The Terror Time Spies (27 page)

Things were suddenly falling wonderfully into place for the Club, except for the sudden entry into the mix of reckless little Spike.

Hal and the others turned towards the vintners, wondering if Nell had introduced herself to
Monsewer Roubechon
, and what his cousin had made of the tom-boy, or if he had handed her over to the Revolutionary Authorities.   

There was still hope in Hal’s heart though, because of his own apprenticeship to their cousin, but when the Pimpernels walked up to the simple shop front and Francis pulled the chain, nobody answered.

“Looks closed down to me, F.”

“Non,” said Count Armande, “ees boardeeed up.  In La Revolution there are so many riots, no shop’s safe.  Especialment du vin.  The mob are very thirsty.”

“Look, H,” said Francis though, noticing a trapdoor at the side and pulling at the wooden covering. 

The Pimpernels found themselves staring down some steps into a dark and dingy cellar. 

In truth it should have been locked, but the cart drivers who had delivered their barrels hours before, after Spike’s dreadful ordeal, had been as slovenly as ever and forgotten to secure it behind them.

“I’ll turn the coach,” suggested Holmwood.

“Right oh, Skipper.”

Hal was already clambering down the wooden steps, as Skip geed the coach along the cul-de-sac and Armande and Francis followed Henry down.

  The Pimpernels found themselves in a long low stone brick cellar, the far wall lined with wine and brandy, and the other walls with enormous stoppered casks.  Francis Simpkins pointed to about twenty barrels though, all marked ‘
DOVER
’.

“They got here all right then, H.”

“But where’s Spike?” said Henry gloomily, “Has she met my Cousin already?”

The boys were wondering if it was pointless to search the barrels, noticing the heavy, grapey smell sticking to them in the cellar, when they heard voices from the street:  French voices, coming straight towards them.

“Quick,” hissed Henry, “Hide.”

Francis and Armande managed to slink into the recesses between the huge casks, while Henry saw a barrel, larger and older than the new arrivals, and empty.  Just as Spike had done, Hal climbed inside. 

Three adults suddenly entered the wine cellar, one man talking rapidly and apologetically in French.

“I’m sure I locked it, Monsieur Roubechon.  I swears it.”

He was addressing a short, stout, red faced figure, with the most enormous belly, who was glaring into the shadows with a pistol in his fat hand.  The cellar suddenly smelt of garlic and paté.

“Who’s in here?” he grunted, “If I find anyone’s been stealing my wine, I’ll shoot to kill.  Citizen or no damned Citizen.”

“No one, Roubechon,” said the third man, “Et la.  The new Anglais barrels.”

The fat vintner lowered his weapon as he saw the casks marked
Dover
. 

“One blessing then,” he grunted. “I’ve feared all week they’d go astray.  You can’t trust anyone in Paris, nowadays.”

“I’ll count them, then shall we open the shop, Monsieur?” asked the first man, lighting a candle with a flint and placing it carefully on one of the barrels.  The sudden blaze of light made the boys cower back in their hiding places.

“Not to today, Cavellion, I’ve a meeting with one of the League.”

Armande and Henry’s ears were suddenly up, in their hiding places, although both were feeling strangely dizzy too.  Francis just crouched there, listening to the strange sounds, wishing he could speak French and promising himself he’d try and learn when he got back to school, but suddenly stifling a hiccup too.  He slapped his hand over his mouth.

“Which member are you meeting?” asked the second man, thinking he heard a sound nearby.

“Gonse de Rougeville.”

“The Marquis is still in Paris then?” said the third, in astonishment.

“Of course, Canard, he swears he’ll never leave too, while
she’s
still a prisoner.  He’s brave, that one.  They’re watching him like a hawk though.”

“What’s the meet about?” muttered Cavellion.

“The great plot.”

Henry Bonespair felt very hot in his hiding place.

“De Rougeville’s expecting me to bring him something very important from England.  Equipment from L’anglais.  I’ll have to tell him it hasn’t arrived.”

“Important, Roubechon?”

Roubechon frowned.  He was naturally wary and never shared the
entire
details of his plots, even with his own comrades.

“My cousins the Bonespairs should have brought it here by now.  The father and his two children.  Eleanor and his son.”

Henry Bonespair was utterly amazed.  What was this Frenchman talking about?

“His son?” said Canard.

“’enri Bonespair,” announced Roubechon sourly, “I agreed to apprentice the boy, years back.  Don’t know why.  What could any Anglais ever know of good wine?”

Roubechon chuckled scornfully and in his barrel Henry disliked his cousin immediately, but he was feeling rather strange and dizzt too.

“But I owed that old witch his Grandmother a favour, and thought it might lead to the secret of her gold too.  Then I got a message three days back, by carrier bird.  Right out of the blue.  The boy’s got it, if he ever gets here.”

Henry Bonespair was utterly astounded, as he clasped William Wickham’s gift and he felt an icy chill at his neck, although his spots were sore and he had a headache now.

“Now come on,” growled Roubechon, “We’ll lock up and get going.”

The portly vintner led them back up out of the cellar and the Pimpernels heard the trapdoor being slammed shut, then the loud click of a padlock. 

They were locked in, though the man had forgotten his candle.

“Pssst,” hissed Hal, after a quite a while. 

Henry climbed out again, wobbling slightly, and in the candlelit darkness he saw two dim shapes emerging from the looming casks, peering around them.  The boys seemed rather wobbly on their feet too. 

Hal heard a scratching as well and wondered if the cellar was infested with rats.   But The Rat Catchers were far behind them now.

The candle that Cavellion had lit were casting an eerie glow through the dripping cellar and now they were groping about, among the barrels, trying to make their way back to the exit, although Francis had started to giggle and Armande’s head was throbbing terribly.

“ ‘enri?” said Armande though, as they suddenly collided, “You ‘eard?  The League.  And he talked of something you ‘ave, ‘enri.  Hic.”

Hal blinked and grinned, strangely wanting to giggle too, although desperate about little Spike, as he rested his hand on the lid of one of the Dover barrels. 

As Hal leant his full weight on it, suddenly wanting to sit down, it swung in, Henry slipped, and he heard a low “ouch”, as he struck a little shape inside. 

Francis laughed and hiccupped, but Henry’s eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom and Hal gasped.

“Spike,” he cried, “There you are, Eleanor.”

Poor little Nellie was still inside, hunched up in a ball in her barrel, where she had fainted clean away.  She had been there for hours and hours, fast asleep. 

Spike opened her green eyes now and rubbed her little head.

“Hal,” she gulped, in a tiny, frightened voice, “I want to go home, Hal, please.”

Henry Bonespair was finding it hard to focus but he reached into the barrel and took his sister gently under her arms, lifting the seven year old out and standing her carefully in the French wine cellar.

“I know you do, Nellie.  And we will.  Soon.  I promise.  Hic.”

“Oh H, are you very cross with me?”

“Furious,” answered Hal softly, although he hiccupped again.  “But that doesn’t matter now,  hic, er, as long as you’re safe. 
Bonespair’s against the world. 
Are you all right though, Nellie?  That’s all that matters.”

“I’m all right, I think, but it was horrid, H, horrid.”

“The ship?” asked Francis, hiccupping again himself and giggling too, as Spike frowned at him.

“No,” she said, “Heads chopped off, like chickens.   I saw a dead Frenchie blink at me.  It’s true, I swear it.  Magic.”

“Hush Nellie, and I believe you,” said Hal, “But we’re together again now and that’s all that matters.  Death’s not touching us.  Ever.  Hic.”

Henry felt his cheeks glowing and he blushed.  He wanted to fall over.

“Hello  Spike,” said Francis, “Your secret note was amazing.”

Francis Simpkins belched suddenly and blushed too.  What was wrong with the stupid boys?

“Genius, ma petite,” whispered Count Armande kindly, for the first time feeling a genuine affection for the wild little girl. 

Spike beamed, even at Count Armande, but Hal was frowning seriously now, though shaking his head, trying to clear the awful dizziness.

“But now that you’re in France too, ma and pa will be worried sick.  Hic.  The letter I wrote will never have got home to Peckham.”

“Oh yes it will,” said Spike, “When Skip took me to the farriers, I popped it in a big box with some others.  Posted it.  Hic.”

In the barrel, with its closed lid, the air had not been so thick with wine fumes, but now it was starting to get to Nellie too.  Hal glared at his little sister.

“Then you planned to stowaway all evening?”

“No, H.  Well yes, but my hair was crossed.  Honest.”

“Why you little….”

But Hal grinned and with that they all heard a loud “
Awooh, Awooh
.”  

It was followed by a banging, then someone straining with the lock.  There was a sharp crack, the trap swung open, sending a stream of warming sunlight into the cellar, making them all blink and shield their eyes, until a large shadow blocked it again.

“You lot all right?” grunted Skipper Holmwood. 

Skip stopped, a huge smile bursting across his cheeks.

“Spike!! You’re safe, Spikee.  Thank ‘eavens.”

Nellie Bonespair ran straight up to her friend and hugged Skipper round the legs.

“Phew,” said Skip, giving Nellie a gigantic hug in return, “We wos worried sick.”

“What happened though, Hic?  I mean Skip,” asked Hal, as they all smiled.

“I was waiting at the end of the sac,” answered their coachman, wondering why they were all grinniny, “when I saws them come in, then out again, then used Skanksy’s pistol to jem the lock.  It’s busted tho.  Sorry ‘al.”

Skipper held up Skank’s broken pistol.  The barrel had bent and Francis started giggling again.

“Oh, they’re just drunk,” said Nellie.  “Hic!”

Now it was Skipper’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“It weren’t loaded, no how,” he said though,  “We’ll just have to pinch another from the Frenchies, ‘aitch.”

“Skeep,” cried Armande irritably, “will you stop saying
Frenchies
.  Hic!”

Skipper Holmwood curled up his nose guiltily, but as they stared at each other they suddenly all laughed out loud.  The laughter came like gun fire and tears were suddenly rolling down their faces.

“Well the Club are tagever again,” cried Skipper delightedly, as it subsided and they stood more soberly, and Skip ruffled Spike’s hair, “An ready to take on all Paris, I reckons.  Now you can teach us ta read too, Nellie.”

The friends stood gazing at each other in the candlelit cellar, but they suddenly didn’t look ready to take on anything. 

At least Skipper was right though, the Club formed in the barn that famous moonlit night, were safely reunited in enemy Paris.

“What that Vintner said though,” said Armande, “about the League, and de Rougeville.”

“Yes,” whispered Hal, sobering up even more, “you’d think everyone’s a spy now.  It’s incredible.”

 “What are you talking about?” asked Francis, since, having no French, he had not understood what Roubechon and the other men had been discussing.   

“And you, Henri,” said Armande, “you’re carrying something.”. 

Hal was looking very thoughtful, clutching the Chronometer and tapping it now. 

“You’ve still got it then,” piped Spike happily, forgetting all about bouncing heads, “the wonderful magic Nometer.”

“Chronometer,” corrected Francis, with a burp.  “Sorry.  Just a pretty watch though, Spike.  Scientific.  And it’s time we got out of here.”

Hal looked down at his sister and felt an enormous rush of relief. 

“And as a special reward for such exceptional bravery,” he said, “you can wear it right now, Spike, as official Keeper of the Sacred Time Piece.”

Hal winked at Skipper, as he lifted the watch over his head and placed it around his little sister’s neck, as if he was knighting her. 

Spike jolted though, because she suddenly felt the most extraordinary rush of tingly warmth through her whole body. 

As she looked at the others, for a split second it was as if the Pimples were growing fuzzy and disappearing altogether.  Perhaps little Spike was drunk too.