The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  The Diplomat had warned that it might take some time, but told the tutor to mention nothing of Juliette’s impending execution.

  Wickham was hoping that English journalists had not picked up reports of her trial and sentence too, consumed as they were by Dr Marat’s murder. Or he was hoping that the Comtesse would believe that Juliette and Armande had travelled to France together, with the others somehow, for whatever purpose.

  Little did Mr Wickham know that at that very moment, back in Peckham, Constance was listening to Richard Forman’s most recent report of Juliette’s ordeal, sent via Messers Fecter and Co, and reaching for her smelling salts.

  Wickham had also told Robert Penhaligon to make up some story about why Simon’s employer was visiting from Switzerland. The spy did not want any chance of exposure for the League of the Gloved Hand.

  Wickham had three of those special embroidered gloves in his hand now though and was slapping them into his big fist, shaking his head in total confusion.

  The third had arrived that same evening, a beautiful red silk glove this time, thrown over the garden wall by a woman, and had landed on Foxwood’s head. Inside it had been a note from none other than the Marquis De Gonse De Rougeville.

  Letters Received. Assurances accepted, mes brave amis anglais. Steps are being taken. Brave steps. Have no fear. They WILL be saved. MDGDR.

  The Marquis de GDR, certain of the authenticity of the documents, yet doubting their strange method of delivery, had decided to send word back, while he began to plot, to ensure that the English authorities knew of it at the Embassy.

  “Well, I’ll be blowed if I can work it all out,” said Wickham, irritated by the self satisfied cooing all around them and starting to hate pigeons with all he was.

  “Perhaps the boy went to Roubechon’s after all, Sir,” suggested Foxwood, “and the fat old vintner took it off him, just as you planned.”

  “Rubbish, man,” snorted Wickham, “Henry’s got the Chronometer, and the vintner’s place is matchwood now, Foxy, while Roubechon has fled Paris. I paid that man Cavellion for information. The fire was nothing to do with the plot, but a local Paris vendetta, and the vintner had to skip fast. Roubechon never even got to see De Rougeville.”

  “Does it matter though, Sir? Now the plan’s fully underway again.”

  For the first time in several years William Wickham shrugged helplessly.

  “No, I suppose it don’t, if the result’s the same. Though somehow they must have worked out a mechanism that no one can, Isaac Harrison’s, and if the boss even hears of the hash we’ve made, Foxy, there’ll be Hell to pay.”

  Foxy touched his cravat. At least they didn’t lop people’s heads off back in England, or quite so easily.

  “Then we’d better not tell him, Sir.”

  “No indeed, Foxy, but what does the blighter mean They’ll be saved?”

  “The Queen and Marie Therese,” suggested Darney, “Now the boy’s gone to that blasted cobbler’s.”

  “Yes. That must be it then, Darney. Well, the League must let the plan work itself out. It’s the Frenchie’s turn to have a go now. There are only four of us in Paris, so what on earth can we really do? Besides, now we’ve got this other blasted business to sort out.”

  “Other business?” said Hayfield.

  “The children, and Henry Bonespair, at the old crone’s. Now the borders are closed, somehow we’ve got to ensure that they get back to England in one piece, and stop whatever those little lunatics are clearly planning to do to help Juliette St Honoré too. I’m sure that’s why they’re all dressing up.”

  “Do?” said Darney scornfully, “See sense, man, I mean Sir. They can’t be planning to DO anything. They’re only children. I can sort of understand them following to Dover, even to Paris, although it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard. But as for planning any rescue….”

  “No,” said Wickham, with a frown, “Of course you’re right, Darney. We leave them in place at the old Lady’s then, while we think of how to get them out.”

  “Perhaps we should just recruit them,” suggested Foxwood glumly, “To the League of the Gloved Hand.”

  William Wickham looked rather guilty as he thought of Henry Bonespair, recruited already by his own tricking hand, that Birthday morning in Peckham.

  “And her? Juliette St Honoré,” asked Hayfield sadly.

  Wickham frowned even more deeply now.

  “Good God, Hayfield, we’re not magicians,” he cried angrily, “I liked the girl, but she’s been condemned, and I’m not about to endanger the whole League, nor a plan to save her Majesty, just to help one dead child. There are thousands of lives at stake.”

  FOURTEEN - DOWN TO WORK

  “How Nellie learns to sew, we encounter some very smelly and miserable allies, Armande turns back, and Alceste steps in with a little trap…”

  It was the Pimpernels that needed desperate help now. Two weeks after their discovery that Mr Wickham was here too, the Club had hardly been able to keep still.

  But all they could do was wait and learn a virtue not strong among any one of them – patience – as Gonse De Rougeville came up with something brilliant to save Juliette and the Queen.

  Henry had worried and fretted, and now Francis had started complaining bitterly about the food, but they had gone on exploring the old house and both Spike and Francis were convinced that the place was haunted, because of the number of creaking floorboards and swinging doors, that seemed to dog their every footstep.

  Francis Simpkins seemed utterly confused by it all, because ghosts were totally against the laws of reason, and it scared him witless. Almost as much as that horrible, slinking, sharp eyed cat.

  He spent more and more time reading on his own in the great Library.

  Francis was there one morning in fact, when he noticed a strange looking volume, entitled L’Histoire De Mathematique Et La Veritie and pulled it down. It opened on a foxed page, that had a list of strange French names in it, fifteen of them, just like the daily Lists of trials and executions.

  At the top though it also had these instructions, which Francis managed to decipher from the French.

  Choose a number between 1 and 9, it read, and Francis did so, as anyone reading a good story might do right now: A number between 1 and 9, any number you like. When Francis had it, the instruction went on. Now multiply your number by 3 and then add the number 3 to that. Again Francis did so, as a reader might do too.

  Now, multiply your new number by 3 again. Finally, add the two digits of the number you now have together and look on the list for a vital name.

  When Francis Simpkins had his unique number, as any reader might pick one, and read slowly down the strange list, the boy was astounded and even rather frightened.

  Then, when Francis had picked a quite different number to start with and tried all over again, he shivered furiously and slammed the magic book shut immediately.

  1. LaGrange

  2. Rousseau

  3. Pointcarret

  4. Communarde

  5. Beauville

  6. Malplacette

  7. DeGaulle

  8. Boneparte

  9. Bonespair BCA

  10. Aramis

  11. Colette

  12. Deforlarge

  Meanwhile Hal Bonespair, after each meal time, had insisted that they all make a very careful study of that great Paris map in the hallway. Strangely Nellie, after dinners in her silly dress, asked the Pimples if she could have their disguises a while.

  Spike had found a sewing kit in that chest and Henry was touched that she seemed to want to be a girl after all, and was working on mending their things.

  Then the Club discovered something very worrying indeed, from those reports at Geraldine’s ghastly table: Queen Marie, her daughter Marie Therese and her maid in waiting, Juliette St Honoré, had just been moved to another prison in Paris called the Conciergerie, for better security, where Marie Antoinette was now known now as nothing more than Pris
oner 208.

  In a single terrible stroke then, any good work that the brilliant Pimpernel Club had done scouting out the environs of the Temple prison and the routes to and from it to La Place, was erased.

  Not that the Pimpernel Club had an idea if they could really help Juliette, or even had to, now that Gonsy Roogville was on the case.

  Yet Hal had insisted that they keep thinking, all the time, just in case things misfired, as they always seemed to.

  So a sweltering August arrived, or a part of it, at least, soon to be called Fructidor by the Revolutionaries in their strange new calendar, making the blood in those baskets congeal even more quickly and the mob throw up their Liberty caps with even more joyful abandon, or just to cool their fevered brows.

  As they did so, the Black Spider was sitting in an office in a house just next to the one that had held that fatal bath tub, looking eagerly through the lists of coming executions.

  Charles Peperan Couchonet had been furiously busy on behalf of the Committee of Public Security and, for the time being, it had completely distracted him from his plans to expose this English League and secure yet another ‘Great Happening’ for the Jacobin’s terrible Reign of Terror.

  Couchonet was very pleased with himself though. He had hoped for more, after Dr Marat’s murder, a great promotion certainly, but with the ferocity it had sparked, at least the Black Spider had maintained his own position and even gained favour with Robespierre himself.

  They had had tea together, drinking coffee and biscuits and trying not to look straight into one another’s eyes.

  The Jacobin clubs and the committees needed no more excuse now though, which is partly why the Black Spider himself had suggested that Marie Antoinette should be moved, with her daughter and that girl. If the plan really was to try and rescue the Queen, let this English League and their French helpers do their damnedest. Perhaps their plan was something else entirely though.

  The Spider was thinking suddenly about Juliette St Honoré though and he snatched up a document to sign his name boldly across the bottom, in his winding, spidery hand.

  Alceste Couchonet was also in the house, just downstairs, feeling bored and very resentful indeed. He had hardly been admitted into his uncle’s presence in the passed weeks, so had spent his time scouring Paris all alone for these strange Pamples.

  Only the sixteen year old knew that they were here, and up to something big too, and now he wanted his uncle to give him some power, some soldiers, or something, so he could look for them himself and arrest and execute them all.

  The problem was that Alceste knew his uncle would do no such thing. Every time he had tried to broach the subject, Couchonet had dismissed him, talking of more important affairs, and not wanting to be troubled by such silly, childish nonsense.

  Especially when Alceste had mentioned again that these dangerous counter-revolutionaries that he was trying to catch alone had a magic watch.

  Alceste did not really care if it was magic or not, but quite apart from wanting the thing for himself, he wondered what information was really hidden in the letters inside.

  Where could these blasted boys be hiding in Paris though, and how had they ever got those cunning disguises, such a terrible insult to the great Republic? The sixteen year old was somehow impressed by them, which made him hate them even more.

  With that, Alceste heard a heavy footstep on the stair and saw his uncle walking smartly downstairs. The boy sprang up immediately to follow.

  “Uncle. Citizen. I’ve been thinking about these Pamp….”

  “For Reason’s sake, it’s too hot, Alceste.”

  “But citizen,” cried Alceste, catching up with him, “where are you going?”

  “To the Conciergerie, Alceste. It’s time to deal with some unfinished business.”

  “Business?”

  “St Honoré’s execution,” hissed the Spider, clasping the newly signed death warrant, “it’s time to proceed to the girl’s beheading, straight way, and dispatch her within the week, by machine.”

  Alceste smiled but hardly seemed very bothered.

  “The League never tried to approach her about the Queen,” explained Couchonet, “and her sentence has been passed. So I’ll be done with her forever. Perhaps, if Charles St Honoré has heard of it, he will try something himself still.”

  “Yes, Citizen. But couldn’t I have some men of my own to track down the Pamples,” begged Alceste, “And that watch they were carrying at Calais too, with its hidden letters. The one that Weekham gave the Bonespair boy.”

  The Black Spider stopped dead in his tracks.

  “What?” roared Couchonet, “You little idiot. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  Which is why, just five days later, the Pimpernels were standing staring at that horrid Guillotine in their Liberty caps, in the Revolutionary Square, although Francis kept looking away.

  Not because of Alceste’s passing mention of William Wickham’s Chronometer, but because, the night before, Justine had read out the news that Juliette’s head was to be chopped off, that very Saturday, at 10 am precisely.

  In just three days time.

  Henry had led the Club straight to the house of the Marquis, to tell him the terrible news, only to discover that the place was in total darkness and Gonse De Rougeville had vanished.

  In despair, and sure they had been betrayed by lying adults too, Hal had just rushed them back to the Place.

  There was something different about their Revolutionary disguises now though, for each had little monograms embroidered in red cotton into their shirts by Nellie Bonespair: PC. It stood for Pimpernel Club.

  The embroidered Club were mingling with the crowd then, the ghastly knitting women and the soldiers, trying desperately to think of something.

  They were terrified, not only because the air of threat and death, but because over the last few days they had sensed that Geraldine’s house was being watched too.

  It was only a feeling, but several times, looking out of those grand, dusty windows, one of the Club had thought they had seen a man looking up, who had turned away swiftly.

  SHHHHCCCHNACK.

  Francis jolted, as the horrible Guillotine fell again, and Spike buried her face in her brother’s side, who hugged her and turned away.

  Armande was looking ashen, as the crowd roared and cheered.

  “It’s ‘opeless, ‘enri,” moaned the Count, “just look at how they guard the route to the machine. Not to mention the mob. We could never get her away. If the Pampernelles try anything, we’ll all be…”

  “I know it, Armande,” said Hal gloomily, “The only place we could even get near her is there. Under the scaffold itself.”

  They were about fifteen yards away from the wide steps, that each prisoner had to mount alone to reach the awful killing machine. It looked just like Francis’ drawing in his notebook.

  Hal had noticed there was plenty of room under the high scaffold, and he had even seen children darting in and out of its terrifying skirts to play. The thing was hardly guarded at all.

  What was the point of hiding under the blasted thing though? They didn’t want to get a silly message to Juliette to say anything stupid like goodbye and goodluck, yours, The Pimple Club.

  Hal’s bright eyes narrowed and he tried to fight off the awful sickly feeling in his stomach. Just perhaps, he thought bravely, they could slip Juliette down through the wide gaps between the steps.

  But if they did that, the thing would be surrounded immediately and although the scaffold itself might be largely unguarded, the area around it was not at all.

  Rather the opposite, in fact. Here there were a great many soldiers now, beating drums, guarding the carts with those ghastly dead, headless bodies, or leaning on the simple pine coffins stacked nearby, and stored under the scaffold too. There was no escape route at all.

  Not to mention the fact that, if they could ever do such a foolhardy thing, what then? The itinerary was long busted.

 
Henry Bonespair was explaining this to the others, when Nellie started tugging at his sleeve.

  “Not now, Nell.”

  “But look, H.”

  The boys followed her gaze to the large basket waiting to catch those poor heads. The thing was very red indeed and some of it was dripping from the scaffold slats, down to the ground. Francis wobbled slightly.

  “I know, Nell,” said Hal gloomily, at another ‘shhhnack’ and a great cheer.

  “Oh not that, ninnee. I mean there, under the stupid Guilteen. Where all the yucky blood’s going.”

  The boys realised now that blood was dripping down from the scaffold, to a trail of it that was snaking steadily along the ground, to a spot where it vanished suddenly, guttering down through a metal grill.

  “A storm drain,” whispered Hal, straightening suddenly.

  “Yes, ninnee.”

  Spike took Hal and Skipper by the hands, but was pulling them away through the bloodthirsty crowd, as the others followed.

  “Where are we going now?” asked Francis, although feeling stronger again as they got further away from that bloody scaffold.

  The Club reached the spot near the Hotel Crillon, where Spike had witnessed Evrimonde’s terrifying bouncing head. She pointed down at the drain, from where she had seen those strange children emerging.

  “Sewers,” cried Hal, “oh, clever little Nel.”

  “What’s going on, ‘aitch?” asked Skipper dully, scratching his head.

  “Maybe an escape route, Skip, and Juliette’s only chance.”

  The Pimpernels had just noticed that a group of excited people, rather better dressed than those in the square, were gathering outside a fine building, down a street nearby; the theatre that Arlene Merimonde had mentioned.

  Just then though there was a loud neighing and a cart carrying a mound of old sacking came swaying into the Place, but it stopped abruptly, right between the wall and the drain.