The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey

“Oh,” Sticky said, looking uncomfortable. “Um, sorry. Han was already very old. He died a long time ago. Mr. Benedict’s aunt mentioned that in her letter.”

“She did?” Constance said, turning on him. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Sticky clenched his teeth. “Because Mr. Schuyler came in before we got to it, Constance.”

“Can you tell us what it said?” Reynie asked.

“It was in English, actually,” Sticky said. “Shall I quote it? Or would you rather I —?”

“Absolutely,” said Kate. “Quote away.”

And so Sticky recited the letter:

My dear Anki,

I write in English this time, not only to show you how proficient I’ve become — I am a regular American now — but to encourage you and Dr. Benedict to practice it yourselves, as it has always struck me as ridiculous that you speak ten languages between you yet render your English so clumsily.

But forgive me. I meant first to offer condolences for the loss of your friend Han de Reizeger. It must be a comfort to you that he was so very old. And had he not lived a full and adventurous life? And did he not die traveling the world as he had always hoped he would? If only everyone could be so lucky!

I do regret the financial troubles mentioned in your last letter, Anki, but I cannot help you. I realize you’ve not gone so far as to ask openly for my help, but I thought the request implicit in your letter, and I am sorry to refuse it. As you should know, my own precarious situation prevents me. I scarcely have enough to pay rent, nor have I ever since Thiedric died these many years ago. But what is this trip you wish to make, anyway? If it is so urgent, must you keep it a secret from your own sister? It only seems proper that a request for traveling funds be accompanied by an explanation.

Regardless, I beg you not to attempt the experiment you mention. Sure, the government will pay you handsomely if you achieve success, but are you not concerned about the possibility of an accident? Is this not why others have refused? You may say that most lack your qualifications, but surely in all of Holland there are other scientists who might attempt such a thing.

Personally I believe it is in the nature of explosives to be explosive, and I do not see how you can make it otherwise. No matter how “noble the purpose,” as you say in your letter, no matter how many lives might be saved, I assure you no one could induce me to attempt such a thing! That, I suppose, is why I did not become a scientist myself. (That, and the fact that science is such a dull business — so much Latin and so many symbols. )

I am relieved, at least, that you intend to wait until the baby has come. But what is the hurry? The baby, the experiment, the mysterious journey — you write as if all must come so quickly! Take your time, Anki! It has never failed to annoy me, I must confess, the way you always write with both hands going at once, as if there were never a moment to be lost. Such haste is hardly proper in a woman to exhibit, however scientific she might think herself to be.

The children were appalled. It was a very disagreeable letter, and as Sticky finished quoting it — the rest was devoted to outrageous prices and noisy neighbors — Reynie wondered what Mr. Benedict must have thought of it. Knowing him, he’d probably found his aunt’s superior tone amusing; Mr. Benedict was not the sort of person to waste a good chuckle on indignation. But then again, Reynie reflected, he must have been disappointed to find yet another example of such unpleasantness in his family.

“I suppose,” said Kate when Sticky had finished, “they hid her letter because it mentions Han and the secret trip they were planning. They were being awfully careful.”

“Why not just destroy it?” Constance said. “A nasty letter like that! Why on earth would Anki keep it?”

Kate snorted with laughter. Of the few letters Constance had ever sent her, not one could be considered pleasant, exactly. “Probably for the same reason I keep your letters, Connie girl.”

Constance screwed up her face, uncertain if Kate’s comment was an insult or an admission of fondness. In fact, she rather thought it might be both.

Strictly speaking, Thernbaakagen lay not on the coast but beyond it. Like so many towns in Holland, it occupied land that the clever Dutch had reclaimed from the ocean. Bordered by the North Sea and crisscrossed by innumerable canals, the town seemed more water than land, and a great deal of its commerce depended on that fact. Fishing, shipping, and water transport had made Thernbaakagen, if not a large city, then at least a thriving, busy one, and the Hotel Regaal sat in the heart of its downtown.

Reynie, Sticky, and Constance could see the hotel sign from their busy corner two blocks away — but they weren’t looking at the sign. As they waited for Kate to return from a scouting run, they stood a short distance away from a snack cart, staring with watering mouths at all the food. The smell of fried potatoes, especially, made Reynie almost giddy with longing. But they had spent the last of their money on the bicycles.

One of those bicycles came barreling out of traffic now, ridden by a bespectacled girl with wild hair who hopped the curb and narrowly missed striking the snack cart. The owner of the cart leaped away, fearing for his toes, and said something in terse, disapproving Dutch.

“That’s what the old woman with the poodle said,” Constance muttered to herself, and Reynie, hearing her, realized she was right.

“I saw lots of well-dressed people with briefcases,” Kate reported, handing Sticky his spectacles and taking back her bucket, “but no Martina or S.Q. I think we’ll just have to chance it, don’t you?”

“I suppose we have no choice,” Reynie said, and catching the attention of the snack cart owner he asked if the man would keep an eye on their bicycles.

Upon hearing Reynie speak English, the man’s disapproving expression faded — as if for some reason he disliked Dutch children but found American ones tolerable — and he said gruffly that he would do so but that they must hurry; he could not spend his afternoon minding bicycles for children. Reynie thanked him, and with another curt nod the man handed Reynie a cone-shaped packet of hot, sliced potatoes — they resembled thick French fries — covered with a mayonnaise-like sauce. “I saw you looking,” he said. “Now go and hurry back.”

The children walked slowly toward the hotel, hungrily sharing the potatoes and keeping a wary eye on the people that passed them. The sidewalk was swarming with pedestrians, many of them in elegant, professional