The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  Alceste let go of the imp and was wiping his hands distastefully, curling up his nose at the filthy smell.

  “Over there,” he ordered. “Now.”

  His recruits marched the little boy straight into an alley, as ZooZoo wondered how he might make a sudden dash for it.

  Alceste stood him against a wall though, as the young soldiers held up their muskets and cocked them.

  Alceste suddenly wondered if these could be his friends and thought better of it.

  “You’re with them, aren’t you?” he said. “The Anglais Pamples?”

  “Wot you talking about?” whispered Zoo, scratching his head innocently and trying to be brave.

  “Those Anglais spies, in disguise. I saw them coming up too.”

  “Oh,” gulped Zoo, his heart sinking. “Them? Yes, Sir.”

  “So what are they planning? Tell me everything, Citizen, or else.”

  “Else wot?” said Zoo defiantly, plucking up his courage again, “I’m too young for the great Chopper.”

  “Wrong,” snapped Alceste, but remembering words about subtlety too, “But why talk of Choppers, or even the Temple, when I’ve got this?”

  ZooZoo looked back in horror. Alceste Couchonet had just pulled out his handmade mouse trap and given the thing a horrible snap.

  FIFTEEN - PLANS GONE ARRAY

  “In which everything changes, then changes back again, as William Wickham takes a hand - gloved of course…”

  “I just can’t think of anything else,” sighed Hal, as the Pimpernel Club stood back at headquarters. “So we drive the coach straight for Calais, then just improvise, I suppose. It’s worked before.”

  Henry Bonespair stood at the window of Granny Geraldine’s house, looking down into the darkened Paris streets, and wondering where Armande had got to. The Count had left them suddenly, to retrieve something he had dropped in the great Square.

  “Spike,” he said though, turning like a general overseeing a great battle now, “Francis. You’ve both got it straight about the diversion on Saturday? Francis!”

  “What?” said Francis, with a jolt. “Oh. Yes, I think so, H,” Francis whispered, starting to hop up and down unconvincingly, “We pretend to be as mad as ‘Alfonse’. Dance about, right in front of the horrid scaffold, while you snatch her down the steps and into the drain.”

  Nellie looked rather sour. It was hardly very original, or dignified either, and the Tom-boy wanted none of it.

  The leader of the Pimpernels turned to Skipper too.

  “While you’ll have the horses fed and ready to go, Skip? If they get on our trail, we can’t stop for nothing, I mean anything.”

  “Right, ‘aitch.”

  “Good Man,” the fourteen year old said grandly and blushed. “Two days time then. I wish we could get Juliette another message, to warn her to be ready, but we’ll just have to chance it now. It’s her only hope Oh I wish Armande was back too, there’s so much to tell.”

  “And the Queen, Hal?” asked Spike.

  Henry Bonespair thought of the firelight at the Night Watch Inn and the Eagle and felt sick and very frightened. Then he saw that horrible, judging face in his thoughts again, with that black wig on. Hal seemed to recognise him from somewhere.

  “It’s Juliette who we swore to help, Nellie. Besides, as I said, I don’t think the Queen’s got a….”

  Instead of saying Hope, Henry gazed down mournfully at the street below again. He had just seen a figure who he had recognised walking up the steps of an old house on the corner. Hal’s eyes sparkled suddenly but he turned back to the others.

  “It’s raw courage that we need now,” he said, “and lots of luck too. We can do this though, I know we can Pimpernels. If we just have faith.”

  That night Count Armande was missing at table too, as they sat around Granny Geraldine, fiddling with their tiny bits of very off, grilled mutton.

  Granny kept asking after the charming Count, but at last Henry decided to speak up.

  “Grandma,” he whispered, clearing his throat, “er, we’ve got to leave you soon, Grandma. Go back to England.”

  As Henry said it, he slipped something out of his pocket though and slipped it onto Francis’s half eaten cutlet, with a wink. It was the sprig of Rosemary that man had given him to ward off the evil eye.

  Something malicious came into the old lady’s watery eyes though and Malfort hissed and arched his back, although Francis looked desperately relieved. Not that they were going home, but that the horrid mutton might taste a little better, with a touch of very dry herb.

  “Leave me, Henri?” cried Geraldine. “What on earth do you mean leave me?”

  “We’re leaving on Saturday, Grandma,” said Henry Bonespair firmly. “To get back to Peckham and London. My parents must be worried sick, and school starts soon.”

  Geraldine Bonespair blinked, uncertain why her celebrated dinner guests were talking about School.

  “But I’m just a poor, lonely old lady,” she moaned, “On my death bed too, and all on my own in Paris. Oh mon dieu.”

  Geraldine looked as if she was about to faint and Henry wondered if the old lady would ever die - wishing rather guiltily, for the tiniest flicker of a second, that she might get on with it.

  “You’ve Marius and Justine to look after you,” he said, “er. And we can always come back again and visit Paris, when the war’s done. Or the Revolution.”

  Hal’s kind words seemed to have a positive effect.

  “Visit? Why, yes, yes, you must come back soon, my dear. I shall ask the Archbishop of Rouen, and the Marashal of all France. Such feasts we’ll have and such parties too, and dances worthy of our royal blood.”

  The Pimples all looked at each other with raised eyebrows, as Geraldine sighed. She had clearly lost the plot completely now.

  “Royal?” said Henry though.

  “But of course, Henri. What does that stupid son of mine teach you in Peck-Ham? Do you not know, that on your Grandmere’s side, you have truly aristocratic blood flowing through those veins?”

  “No,” said Henry Bonespair, wishing Count Armande was there to hear this.

  “Mais, bien sure. For you and Eleanor are none other than descendants of the Great Baron Maurice de Bonespair, who won his spurs in the Crusades to Jerusalem.”

  Now Geraldine looked intently at her little granddaughter.

  “And I’ve something for you, Eleanor, ma Cherie,” she said. “I’d have given it to your father, if he hadn’t proved so weak and cowardly. Justine, fetch my locket.”

  Justine curtseyed and went over to a drawer in the chest by the bed.

  “Come, Eleanor,” said their grandmother, as the maid returned and reluctantly Spike climbed down from table and stood beside her.

  “This is of my mother, Eleanor,” said Geraldine softly, looking down at a little picture of a beautiful women in her mid teens, embossed in a delicate porcelain locket. “I wish you to have it now, so those filthy Revolutionary’s don’t ever steal it, child. Take it safely to England for me. Promise now.”

  Spike looked reluctant to wear something quite so girly, but the old lady raised her trembling, blue veined hands and placed it carefully over Spike’s little head.

  “Promise,” she whispered.

  “It’s a rather valuable piece,” Geraldine added and Hal noticed a cunning look in her hard eyes. “So guard it well, for your own children, and for the great Bonespair name too. An immortal name now. We Shall Never Die.”

  Geraldine de Bonespair was beaming down the table.

  “That is what my husband, a maitre of Alchemy, promised, and your Godfather too, Henry Bonespair.”

  Henry sat up and blinked.

  “Godfather?” he whispered dully. “But I don’t have a Godfather, Grandmere.”

  “Why of course you do,” said his Grandmother disapprovingly. “Even your foolish parents wouldn’t forget you. Although those swine have abolished the Saints, and their days. Flowers and vegetables, that’s how th
ey’ll remember the days now in France!”

  Francis nodded and put his notebook on the table. As well as changing the hours and months, the Revolutionaries had decided to rename every single day, not after the Roman or Norse Gods, but by a flower, or worse, a common vegetable.

  “Who?” said Henry though, feeling a little reassured, as Francis tucked into his newly flavoured mutton, with an unusual eagerness and a sprig of dry rosemary. “My Godfather, I mean.”

  “Well, he never visited much, ‘enri, so I suppose that Simon never talked about your Godpere, Isaac.”

  “Isaac,” said Henry nervously and Francis glanced at him.

  “Mais oui. Monsieur Isaac Harrison.”

  The Pimpernel Club all looked up in astonishment and Henry sat bolt upright.

  “Isaac Harrison, Grandmother?”

  “Yes. He seemed delighted when they asked him, did Isaac,” said his Grandmother, with strangely clearer eyes, “and he promised you a very special Confirmation Present too, the very day you were born. But he was always rather wild and irresponsible, was Isaac, and now the poor dear man is in your Bedlam, they say. Mad.”

  They were all suddenly thinking of the Patent Revolutionary Time Piece, but Granny rose with the same weary smile, asking Henry to pass her Death Mask.

  Hal noticed it had softened, sitting next to the burning candle. His grandmother clutched it to her though, as if it somehow protected her, as they heard the doorbell go.

  “I’ll sleep now,” said Geraldine, waving a hand dismissively. “In the bed that I shall never rise from again, I fear. Justine, tell whoever rings it is far too late to call. Far, far too late now. It must be those horrid Revolutionaries. Come and say goodbye, before you leave.”

  The Pimple Club said Goodnight and followed Justine, as the ringing went on, even more urgently now.

  Skipper was coming up the stairs, chewing on a half rotten radish.

  “Must be Armande,” said Spike.

  “And about time too,” cried Hal. “We’re going to have to work fast now.”

  As Justine answered though, the Club got the shock of their lives.

  It wasn’t Armande at all, but none other than William Wickham himself, dressed like a Revolutionary, accompanied by three tough looking soldiers who they didn’t recognise. Henry’s mouth dropped open.

  “It’s YOU.”

  Spike wanted to kick the nasty English spy in the shins, for putting them all in so much danger, and for being a Grown up too.

  “Leave us,” ordered Wickham though, glaring at Justine, “Henry lad, is there somewhere we can talk private?”

  “Er, yes, Sir, Mr Wickham, there.”

  Reluctantly Henry indicated the library across the hall, as the Pimples followed meekly behind. Foxwood closed the library door on them all and there was a look of intense concentration on the spying diplomat’s face, as William Wickham turned to address them.

  “Henry, I’d give you a horsewhippin’, if what you’ve done isn’t so damned brave. It’s time to end this nonsense though, and get you all safely home again.”

  “Home?” said Henry frostily, surrounded by all those dusty books.

  “Right enough, lad. But first I want to find something out. You know all about the League, don’t you?”

  Henry blanched and Francis lent on one of those stairs, that creaked and almost slid away.

  “Yes,” said Spike, “And all your silly gloves too.”

  “Spike,” snapped Henry furiously.

  “Then it was you who delivered the letters to Gonse de Rougeville?” cried Wickham. “Hidden in my present? Despite Harrison’s special secret mechanism.”

  “Yes,” said Spike proudly, “that only opens at Twelve, ninnee. Though Gonsy’s gone now.”

  Hal was suddenly thinking about Isaac Harrison again. His own Godfather. It was all so strange.

  “Not gone,” said William Wickham, wondering how much the children really knew, especially about his Master’s identity, “but in hiding now, until the plan to save the Queen can be set in motion. This September, I think. And for that, one day France and England may be eternally in your debt.”

  The Pimpernels felt a shiver of pride and excitement, although somehow Henry Bonespair knew absolutely that it could come to nothing at all, as he fingered the strange watch, that his own suddenly discovered Godfather had mysteriously made.

  “It’s only cos the Club swore,” muttered Spike, although she shut her little mouth sharply again.

  “Club?” said Wickham, looking at the other adults.

  “She means the Jacobin Club, Sir,” said Francis quickly, blushing, “er, because they swore to chop the Queen’s head off, and it isn’t fair.”

  “That may be, Snipkins,” said Wickham, looking confused, “but it’s the Frenchie’s problem now. Now you and your friends are our affair, and so we’re all leaving, the day after tomorrow.”

  “But that’s Saturday,” cried Francis, looking sharply at Hal.

  “Right. I leave tonight, to ride to Calais. The last English ship to Dover’s moored in the sound, a mile away, at a place called St Carrel. The good ship Endurance. They’ll only stop to wait if I present myself in person.”

  Henry B looked horrified.

  “I’ll ride without stopping and try to hold the Endurance till Monday,” said Wickham forcefully. “Foxwood, Darney and Hayfield will arrive here at 9am sharp, Saturday morning, with a special cart hired to bring you all out of Paris, in perfect disguise.”

  Mr Wickham produced a little map of Calais now and handed it to Henry.

  “St Carrel’s marked, boy, so study it hard, in case anything goes wrong, or we get separated. We’ve all got one, and I want nothing left to chance now.”

  Anger and defiance was flickering in Henry Bonespair’s bold eyes.

  “But we’s got our own transport,” grunted Skipper suddenly.

  “Don’t argue, bumpkin,” bellowed Wickham, “and you’ll do as you’re told.”

  “Yes, Sir,” gulped the poor second coachman’s son.

  Hal’s bright eyes were shining though. A way of getting back to England had just magically presented itself, a ship, and yet, what of their plan to rescue dear Juliette? The Club couldn’t go anywhere without her.

  “I’ll hold the ship,” said Wickham, “but it shouldn’t be much trouble getting out of Paris safely, with Foxwood and the others. They’re looking for Counter Revolutionaries now, and trying to get in mostly, with little reason to stop anyone getting out. My best men will look after you.”

  Foxwood smiled at the children and Nellie rather liked his kindly, noble face. Darney and Haywood were looking at the books.

  “But we can’t,” said Henry B, “Juliette is going to be…”

  Wickham rounded furiously on Henry Bonespair now.

  “We know all about it, boy. News of the new execution date brought us here tonight. We know that you’ve been dressing up too, and going to the Square. Darney’s been watching you for days. We even thought of kidnapping the lot of you, but it’s no time for nonsense now, Henry. I’se a duty to yer father, ” added the Yorkshire man.

  “Nonsense?” said Hal furiously.

  “But Juliette,” cried Spike indignantly, “We’re loyal to…”

  Wickham suddenly looked sharply at her, and all of them standing there together. Something strange came into his eyes.

  “Loyal?” he muttered. “Yes, ‘n loyalty’s a mighty fine quality,but a tricky one too. There’s nothing anyone can do for the poor girl now, if that’s what yees been thinking. Poor Juliette St Honoré’s dead already. You just have to face facts. ‘ard realities, Henry lad, not like yer Pimply games back in England, eh?”

  Hal frowned, thinking how the adult had started it all in the first place, and Wickham smiled very patronisingly.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, “but yer must see sense. Just by being ‘ere, yer puttin everyone’s lives in danger now. Count Armande, Snipkins here, Skipper and your little sister,
Eleanor, too. Not to mention yer own fine and brave young neck. It was only yer fourteenth Birthday the other day. Don’t ye want to see some more?”

  Nellie gurgled and drew a finger across her throat.

  “Exactly. But think of the old Countess St Honoré in England too, lad. Ain’t one son returned safe, better than losing both her children in a single stroke? Aint it the Greater Good?”

  “Double stroke,” corrected Francis Simpkins, scrunching up his swotty nose, and wishing he could be alone in his library again.

  The force with which mr Wickham spoke struck the full reality home to Hal though. Of just how irresponsible he had been leading them all here.

  Henry Bonespair felt deeply guilty, and very confused too, suddenly relieved that an adult was taking charge.

  “Yes, Sir, I suppose it is better,” he said sadly.

  “Good Man,” cried Wickham, “Then it’s settled. All of you are to be ready to leave, 9am sharp, Saturday. I want yer word of honour, lad.”

  Henry looked back at the English spy and now his eyes narrowed angrily.

  “Honour?”

  “Right. Yer word of honour, Henry, as a Man. Have I got it?”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes, Mr Wickham,” answered Hal Bonespair stiffly. “You have. My word of Honour.”

  The diplomat turned to the others and one by one they all nodded too.

  “Thank heavens for that,” said Wickham, and with that the library door opened and Count Armande stepped in too, holding his floppy Liberty cap.

  “’enri, where are the servants?” he was saying, “I’ve been looking all over. And I’ve something to, oh…”

  Armande stopped short, as soon as he saw Mr Wickham and the other strange men. He wondered if they were to be arrested, until he recognised the man who had helped his family to England.

  “Count,” grunted Wickham, with a slight dip of his head, “good to see yer safe n sound, and looking so well too, if a little thin. But now I must ride like the wind for Calais.”

  “Wind?” whispered Armande. “Calais?”