The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Prisoner's Dilemma Read online

  “Must be,” said Sticky. “If he couldn’t prove who he was, Ms. Plugg wouldn’t have let him in through the gate.”

  After a while the front door opened and Milligan stepped out, dressed in his usual weather-beaten attire, and said something to Mr. Pressius in a low tone. The children strained their ears, but from this height it was impossible to make out his words. They saw Mr. Pressius jab a finger rudely—perhaps he thought Milligan was the gardener—and make some short reply.

  Ms. Plugg spoke up then, gesturing at Milligan as if explaining who he was, and Mr. Pressius took a hasty step backward.

  But Milligan only laughed (that much was easy to hear) and motioned for Mr. Pressius to follow him inside. Then he looked up at their window—clearly he’d known they were watching—and subtly shaking his head, he mouthed the words, “Don’t come down.”

  Mr. Pressius followed Milligan’s gaze. To their surprise, he smiled and waved as if perfectly delighted to see them.

  “Great,” Kate said, lowering Constance to the floor. “I suppose it’s no use pretending we couldn’t tell what Milligan said.”

  “Why is that awful man here?” Constance demanded.

  “Hard to say,” Reynie replied, still gazing out the window. “They’ve had their dealings, you know, and Mr. Pressius has government connections. Maybe he’s making some kind of proposition. His timing makes me think it has to do with the Whisperer.”

  “It would have to be a slimy proposition,” Kate suggested, “in which case their meeting will be short. Mr. Benedict won’t even consider it.”

  “Probably not,” Reynie said in a hesitant, troubled voice. “And yet…”

  The others looked at him.

  “Everyone was clearly surprised he’s here,” Reynie said. “Even Mr. Benedict was surprised—Number Two said so. And Mr. Benedict isn’t usually surprised by this sort of thing.”

  “Gosh, that’s true,” said Kate. “That can’t be good, can it?”

  Their mood shifted then from indignant curiosity to anxious anticipation. Everyone hoped that Kate’s prediction would prove true—that Mr. Pressius would quickly be shown the door—and that afterward a barrage of questions might yield some answers. The older children agreed that they would politely but resolutely insist upon their right to know what was going on. Constance, for her part, practiced making herself cry.

  Exactly twenty-three minutes passed—they were keeping close track by the wall clock—and then Rhonda came up to say, with an odd catch in her voice, that Mr. Benedict wanted to see them in his study. Even before she’d finished speaking Kate had tossed everyone their jackets and sweaters, and they dashed to the door.

  It occurred to Reynie as they bustled downstairs that they hadn’t seen Mr. Pressius leave, despite keeping watch at the window. Were they about to meet him? The prospect made him uneasy. But then Milligan arrived at the study just as they did, reporting to Mr. Benedict that he’d ushered their visitor to the gate “without further incident,” and Reynie had the sudden conviction that Mr. Benedict had timed his summons so that they wouldn’t see Mr. Pressius leave. But why would he do that?

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” said Mr. Benedict, who looked anything but comfortable himself. A red mark was plainly visible on his forehead—the apparent result of a sleep-induced tumble—and a stack of books that had fallen from his desk lay in disarray about the floor where he now sat. He greeted the children with his usual warmth, smiling at each in turn, but rarely had he appeared quite so haggard and worn.

  As they found places to sit on the floor, Reynie also noticed that the pink carnations were lying on Mr. Benedict’s desk, not far from his humble potted violet, but that two or three petals lay on the floor near the wastebasket—as if someone had thrown the flowers away only to think better of it afterward.

  Milligan went out, closing the door behind him, and Rhonda and Number Two sat in the empty chairs. When everyone was settled Mr. Benedict stroked his ill-shaven cheek, apparently seeking the proper words.

  “I know you’re all wondering why Mr. Pressius was here,” Mr. Benedict said at last, “and I’m afraid I must tell you. First, however, allow me to offer a bit of background. Some days ago the government, which as you know is desperate for funds, sold my brother’s tidal turbines to Mr. Pressius. The terms of the deal are obscured by a certain amount of legal embroidery, but suffice it to say that the Whisperer shall retain its power source and the government shall be able to pay off a few debts.”

  “How could they sell the turbines?” said Constance. “I didn’t realize the government even owned them.”

  The other children groaned.

  “We’ve talked about this,” said Sticky, “about a hundred times. The government seized them after Mr. Curtain escaped.” And before Constance could make a retort he said, “But there’s been nothing in the newspapers about selling them, so the deal must be a secret. Is that right, Mr. Benedict?”

  Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “Unofficial is the preferred term, I believe. The arrangement calls for Mr. Pressius to sell back to the government—at a very modest rate—most of the electricity produced by the turbines, which his private technicians shall have operating at maximum capacity soon. The government will save a great deal of money on energy costs, and over time Mr. Pressius will earn a reasonable profit. These are the stated reasons for the arrangement.”

  “The stated reasons,” Reynie repeated, significantly. “So what about the real ones?”

  “Those surely have to do with my brother. After all, if Ledroptha plans to regain control of his Whisperer, he must also think of securing its power source. I’m certain Mr. Pressius is acting on his behalf—no doubt he stands to gain far more than a ‘reasonable profit’ for doing so.”

  The children, aghast, muttered and shook their heads.

  “The government will continue to provide heavy security,” Mr. Benedict went on, “but Mr. Pressius will cover the costs. Thus the authorities enjoy the illusion—I should say delusion—of retaining control of the turbines, and meanwhile they may pat themselves on the back for making such a clever arrangement.”

  “They need more than patting,” Constance grumbled.

  “What were they thinking?” Sticky said.

  “I suspect my brother’s spies did much of the thinking for them,” Mr. Benedict said. “Indeed, confident assurances and promises of fortune, when whispered into the right ears, often serve as substitutes for thinking at all.”

  “Well, this is hideous news, all right,” said Kate. “But why did Mr. Pressius want to tell you about it?”

  “He didn’t,” Mr. Benedict said. “It’s doubtful he even knows I’m aware of it. The transaction was meant to be kept secret from me. I’ve told you about it so that you can better understand the reason Mr. Pressius came here today. The real reason, I mean. I believe his visit was timed to distract me, you see, for tomorrow—”

  “They’re coming for the Whisperer,” said Constance impatiently. “We know already.”

  Mr. Benedict raised an eyebrow, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “Forgive me, I should have guessed you would. Well, then, there you have it. The gears of my brother’s machinery are turning once again, and he is doing what he can to prevent my throwing a wrench into them. That is the reason Mr. Pressius came here today, I have no doubt.”

  “The real reason,” Reynie clarified. “And what about the stated reason? Is that important?”

  Mr. Benedict hesitated. “Please understand that I am not worried about what Mr. Pressius had to say. If I seem troubled it is only because I’m concerned about how you will respond to it yourselves. Be assured, however—”

  Constance spluttered in exasperation. “For crying out loud, what is it? What did he tell you?”

  Mr. Benedict took a deep breath, let it out, and looked Constance in the eyes. “He said, my dear, that you are his long-lost daughter.”

  “It’s a lie, of course!” Mr. Benedict hastened to say, and he reac
hed to take her hands. Constance didn’t resist as she normally might, but sat quite motionless, blanching, reddening, and blanching again so quickly it was as if someone were adjusting her color by remote control. The other children gaped in disbelief.

  “I assure you,” Mr. Benedict said with unusual vehemence, “this is a ploy, nothing more—a wicked attempt to distract us at a crucial time. You must not believe it for a moment.”

  “But… if it’s a lie,” said Constance, her voice rising and rising, “then why is everyone so upset? You, Rhonda, Number Two—you’re all… all of you…” Before she could find the words to describe what she sensed intuitively, Rhonda and Number Two were at her side.

  “We’re just worried about you,” said Rhonda with tears in her eyes, and Number Two added in a choked, furious voice, “And angry with him. It’s such a vicious deceit!”

  “We feel protective, you see,” said Mr. Benedict with an uneven smile. (He was clearly striving to remain calm—and thus awake.) “We consider you a part of our family, even if our ties have yet to be made official. For Mr. Pressius to argue otherwise was terribly offensive to all of us.”

  “And perhaps a little upsetting,” said Rhonda with a weak smile of her own.

  “It’s an outrage!” snarled Number Two. “And for him to have done so much to prove…” She bit her tongue, evidently having said more than she intended. But seeing there was no hiding the details from Constance now, she said, “Mr. Pressius has had some false documents produced. Expert forgeries—they must have cost a fortune—but forgeries nonetheless. We’re intimately familiar with this sort of thing, you know.”

  Constance seemed encouraged. Still she looked to Mr. Benedict for assurance. “You’re sure they aren’t real?”

  “Quite sure,” he said, squeezing her hands. And when he saw she believed him, Mr. Benedict smiled more naturally this time, obviously relieved. He took a carrot from his pocket and handed it to Number Two, remarking that she had not eaten since lunch, and that was almost an hour ago.

  “Furthermore,” Mr. Benedict continued, “if these papers had come from the proper offices, we would have located them ourselves long ago. We’ve sought them most strenuously, you know. But no such papers have been found, no records at all, and though we could have produced false ones—even better forgeries, I daresay, than the ones Mr. Pressius has—we wanted nothing that smacked of falseness to be associated with your adoption. We all felt that this would be important to you.”

  “You’re right,” said Constance, after considering a moment. “It would have bugged me. So what happened, Mr. Pressius just walked in with flowers and expected me to call him Daddy?”

  “Perhaps he did,” said Mr. Benedict with a shrug. “His understanding of children seems to be as poor as he is rich. But more likely he hoped to upset you, and thereby to upset me. I admit he succeeded at first—I even threw away his flowers.”

  “And knocked your head in the bargain,” said Number Two, somewhat less peevish now that she’d eaten the carrot to a nub. “And spilled your books everywhere.”

  “Very true,” said Mr. Benedict, giving her an apologetic look. “After I woke up and composed myself, however, I realized the flowers must certainly be yours, Constance, to do with as you please. At any rate—”

  Mr. Benedict broke off, for just then Constance jumped to her feet, snatched the bouquet from his desk, and hurled it into the wastebasket with all the force she could muster—so hard that flower petals flew up out of the wastebasket like tiny pink butterflies. Then placing her hands against the wall to steady herself, she stomped one foot repeatedly into the wastebasket as if trying to put out a fire.

  “I see we are of the same opinion,” said Mr. Benedict as Constance returned to her seat, and the others congratulated her on her judgment. Then Mr. Benedict cleared his throat and said, “I’m afraid a few unpleasant details remain. Mr. Pressius means to have you removed from my custody. I will never allow this, of course, nor even admit him into the house. But the encounter will be disagreeable, and when it comes I ask you to keep away from the windows. There is no telling what Mr. Pressius will say or how distressing you might find his words, and I shall be far more efficient in dealing with him if I am not also worried about you.”

  “Efficiency is important,” Rhonda said when she saw Constance’s suspicious look. “There’s little time, and Mr. Benedict still has work to do.”

  Constance crossed her arms. “Then you had better do as I say.”

  Puzzled, Rhonda said, “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” said Constance, looking at Mr. Benedict. “You have to do it right away! If you say no, I’ll throw a fit, I’ll make trouble… I’ll—I’ll make sure you can’t get any work done!”

  The others glanced uncertainly at one another. Only Mr. Benedict seemed unsurprised, though he sounded rather disappointed as he said, “Threats are unbecoming in you, my dear, and you know perfectly well they won’t work on me.” He ran a hand through his tousled white hair. “I understand your feelings, however. In your position I would feel much the same.”

  “Then you have to do it!” Constance cried, turning crimson with passion. “Oh, you have to use the Whisperer, Mr. Benedict! You have to!”

  In times past Mr. Benedict had steadfastly declined to use the Whisperer to uncover Constance’s hidden memories. If they existed at all, he said, they might be traumatic, for a person’s mind will sometimes bury painful memories as a means of self-protection. Then again there might be nothing to uncover. Her prodigious mental gifts aside, Constance had been just a toddler when she came to him, and most children that age had yet to form lasting memories. Mr. Benedict had felt the risks of using the Whisperer outweighed the possible benefits.

  But circumstances had changed. Mr. Pressius’s visit had stirred up emotions that Constance could scarcely understand, much less handle with aplomb. She longed for the real story of her past, longed to know beyond doubt that the vile Mr. Pressius was not her father. The forged documents didn’t prove he wasn’t her father, she argued (a point that Sticky rather unhelpfully conceded was logical), and the only way to be sure was to use the Whisperer. And her only chance for that—her only chance forever and ever—was right now.

  “I can handle it,” Constance said. “I know it might be upsetting, but I have to know. You said it yourself, Mr. Benedict—you’d feel the same way!”

  Number Two pointed out that when Constance was older Mr. Benedict could attempt to recover her memories using hypnosis. “You’ll be more stable then,” she said, which was perhaps an unfortunate choice of words.

  Constance leaped to her feet. “I’m stable as a table! I’m sturdy as an elephant! Not like you, dumb Number Two! Your skeleton’s like gelatin!”

  When at last Mr. Benedict had calmed Constance down and persuaded her to withdraw, as he put it, “your disparaging remarks about Number Two’s skeletal fortitude,” he adjusted his spectacles and said, “The fact is I expected this and have made my decision already. It’s one reason I’ve been so busy in the basement—I knew we would need to take time for this. Yes, hypnosis might work, but its results can be unreliable. If they led us astray, and if no other clues emerged, we might always regret our missed opportunity to use the Whisperer.”

  Constance put her hands to her head. “You mean you’ll do it?”

  “Let us proceed upstairs,” said Mr. Benedict, rising, and Number Two and Rhonda leaped up to accompany him. He looked at the older children. “Will you join us? The process can be unsettling, even distressing, and Constance will feel safer with you there.”

  “Do you really think they’ll make me feel safer?” said Constance impishly as they headed upstairs. She was in high spirits now that she’d won her long-fought battle. “The scariest things I remember have all happened when I was with them.”

  “An excellent point,” said Mr. Benedict. “Perhaps you’d prefer to do this alone.”

  To this Constance made no reply, only mutt
ered something under her breath, and her friends smiled privately at one another. They followed her up the stairs, shucking out of their overclothes as they climbed.

  By the time they had reached the balmy third floor and filed into the appropriate hallway, Constance’s steps had grown noticeably slower and oddly deliberate, as if she were trudging through deep snow. It was a perfectly familiar hallway, with familiar bookshelves lining the walls and several familiar doorways—the holding rooms on the left, the chamber door on the right—and the chamber guards were familiar, too. Yet with every step Constance took, the stranger and creepier everything seemed; even the light had a harsh and sinister cast. Her spirits, so high before, had now plunged equally low, for the truth had begun to sink in: She had an appointment with the Whisperer.

  “Steady,” Reynie whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder. “We’re right here.”

  Constance looked up at him gratefully. He managed to smile, but he looked somewhat less than steady himself. So did the other two, for that matter. Sticky kept reaching for his spectacles then jerking his hand away again, and Kate had unthinkingly flipped open her bucket lid. The children’s last encounter with the Whisperer had been most unpleasant, and of course they were all thinking of it now.

  Mr. Benedict spoke cheerfully to the guards as he rummaged through the pockets of his suit coat. He and his guests were the only ones ever allowed into the chamber, whose door was secured with two separate locks. Mr. Benedict produced the first key from his pocket. Number Two had the other. In a moment the door swung open and the little group shuffled inside.

  The chamber was a small, softly lit room, painted in a soothing shade of green very much like that of Mr. Benedict’s suit. In one corner was an overstuffed chair where Mr. Benedict’s guests usually sat; in the other, behind a decorative screen, was the Whisperer. Otherwise the room was empty. No windows, no pictures, no books. The sessions with the Whisperer required great concentration, and Mr. Benedict had eliminated all sources of distraction.