Peril in Paris (Taylor and Rose Secret Agents)

by Katherine Woodfine

  But Anna could only shake her head. Grandfather had told them don’t worry, and look what had happened. Nothing could ever be all right again. Their whole world had tipped upside down, like a picture in a kaleidoscope.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d heard the Countess say. Her cold voice echoing along the passageway: are a couple of children really more important than the fate of your country? A couple of children. As if they were anyone, not Alex and Anna. Her own relations, who she’d helped to bring safely away from Elffburg all those years ago, when they’d been in danger, who had sat opposite her at the breakfast table each morning, who she’d taught about traditions and history as if it all really mattered, as if she really wanted them to learn.  Fetch the prince she heard the Countess say again.  Restrain him if you must.

  ‘What were they going to do with us?’ she dared to ask.

  ‘They’d have smuggled us out of the country,’ Alex said quietly. He had stopped wheezing now, but he still looked very tired, with dark shadows smudged under his eyes. ‘Probably to some hidden place, where we wouldn’t be found.’

  ‘But why ?’ asked Anna. ‘What were they planning to do with us then?’

  ‘They would have used us as leverage. To threaten Grandfather, and persuade him to do whatever they asked. Maybe even to give up the throne.’

  ‘But Grandfather would never have done that!’ exclaimed Anna in disbelief.

  ‘He might have done if he thought something was going to happen to us,’ said Alex.

  There was a nasty silence for a moment, and then Anna broke it. ‘I just can’t believe that the Countess would do this! She talks so much about the House of Wilderstein and … and … protecting royal traditions. If she really believes that royalty is so important, how could she possibly help to plot against the King?’

  Miss Carter looked thoughtful. ‘People will do very strange things for money … or power. We heard her ourselves. She said that if they handed you over, the Count would become King. That’s probably what they had been promised. If the Kaiser gained control of Arnovia, he’d put the Count in charge.’

  Anna shook her head limply. She felt perilously close to tears, but Alex’s face was calm and thoughtful. ‘Maybe she really believed it would be better for Arnovia. After all, Grandfather is a very progressive King. He’s introduced reforms; done away with traditions. He’s trying to make things fairer for people. But not everyone in Arnovia wants that. Some people would rather keep to the old ways of doing things.’

  Anna stared at him. How did her little brother know so much more about all this than she did? How could he talk about it so intelligently? The Countess had spent so much time explaining royal traditions and telling her about what princesses should and shouldn’t do, but she knew next to nothing about what Grandfather actually did, and what being royal really meant. It was just another thing that was considered unsuitable for princesses, she thought bitterly. ‘Is that what he talked to you about when he came to the castle?’ she asked, unable to keep a resentful note from creeping into her voice.

  ‘Partly that. But mostly he wanted to tell me what to do if … well, if anything were to happen to him.’

  ‘Happen to him?’ The train gave a sudden lurch, and Anna’s stomach lurched with it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s rather a rocky sort of position to be in, isn’t it?’ said the captain airily, swallowing his last bite of sandwich and joining in the conversation. ‘Country under threat from invaders. Risk of assassination.’

  Assassination. The cold fingers trailing over her skin. Her head spun: they couldn’t, surely they couldn’t – not Grandfather …

  Miss Carter frowned at the captain. ‘All Captain Forsyth means is that the situation is obviously a difficult one,’ she said hurriedly. ‘There’s bound to be a certain amount of danger to your grandfather. But remember he has lots of loyal allies – the British government, for one. There are lots of people working hard to keep him safe.’

  ‘If the kidnap plot had succeeded, it would have been much worse,’ said Alex. ‘If they had us – me – they could have done whatever they liked. But now we’ve escaped – and we’re being protected – well, there’s no sense in them trying to assassinate Grandfather. I’m next in line, so I’d have a claim to the throne ahead of the Count.’

  It was like a play, Anna thought. The villainous King Richard III, imprisoning the young princes in the Tower of London; or Prospero, the Duke of Milan, cast away on a distant island so his brother could steal his title and wealth.

  But the captain had picked up an apple and was polishing it on his sleeve. ‘Yes, if their plot had succeeded, who knows what might’ve happened. Monarch assassinated, instability, perhaps even civil war. Perfect excuse for the German Empire to swoop in and take control, all under the pretence of keeping the peace, of course. And then if Britain were to step in as Arnovia’s protector, it might just have been the spark needed to blow up war in Europe.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, Arnovia isn’t out of the woods yet, but you see why it’s a jolly good thing for everyone that you’re safely out of the country.’

  His voice was casual and light, but Anna felt as though she was sinking into the ground. ‘But what about Grandfather? What will happen now?’ she asked. Her voice sounded high and peculiar. How could Alex talk about it so calmly? How could the captain just sit there eating his apple, as though this was all perfectly ordinary?

  It was only Miss Carter who seemed to understand how she was feeling. She put out a steady hand to touch Anna’s shoulder. ‘I know it’s awful, but try not to think about it too much,’ she said gently. ‘We’re doing all we can to help your grandfather, by making sure you are both safe.’

  Looking up at her, Anna thought how different she was away from Wilderstein Castle, in the bright light of the juddering, bumping train carriage. No longer the schoolroom governess, nor the sinister, stealthy figure creeping about the castle at night. Now her hair seemed to have sprung loose from its tight pins, her spectacles had long since been forgotten, and as she accepted an apple from Captain Forsyth and crunched a big bite, Anna thought she no longer really looked like a grown-up. Instead she seemed not much older than they were – more like a big sister than a governess.

  ‘I knew you weren’t really a governess,’ she said suddenly.

  Miss Carter looked rather abashed. ‘I don’t think I did a very good job of pretending. It was a rotten idea, really. I never did care much for lessons.’

  ‘I think you did a good job,’ said Alex, loyally. He turned to Anna triumphantly. ‘And I was right too, you know. I told you she could be trusted and that she was on our side, didn’t I?’ he gloated.

  Anna felt her cheeks reddening, but Miss Carter said, ‘You can hardly blame Anna for not being sure about me. After all, she was quite right that I wasn’t what I was pretending to be.’

  ‘You’re an actress, aren’t you?’ Anna said.

  Miss Carter grinned. ‘You could say that. I’ve been on the stage before. But now … well, I’m working for the British government. Just like Captain Forsyth here.’

  ‘But infinitely lovelier,’ said Captain Forsyth, with a gallant bow.

  Miss Carter looked rather irritated by this remark, but went on: ‘I’m sure you know that Britain is an old ally of Arnovia. Our networks suggested that someone high up in Arnovian royal circles might be conspiring with your country’s enemies to plot against the King. A number of British agents have been working in Arnovia to try and find out who that is, and to help protect your grandfather. The captain and I were stationed at Wilderstein Castle specifically to help protect you. What we didn’t realise at first was that the Countess was one of the ring-leaders of the plot.’

  ‘What will happen to them now – the Countess and the Count?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Oh, the game’s up for them,’ said Forsyth breezily. ‘You can’t go round plotting to kidnap a Crown Prince. High treason, you know! No doubt they’ll try to run, but
our chaps will soon find them and see them arrested, don’t you worry.’

  Miss Carter patted the little attaché case at her side. ‘I’ve got evidence that proves their involvement,’ she explained. ‘That’s awfully important. We can pass it back to your government and they can use it to convict them for their crimes.’

  ‘The photographs I saw you taking, with the little camera!’ exclaimed Anna. ‘Is that the evidence you mean?’

  ‘I say, you do have sharp eyes. Yes, when I was first sent to the castle, my assignment was to watch over the two of you. But I was also supposed to gather any information I could. That’s why they gave me the camera, so I could take pictures of anything that might help us find out what was going on. We call it surveillance. But once we discovered that the Countess was involved in the plot … well! Things began happening awfully quickly. We realised you were in danger, and we had to act fast.’

  ‘Jolly fortunate you had an experienced field-agent like myself on hand,’ cut in Captain Forsyth cheerfully. ‘Could have all gone terribly wrong.’

  But Anna was thinking about something else. ‘If you aren’t really a governess, does that mean your name isn’t really Miss Carter?’ she asked suddenly. ‘What’s your real name? I mean, what should we call you now?’

  ‘My name’s Lilian Rose. My friends call me Lil – you can too, if you like. And we – Captain Forsyth and I – we’re going to call you Anna and Alex. I know that’s not really the done thing, but I’m afraid that saying Your Highness might draw unwanted attention our way. We’ll have to forget about all the royal traditions – for now, at any rate.’

  Anna shivered. The words royal traditions had taken her straight back to the Countess’s sitting room. She felt again the hard back-board, and the prickle of the horsehair sofa where she had sat embroidering coats-of-arms, longing to run or jump or shout or do anything but sit still. She heard the Countess’s crisp voice: This is simply not the kind of behaviour that is acceptable for a princess … You must never forget that. And then, in the dark of the castle at night: Are a couple of children really more important than the fate of your country?

  As though he was thinking the same thing, Alex blew out a long breath and answered for both of them: ‘That’s quite all right. I think we’ve had enough of royal traditions for a while.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rue Baudelaire, Paris

  Sophie buttoned up the shirt, and confronted her reflection in the looking-glass in her hotel bedroom. She thought she looked rather silly. She was still not really used to dressing as a young man, although in her line of work, it was sometimes necessary. Young ladies did not promenade about the city streets by themselves late at night and she knew that, on this occasion, she certainly would not be able to secretly make her way inside the Professor’s apartment dressed in Miss Blaxland’s constraining hobble-skirts. That was why she and Billy had made sure to include in one of her trunks, beneath the travelling suits and tea dresses and satin evening gowns, a set of clothes that a boy might wear – shirt, trousers, braces and a cap to cover her hair.

  Beside her, with the aid of a dozen hair-pins, Tilly had managed to fit a similar cap over her own abundant curls. ‘There,’ she said finally, looking for happier in her boy’s clothes than she did in her frilly cap and apron.

  ‘Are you sure you want to come with me?’ Sophie asked her one last time. After all, masquerading as a maid was one thing, but breaking and entering was quite another.

  Tilly looked at her as if she were quite mad. ‘Of course I’m coming!’ she said indignantly. ‘You can’t go breaking into the Professor’s apartment by yourself. We’ll just have to be careful that’s all.’

  ‘I always am,’ said Sophie, as she shrugged into her jacket, turned out the lights, and then opened the door to the balcony.

  It was true, too, she thought, as she cautiously looked around, then nodded to Tilly to follow her. She was careful. Perhaps she hadn’t always been – there was no doubt that some of the things she had done when the Baron and the Fraternitas Draconum had been involved had been rather rash. But things were different now. This was her job: she was methodical and sensible. Tonight, for example, she had worked out the right time to leave the hotel, when they would be under cover of twilight. She had checked the map, pinpointing the exact location of the Professor’s apartment, and working out the best route to take. The inside pocket of her jacket had been stocked with things she might need from Billy’s supplies: a lock-pick, a pair of gloves, a small magnifying glass. Now, she and Tilly crept through the darkened garden, careful to keep to the shadows; slipped through a gate; and then they were out in the street and away.

  It felt very pleasant to be free from the constraints of Miss Blaxland’s cumbersome gowns and hobble-skirts, and to step out boldly into the city. Sophie enjoyed taking in deep breaths of air and lengthening her stride. As they walked together in the direction of Blaxland’s apartment, she found herself thinking, not for the first time, of how unfair it was that Miss Blaxland and her maid must only drive primly down these cobbled streets – whilst, as boys, they were free to stroll and look about them, hands in pockets, sniffing the air.

  She felt as if she were really seeing the city for the first time, and as they crossed the river, they paused to lean on the parapet, staring down at the water, Tilly pointing out the the pleasure-boats lit up with little blue-and-red lamps. They went on past restaurants and theatres and a brightly lit picture palace, past a concert hall with strains of stirring music coming from within, and she thought again of her mother’s diary as they peeped into dark cafés, full of the sound of music and voices. Was this the Paris that her mother had seen, as she’d walked around the city years ago?

  Her mother’s diary – that was it! ‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed aloud to Tilly. ‘Mother’s diary is where I’ve seen Café Monique mentioned before. How could I have forgotten? I’m sure it’s one of the cafés she wrote about. I’ll look for it when we get back to the hotel.’

  But Tilly hushed her, pointing to a street sign. ‘Look – isn’t this it? I think we’re here – this is Rue Baudelaire.’

  For a little while, they stood in a dark corner of the quiet street, contemplating the apartment building where the Professor had lived. Set back from the road behind an iron gate, it was a large, elegant edifice, built of yellow stone, with tall windows and elaborately twirled balconies. ‘How will we get in?’ Tilly murmured in a low voice, but Sophie just shook her head. She was watching, and thinking. It would be easy enough to get over the gate, but once there, how would they get through the big door and into the building? In London, she’d have known where to look for the servants’ entrance or the coal-hole, but Paris was different.

  Just then, a motor-taxi pulled up outside the gate, and a lady and gentleman clambered out. To her delight, Sophie realised they were going inside. She nudged Tilly, and together, as the motor rumbled away, they darted swiftly across the road, managing to slip through the gate and into the shadows of the cobbled courtyard just before the gate clanged shut behind them.

  From there, they watched unseen as the gentleman unlocked the big door. Once he and his companion had gone inside, she sprang forward and caught hold of the door handle, to prevent the door swinging shut behind them. After waiting for a few careful moments she pushed the heavy door quietly open. ‘Come on,’ she whispered to Tilly, and the two of them slipped stealthily inside.

  She’d judged it well. The hallway was empty. Ahead of them, a tightly twisting stairway curved upwards and she hurried up it, Tilly following close behind. The Professor’s door was locked of course, but Sophie had long ago learned how to pick a lock – she could do it with a couple of hair-pins if necessary – and with the help of the tools in her jacket pocket, it was quick and easy work to unlock the door. A moment or two later, they had stepped into the Professor’s apartment.

  Inside, it was empty and shadowy. Sophie saw a large sitting room with big windows, and leading off it, a bed
room, a small bathroom and a room that looked like it must have been the Professor’s study. Everything was luxurious – thick fabrics, soft cushions, silver candlesticks, Indian rugs on the polished floor. But here and there amongst the rich comfort were some clues to what had happened: a lamp with a broken shade and a shattered vase.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Tilly, pointing to an ominous dark-coloured stain in the centre of the rug. ‘I think it’s blood,’ she whispered.

  Sophie bent down to examine it more closely. Tilly was right: this was clearly where Professor Blaxland had been shot by the burglars. No wonder M. Dupont had not wanted the delicate Miss Blaxland to visit the apartment, she thought.

  ‘I want to know what the “burglars” who broke in here were supposed to have taken,’ she said to Tilly, keeping her voice low. ‘Why don’t you take a look around here – and in the bedroom – and see if you can see any signs of the burglary. I’m going to look in the study: I want to see if I can find that safe Dupont talked about.’

  Tilly nodded at once and tiptoed in the direction of the bedroom, the polished wooden floor creaking gently beneath her feet.

  Sophie went into the study, and saw at once that this room was different. It was in a state of violent disorder: papers and notebooks were scattered across the desk as though a whirlwind had rushed through it; books were ranged in tottering piles across the floor; and broken glass crunched beneath her feet. In a corner by the desk was the small metal safe – the door gaping open, with nothing inside. Sophie bent down to look at it more closely. What could the burglars have taken from the Professor’s safe? Had they caused all this chaos, or was this the work of the police, searching the scene?

  She decided to risk turning on a lamp in a dark green silk shade, which stood on the Professor’s desk. In the patch of light, she began to look through the Professor’s papers, her gloved hands moving quickly and deftly. She flicked through notebooks containing the Professor’s flowing handwriting – not grand leather notebooks this time, but stacks and stacks of quite ordinary battered composition books with marbled covers, of the type that any schoolchild might use. There were some student essays, some scholarly journals, and a fat sheaf of blank paper. There were dozens of books too – quite different from the smart new editions she had seen at the university. These were clearly very old, the pages age-spotted and filled with cramped dark brown print that made her eyes hurt to look at it. Their fragile bindings crumbled even beneath her gentle gloved fingers. Some of the titles appeared to be in Latin or another ancient language – she frowned over the curious diagrams, illustrations of angels and twisted serpents and five-pointed stars. Only one was in English: a thick volume with the word ALCHEMY written across the cover in richly gilded letters. She opened it, and the pages fell open to a strange image of a lion, coloured in green and holding a yellow sun in its mouth, with what appeared to be crimson blood trickling from its jaws. A scrap of paper had been tucked inside the page, scribbled with a few words.