The Mysterious Benedict Society

  “You mean all of us in the Whispering Gallery at the same time?” said Constance doubtfully. “With Mr. Curtain there? What could we possibly do?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Reynie admitted. “But there’s Milligan, too, remember. If we contact him, we’ll have him to help us.”

  “I say it’s worth a try,” said Kate. “We’re running out of time. How do we manage it? Should Constance and I sneak in while you two are having your sessions?”

  Reynie considered. “The door is controlled by a button on Mr. Curtain’s chair, so you can’t sneak in. But Sticky and I could press the button to let you in.”

  “There’s at least one problem with all this,” said Sticky. “We weren’t to have another turn in the Whisperer for at least a few days, remember? By then it will be too late!”

  Kate tried to think. “What would be good . . . What would be good would be if Mr. Curtain won the Nobel Peace Prize!”

  Sticky spewed a mist of chocolate milk. “Have you gone off your . . . oh, hi there, S.Q.! What brings you by our table?”

  S.Q. Pedalian looked down upon them dejectedly. “Hello, kids. I suppose you heard how I bungled that spy business. Wiping out the footprints and all that.”

  “You shouldn’t feel bad,” Reynie said. “I doubt anybody could have done a better job.”

  “It’s nice of you to say,” S.Q. said with a sigh. Then he took a deep breath just so he could sigh again. “But enough about pitiful me. I came over to ask about you, Constance. Are you feeling all right? You seem rather, well, green-colored.”

  “I’m afraid we gave her a stomach virus,” Reynie interjected. “Sticky and I just got over it.”

  S.Q. looked sympathetic. “Oh, yes, the other Messengers told me about that stomach bug. It’s a nasty one, eh? How do you feel, Constance?”

  “Like I ate something revolting,” said Constance. “I guess that’s what I get for hanging around with Reynie and Sticky.”

  “Now, now,” S.Q. observed, “nothing better for you than spending time with Messengers. Good influence and all that. I mean, stomach bug aside. Let’s just hope not too many other people get sick. It would be a shame if classes had to be canceled. There’s too much good stuff to review!”

  They all heartily agreed with S.Q., thanked him for stopping by, and nodded as he droned endlessly on about the escaped spy and a good many other things, until finally his jaw was worn out, his mind was empty, and he went away.

  “What we need,” said Kate, as if they’d never been interrupted, “is for you boys to get your turn sooner. Isn’t there any chance you could be called on tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Reynie said. “Not unless every other Messenger suddenly fell ill.”

  “Too bad we can’t actually give them belly aches,” said Constance.

  Sticky’s ears perked up.

  “Who says we can’t?” he said.

  Bad News and Bad News

  The children’s plan was bold, ill-formed, and likely to fail, and all of them knew it. They also knew they must act now or never. “Tomorrow, then,” Sticky said, hurriedly grinding a plant root between two rocks. When he was finished, Constance swept the powder into a small bag and handed him another root.

  “Yes, tomorrow,” said Kate, standing guard on the hilltop, a few yards up the path. “And let’s hope it’s not too late.”

  “I wouldn’t want it to be any sooner,” said Constance. “I don’t particularly look forward to tomorrow.” She contemplated a few pulpy grains of crushed root clinging to her fingertips and resisted — for the twentieth time — the temptation to see what they tasted like. Sticky had warned her that wild chuck-root (“or Euphorbia upchucuanhae, as it’s more widely known”) was a powerful emetic. Constance had never heard the word “emetic,” but for once she hadn’t required an explanation. It was clear from their plan — and from Sticky’s mischievous grin — that by tomorrow most of the students at the Institute would be barfing up their suppers.

  Those suppers had yet to be eaten, however. It was the end of the school day, not yet suppertime, and the uneasy members of the Mysterious Benedict Society were the only children outside in the chill air. The other students were either in their rooms studying or watching television, but the moment class was dismissed Sticky had led his friends up here, just over the top of the hill beyond the gym. It was here, on the day they’d encountered Mr. Bloomburg, that Sticky had spotted the patch of wild chuck-root (along with various other plants whose Latin names he rattled off and the others promptly forgot).

  “This should be enough,” Sticky said, grinding up the last bit of root. He dusted his hands vigorously. Then considering what would happen if he absentmindedly touched his lips — then absentmindedly licked his lips — Sticky dusted them again. And a few minutes later, when the children were gathered on the hilltop, he dusted them again. “I’m actually starting to feel guilty about this, can you believe it?”

  “Maybe it means you still have a conscience,” Reynie said.

  Kate snorted. “Or maybe it means you’re sympathizing too much with the enemy. Personally, I don’t feel the least bit guilty for sending a bunch of bullies on an emergency trip to the bathroom.”

  Sticky wiped his hands on his pants. “Don’t let your feelings make you too ambitious on this one, Kate. If you overdo the dose, you might hurt somebody.”

  “And it isn’t just Messengers getting the stuff,” Reynie reminded her. “That would be too suspicious. It has to be everybody.”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “Who needs parents when I have you two? Don’t worry, I won’t kill anyone. And I promise not to enjoy it the tiniest bit if Martina turns green.”

  Guilty or not, they all smiled at the thought.

  “So let me just review the plan,” Constance said. “The other Messengers will get sick and won’t be able to do their sessions with the Whisperer, so you boys will get your turn early. When you get called for your session, Kate and I will sneak away somehow and wait outside the door to the Whispering Gallery. Now, how exactly are we supposed to do that? What if we’re in class?”

  “We haven’t worked that part out yet,” Reynie admitted.

  “Right,” said Constance. “And then one of you will push the button that opens the door, even though the button is on Mr. Curtain’s wheelchair. How are you going to manage that?”

  “We haven’t figured that part out yet, either,” mumbled Sticky.

  “I see. And then, after all this has been magically accomplished, Kate and I will rush inside, and the four of us together will somehow defeat Mr. Curtain, ruin his Whisperer, and make our escape unharmed — even though we’re on an island, and the bridge is guarded by Recruiters. Any idea how this is going to happen?”

  “No,” the boys said dejectedly. Kate shrugged.

  “Okay,” Constance said. “I just wanted to be sure I understood the plan.”

  “Anyway, you can’t count Milligan out,” Reynie said. “He’ll be there to help us.”

  Constance threw her hands into the air. “How do you know? You haven’t even left the note for him yet!”

  Reynie rubbed his temples. “I’m going right now, Constance. Okay?”

  “Be quick, Reynie,” Kate said. “I’ll need all three of you to distract the Helpers while I doctor the food.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” Constance asked, launching into a tirade about how ill-prepared they were, how little time they had, and how this plan was giving her a worse headache than the hidden message broadcasts did. “So I ask you again,” she concluded, “exactly how are we supposed to distract the Helpers?”

  “Just be yourself,” Kate said with a sigh.

  Reynie left the others arguing on the hilltop and hurried down toward the shore. He had insisted he be the one to hide the note. Kate would have loved to sneak down to the culvert again, but this was not a clandestine operation. It had to be done in the daylight. Reynie did take a route that made it difficult for him to be seen from th
e Institute grounds, but if he was spotted, he’d invented a good explanation.

  In one pocket Reynie carried a note for Milligan that told him of their plan. In another pocket he carried a sketch of the island bridge, which Reynie had spent most of two class periods working on from memory. He was a fair artist and had felt modestly satisfied with the result until Kate glanced at it after class.

  “Not good?” he’d asked, seeing her brow wrinkle.

  “It’s okay,” Kate had said tentatively. “But the perspective’s a bit off. See, if you just follow the line here . . . and darken those shadows there. . . .” In about two minutes she had produced a much better sketch than his own.

  Reynie scowled. “I’ll take yours,” he said grumpily. “Wouldn’t want you to have gone to all that trouble for nothing.”

  At the top of the sketch he’d printed the title, Your Favorite View. If he was caught, Reynie would say he’d gone to the shore for a better view of the bridge, so as to make the best possible drawing — the drawing, of course, being intended as a present for Mr. Curtain.

  Hurrying along at the bottom of the incline, just out of reach of the lapping water, Reynie patted his pockets anxiously. Both pieces of paper were there. Good. Now don’t step in the water, he told himself. Wet shoes might draw suspicion. And be sure the note doesn’t stick out when you leave it — cover it up completely with the rocks. And don’t leave any footprints. It’s a miracle footprints didn’t sink us last time. Only poor old S.Q. spared us that disaster.

  Reynie found the culvert and marked off twenty paces from it. He looked around. Not a soul to be seen. There was no one on the bridge, the incline concealed him from the rear, and in front of him was nothing but water . . . and across it the mainland shore. It occurred to him that Mr. Benedict and his crew were probably watching him through a telescope right now. He stared toward the trees across the channel. No doubt they could see him. The question was whether he would ever again see them. Reynie gave a melancholy little wave — one part hello and one part goodbye — then bent and hid the note beneath two big rocks.

  Be sure, Reynie reminded himself. Had he stacked the rocks carefully? Had he made sure the note couldn’t be seen? Had he left any telltale footprints in the sand? Satisfied on all counts, he hurried back the way he’d come, anxious to put distance between himself and the note. As he left the shore and started up the incline, Reynie considered what to do with the sketch. He didn’t think he’d been spotted, but he should save it just in case. If someone confronted him about it later, he would have his excuse in his pocket.

  Reynie patted his pocket, but the sketch wasn’t there! How could it not be there? Hadn’t he put it in his left pocket? He reached into his other pocket and felt the paper. He must have had it confused. Or had he? He took out the paper to be sure, then stared at it in disbelief. It was his note! He had left the sketch under the rocks!

  Now things were getting dicey. Kate needed his help, and it was almost time for supper. But they absolutely had to contact Milligan. You can do it, Reynie told himself. You’ll just have to run.

  Reynie ran. Down the incline, watching his step on the rocks, careful not to get wet, careful not to leave prints. Soon he’d made his way back to the two stacked stones. He glanced quickly around — shore, bridge, water. All clear. Exchanging the note for the sketch (unfolding the note to be certain this time), he put the stones back, checked one last time for footprints, and ran off as fast as he could.

  Two minutes later Reynie was alone on the plaza, breathing hard. He saw S.Q. Pedalian appear from behind the Institute Control Building, but there was no way S.Q. could have seen him, and there was no one else in view. Reynie wiped his brow. That was a lot of excitement over nothing. He waved to S.Q. and hurried on, not wanting to get caught up in a conversation. No time for that. The others were waiting.

  As it happened, S.Q. was in a hurry, too. All day long he had been tormented by his mistake. How could he have been so foolish as to wipe out the spy’s footprints? Such a ridiculous blunder! And all day long he had thought maybe, just maybe, if he were to go back down there and take a closer look . . . S.Q. picked up his pace, feeling more eager with every step. He would skip supper and spend the entire hour searching. Wouldn’t it be something if he did find the spy’s footprint after all? Or some other clue? They had scoured the area pretty carefully before, but you never knew, did you? How wonderful it would be if he could redeem himself in Mr. Curtain’s eyes!

  And so it was that with longer and longer strides, S.Q. Pedalian hurried across the plaza and down the incline, toward the shore, toward the culvert, toward the place where Reynie, in his anxious hurry, had stacked the two stones just a little less carefully than he’d done the first time — toward the place where one corner of the note stuck out, flickering in the harbor breeze like a tiny white flag of surrender.

  When suppertime came and the cafeteria roiled once again with rowdy students, the members of the Mysterious Benedict Society suddenly developed an apparent dislike for anything salty or sweet. They loaded up their trays as usual, to avoid suspicion, but carefully avoided touching their forks to anything but green vegetables.

  “You couldn’t have saved even one kind of pastry, Kate?” asked Constance, screwing up her face to swallow a Brussels sprout. She barely managed it, gulping it down with plain water rather than her usual orange-flavored soda. “These might as well be poisoned.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” said Kate, through a mouthful of lima beans. “Anyway, I didn’t have time to pick and choose, you know.”

  All around the cafeteria, children were stuffing themselves with their usual favorites — greasy foods, savories, and sweet treats — and guzzling chocolate milk and soft drinks. Reynie, meanwhile, speared a dry lettuce leaf with his fork and thought: So far, so good. Despite his bland supper, despite the nagging message broadcast in his head, and despite the uncertainty of his plan, he felt a stirring in his heart, a good feeling that might pass for hope. Kate had spread the powder, Reynie had delivered the note to Milligan, and neither of them had been caught. At least some parts of the plan were going as hoped.

  It really was a good feeling. But it didn’t last long.

  Jillson appeared in the cafeteria, a jubilant grin on her face, and came straight over to their table. Without asking, she crowded herself into a seat between Reynie and Kate — her wide shoulders forcing them to draw their arms close together over their trays, like praying mantises — and snatched a cream puff from Kate’s tray and said, “Hi, there, squirts!”

  Kate frowned, but only out of principle. Privately she was delighted. “Help yourself,” she said coolly.

  “Thank you, I will,” Jillson said, gulping the cream puff down. “Listen, I have good news and bad news, and I thought you kids would be particularly interested. You heard about S.Q.’s bungling the spy business, right?”

  “It does ring a bell,” said Reynie, who didn’t like where this was going.

  “Well, guess what?” Jillson said. “There’s been a new development. S.Q. went back down to the culvert just now, to take one last look around. And he found something.”

  The children could only stare at her, stricken with dread. They were also confused. If S.Q. had found the note, then why weren’t they already in trouble? Was Jillson toying with them?

  “Now, as I said, there’s good news and bad news,” Jillson went on.

  Feeling as if they’d just been given very bad news indeed, Reynie had to stop himself from asking what the good news was.

  “The bad news,” Jillson said, “is that what S.Q. found — a curious piece of paper — was destroyed before he could read it.”

  “That’s . . . terrible!” the children cried, trying to cover their relief. It was too plain on all their faces, and they knew it.

  Luckily, Jillson didn’t notice. She placed a hand on her belly and frowned. After a moment she belched, smiled with satisfaction, and continued, “Don’t worry, the good news makes up for it. T
he spy’s been caught!”

  The children looked at one another. Caught?

  Jillson belched again and scowled. “Must have eaten too much pudding. Yes, caught like a rat in a trap. Turns out it was a man disguised as a Helper. Came out of nowhere, snatched the paper from S.Q., and tried to run away. But Jackson heard S.Q. shouting for help, and some Recruiters on the bridge had seen it happen, so in no time they had the spy surrounded. He tried to fight them off, but he was no match for our guys, I can tell you. He’s in a classroom right now, under heavy guard.”

  Reynie felt as if he’d been kicked in the belly. They had lost Milligan. “Why . . . why are you telling us this, Jillson?”

  “Well, I have to admit I was surprised. Martina had convinced me that Kate was the spy. She was disappointed to learn otherwise. But I thought you should know Kate’s off the hook. The Helper confessed to everything. He’s a lone operator, apparently. That means he works by himself.”

  Kate looked quite sick. “Did he say who he was?”

  “We don’t know his name, but he was on the island once before — years and years ago. When they took off the disguise, Mr. Curtain and some of the Recruiters recognized him at once. Oh, and get this: He ate that piece of paper! Chewed it up and swallowed it before anyone could read it. Said it was from his private journal and was none of our business. Very dangerous madman. Don’t worry, though, they’re taking him to the Waiting Room in just — oh! Here they come now!”

  The children could barely bring themselves to look.

  There was Milligan. His hands and ankles were cuffed, his feet dragged along in a defeated shuffle, and his ocean-blue eyes, sadder than ever, focused only on the ground before him. Though he kept his head bowed, the cuts and bruises on his face were easily seen. He was being marched across the cafeteria by a half-dozen Recruiters and Executives (including a very proud Martina Crowe) — none of whom showed any marks from a scuffle. Reynie wondered how this was possible. Jillson said he’d tried to fight, but if Milligan had really resisted, wouldn’t his captors look as if they’d caught a tiger by the tail? Had he only pretended to struggle? But why? Unless . . .