The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  “I wont,” cried Spike, in horror . “I’m one of….”

  Henry didn’t cut her off with a glare this time, but instead he knelt down and took Spike gently by her little shoulders.

  “Now listen to me, Nellie, please,” he whispered kindly, “You’ve just got to see reason now. They’re cutting people’s heads off in France, and if they ever thought we were going to rescue Juliette from Mrs Guillotine, it would be the Bastille prison for us all.”

  The other Pimpernels were suddenly looking at Hal in astonishment. Henry Bonespair, having talked only of going to Madame Geraldine’s, afer their failed enterprise of resuing Juliette in England, was suddenly talking about rescuing Juliette from a Guillotine. They wondered if he thought he was playing the Scarlet Pimpernel again.

  Henry was starting to wonder about seeing reason himself though, after what he knew he had just seen in the fireplace downstairs.

  “Bones to spare,” whispered Spike sourly, although she gulped. “And reason’s horrid, H. I like magic better.”

  Francis Simpkins raised a scholarly eyebrow.

  “But we need you to do the most important thing now, Spike,” said Henry, “To tell mother that we’re all right. She must be worried sick, with the baby coming too.”

  Spike sighed.

  “But what do I…”

  “I’ll write a letter, explaining everything, without mentioning the Club, of course. And you must deliver it as the Club’s Special Envoy. Our whole mission depends on you now. ”

  Henry patted his sister fondly, who looked very doubtful, got up and walked over to a simple writing desk, where pen and paper waited. Spike followed reluctantly, as Henry sat down to scribe his message to their mother.

  “Hand me one of the sheets, Spike.”

  Nellie did so and the paper felt strange to the touch. Spike found herself examining another page, thinking how good it would be to make paper butterflies, as Charlotte had taught her to at home. She folded it up for later, and slipped it into her little pocket.

  “Dear Mother,” whispered Henry though, as he dipped a quill in the ink pot provided and started to write, “There’s been some trouble, but we’re all right, and you mustn’t worry. We’re in Paris with Grandmama, and we’ll be back as soon as we possibly can. Francis Simpkins has come too. He wants to see a balloon. Please tell the Comtesse that Armande and Juliette are in France as well, but that they’ll be coming home with us soon. Don’t worry, we’ll follow the Itinerary. H Bonespair.”

  Henry thought it rather fine, as he read it back. But the others were looking desperately nervous about what they were planning to do, almost despite any intention to actually do it. That phrase, among several strange names, popped into Henry’s head again: - The Terror Spies. The terrified spies was more the truth of it now.

  “That should do it,” cried Henry though, blotting the paper purposefully, as he’d often seen his father do, and folding it carefully. His own practicality had driven out all thought of those strange visions and Hal felt much better again.

  “We sail with the dawn tide,” he said, “so we’re going to have to trust you to be very adult, Spike, and to get on that Post Coach all alone. Can you do that, Nellie? I can’t be worrying about you the whole journey. Juliette’s life may depend on it now. Otherwise we all come back straight, and then Juliette will be….”

  Spike bit her lip and drew her finger across her throat, silently.

  “Exactly, Spike. Will you promise me?”

  Eleanor Bonespair nodded slowly but Henry noticed the cunning glint in her bold little green eyes.

  “Show me your hands,” he ordered, raising an eyebrow.

  The little girl straightened and drew them from behind her back, to show that none of her fingers were crossed. But now Hal took the sacred Chronometer from inside his shirt.

  “On the Patent Revolutionary Time Piece, Nell. Swear it.”

  “Swears,” Spike whispered reluctantly.

  Henry beamed, leant forwards and gave her a big kiss on her cheek.

  “Yuch,” said Spike, wiping her face with the back of a grubby hand.

  “But now we’ve another problem,” said Henry, turning to the other boys, “What to do on the other side. The Itinerary has been spot on so far, but it says nothing about how to get to Paris from Calais.”

  Henry pulled the itinerary out, looked down and read.

  “It just says, Transport to city. Simon to arrange. Although it gives Granny’s address: Rue Beaulieu. Here Skip, you’re the driver, see if anything gives you an idea.”

  Hal held it out but strangely Skipper Holmwood just stood there, unmoving.

  “No,” Skip grunted dully. “Won’t.”

  “No?” said Hal, in surprise.

  “No.”

  “Oh, go on Skip,” said Spike sullenly, “this lot’ll need a really clever head now, without me around. Even if you won’t drive me home.”

  The Pimpernels noticed Skipper’s heavy forehead had furrowed deeply though, as Skip muttered something and dropped his eyes.

  “Can’t,” he said.

  “What?” said Henry, blinking back at him.

  Skipper looked back angrily, and suddenly the large lad glared at them, as if they were all complete idiots.

  “Can’t read,” Skipper Holmwood cried bitterly. “Not my fault. Never went to no stupid school, did I?”

  “Not read?” gasped Francis Simpkins in horror.

  The others were blinking at him in astonishment. Armande was looking very scornful indeed, and Hal just non-plussed, but Spike walked up to her friend and slipped her little hand into his.

  “Oh that’s all right, Skipper,” she whispered, with a kindly smile, “Nor me. Not very well, anyhows, especially not stupid noosepapers, and I can teach you wot I know anyhow, Horace.”

  Skipper looked down gratefully, although very embarrassed at being called by his real name, Horace, but with that they heard a sudden creak.

  “Spies,” gasped Francis, swinging round and waving his pencil at the door, like a little dagger.

  “Double Agents,” said Spike, with a told-you-so look, convinced they would all be lost without her in France.

  The door to their room was slightly ajar and Skipper, relieved to have the others distracted from his shameful secret, let go of Nellie’s hand and was across the room in an instant.

  He wrenched it open with an angry “Gotcha.”

  Skipper grabbed at a figure crouching there, listening hard.

  The stranger went flying across the room and crashed against the chest of drawers, just missing Armande, in his new Frenchie disguise. Henry had drawn the pistol Skanks had given him, even if it was not loaded.

  “You there,” Skip cried furiously, “Up with yer, spy.”

  The Club was astonished as the spying figure rose. There stood none other than young Adam Snareswood, whose silly wig had just fallen off.

  SEVEN - ALL AT SEA

  “Where our heroes extend the secret Club, take ship and Henry has another very worrying vision…”

  Little Lord Adam Snareswood’s hair was short and black, but his cheek as pink as a ripe peach, at having just been discovered spying. The fifteen year old boy thrust out his chin at Skip, who had walked up to him and raised a big fist.

  “Get away from me, you dirty scruff,” said Snareswood, “Father could have you clapped in irons, Sir. Or Press Ganged, for one of the Lower Orders laying a single hand on your superiors.”

  “Wotch it,” growled Skipper, though he rather wanted to laugh.

  “Specially a ragamuffin who can’t even read. You illiterate oaf.”

  The sharp insult checked Skipper, as Count Armande looked between the two, in confusion. Snareswood was an aristocrat, just like him, although an Anglais one, but Skipper was a member of their Club. His loyalties suddenly felt torn between the Higher and Lower Orders.

  Hal was frowning too, because he wondered how much Adam Snareswood had just overheard of their secret gang.r />
  “And what about listening at keyholes?” he said sharply, offended by how this Lord was talking to his friend, and feeling sorry for Skip about the reading thing.

  “Being nosey, you mean,” said the young man, defiantly, glaring straight back at Henry’s large nose, “we’re even then, by gad, for your staring outside. But I give you me word of honour not to betray your secret.”

  “Honour?” said the leader of the Pimpernels doubtfully. “Like sneeking at keyholes, you mean? But our secret,” Henry added, “You heard everything then?”

  The elegant English boy stood straighter still.

  “Right enough. Ems and I’ve been playing a game, all week, looking for Frenchie Spies. I heard you outside the Eagle, talking Avagum. We’d didn’t expect to stumble on English spies, but I think it’s gravagate.”

  Spike glared at the lordly ninnee. How did he know Avagum?

  “Then you know all about the Pimple…” she started to say.

  “Pimple?” said Snareswood, blinking at her, “The Pimple Club. That’s your gang then? A secret society, just like the Freemasons, but of brave young English spies. And a Frenchie one, into the bargain.”

  Adam Snareswood glanced at Count Armande.

  “None of your business, ninnee,” said Spike furiously. “And we’re not spies, you idiot. The Pimple hates spies. We’re just having an adventure.”

  Henry was smiling and nodding.

  “I think you’ll find,” said Adam Snareswood though, “that everything is the business of the Snareswoods. Father is Lord Lieutenant of the Cinque Ports. But as I said, the secret’s safe with me. On me honour.”

  “But what do you want?” asked Henry coldly.

  “To help of course, if you’re really going on to Frenchie soil.”

  “Help?” said Francis warily, but checking the others with his intelligent, practical look, before they could say a thing. “But how, Lord Snareswood? How could you really help us?”

  “What you were saying about getting to Paris,” answered Adam softly, “Father keeps a coach stabled in Calais, at the Petit Moulin inn, just beyond the Customs point. It can take you straight to the city. Free.”

  “The little windmill,” translated Armande, trying to straighten his embarrassing sacking, as he waved his hanky and Adam suddenly looked at it sharply.

  “Yes. It’s a hostel. Father says it’s rather beastly, but if you give them that,” Adam went on, slipping a ring off his finger, “and say you’re a friend of the young Master, the owner will take you anywhere you want. You’ll have to tip him though.”

  Henry stared at the fine gold ring and rather wanted to wear it himself.

  “And why should we trust you?” he asked.

  Adam Snareswood shrugged.

  “No reason, really. Except that you haven’t much choice, and an Englishman’s word is his bond, aint it? Specially a real Gentleman’s.”

  “But why?” said Spike rudely, “why you helping, silly?”

  Young Lord Adam looked down sharply at the little girl.

  “For the adventure, of course. Pa never lets us do anything really fun. If I wasn’t back at Eton, in a week, I’d think of coming too.”

  “But you’re not a member,” said Spike angrilly.

  “I suppose I’m not. Though one day I’ll be in Pop,” Adam added, his face brightening slightly, “That’s a Club too, at Eton school. Just wait till I tell them about all this.”

  “You’re not to tell,” cried Spike furiously, “You’re just not. It’s secret.”

  “Spike’s right,” said Henry gravely, “that’s the whole point, Snareswood. Absolute secrecy, and honour at all costs. Especially in the face of the enemy.”

  “Adults,” explained Spike. “Stupid grown ups.”

  “And Frenchies,” added Hal, more seriously. “There’s war coming. Though Count Armande here is one of us too.”

  The boy looked back at them and nodded proudly.

  “Of course. But if he’s a Count, shouldn’t he be Leader?”

  “NO,” snapped Henry and Lord Adam Snareswood frowned.

  “What do I have to do then? To be in.”

  Henry had reached into his shirt and pulled out Mr Wickham’s special gift.

  “Swear on our Patent Silver Time Piece. We all have.”

  Adam Snareswood looked at the thing with some interest.

  “But that’s just like one father has,” he said, “Though his has a special secret compart….”

  “Well ours is magic,” interrupted Spike. “Revolutionary too.”

  Adam Snareswood blinked in confusion now.

  Revolutionary? But the Club was against these revolutionaries, weren’t they?

  “All right then,” said the boy though, “I swear I’ll keep your secret, Pimples. Forever.”

  “Then I reckon you’re any honorary Pimpernel yourself,” said Hal, as he finished administering the oath, wondering just how big the club would grow.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Adam, but he suddenly looked miserable too. “Though I’d better get back downstairs, or father and mother will be wondering. Are you going to take my ring or not?”

  Hal took the thing and looked at it, carefully. It was emblazoned with the Snareswood’s crest, of a Stag’s head and antlers. Adam turned and gave Skipper a rather withering look, who stepped aside reluctantly, then Lord Snareswood’s son walked back towards the door.

  Skipper stopped him though with a “hey” and threw him his wig.

  “’ere, yer Lordship,” he grunted, “and keep yer hairs on next time. Some advice, from the Lower Orders.”

  “Thank you, you raga…”

  The boy stopped though and looked at Armande’s handkerchief oddly again.

  “Be on your wits, though,” added Adam gravely, “something really big’s up, Pimples. Father was talking about it at supper. Dr Marat and his secret police are keeping a special eye out for agents and double agents now, with some great English plot afoot.”

  “Plot?” said Hal immediately, feeling slightly sick. “What English plot?”

  The Pimpernel Club all wondered if their own plans had been discovered.

  “Dunno, but very good luck to you.”

  “Ninnee,” said Spike, as the boy slipped out again, thinking everyone seemed to want to be a part of their special Club, and that it wasn’t fair, especially now that she was being sent home to stupid Peckham.

  “Armande,” said Francis though, “why did he keep looking at your hankerchief?”

  “A sign?” suggested Count Armande and he took the silk handkerchief in both hands and was suddenly looking at those initials.

  “Of course,” he whispered, “The Scarlet…”

  But as Armande looked at the PS, he shook his head.

  “Non,” he said, with a confused frown, “not SP, but PS.”

  “Peter Snarswood,” suggested Hal, “Then Skanks took it off his father.”

  “Or his wife,” suggested little Spike, with a grin. “Lady Snarey.”

  Though teased by this little mystery the Pimpernels didn’t go downstairs again, but instead had their supper served upstairs, alone, partly because of what Adam Snareswood had just said, and partly to talk and to think and plan.

  They had to wait for Skipper and Spike too, because Skip had to go back and arrange for Wickham’s coach to be looked after, while they were away in France. He took some more coins and Spike with him, this time, to show her how to get to Messers Fector and Co in the morning.

  Nellie seemed exhausted by the time they got back again and shared the hot meal. She kept yawning, so when the Chronometer was showing almost half passed eleven, Henry took Spike up to their room in the little attic. He gave her two coins from the nearly empty bag and a huge hug too, as he tucked her up in one of the two simple cots.

  “You’ve got the letter, Spike? For Ma.”

  Nellie nodded glumly.

  “The Post Coach leaves at nine, remember. We’ll be gone before six, so yo
u’ll have to wake yourself, with the light, and walk back to the farrier, like a brave little girl. Don’t talk to anyone, understand me, Spike, no one, and never mention...”

  “I know, I know. The secret.”

  “But are you all right, Nel?” asked Hal softly, suddenly hugely guilty for all that had happened. Spike barely nodded, as she yawned heavily again.

  “Then I’m going downstairs, just to help Armande set off. I’ll be back later. I’ll creep out in the morning, without waking you, and I’ll be thinking of you all the time. Bonespair’s against the world.”

  Nellie gave a disinterested nod and snuggled down into the blanket.

  “Bonespairs against the world,” she whispered sleepily.

  Henry tucked her in and patted her head tenderly, then turned and slipped out of the room.

  When Hal got back downstairs, the others were waiting eagerly for their leader. Armande was standing in the corner though, soot from the fire smeared on his face now, to make himself even more fisherboy-like.

  It reminded Henry of what he had seen downstairs of terrible France but Armande was looking at his own blackened hands in absolute disgust. The only thing that made it bearable was that his actions were raising his standing in the others’ eyes. His ambition now, apart from saving Juliette, was to lead the Pimpernel Club himself.

  “Spike all right, ‘aitch?” asked Skipper , still smarting at the fact that they knew he could not read, but worried for his friend upstairs.

  “Yes, Skip. Nel’s fast asleep. Going home is safer than what we plan now.”

  “Then I’ll depart maintenaint,” said Count Armande suddenly, “it’s dark enough now. I’ll go down to la port and slip up the rope aboard. I shall lead the way.”

  They wondered if the Count would fall off into the Channel, but they had just revised their opinion of Armande St Honoré. This Frenchie lad really was one of them.

  “I’ll come back if I can’t get on,” added Armande, “but if they discover me, en barque tomorrow, don’t show you know me at all. If not, we Rendevouz en France. I’ll give the call, as you come aboard. Right?”