The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  At the end of the dinning-cum-sitting room, lit by those tall candles, that sent gloomy shadows dancing across the high ceiling, was a giant four poster bed, also slung with decaying lace drapes.

  Spike suddenly remembered Granny was on her death bed.

  Under the coverlet lay an ancient old woman, like a statue, reclined in her faded nightdress, her face pointing to the canopy, utterly immovable. They both wondered if their grandmother was dead already and if that woman had been her physician.

  The maid curtseyed and retreated and the cat jumped onto the coverlet, as a pale, cadaverous hand lifted slightly and beckoned the children closer.

  “Come, come, mes enfants.”

  Henry glanced at Nell and they both walked forwards, coming to a stop only a little way from Madame Geraldine de Bonespair herself.

  Her face looked as white as that lace, covered in talc and strange little bumps too, as she turned to regard them, then her thin lips moved faintly, and she opened her eyes. They were dim, watery and pale green, but with a little glimmer of light.

  “ ‘enri Bonespair, can it be you?” the old lady whispered. “I thought you were not…”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” answered Henry, with a gulp, clasping Nellie’s hand, “We’ve come all the way from London, just to visit you.”

  “But where is my foolish son?” asked Madame Geraldine, in a voice so faint it sounded as if it already came from beyond the grave.

  “Er, that’s hard to explain, Grandmere. Pa’s still back in England. In Peckham.”

  “Peck-HAM,” their grandmother almost spat, “And Simon sends you alone here, to Paris? His own children. Mon dieu. That spineless, cruel, good for nothing…”

  Spike looked rather indignant, as their granny went off into a series of highly colourful phrases that would have made a Headsman blush, although whispered in that deathly voice.

  Henry didn’t try to stop or interrupt her, for Granny Geraldine seemed in a world of her own and her outburst was actually rather useful too. It meant that Henry didn’t even have to explain what they were really doing here.

  At last it subsided though and Madame Geraldine sighed.

  “Well, what matter? I had wanted to put an end to the past, but that can never be now, and besides, the ungrateful boy only wanted my fortune. That secret is well hidden. I take it to the grave with me now, don’t I, my darling Malfort? None shall ever know it, my puss.”

  Gerladine was addressing the cat, and Spike glanced at Hal, but her granny reached out her spindly hands, fretted with raised blue veins.

  “Mes cheries, come closer still.”

  Hal stepped forwards but poor Spike looked most reluctant.

  “Mavagoove, Spavagike,” hissed Henry

  Spike stepped up too, in the scruffy dress and spikey blonde hair.

  “You are truly one of my line?” said the old lady doubtfully, “Little Eleanor Bonespair, no?”

  Spike scowled but she nodded, although Nellie was suddenly convinced that this was none other than Madame Guillotine herself, lying on her deathbed.

  “And when did you both arrive a Paris?” asked the old lady.

  “Last night, grandmother,” answered Hal, mentioning nothing about Monsieur Roubechon’s, “In our coach. We’ve letters from the French embassy itself, back in London. But we came with two friends.”

  The old lady didn’t seem at all suspicious of this fact.

  “Friends? To look after you, of course? Bon, bon. That is good. We all need friends. Real ones.”

  “And our driver,” added Hal, making it clear that there were five of them here.

  “Well, there is room in the house, and stabling in the back. It will be safe from the mob here. I shall have the servants light all the candles and we shall have a grand reception for everyone in….”

  A look of confusion suddenly came over Geraldine’s poor face though; a lost, haunted look.

  “Mais non,” she sighed bitterly, “That was then, and this in now. Oh Mon Dieu. La Morte. DEATH.”

  Geraldine’s features had changed and her seemingly feeble hands reached out and gripped Nellie’s arm.

  “Ouch,” cried Spike. “You’re hurting me.”

  “But can’t you hear it?” hissed the old Lady , as Malfort hissed back at them all and arched his back, “It’s great black wing’s are flapping over us. It’s coming for us all. HE is. La Morte. La Revolution!”

  Henry and Nellie Bonespair looked horrified, far more by their weird granny than any silly French Revolution.

  They were listening intently for the sound of wings, thinking about the Devil loose in Paris, like some great black crow.

  There was a strange chiming in the room too and Spike and Henry jumped.

  They hadn’t noticed it before, but the sound was coming from a huge Ormerliue clock, sitting on the dusty mantelpiece. It was two O’clock.

  “That?” hissed Geraldine, in astonishment. “But that has not worked in years. My husband collected them. But you wish to look upon the face of Death yourselves?”

  The children did not wish anything of the sort, but Geraldine released Spike and now her bony finger pointed, like the grim reaper himself, towards the top of a dusty chest, among all that rotting lace.

  Nellie shuddered.

  “There, Eleanor. Fetch it, quick. SHE made it and brought it to me, just now. C’est parfait.”

  Madame B was clearly talking about that woman who had been carrying that bag. Not a doctor at all, of course, since she was a woman.

  Spike trotted meekly over to the chest, where she found an object wrapped up in a linen bandage.

  “You mean this, granny?” she whispered.

  The old lady nodded coldly and Spike found it very light, as she carried it back over to her. Geraldine propped herself up painfully and took the thing, fumbling greedily with the linen wrapping.

  “It is good work. Very fine. Voila, enfants. Behold the Face of Death itself.”

  Malfort hissed again and jumped from the bed, as Henry and Nellie’s young mouths dropped open. What they were looking at was made of plaster or wax, but with all the features and contours - the nose, lips, chin – described in perfect detail. It was the face of Geraldine De Bonespair herself.

  “A good likeness, no?,” hissed their grandmother, with a grin, “My Death Mask. A fine memorial too, mes enfants, to the great Bonespair name. Now they have no respect for us, nor the past. No respect for anything any more.”

  “Yes, granny” gulped Hal, looking in horror at the thing, “I suppose so.”

  “She sculpted it especially, in wax. That Tussaud Woman. She does all the work for those filthy Republicans. Moulding their victims, after they’re gone, bien sure,” the old crone added with a chuckle, “But the famous Madame Tussaud made an exception for me, at a nice price too. She says that I can lie most beautifully still. Deathly still.”

  Their grandmother chuckled again, holding the thing as tenderly if she were holding up her own heart, as flecks of wax fell from her real face.

  “So much death,” she wailed, “So many gone. And millions more to come.”

  Geraldine Bonespair gave a horrid, mournful sigh, that seemed to make those spaces on the walls where the paintings had been even more melancholy, and the lace about the room flutter faintly.

  Then the expression in her tiny, cunning eyes changed and what dim light was there sparkled. Nellie realised the bumps on her cheeks were bits of wax too.

  “You think I am mad, ‘enri” she asked suddenly, giggling.

  “No Grandmere, of course not…”

  “Well if I am, mes enfants, it runs in families…”

  Henry suddenly thought of all the things he had seen or imagined on his journey, then of something that Armande had said of Isaac Harrison. He felt a lump in his throat.

  “Mais oui, it shall be,” cried Geraldine though, “Mes enfants, we shall have the grandest party, to welcome you to Paris. A magnificeent Masked Ball. I shall wear this, my death mask
, and dance and dance, all night long. The prettiest, loveliest belle in all the wonderful, deadly city.”

  Geraldine Bonespair held her death mask to her face and her grandchildren experienced a strange double take, a horrid chill too, as the old woman gave a girlish little giggle and dabbed her spindly hair.

  Geraldine Bonespair suddenly pulled the waxen face away again though.

  “If death exists, or is but a dream too,” she muttered. “Like life. If my husband’s theory of the transference of souls is true. Perhaps life is just the strongest will, but ma cherie, my last husband, was a very great Alchemist.”

  “Alchewot?” whispered Nellie, feeling terrified.

  “Alchemist, enfant. And an expert in the Occult too.”

  Henry looked up sharply, because the word had been whispered at school, in to relation to bad stuff.

  “What’s that?” asked Spike.

  “Occluded from the eyes, child,” hissed Geraldine, “the unseen. What is hidden, but what is as real as the nose on ‘enri’s face. Or my mask.”

  “Mavagad,” whispered Spike suddenly. “Navaguts.”

  “But now I must nap,” sighed Geraldine, dropping her waxen face onto the coverlet. “While you’ll rest in the very best rooms. Be careful though. The house is very haunted. The dead live here with me. Marius will take you there.”

  “Marius?” said Spike, shivering at the thought of the dead actually living here in the Rue Beaulieu. Their grandmother was looking across the room and they realised there was someone else here too, standing in the shadows.

  It was a boy, of perhaps fourteen, though almost as large as Skipper. He was kitted out in the strangest clothes, a long red felt frock coat, very red indeed, and a huge turban on his head, a bit like Dr Marat’s.

  His face, which was as black as coke, was peering out of the gloom, watching them nervously with enormous, shining eyes.

  Spike wondered if he had his own dressing up box.

  “Show them, Marius, and tell Justine to prepare some special food for dinner. It is too late for Luncheon now. Go on. Get out.”

  Poor Marius bowed and led them back to the door.

  They went into the hall and the strangely dressed black boy picked up a golden bell on a side table and rang the dust off it. Then he just stood there waiting, but Henry had noticed the ticking in the hall and that the Grandfather clocks were working again too. How strange.

  “Marius,” said Spike, peering at his fascinating African face and nodding to him, “I’m Nellie Bonespair, and this is my stupid brother, Henry.”

  Hal began to translate, leaving out the ‘stupid’, but Marius interrupted him.

  “I am speak Anglais, Monsieur,” he said. “Your grandmere make me.”

  Marius just stood staring back, in his huge turban, saying nothing more.

  “Well, hello to you too,” said Spike cheerfully.

  “And how old are you, Marius?” asked Henry.

  A confused look came into Marius’s dark eyes, and at last he shrugged.

  “No knowledge, Monsieur,” he answered sadly.

  “No knowledge?” cried Spike, in disgust. “Don’t be a silly ninnee. How could you not know how old you are?”

  The black boy looked rather miserable now and Henry noticed Malfort padding stealthily across the hall, with his tail raised. The cat seemed to be watching them. Spike smiled at it and rather wanted to make friends.

  “I do not know,” said Marius, “Mes parents. They were taken away, from our home in Benin. Slaves. Though now all are free, en France. La Revolution.”

  “Slaves,” gulped Spike.

  In his extraordinary attire the servant didn’t look free at all and Hal and Spike were staring at him in bewilderment, but with that Justine reappeared up the stair.

  Henry asked her to come with him outside, to show his friends the way, but once again Justine stood back, as she opened the front door.

  “No, Monsieur,” she whispered rather fearfully.

  “Don’t worry,” said Henry confidently, “it’s all right in daylight, and we’ll protect you.”

  “Justine does not,” said Marius suddenly, “Go outside, I mean. I will come instead.”

  So they called Armande and Francis, while Marius hopped up on the top of the carriage, to show Skipper to a little cobbled mews, just around the back of the house.

  Soon the Club were all upstairs in another room, with a huge broken down four poster bed, where Henry was to sleep, if Justine ever found any sheets that had not been destroyed by moths.

  It had the same decrepit feel as Geraldine’s chamber, although a portrait on the wall of a French aristo, in dandified lace clothing, had such a superior expression that it seemed he might faint, with all he was looking at now.

  There were several clicking clocks in the room too, even if they were covered in dust.

  The rooms where the others were to stay were just as threadbare as Henry’s, also filled with clocks as well, and Spike had looked at her own chamber as if it was some horrid prison, promising herself to sneak in with Henry, as soon as possible.

  Francis and Armande had their own rooms too.

  Only poor Skipper was expected, in Geraldine’s grand home, to rest in the servant’s quarters, downstairs.

  Which is why Marius and Justine both gave Skipper such a strange, disapproving look, as they retreated themselves, since it was clear that their coachman had no intention of leaving the others.

  These strange English visitors, and a French one too, wanted to talk privately.

  As the two young servants closed the door, Henry noticed that Spike was on her hands and knees, looking under the bed.

  “Oh, what are you doing now, Nellie?”

  “Looking for Spies?” grinned Francis approvingly. “Or ghosts.”

  “No, Ninnees,” answered Eleanor, poking up her head again, although she had just decided she might sleep here instead, under Henry’s bed. “I’m looking for a huge pile of Huguenot gold, of course.”

  “Oh get up, Spike,” snapped Henry, “and stop being silly.”

  “She’s silly, H,” said Nellie, though getting up, “Granny’s completely mad.”

  “Yes, Nell,” said her brother softly. “Or half the time. Perhaps eccentric’s the word though. Like the English.”

  “You think she’s really a witch though? Her cat Malfort, and her dead husband. An Alchelist.”

  “No, Nell,” answered Henry. “And it’s all a stroke of luck, really.”

  “Luck?” said Francis doubtfully.

  “It seems to me that we have the run of the whole house now, haunted or not. Which makes this a perfect headquarters for the brand new Pimpernel Club. Central Paris branch.”

  ELEVEN – GHOSTLY MUTTON

  “Where the Pimples set to work, Henry makes a Prophecy, Couchonet talks to some Mutton, and a fire starts.

  “If we can trust the servants,” said Armande, in Hal’s chamber, looking warily towards the great, old door and at all the dust in the room in disgust.

  The Count’s dislike of dirt seemed to have returned tenfold.

  “They seem so nervous,” he added.

  “They look nice enough to me,” said Spike. “Poor Marius though, H. I wonder what it’s like to be a slave. Golly. I bet we can trust him though.”

  Armande looked at Eleanor rather patronisingly now.

  “Petite innocent,” the Count whispered. “In Paris everyone seems one thing, but is another.”

  “Just like us, you ninnee. The Pimples. Here in disguise.”

  Armande St Honoré almost blushed, in his fisher boy outfit.

  “This is serious, ma petite,” he said though. “Each day people are denoncé. Just a word is enough to have you arrested, and thrown into the Temple, or the Bastille.”

  “The Temple,” said Hal eagerly though, “How close is it now, Armande?”

  “Not far on foot, ‘enri.”

  Henry was suddenly lost in thought, remembering something that the st
range American Obediah Tuck had said about trying to be exceptional.

  “I didn’t tell grandmother about Juliette,” he whispered, “it just didn’t seem to be the right time. Perhaps she’ll try to help, if we do, but we should start with a visit to the Fauberg prison ourselves. In the morning. Scout it out, at least.”

  The Pimpernel Club, Paris branch, looked extremely nervous.

  Until now the inevitability of everything that had happened had given them so little time to think, and almost swept them to Revolutionary Paris on their own, like corks on a rushing stream.

  But now they were really here, acting entirely as free agents too, without any grown ups to guide or aid them, the children were forced to face the enormity of whatever lay ahead; if they were really to help Juliette St Honoré.

  Francis was wondering what his parents were thinking, back home in England. Praying for him probably, he thought, with some embarrassment.

  “Come on then,” said Hal, “Let’s get cleaned up.”

  They went to their rooms and after a few hours Justine reappeared, with a rather resentful curtsey, to inform the Pimples that Madame Geraldine was waiting for them downstairs for dinner, all except Skipper, of course.

  Spike felt sick again as they approached that eerie, candle lit room, to see Madame Guillotine once again.

  They were even more surprised though because, at the head of that ornate gold table, perpetually laid with its dusty silver cutlery, Geraldine was out of her death bed now, sitting bolt upright in a great gilded chair, like an ancient throne. She looked like a moth-eaten Queen.

  She had a decaying lace bonnet on, that reminded Henry of those images in the firelight and, tightly wrapped in a shawl, she looked like a waxworks herself, as she waited for the brave Pimples to be seated.

  The Death Mask was in the very centre of the table, as Spike sat down, and never before had the little girl felt so intensely the threat of an enemy grown up.

  “Your amis Anglais, Henri?” enquired the old lady, as Hal sat beside her and Francis Simpkins approached the French Granddame too.

  “Yes, Grandmere. This is Francis Simpkins. My best friend.”