The Mysterious Benedict Society

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 the 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,