The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  Nicholas was surprised enough to cry out, and Mr. Collum, startled, looked up at him with guilty—then suddenly furious—eyes.

  “I’m inspecting the well!” the director roared, in the process accidentally releasing the handle of the lamp, which splashed into the water and went out with a hiss.

  The roaring increased now, issuing up from nearly perfect blackness, and Mr. Collum ordered him to bring another lamp straightaway. Nicholas turned and dashed into the Manor. Soon Mr. Griese would be barking at him for taking so long to bring the parsley, and before that Mr. Collum would berate him for approaching the open well without permission. But at the moment all Nicholas could think was this: He’s searching outside now! He’s catching up! He’s catching up!

  That night, John was waiting for Nicholas behind the oak tree, and for the first time in ages, he smiled. “For crying out loud, Nick, I’ve been waiting here a whole minute. What kept you? Where are my boots? This grass is really wet.”

  Nicholas took the boots from his flour-sack backpack, along with a clean rag. “Here, you can dry your feet first with this.”

  John looked with amusement at Nicholas’s own feet, which were wrapped in cloths like bandages. “I like your new shoes.”

  “Just trying to keep my old shoes dry. They’re all I’ve got.”

  “Couldn’t you conjure yourself another pair?”

  “Sure, but I’m fond of these.”

  John snickered. He seemed to be in such a good mood, in fact, that Nicholas decided not to tell him why he was late. The truth was that he had sneaked into Mr. Collum’s office with a glass of water to see if there were any new scribblings in the ledger. And sure enough there were, written in Mr. Collum’s minuscule print, on one of the blank pages in the back:

  Discomfiting cold + out of her way = not in the Manor proper? Consider: The well? The gazebo? The schoolhouse? The farm? Elsewhere on the property?

  A line had been drawn through “the well,” crossing it off the list.

  Nicholas had closed the ledger with sweaty, sticky fingers and put it away. How long did he and his friends have before Mr. Collum had searched all the other places on his list and started to look elsewhere on the property?

  The thought had been disturbing enough to send him back up to his room, where he sat on his cot and gazed at the plaid pattern of his blanket until he felt reasonably calm again. Afterward, he had come outside with the idea of telling John and Violet what he had learned. But now he realized there was no point in worrying them, no point in spoiling the fun.

  It was fun, after all. John was in high spirits, and Nicholas’s own mood was rapidly improving. Why not? The rain was behind them, they were out in the fresh open air, and they were back on the track of treasure.

  The boys climbed the hill in eager anticipation, and to their delight they found that Violet had arrived ahead of them. Already she had set out scrambled-egg sandwiches and a large baked potato, which she had divided into portions. At once the three of them fell to talking and eating, all with a distinct feeling of celebration, as if they had been reunited after a much longer separation than three days. And when at last they had eaten every crumb, and Violet had folded up her blanket and put it away, they got down to business.

  “Be warned,” Nicholas said, “I don’t think we can really trust what Mr. Rothschild says about his wife. He makes her sound like someone from a book—charming, intelligent, generous, and so on and so forth. I know, I know,” he said, holding up a hand when the others began to protest. “I’m sure it must be different with parents, or some parents, anyway. But I never knew mine, and personally I’ve never met any grownups who were truly generous and kind to people outside their own family.”

  “But what about Violet?” John asked.

  But what about John? Violet signed at the same time.

  With a laugh, Nicholas translated, and John and Violet looked at each other and grinned.

  “Do you mean to suggest that you two will turn out differently?” Nicholas pretended to look doubtful. “I suppose it’s possible,” he grudgingly admitted. “But I think it’s more likely that you’ll lose all your decent qualities as you get older. I think it’s a natural process, like getting wrinkles and gray hair.”

  Violet and John expressed their indignation, but Nicholas only laughed his curious laugh—with its high-pitched rattling, like a broken mechanical toy—and steered the conversation back on course.

  “Let’s just consider Diana Rothschild,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Her husband goes on and on about her fine and selfless qualities. But at the same time, she loves her treasure, doesn’t she? She likes to ‘luxuriate’ in it like a dragon, as Mr. Rothschild says himself. Which to me makes her seem cold and greedy.”

  “Me, too, actually,” said John, and Violet nodded.

  “Right, so my point is just that figuring out her character could be tricky. The same goes for Mr. Rothschild.”

  Why don’t we start with simple facts? Violet signed.

  “Sure,” Nicholas said, “and the facts are simple enough, because there aren’t very many. An awful lot of the diary is devoted to—well, to Mr. Rothschild’s being so devoted. He likes the way the light shines on her glossy hair and all that kind of rubbish. And he’s always buying her expensive yarn for her knitting, or fetching her a book, or bringing her coffee with milk.”

  “So we know she knits,” John said. “And reads. And likes coffee with milk.”

  “Oh yes, she loves those things. She’s always knitting or reading. And apparently she was a marvelous conversationalist; at least she was with him. He seemed to believe she knew a lot about everything because she read so much and remembered everything she read—”

  Like you, Violet signed.

  John laughed. “I was going to say the same thing! She does sound like you, Nick.”

  “I suppose,” Nicholas said with a shrug. “But I’m not so shy. Mrs. Rothschild didn’t like speaking with anyone she didn’t already know well. She didn’t like being the center of attention, not even with Mr. Rothschild, really. There’s one entry… Here, let me quote something for you.”

  Violet and John leaned forward in attitudes of close attention.

  “ ‘What a terrible mistake I made this morning!’ ” Nicholas recited. “ ‘After the Carson wedding in Stonetown, which we could not decently avoid attending, there was of course much mention of Di in the society pages, as there always is whenever she makes her rare appearances. What an effect she has, what a splash she makes! I am always, of course, immensely proud of her and tremendously amused by these gossipy writings, which I always cut from the newspaper and put away—until this morning. For this morning, alas, I foolishly told Di of my little stash, and her intense embarrassment, modesty, and feelings of privacy compelled her to insist that I burn it at once!

  “ ‘I meekly bowed to her demands, tearing up and discarding most of the clippings as she watched from her reading chair by the window. However, I am ashamed to admit that because I could not bear to lose those few clippings that included photographs of her (so rare to come by!), I employed sleight of hand to save them. They are now hidden away in a place I know she will never look.’ ”

  John threw out his hands. “Hang on! That sounds like a clue!”

  Maybe he hid other things with those clippings, Violet signed excitedly. A hiding place could be used for anything, after all.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Nicholas said. “He might have hidden the torn-out diary pages in the same place. I’ve considered that. But it’s awfully hard to narrow down a clue like that. There must be millions of places where Mrs. Rothschild would never look, right? It could be anywhere, so where would we start?”

  John sighed. “I see what you mean. I suppose we could eliminate where she would look, but that doesn’t help much. We can rule out her knitting basket and her reading chair, and that’s about it.”

  Is there nothing else to go on? Violet signed. Was Mrs. Rothschild afrai
d of spiders, for instance? That might keep her out of the basement.

  “I don’t know about spiders,” Nicholas said, “but she was afraid of heights. Mr. Rothschild mentions it early on, when he says that some organization tried to entice her to attend a social event by pointing out that there would be a hot-air balloon and that she could go up in it if she liked. He said she shuddered when she read the letter, and they had a good laugh about it, because the only thing she feared worse than crowds was heights.”

  That seems significant, Violet signed, frowning. Wouldn’t that rule out the observatory as a hiding place for the treasure chamber? She wouldn’t come up here if she was afraid of heights, would she?

  Nicholas shrugged. “She might. Acrophobia—fear of heights—has varying degrees of severity. Anyway, there’s no sort of view of anything except sky up here. It doesn’t really feel high, if you see what I mean. I doubt you would ever find her on the roof, and she would never set foot out on your bluff, but this is solid ground. I think it’s probably different.”

  “Still,” John put in, “her phobia might have had some bearing on where Mr. Rothschild hid those clippings. Nick and I should start thinking about high places around the Manor that would make good hiding spots. It’s worth considering, isn’t it?”

  Nicholas agreed that it was. He had considered it already, in fact, from dozens of different angles. But he knew that talking about things was different from thinking about them privately—already the clue felt new to him, instead of old and pointless—and he was willing to be hopeful.

  I can’t help you with that, Violet signed. Can you tell me anything else about the Rothschilds?

  “Not much,” Nicholas admitted. “You know as much about Mrs. Rothschild as I do now. And Mr. Rothschild almost never talks about himself. Let’s see, what do I know about him? Well, he has a goofy sense of humor. He tends to call people by nicknames. Toasty and Stubby and Beanie and so on. Toasty’s the cook, and Beanie’s his accountant. I’m not sure who Stubby was, but I know he worked at the Manor, because Mr. Rothschild says at one point that seeing Stubby work so hard made him tired.”

  “So maybe Mr. Rothschild is lazy,” John suggested. “In which case he probably wouldn’t have hidden the clippings in a place it would be hard for him to get to.”

  Nicholas tapped his nose and pointed at John. “That’s a good point! You know how he solved his problem about watching Stubby work so hard? He said he turned his desk to face the wall.”

  He does have a sense of humor, Violet signed, smiling. But it is his desk, after all, and not an easy chair. So it seems that he is working himself.

  Once again Nicholas tapped his nose, this time pointing at Violet. “Another good point! So maybe he isn’t lazy—he just doesn’t like watching other people work too hard. Like you and your father, Violet.”

  I don’t like to see my father working so hard because I care about him, Violet signed. Do you think Mr. Rothschild really cared about Stubby? Were they friends?

  Nicholas considered this. “I don’t think so. Or not exactly. He did seem to respect Stubby, because at one point he mentions Stubby saying he would like more privacy, and Mr. Rothschild says that he intends to see what he can do about it. He says, ‘If Di cherishes her privacy so much, I can hardly argue with Stubby’s desire for the same.’ ”

  “Sounds like Stubby might actually have lived at the Manor,” John said. “Was he the butler, do you think?”

  “Possibly. He worked hard, and he wanted more privacy. That’s all I know. And I think we’ve covered everything I know about Mr. Rothschild, too. He made a big deal about his wife, he liked to joke around, and, of course”—Nicholas swept his arms around to indicate the observatory—he was an amateur astronomer who could afford to build a place like this and put a fabulous telescope in it.”

  Violet looked wistfully up through the opening in the roof. I wish I could have looked through that telescope, she signed. I’ll bet the stars were glorious.

  “When we find that treasure,” Nicholas said, “you can buy one for yourself.”

  In the library the following day, Nicholas stared longingly at a book about extrasensory perception. It was a book he had spied long ago, a book he would very much like to read, but it sat on the highest shelf—so high he could barely make out the gold-lettered title on its spine—and there was no way to reach it without moving the ladder. Once again he thought about how to get to the book. The stepladder the girls had used to clean the chandelier was kept in a closet in the ballroom, which made it impossible to obtain. Perhaps John might help him move some of the library furniture during the night—but no, none of it was anywhere near tall enough. Climb the shelves? Very dangerous. For a decent foothold, he would need to remove the books all the way up, a laborious and tricky process in itself. And then, of course, he would have to replace them all again. It would take hours.

  Nicholas scowled at the shelves. How frustrating to be so near something he desired, and yet prevented at every turn simply because… Nicholas blinked. He found himself staring at the ladder as if he had never seen anything like it before.

  “I’m sure I thought of it because we talked about it!” Nicholas said at Giant’s Head that night. “I’ll bet it was in the back of my mind all along, but talking about it with you two pushed it to the front. In fact, that was why I was thinking about that book again—I was thinking about the way the brain works, how solutions seem to pop out of nowhere sometimes, depending on any number of factors we may or may not even be thinking about or aware of—”

  “Fine, Nick,” John said, gesturing for Nicholas to calm down. “That’s fine, it really is. I know you love thinking about that stuff, but really, the important thing right now is—”

  “But wait!” Nicholas cried. “Do you see? Maybe the reason I was thinking about that book was because it’s on the highest shelf! Which suggests that one part of my mind wanted me to look up there, even though the rest of my mind didn’t know exactly why, and that part of my mind assumed it must be because of the book, which is all about thinking and perception in the first place! So it’s like a circle—”

  Violet was waving at him to be silent. It’s fascinating, but please, tell us what you’re talking about. You said you think you know where the hiding place is? Where is this highest shelf you mentioned?

  “You’re talking about the library!” cried John, catching up to Nicholas’s meaning at last. The younger boy had been speaking so quickly and excitedly—speaking as much to himself as to either of his friends—that it had been hard to follow him until then. “If Mrs. Rothschild was afraid of heights—”

  “Exactly! She would never climb that ladder! That’s why Mr. Rothschild sometimes had to fetch a book for her—because it was on one of the higher shelves!”

  He could easily have hidden newspaper clippings inside a book, Violet signed. Most likely one she would never ask him to take down. Otherwise, he might have to sneak the clippings out of it and hide them again.

  “I think we’re onto something,” John said. “This is definitely worth a shot. Were you able to read all the titles on the top shelves, Nick? Are there any obvious candidates?”

  Nicholas nodded. “I had to squint, but I could read them all. I think I’ve narrowed it down to the most likely candidate. Let’s see what you think.” He rattled off a long list of titles—there were dozens of them—then stopped, paused, and with a huge grin announced the final title: Clippings.

  “You’re joking!” John exclaimed.

  Violet shook her head in disbelief. There is that sense of humor again. Or maybe he meant it to be like “The Purloined Letter.” Do you know that story? Nobody finds a stolen letter because it’s hidden in plain sight.

  “The difference here,” Nicholas said, “is that Mrs. Rothschild wouldn’t have been looking for the clippings, because she thought they’d been destroyed. My guess is that Mr. Rothschild chose a book with a title that pleased him—either because he thought it was funny or becaus
e it would be easy for him to remember—and then put it up on the highest shelf, where she would never look for it. Who knows? She might not even have been able to read the titles up there. It was hard enough for me, and I have good eyesight.”

  “Does the diary ever mention her wearing spectacles?” John asked.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t need them. And even with spectacles she might have had trouble seeing that top shelf.”

  Why didn’t you take the book down? Violet signed. Was someone watching you?

  Nicholas and John explained about the ladder. Violet suggested that she could bring a large stepladder from her barn, and the boys could sneak it into the Manor.

  “Thanks, but I think it’s too risky,” Nicholas said. “If we get caught—well, it will be hard to claim that I was sleepwalking if I’m carrying a ladder from your farm. Besides—and even worse—it would surely tip off Mr. Collum. You know he’d wonder what was so important that I’d go to such trouble and take such a risk. If he finds out that I can get out of my room, he might actually figure out what we’re up to.”

  The three of them talked for some time about different ways of reaching the book, but no one suggested anything feasible. Nicholas, for his part, had something in mind, but he didn’t want to suggest it. He kept hoping that together they might come up with a better solution. No one did, however, and eventually they lapsed into thoughtful silence.

  After a while Nicholas saw John brighten, open his mouth to speak, and then instantly close it again, looking much disturbed. For a long time he sat staring at the lantern, his face growing increasingly glum. Then, without looking up, he muttered, “I’ll do it, Nick. I can tell you don’t want to ask me. But something has occurred to me, and if it’s occurred to me, then I’m sure it’s already occurred to you. I’ll do it.”