The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Prisoner's Dilemma

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  “The point,” Mr. Gaines cried, “is that you’ve left out important facts! How did you know about Curtain’s plot, Benedict? How did you know about his spies? How did you know he was at the prison? And, for the last time, what happened to the Whisperer?”

  “You seem to have something in mind already,” said Mr. Benedict. “Tell me, Mr. Gaines, what do you think happened to the Whisperer?”

  Mr. Gaines leaped to his feet. “I’ll tell you what I think! I think you sabotaged it, Benedict! It didn’t simply ‘malfunction,’ as your report states—you purposely sabotaged it!”

  “But Mr. Gaines, if I had sabotaged the Whisperer, wouldn’t I have done so while it was still in my possession? Yet it was obviously functioning when my brother stole it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have arranged to bring your advisers to the prison. He couldn’t possibly hope to get away with his plan without using the Whisperer, now could he?”

  Mr. Gaines stomped his foot. “You’re playing tricks, Benedict! You keep evading my questions! Did you or did you not?—”

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Benedict, for just then a telephone rang. The ring was muffled, but it clearly came from somewhere in the study. Mr. Benedict lifted a stack of papers and looked beneath it, then opened the top drawer of his desk. He frowned.

  “I think it’s in the bottom drawer,” Rhonda murmured.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Benedict, retrieving the telephone. (He lifted a finger to indicate he would be with Mr. Gaines in a moment.) “Hello, this is Nicholas Benedict. Yes… certainly… oh no, not at all… yes, he’s here with me now.” Mr. Benedict held out the telephone. “For you, Mr. Gaines. It seems you’re being removed from your post.”

  Mr. Gaines blanched, opened and closed his mouth a few times, then reluctantly took the telephone. After listening a moment, he sat down again. And for some time he continued to listen, occasionally muttering dejected replies.

  Meanwhile Mr. Benedict laced his fingers together and turned to address Ms. Argent, who seemed uncertain what to do. “Never fear, Ms. Argent. The official reason for Mr. Gaines’s dismissal is his filing of an erroneous report, the one concerning the smoldering wreckage my brother’s men deposited in this house. That report wrongly suggested, as you know, that the Whisperer had been destroyed, and that I was somehow responsible. The evidence has since repudiated this suggestion, and supports your own report, in which you expressed a conviction that I was telling the truth. Thank you for that confidence, by the way. Also, allow me to offer you my congratulations—you’re about to be promoted.”

  Ms. Argent’s eyebrows shot up. “Promoted?”

  “Indeed. Apparently you’re being given full responsibility for this case.”

  By the time Mr. Gaines finished his telephone conversation, Ms. Argent was sitting up straight in her seat, her shoulders squared with new confidence and a determined, eager look in her eyes. Mr. Gaines handed her the telephone without quite looking at her.

  “I’ve been told to leave at once,” Mr. Gaines mumbled, staring at his feet.

  “Well, if you must,” Mr. Benedict said. “Rhonda will see you out. Would you like an aspirin or glass of water first? You look unwell.”

  “No… thank you,” muttered Mr. Gaines with a faint nod, and with Rhonda gripping his elbow he shuffled out the door.

  “Dismissal seems to suit him,” Number Two observed. “He’s milder and more polite, at any rate.”

  Ms. Argent spoke on the telephone only for a minute, and was in Mr. Benedict’s study only a few minutes more. She was closing the case immediately, she said; any relevant paperwork would be delivered to Mr. Benedict to sign at his convenience. “I’ll draw the papers up myself,” she concluded. “I don’t believe you’ll find anything objectionable in them.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Argent,” said Mr. Benedict, shaking her hand. “And now for more joyful matters. Our friend Moocho has prepared tea and cookies for a small celebration, if you’d care to join us.”

  “I’d be delighted!” Ms. Argent exclaimed, and for the first time anyone could remember, she smiled. “What is the celebration for?”

  Mr. Benedict pursed his lips. “That’s a reasonable question, Ms. Argent, but I’m afraid… Now, which is it today, Number Two? We’ve had so many lately, I forget. Last week we celebrated the Whisperer’s demise, and yesterday we celebrated Milligan’s retirement from secret agent work—he means to spend more time with his daughter, Ms. Argent, and to do so in one piece. But what is the occasion today, Number Two, do you remember?”

  “For shame, Mr. Benedict!” scolded Number Two in a shocked tone. “We’re celebrating the discovery of the papers!”

  “I was only joking,” said Mr. Benedict, laughing. (Number Two blinked at him, obviously baffled.) “You see, Ms. Argent, we’ve finally located the documents that will allow me to officially adopt Constance. It’s truly a wonderful occasion!”

  “Why, that’s marvelous, Mr. Benedict! Allow me to congratulate you!”

  “Thank you, thank you,” said Mr. Benedict warmly, once again shaking her hand. “You know your way to the dining room, don’t you? Number Two and I will be along in a moment.”

  As soon as Ms. Argent had gone out, Mr. Benedict turned toward the wall behind him and said, “I thought we agreed there would be no more eavesdropping, children.”

  Number Two gasped indignantly and rapped on the wall with her knuckles. “Honestly, children! How rude!”

  After a brief silence, three muffled, contrite voices said they were sorry.

  “I never agreed to any such thing!” protested a fourth. “Also, Mr. Benedict, I know perfectly well you made that joke just to get my goat.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Benedict with a chuckle. “Perhaps I did.”

  Some weeks after the incidents at Third Island Prison, and some days after the eavesdropping incident in Mr. Benedict’s house, the young members of the Mysterious Benedict Society paid their first visit to Ledroptha Curtain. They were accompanied by Mr. Benedict, Rhonda Kazembe, and Number Two, but even so they went reluctantly and with no small amount of misgivings. Only afterward, as they were riding away from the special high-security prison in which Mr. Curtain now resided, did they began to feel good at all about the trip.

  “You were right, Mr. Benedict,” Kate said from the back seat of the station wagon. “Things are much more pleasant when you stop being angry. I wonder if Mr. Curtain will ever figure that out.”

  Mr. Benedict turned to smile at her. “I’m curious myself, Kate. I do hope to find out eventually. Perhaps after ten or fifteen years of weekly visits, Ledroptha will turn the corner. Who knows? He may even be persuaded to use his talents for good. It would be far more rewarding than using them for nothing.”

  “I hope you aren’t expecting me to go along on those visits,” Constance grumbled. “He didn’t even accept the cookies! He threw them on the floor! And they were perfectly good cookies!”

  “You can decide for yourself whether to accompany me,” Mr. Benedict said. “You certainly needn’t feel obligated. He isn’t your brother, after all—though it’s true he’ll soon be your uncle. In any case, you’ll be welcome to join me whenever you wish. That’s true for all of you, I should add.”

  “Well, it was good to see S.Q. again,” Reynie said. “And I suppose he’ll be there often. Did you hear him say he’s been visiting every day, and that yesterday Mr. Curtain looked at him once without growling?”

  “That’s progress, I guess,” said Sticky, blinking exaggeratedly. He had just been prescribed contact lenses and was still getting used to them. His eyes constantly felt as if they had something in them (which, of course, they did) and without his glasses, his face felt as bald as his head.

  For a while they talked about the Ten Men, Mr. Pressius, and Mr. Bane, and all the other figures involved with Mr. Curtain who had been taken into custody at last. And then, as they skirted Stonetown Harbor, they discussed Mr. Benedict’s new project—he was studying his brother’s tidal turbines wi
th the aim of replicating them for the benefit of other cities. It was one of many projects he had planned now that Mr. Curtain and the Whisperer no longer occupied all his time and energy.

  “Speaking of time and energy,” Constance said. “I’ve been wondering something, Mr. Benedict. Why didn’t you just disable the Whisperer right away? I mean, once you learned it was going to be taken from you, why did you spend all that time in the basement programming it to go kaput later?”

  Mr. Benedict hesitated a split second before saying, “To protect myself, Constance. Mr. Bane had private orders to check up on me—and on the Whisperer in particular—every day until the hour appointed for its removal. If he discovered it was no longer functioning… well, the situation at that time was delicate, and I might have been arrested for destroying government property.”

  These remarks were followed by an uncomfortable silence. At least, it was uncomfortable for Reynie, who sensed that some things had gone unspoken, and that the adults were in secret conflict over it. He detected Number Two’s look of disapproval (though she tried to conceal it) as well as Rhonda’s impulse, barely checked, to add to what Mr. Benedict had said.

  “You did it for me!” Constance cried suddenly. “But why would you try to hide that?”

  “Oh, there was no reason to go into it,” Mr. Benedict said breezily. “It’s true I didn’t wish to disable the Whisperer until we’d had a chance to recover your memories. And then again, if I had been arrested, all the questions surrounding your adoption would only have grown more complicated. But Constance, my dear,” he went on quickly when she began to ask another question, “you really must stop reading our minds without permission. Not only is it impolite, it is unwise. Think of all the surprise parties you’ll ruin.”

  “I wasn’t trying to!” Constance protested. “Sometimes it just happens.”

  “It would happen less if you practiced,” Number Two said irritably. (She had shared her snack with S.Q. Pedalian and was suffering from it now.) “Every day we sit down with you to work on it, and every day you refuse…”

  “You’re one to talk about refusing!” Constance snipped. “After all this time, you still won’t tell us your real name!”

  This comment, which seemed to have come out of nowhere, prompted curious glances from the other children. Constance’s eyes were squeezed tightly closed. Number Two had just begun to chide her for changing the subject when Constance’s eyes popped open with a look of delight.

  “Pencilla!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s your name—Pencilla!”

  The other children gasped. So did Number Two.

  “You… you set me up!” cried Number Two, flustered and indignant. “You mentioned my name just so I’d think of it!”

  “That was extremely inappropriate, Constance,” said Rhonda, frowning at her in the rearview mirror. But to Number Two she murmured, “Still, it was about time they knew your given name.”

  “Oh, I suppose, but it’s just…” Number Two blushed and put a hand to her head. “It just doesn’t feel right. It never has.”

  “I think Pencilla is a perfectly lovely name,” Kate declared. “Don’t you, boys?”

  “I love it, Number Two,” Reynie said. “Really, it’s a great name.”

  Sticky nodded. “Me, too. I think it suits you.”

  “Suits me? How do you mean?” said Number Two, knitting her brow.

  There was a tense pause. Reynie whispered into Sticky’s ear.

  “Because it’s pretty!” Sticky said, and everyone immediately, emphatically agreed.

  That night, Mr. Benedict was sitting on the floor of his study, as was his habit when working alone, when there came a knock on his door. He contemplated the door before answering—in fact he almost didn’t, which was not his habit—but then he lowered his papers and said, “Come in, all of you.”

  The children filed into the study. Reynie closed the door, and everyone sat on the floor around Mr. Benedict. Their expressions were serious.

  “I see we have something to discuss,” Mr. Benedict said.

  “More than that,” Kate said. “We have something to do.”

  Constance pointed her finger at him. “I know why you didn’t want to talk about the Whisperer today. You didn’t want me to find out how close you were to finding a cure for your narcolepsy!”

  Mr. Benedict considered a moment before replying. “Forgive me, my dear, but I was a bit embarrassed. I hope you can understand. With such urgent problems afoot, it seems selfish to have spent time working on what was, at bottom, a personal matter. But you’re right; I was closer than I let on. I am sorry for keeping it from you.”

  “How close were you?” Constance demanded. “Exactly how close?”

  Mr. Benedict had looked apologetic; now he looked resigned. “I see you already know the answer.” He waved his hand carelessly. “It’s really of no consequence, Constance. I’m more than used to living with my condition, and?—”

  “You put it off!” Constance cried. “You were only a few hours away! Hours! But you didn’t go through with it—because of me!”

  “It’s more complicated than?—”

  “Don’t try to explain it away! I’ve already gotten the whole truth from Rhonda and Number Two.”

  “Not exactly with their permission,” Sticky put in, with a significant look.

  Constance pressed on. “You thought it might exhaust you to try it, and so you didn’t. You wanted to be alert and strong enough to deal with Mr. Pressius, and to help me recover my memories! You knew you were risking your opportunity—you knew you might lose it, but you put it off anyway, because of me! You gave up your chance for my sake, and that’s what you didn’t want me to know about, because you didn’t want me to feel bad about it!”

  Mr. Benedict pursed his lips and said nothing for several moments. But at last, as all the children were staring at him with the clear expectation of a truthful answer, he smiled somewhat ruefully and tapped his nose.

  Suddenly Constance was all business. “That’s all right,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.” She paused dramatically. “You let me try to fix your problem.”

  “That’s what I meant when I said we have something to do,” Kate said.

  “I gathered as much,” Mr. Benedict said, and with a wondering expression he looked from face to face. “And I see you are all determined that this should happen. But Constance, you know I cannot possibly allow it. I am deeply touched, you must know that, but?—”

  “You don’t think I can do it?” Constance snapped.

  “I…” Mr. Benedict frowned. “I…”

  “You’re not sure how to answer,” Reynie said, “because she has you trapped. If you do say that she can do it, she’ll insist on trying. If you say that she can’t, you’ll be lying. She already knows you think she can do it. We’ve been talking about this all evening, Mr. Benedict.”

  Mr. Benedict gave Reynie a helpless, ironic smile. “Thank you, Reynie, for clearing that up.”

  “We know you don’t want her to try it,” Kate said, “because of how sick you think it will make her, and how if it doesn’t work she’ll have gone through all that misery for nothing. But she doesn’t care, Mr. Benedict. She wants to try it anyway—and we want you to let her!”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Sticky said. “For moral support. And we’ve agreed to take turns sitting with her all night, to keep her company while she’s so miserable.”

  “I want to do this,” Constance insisted. “Please let me try!”

  “Please,” Reynie said.

  “Pretty please,” Kate said.

  “Beautiful please,” Sticky said, then winced a little, for it had seemed wittier when he thought it than when he spoke it aloud.

  All of the children clasped their hands together pleadingly.

  Mr. Benedict looked at them, his bright green eyes shining. Then he fell asleep. When he woke up, there they were, still clasping their hands toge
ther and widening their eyes with exaggerated, puppy-dog looks, and this time he laughed. He fell asleep twice more. And when he awoke the last time, he agreed to let Constance try.

  “You’ll tell me exactly what to think,” Constance said. “Right? With your mind, I mean.”

  “Yes, my dear. And the thoughts will be fairly simple, but you will need to think them with as much intensity as you can manage.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Constance said. “I’m ready to try.” She swallowed dryly, thinking of the misery that would soon be upon her. But she did not flinch.

  “I think it will be best,” Mr. Benedict said quietly, “if you stare directly at me. Do not close your eyes.”

  Constance nodded and began to stare. “Let’s go.”

  Mr. Benedict took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, and fixedly returned Constance’s gaze. For five minutes and more the two of them stared and stared. The others were reminded of a contest in which each person tries to get the other to laugh. But never had any of them seen two people gazing with such intensity. It was disconcerting—so much so they were tempted to look away. But they held still, afraid of causing distraction, until at last a look of frustration passed over Constance’s face, and she broke off the stare with an irritated grunt.

  “I don’t feel like it’s working!” She thumped her fists against her knees. “It’s… somehow it doesn’t feel strong enough. It isn’t like it was the other times.”

  “Never fret,” Mr. Benedict said gently. He seemed a bit relieved. “Perhaps someday, when?—”

  But Reynie, thinking back, felt a sudden flash of inspiration. “Try getting angry!” he suggested.

  Mr. Benedict lifted an eyebrow and glanced sidelong at Reynie. His lips twitched as if he were suppressing a smile.

  “Angry at Mr. Benedict?” said Constance with a helpless look. “But I don’t… I don’t think I can…”

  “At the problem,” Reynie said. “Try getting angry at that.”

  “Angry,” Constance repeated thoughtfully. She gave a tight, resolute nod. “Okay,” she said. “I can do that. Let’s try again, Mr. Benedict.”