The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  Her trial then had revealed that far from being a murder engineered by Royalists, or any English League of Gloved Hands either, the Girondin sympathiser and staunch Republican Corday, Charlotte, who’s own brothers were émigrés, had acted all alone. The woman had bought the knife in a nearby shop, still defiant when she told the Court that she acted against the coming dictatorship and killed one, to save a hundred thousand.

  The famous Pimpernel Club was there to see the execution, not because they were turning as bloodthirsty as the Parisians, especially not Francis Simpkins, but because the children had made a fateful decision.

  If they were somehow to rescue Juliette, it would have to be in a place out in the open, just like the blood soaked Revolutionary Square itself.

  So here the Club were now, in their cunning disguise again, on the very day of Charlotte Corday’s death, to scout it out too: July 17th 1793. The very day that Juliette St Honoré’s own execution had been due in fact, but just reprieved by the strange turn of events.

  La Place was even more terrifying than when Spike had seen that bouncing head. The mob spat such hatred at the poor woman, despite her quiet dignity, that it seemed they would tear up the very stones and eat them. Marat had been loved, at a healthy distance, of course, from a good Doctor of political philosophy and political machination.

  So much so, that when the Corday woman’s poor head dropped off, a soldier picked it from the basket by her hair, held it up for the angry crowd, and slapped it.

  Spike was sure her face changed from resignation to angry indignation, but it was Francis who had not only turned to stone but gone quite green at the sight of blood, and so much of it too.

  The brave Club also saw how many soldiers were on the Paris streets too now and how closely guarded were the routes that the Fournees rattled down, not to mention how they all watched the terrible scaffold.

  The Pimpernels came away with heavy hearts then, just half an hour later, wondering when Juliette’s turn was to be, although Francis was feeling a little better as he noticed a figure they had first seen in Dover, trailing a tumbril, piled high with brand new wooden coffins.

  It was Samuel Dugg, touching his scarred cheek, although he hadn’t noticed the Pimpernels. Dugg seemed delighted with all he was seeing in Paris.

  “Bleedin’ traitor,” growled Skipper. “I’d thump him one if I had a...”

  Hal wasn’t listening though. He seemed suddenly deeply preoccupied.

  “Wots wrong, ‘aitch?” said Skip.

  “What’s the time, Spike? Exactly.”

  Little Spike glanced rather defensively at the Chronometer.

  “Ten fifty.”

  “Come on then. Perhaps we don’t have to rescue Juliette at all.”

  Henry was suddenly kicking himself for not having thought of it earlier.

  “Don’t have to?” said Spike, “what are you talking about now, ninee?”

  “Where we going though?” asked Skipper.

  Henry’s eyes were glittering but he noticed that Francis had a rather lost look again. Francis had spent most of his time recently in that great library, like a school swat.

  “To the Rue Malplaquet,” said Henry,“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  The others were dying to know what Henry had come up with this time and it seemed to take an age finding it, Armande asking other Citizens for directions.

  At last though, the five loyal Pimpernels were standing in a row in front of number 24.

  “You going to push ‘em under the door?” asked Skipper, as they lined up on the street, “To be shot of ‘em, and their stupid plot.”

  “Not a bit, Skip,” answered Hal cheerfully, who had taken the Chronometer from Nellie again and was biting his lip, “You, Francis and Spike, wait here, and give The Call if you notice anyone strange coming. Come on, Armande. Quick. It’s nearly twelve.”

  Hal simply walked straight up to the front door and knocked loudly, like someone delivering the post, if the service had really been invented yet. That man from outside the flower shop answered, because trustworthy servants were impossible to find in Paris, these days.

  The Marquis, sniffing a single red rose languorously, was amazed to see two boys in Sans Coulots, Tricolours and red Liberty caps.

  “They send children to harass me now?” he said coldly.

  “Not at all, Marquis,” answered Hal, in his politest and most cheerful English, “We come from your Glove makers.”

  Henry winked heavily and Gonse De Rougeville nearly fell over.

  “Come inside then, quickly,” he hissed.

  The Marquis closed the door with a bang after them and led them into a long, high with-drawing room, kitted out in the English style. Although, like Geraldine’s home, the signs were everywhere that the Marquis had fallen on hard times himself, largely because his estates in the countryside had just been confiscated.

  A single candle was burning in the middle of a round rosewood table.

  “The Hand,” he cried though, filled with admiration for this English cunning of it, or the ruthlessness with which England was willing to employ mere children to do its dirty work. “You’re from The League?”

  “No, not really,” answered Henry Bonespair, with a shrug, “We’ve got your blasted letters though, Marquis, for this plot to rescue her Maj…..”

  “Hush,” hissed de Rougeville, “even walls have ears now. But the letters, boy, give them to me.”

  “No,” replied Hal sharply.

  Armande looked at Hal in surprise but the Marquis, thinking he understood, went over to a bureaux for a little bag of gold.

  “We don’t want your money,” said Henry indignantly, although Armande cast him a very reproachful look, since their coin had now run out, “but before I hand them over, I want your promise Marquis. Your word of honour, as an adult.”

  The Marquis’s dancing eyes twinkled and Armande flashed his bold leader another questioning look.

  “What promise, boy?”

  “First, that this never happened. That you never met us, or even know anything about us at all. We do not exist.”

  The Marquis de Gonse de Rougeville stared at the young strangers and blinked.

  “Of course. It is normal, nowadays. And?”

  Henry B turned to his co-Pample.

  “This is Armande, Marquis, Ninth Count of St Honoré,” he announced, as grandly as he could.

  The Marquis frowned at the scruffy little seeming Revolutionary, with a flop of dark hair poking from his dirty cap, and his silly eyebrows, because ugly Armande had just dipped his head very elegantly himself.

  The Marquis responded though; a common courtesy between equal aristos.

  “Armande’s sister has been condemned by the Committee of Public Security, Marquis,” said Henry, “to be Guillotined to death, by that horrid Frenchie machine.”

  “Yes, I have heard of it. I’m sorry, Count.”

  “But Juliette is also looking after Marie Antoinette now,” said Henry significantly, “so we want you to promise us that when you rescue the Queen of France, you’ll rescue Juliette too.”

  Armande St Honoré hadn’t foreseen this at all. It was a brilliant plan and the Count suddenly didn’t regret for a moment that Henry Bonespair was the leader of their new Club, despite his humble origins and his age.

  “But…” began the Marquise.

  “There are no buts,” said Hal firmly.

  The Marquis straightened. He suddenly looked every bit as threatening as Dr Marat.

  “I could summon men”, he whispered dangerously, “and have them taken from you by force. I could do it myself.”

  “No,” said Hal bravely, thinking how much trouble adults caused in the world, “you’d never find them, Marquis. They’re very well hidden.”

  The Marquis bit his lip. He detested violence, at least by his own hand.

  “Her Majesty and the girl then,” he said reluctantly. “But you can be sure they’re together all the ti
me, boy?” he asked, amazed by the boldness of these bold young people.

  Henry hadn’t thought of that.

  “No, Marquis. That’s your problem now.”

  Count Armande looked even more impressed with his friend.

  “But these things all take time, boys,” added De Rougeville thoughtfully, “First we have to draw money, buy arms, raise men. We’ll have to contact the Queen too, somehow, and tell her of the whole plan…”

  “Promise,” insisted Hal and the Marquis’s weak eyes narrowed again.

  “While I refuse to act at all,” insisted de Rougeville, “unless these letters carry certain assurances that England’s chief spy himself….”

  “Promise. Juliette too, or no letters and no money either. On your word of honour, Marquis, as a French Gentlemen. I mean an aristo.”

  The Marquis, who was often known to behave as anything but a gent, and very much as a certain kind of aristo, smiled at the naivety of children.

  “Very well then, I give you my…”

  “Swear on this, Marquis. And on your life. We both have.”

  Henry had pulled out the special Chronometer and was looking at the time. The Marquis was quite non-plussed by this childish, melodramatic behaviour, but he put out his delicate hand and swore nonetheless. He found oaths rather easy.

  Henry waited, tapping his foot, then swivelled the dial and the Glove toward to the witching hour, but as he did so, he blinked.

  Henry Bonespair was sure that the candle had just flared and as the little flame parted, with an aura of orange light, just for a moment Hal thought he saw a silk gloved hand. It was holding out a flower, and a delicate but older female hand was taking it, as Henry wondered if it was a pimpernel flower.

  The strange vision vanished, as Hal kept turning the dial, then flipped the catch, just as the big and little hands aligned at Twelve O’clock sharp. There was a chime, a click, the back opened again and Hal pulled out the two neatly folded papers.

  The Marquis de Gonse de Rougeville opened the little Money Order first and his eyes lit up. When he read the miniature letter too, he kept nodding vehemently.

  “The Earl,” he cried, looking down at that Griffin crest, “Just as we suspected. This is genuine, bien sure. Now I’ve proof that the League and England are behind us, I’ll raise such a Royalist rebellion that the whole world shall know of it.”

  Hal was staring hard at the Frenchie fop, wondering who this Earl was, and if he could trust this Marquis either, or if he’d be any good at his plots.

  Henry and the Pimpernel Club had no real choice though and at least they were shot of the blasted letters. Somehow it made Hal feel that the wonderful watch was his at last.

  He thought angrily of William Wickham too though and wondered where the rat was now. Yet in one great master-stroke Hal had killed two birds with one stone. The purposes of the League and Pimpernel Club had perfectly aligned.

  Hal suddenly wondered rather guiltily if he would become a great spymaster himself, one day.

  “We’ll be watching you, Marquis,” he said though, as threateningly as he could, giving the Marquise to understand that there was a whole army of such brave, dashing young figures in Paris now.

  The Marquis de Gonse Rougeville nodded coldly.

  “Tell us then,” added Henry, “What you plan to….”

  “At least a month, boy. Come back in a month, mes enfants.”

  “We’re not children,” said Hal furiously.

  “A month,” gasped Armande, thinking bitterly of limp asparagus. It seemed like a lifetime to Juliette’s brother, as Henry thought of his parents, not to mention the start of school in London’s Stockwell.

  The Marquis had put the precious letters carefully away though and just then they heard a tread on the stair and turned to see none other than the famous actress from the Eagle, Arlene Merimonde, gliding into the room, in the most beautiful ruffled chiffon gown, looking as if she had just woken up.

  The boys felt very silly in their floppy caps.

  “Mon Cherie, I feel so….Oh.”

  Arlene Merimonde stopped and straightened her gown, hiding the beautiful whale bone stays in her corset. She was no longer in her duck grey wig and her shining, raven black hair flowed around her delicate shoulders.

  “Citizens,” she said, with a blush, “You’re always welcome.”

  Hal noticed the lovely woman give the Marquis a sharp, nervous look, but something strange come into her eyes too, looking at their two fresh faces.

  He wondered if she had recognised them.

  “Our brave young Citizens were just leaving, my dear,” said the Marquis. “They came to tell me of a new decree to…er… raise a window tax. How the new Republic serves us all now! A moment, my dear, if you will.”

  “Of course, Alexandre,” said Arlene warmly, “and I must dress for the theatre anyway. You should come, Citizens, I’m sure you’d like the great dramas. You shall have free tickets, and sit in the front row. It’s just by La Place. A wonderful building too.”

  Hal smiled awkwardly.

  “Merci.”

  “They’ve a famous Illusionist performing too, the Great Bouzardi. They say he can even make a live elephant disappear on stage.”

  The lovely actress swept away, as beautifully as if playing a Queen, as the Marquis showed the boys to the front door and held out the bag of gold.

  “You say you’re not from the League,” he whispered, “yet you’re English, at least, and bring me their letters. Who are you then?”

  “That, Marquis,” cried Hal, as Armande snatched the bag, “is a secret.”

  “Wings,” hissed Madame Geraldine, that very same night, “Great flapping wings. I heard them again last night. The Devil comes for us all, in the end. Even I. Mon Dieu.”

  Geraldine’s trembling hand helped itself to some more carrot, at the deathly table, as if it was the finest Fois Gras paté, which is of course a disgusting thing.

  Justine and Marius looked as embarrassed as ever, in the shadows, possibly the only two servants left in all Paris. Geraldine was wearing the most extraordinary wig, in the shape of a basket, topped by a large ball.

  The Pimpernels were dressed in their normal clothes, trying to sit up straight at table. The prospect of a whole month of this was almost more than little Spike or Francis could bear, although at least F had all those books.

  Yet their eyes were all glowing with admiration for their leader too now, since clever Hal had found a sure and certain way to help Juliette.

  Henry though was no longer so sure of anything at all - for two reasons. Firstly that Marquis had been such a foppish idiot he doubted he could do anything well and secondly, because he himself had seen the Queen’s execution, somehow, in that strange light. He knew it was somehow real.

  “My eyes are not good,” said Geraldine suddenly, with a sly look at her young guests, “but my hearing’s sharp, so what have you seen in Paris? The greatest city in all the World.”

  No one would speak of Charlotte Corday’s head being slapped, and the memory of all that blood put Francis off the horrid food.

  “Only in a city could such terrible things happen though,” said Geraldine, “Ah, I long for the country.”

  The Club wondered what was happening in the rest of France.

  “You like it, Count?” asked the old lady though, with a coquettish grin, noticing that Armande was staring at her wig and the mouse poking his whiskers form the top, “Justine says it’s all the fashion now, with these new balloons. We must try to be current, non? But remember the past too, always.”

  Armande smiled uncomfortably, as Malfort hissed.

  “It is so good to have company though, dear friends. Just like the old days. And even today, that charming Anglais gentleman, Monsieur Week’ham.”

  Henry Bonespair jolted.

  “Sorry, Grandmere, but what did you just say?”

  “Weeck’ham, Henri. Charming man. Came with the English Ambassador, no less, and some fe
llow called Foxiwoods, with two others. All very handsome boys.”

  The old lady gave a delighted little giggle.

  “I received them beautifully. At first I thought they were our own soldiers, but it must be the modern fashion too. They were most impressed with my Death Mask. He asked after you too, Henri.”

  The Pimples were staring at each other in utter astonishment. What could it mean, and had William Wickham seen their visit to Gonse de Rougeville too?

  “I told him you’re in good hands, at last. He asked after you especially, Henri. Said how fond he is of you, and wondered if you are guarding some lovely present that he gave you.”

  Hal put his hand sharply to his gift.

  “Yes, Grandmother,” he said coldly, “I wind it every day.”

  “Ah, you are a good boy, Henri. Not like that worthless son of mine. You should have said that you had a Birthday though. How old are you. Twenty two?”

  “Pa isn’t worthless,” said Spike.

  “So I asked Mr Week’Ham to send Simon and Charlotte a message. To tell that ungrateful oaf that I’m glad he had not the courage to come to Paris himself, and that now he shall never have my fortune.”

  The Club were wondering how on earth William Wickham could ever send a message home and how long it would take too.

  Even as Geraldine said it, Mr Wickham was in the garden of the Ambassador’s residence again, with Foxwood, Darney and Hayfield, by the dovecot that housed those vital carrier pigeons.

  They were alone in the house now though, because the English Ambassador had, with great relief too, finally been recalled to London.

  Wickham had just finished sending the strange old lady’s message, after visiting her house that very afternoon and discovering that the Bonespair children and Armande St Honoré were indeed staying there safely.

  He had quizzed Marius and Justine intently, only to discover that the strange visitors spent most of their days away, oddly dressed in Tricolors and Liberty caps.

  Then he had presented himself to Geraldine herself, with the specific intention of alerting the children to his presence in Paris.

  William Wickham had changed the old lady’s message, of course, simply to inform his own Land Agent and the poor Comtesse that their children were perfectly safe in Paris, but would be coming home as soon as possible.