothschild even had a place built up on that hilltop behind the Manor, one of those little buildings with a telescope in it—”

  “An observatory?” Nicholas prompted.

  “I think that’s what they called it, yes.”

  “And did they both go up there? I’ve heard Mrs. Rothschild was afraid of heights.”

  “If she was, I didn’t know anything about it,” Mr. Furrow said. He stuck the cigar stub back into his mouth. “And I would have been in bed anytime they used it. You have to use them at night, you know, or you can’t see anything.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Nicholas said. “So you never saw Mrs. Rothschild herself going up that hill?”

  “Oh, as for that, I’m sure I did. She loved horses, you know. Never rode them, just liked having them. She used to lead them around all over the place. I never understood why she didn’t get up in the saddle. Thought maybe she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself.” Mr. Furrow barked a raspy laugh. “Fear of heights, you say? Well, that would explain it, then. Funny to learn something like that after all these years.”

  Nicholas agreed that it surely was, then prodded Mr. Furrow to tell him what horses had to do with the observatory.

  “Only that I’d see her lead the horses up into the hills sometimes. She walked everywhere with them. She’d walk all the way to the river and back.”

  The morning was getting brighter, and Nicholas knew it was time to return to the Manor. He had already worked out what he would say, and was hopeful that Mr. Collum would still let him go on the trip. He was nervous, though, and ready to see what his fate would be. And his most important question had been answered—Mrs. Rothschild had not been afraid to go up that hill. So the observatory was not ruled out as a possible entrance to the treasure chamber.

  All in all, Nicholas believed it had been a productive conversation, and thanking Mr. Furrow, he left the farmer sitting pensively on his own doorstep, reflecting on times long since past.

  Nicholas awoke from his third nap of the day to the sounds of hissing steam, booming voices on loudspeakers, and the great, echoing clatter of trains moving in and out of a grand terminal. Mr. Pileus stood silently before him, holding their suitcases. They had arrived at Stonetown’s central station.

  They disembarked, and together they mounted the stairs to the main exit, shoulder to shoulder with other travelers, Mr. Pileus with a protective, almost painful grip on Nicholas’s arm. They emerged into the incredible bustle and energy of the city, with the blaring of automobile horns, the clanging of streetcars, and hurrying pedestrians everywhere. Mr. Pileus hailed a taxicab, then gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as their driver wove in and out among the street traffic. Every time they came to a sudden stop—which was often—Mr. Pileus (quite unnecessarily) threw out an arm to prevent Nicholas from tumbling to the floorboard.

  And on the steps of Stonetown Library, with the taxicab waiting at the curb, Mr. Pileus beseeched Nicholas in a strained voice to do exactly as he had been told. Nicholas was tempted to make a joke by asking Mr. Pileus to repeat the instructions, for what Nicholas had been told was to be waiting on these very steps at exactly six o’clock, to not leave the library premises for even an instant before then, to speak to no strangers (except, insofar as it was necessary, to the librarians), to always hold the handrails when taking stairs, to inform the head librarian of his special condition (Mr. Collum had sent along a note), and in general to exercise good common sense in regard to his safety. These lengthy instructions had left the man so utterly exhausted and breathless that Nicholas had pity on him, resisting the joke and assuring Mr. Pileus that he would follow them to the letter. Then he turned and dashed up the stone steps with such reckless abandon that Mr. Pileus almost fainted.

  The library was a massive structure every bit as impressive to Nicholas as the train terminal had been. Towering columns rose up in front of the building, and its front entrance gave onto a glorious main lobby, a huge tiled area with handsome card catalogs ringing it all the way around. The lobby was overlooked by a second-floor gallery, in rather the same manner as the entranceway and gallery at Rothschild’s End, though on a dramatically larger scale, and was lit by a stupendous chandelier. Its marbled walls gleamed invitingly in the strong light. Nicholas was quite stirred at the sight of it all.

  As he made his way across the lobby to the front desk, where a number of people stood waiting to check out books, Nicholas passed over a beautiful engraved plaque that had been set into the tiled floor. He read it at a glance, as he read everything, and was already two steps beyond it before he realized the significance of what he had read. Startled, he ran backward, almost tripping, to take another look, hoping he had mistaken the dates on the plaque.

  He had not. He read the plaque slowly, carefully, three times, and each time it said the same thing. Construction of this Free and Public Library of Stonetown, designed by the eminent architects Mason & Mason, funded by the Alexandria Foundation, and open to all citizens of our great republic…

  It was at exactly this point each time that Nicholas groaned and shook his head, each time with more intensity. For here the plaque listed the year construction had begun and the year it had been completed—and according to these dates, the library had not even existed yet when the Rothschilds had spent their mysterious week in Stonetown. Thus the library’s collection would include no newspapers from that time. How could it? There had been no place to keep them, no librarians to collect them! Construction had not even begun until later that year! Nicholas clapped his hands to his head. This whole trip had been for nothing! And those newspapers had been his only lead!

  When he noticed a couple of the library patrons giving him curious looks, Nicholas made an effort to calm himself. He had no wish to collapse in the middle of the lobby. Perhaps, he thought, some old newspapers had been donated to the library after it was built. That was possible, wasn’t it? Or perhaps the library had obtained older newspapers by some other means. There was only one way to find out, and Nicholas, bracing himself for disappointment, got in line at the desk.

  He had not braced himself well enough, unfortunately.

  A short while later, Nicholas awoke on the cold tile floor behind the desk. Leaning over him was the librarian who had disappointed him, an ancient woman with wispy white hair. Her skin was so wrinkled, she might have been a thousand years old; she might once have shelved books in the ancient library at Alexandria. In one trembling hand she held the note from Mr. Collum, which Nicholas had been carrying when he collapsed. Luckily she had spied the paper and read it. She had not sent for a doctor, therefore, but had simply asked a younger librarian to drag the sleeping boy out of the way.

  When Nicholas had assured
her that he was absolutely fine, he began asking other questions. Though the library possessed no newspapers from the years he had specified—that much he had to accept—he still hoped to learn what he could, and the old librarian was most helpful. Before long he was seated at a reading table, poring over old directories and indexes.

  But though the librarian was helpful, the directories were not. In a city the size of Stonetown, there were countless architects and builders who might have been hired to design and construct the Rothschilds’ observatory. After flipping page after page in hopes of finding a clue, something obvious that would leap out at him, Nicholas turned to a new strategy. He got the most recent directory and compared its entries with much older ones, trying to find currently existing businesses that had been around years ago, when the Rothschilds were in town. There were dozens, however, and they were spread out all over the city and in the suburbs. Making inquiries at all of them could take weeks, even months. And there was no guarantee that any of them had a connection to the Rothschilds.

  Nicholas found that his mouth had grown pasty and developed a sour taste. He went for a drink of water, his mind churning. When he got back to his seat, he searched for the name Booker in listings for private detectives, without success. Among the other listings he found plenty of Bookers, but none that would seem to have had anything to do with the Rothschilds’ treasure. No shipping merchants or antique dealers or any such thing. Was there any point in trying to contact anyone at all? His original, focused plan had dissolved into a wild-goose chase.

  Nicholas shoved his chair back from the table. He needed to clear his head, which was starting to throb. He went to a window that overlooked the busy street. He imagined himself going out into the city in search of answers. If he had more time…