The Terror Time Spies (28 page)

“Spike,” said a voice, “you all right?”

There they were again, real and solid before her eyes.

“Wot?  Yes, Hal.  Just sleepy, I think.”

“What you wrote though, Spike.  How did you hear it all?”

“That horrid man, H, Cushon-thingy.  The Spider.  In Calais.”

“Couchonet,” said Hal, with a nod, thinking of that spiteful Alceste.

“Right.  I was listening to Couchy, from inside my special barrel, talking to a man from the Eagle about the plot, and men in gloves.  That man with the scar.”

“Dugg,” burped Francis, “Samuel Dugg.  Then he’s a Frenchie agent.  A blasted traitor.”

Little Spike couldn’t have cared two hoots, fiddling with her new toy and the catch.  She was humming, as she pressed it upwards, and the dial with the Glove precisely aligned with twelve o’clock, just as the hour and the minute hand met at twelve too. 

Suddenly the watch
chimed
, there was a sharp snap and the whole back sprung open. 

Nothing dropped out, but the Pimpernel Club were staring at the Nometer in utter astonishment.  Henry had been convinced that you could not open it at all.

“Have I broken it?” whispered Spike in horror.

Hal was already prizing it away though and lifting it off her head.

“But you said…”

“Wait, Spike, there’s something here.  It’s a secret compartment.”

Henry had turned the special watch over and there, in the back, was indeed a shallow secret compartment and now Hal remembered what Adam Snareswood had started to say. 

Folded neatly inside were two thin documents, of the finest English paper, the same paper used to send that special miniature Pigeon post and held in place by a little golden clip.   

Hal removed them both carefully, as Francis noticed the brass back plate, held in place by four minute screws, and a little open crescent, through which he caught a glimpse of the guts of the thing and a tightly wound spring. 

It seemed to be pulsating furiously, like a heart, almost glowing with a strange light.  Francis noticed too that something else was etched inside.

Hal was more interested in the papers though and he handed one to Count Armande, then hung the Chronometer back on Nell’s neck.  They had all sobered up completely now, not just because of the fresh air coming down the cellar steps.

“Told you it was magic,” said Spike, as Armande unfolded his paper too.

“What is it, Armande?” asked Hal, as he opened the first letter himself, to find it was a rather small, square sheet, not much bigger than his hand.

“An Ordre de Monet, I think,” answered Armande,  “Like an Assignat, ‘enri.  A money order for a bank a Paris.  Just like papa used to have.  It’s for fifty thousand Francs.”

Fifty thousand francs!  It was more money than the boys or little Spike could possibly imagine, even more than a vast pile of Huguenot gold.

“Made out in a name too.  Alexandre Gonse de Rougeville.”

“Who our cousin’s going to see today,” said Hal,  “A real Marquis.”

“Then this is what Roubechon was talking about
your
bringing to Paris, ‘enri.  Something very important.”

Hal was trembling now, as he thought of William Wickham giving him that special birthday present.  Such a very dangerous present.  How William Wickham had smiled too, when he had handed it over.  Henry felt slightly sick.

“But Wickham gave me it for my…..”

Hal reached out for the chronometer though, hanging around Nell’s neck, and held it up again.

“Look,” he cried, showing the finely wrought symbol, aligned with the raised Twelve O’clock, as the minute hand moved to five past.

“It’s a Glove.  That’s why the catch worked, then?  The League of the Gloved Hand.  Then Mr Wickham’s a….”

The word
spy
choked in Hal’s mouth, with the shock of it.  Their father’s own employer was an English Secret agent.

“Coochy was talking about silly Mr Wickham too,” said Spike, with a scowl.

“And this Plot,” grunted Skipper, “it’s to end the Frenchie Revolution?”

Spike was scratching her head.

“That Black Spider talked about letters, Hal,” she went on, “holding the secret ‘dentity of our very top Spy Master.  England’s toppest spy.”

“The other paper, aitch,” said Skipper suddenly, “Wot’s that say?”

Hal unfolded it too, only slightly larger than the second, and looked down.

“It’s to de Rougeville too.”

The Pimpernel Club crowded in and started to read by the low light, with difficulty too, for the small letter was written on both sides in English, in a beautiful copperplate, that made Spike jealous of the lovely handwriting.

My Dear Marquis De Gonse De Rougeville,

Your allies in England send you greetings and our firmest assurances of our complete support for your noble plan.  As confirmation of our good faith, the League also sends you this money order, to pay your men, buy weapons, and for any expenses that you may incur in the execution of a great and sacred deed. 

As you may know, the worsening situation in France and the opening of hostilities, have made it more difficult than ever for the League to operate successfully there, and thus my dear Marquis, we are somewhat in your hands.  But you may remain assured that I, and many members of the Court and the Government in England, shall never rest until we have helped you and your countrymen to overthrow the Republican murderers, who have killed a King. 

What you plan now would be a stroke so bold that we believe it would make all men rise up in hope.  For what greater deed than to snatch away her majesty, Queen Marie Antoinette, from the very jaws of the oppressors and in a single stroke save the true heart of France?

I remain you servant and England your ally, in the hope of restoring the honour and spirit of your embattled country.

In the name of the League of the Gloved Hand.

“Save the Queen,” cried little Spike.

“Incredible,” gasped Francis Simpkins, noticing a strange seal at the bottom of the letter too, with a sort of lion with wings.  “Moved by an unseen hand.”

“And what have we got ourselves into?” said Hal heavily, “The Pimpernels?”

“What d’yer mean, aitch?” grunted Skipper, scratching his big head.

“Don’t you see, Skip? This is what they were expecting from London and now
we’ve
got it, and the key to a plot to rescue the Queen too.  But the Black Spider’s looking for these letters and the identity of England’s top spy as well.”

“Wickham,” said Skipper, but Hal Bonespair shook his head.

“No, Skip” he said, looking down at the seal at the bottom – it was a Griffin.  “This isn’t William Wickham’s crest.  I’ve seen
his
crest in Peckham.  It’s a nasty black crow, pecking at things.”

“But he gave you the wotch,” said Skip. “So he’s a member of the League.  A spy.  That stands to reason”

“Yes,” said Henry thoughtfully, “but not the big leader.”

“Rat,” said Francis though, now more than sober, “Mr Wickham planted it on you, H.  He wanted to use children to do his dirty work, the big coward.”

“I’m not a child,” said Hal angrily, but he suddenly felt a real fury in his gut, at tricky William Wickham.  How could he do such a thing?

“Oh what’s that matter?” cried Francis, “it still comes to the same thing, H.  I bet he gambled that English children wouldn’t be noticed, even if we aren’t, children, I mean.  And now we’re in terrible danger.  This Black Spider is looking for
us
and an army of secret policemen behind him.”

They all looked horrified and Henry remembered Alceste saying that France would keep a very close eye on them, as it seemed as if the fate of thousands rested on the Pimpernel Club’s shoulders now. 

It was a very oppressive feeling indeed.

“Pardon,” said Armande though, “but do we not forget why we are really ‘ere?  My sister.”

The weight lightened a little.

“Armande’s right,” said Hal, holding the letter as if it was burning his fingers, “
We
didn’t swear to rescue any Queen, did we?  Just to get Juliette back home safely again.”

“And to protect the innocent,” corrected Spike, innocently.

“And uphold the club’s ideals,” added Francis, idealistically. 

Hal frowned, in the dancing candle light.  It was true.

“Does it mean we’s official now then?” said Skipper. “English government spies?”

“No, Skip.  We’re Pimpernels, not spies.  The Pimpernel never calls himself a spy.  We didn’t agree to carry any stupid letters either.  And yet…”

“And yet?” the Club all cried at once.

“Juliette’s in prison, just where they’re holding the Queen too.  The Temple Fauberg.”

A sense of awe suddenly surrounded the daring little Club, in that dim wine cellar in Paris.  Could they help a real Queen too?

Could they even help Juliette St Honoré?

Henry Bonespair seemed lost in thought, but he folded the delicate papers again and slipped the letters back into the secret compartment, then snapped it shut.  Hal swivelled the dial, to immobilise the catch again and let it go.

“See Spike.  Not magic, I’m afraid, just very tricky indeed.  Like William Wickham.”

“Like grown ups,” muttered the little girl.

Armande remembered something else though now.

“On the boat, ‘enri, I read that the man who made it said Time does not exist.  Is an invention.  Isaac Harrison.”

“Oh, don’t be mad,” grunted Francis Simpkins, “Time’s a thing, Armande.  A real thing and something you can count too, Count, and measure.  Rely on, I mean.  That just stands to reason.  Hal, can I see that crest again though, that seal.”

Henry nodded, lifted it again and flicked the catch, but this time nothing happened.

“What?” he whispered,  “But I don’t understand.”

“What’s the time?” asked Francis suddenly.

“About twelve seventeen, F.”

Francis Simpkins scrunched up his owlly face very thoughtfully indeed.

“Twelve, Hal,” he said suddenly, “Spike must have clicked it just then, with that Glove symbol aligned.  But it only opens when aligned, and at exactly Twelve O’clock.”

The Pimpernel Club were even more impressed with the miraculous machine.

“So what do we do, Pimples?” piped Spike, never wanting to be left out again, although wanting to go straight home to England. 

“Do?” said her brother, “We decide later, but now we’re going buy you a dress.”

Hal’s sister looked at her brother in greater horror than she had at that blinking head in the square.

“A dress?  But I don’t want a silly….”

“What a Pimple wants and
has
to do,” said Hal sternly, “are very different things, sometimes, Nellie Bonespair.  We’re going to see Granny right now.  It’s the only place in Paris we’ll be safe.  But she’s expecting her grandson and granddaughter, not some little Tom-boy ragamuffin, who’s spent two days in an empty wine barrel.”

“Granny’s ‘specting pa too,” said Spike resentfully, but thinking of Madame Guilteen again, “Oh, I wish he was here too.”

Henry frowned sympathetically and missed Peckham and even London.

“Well, we’ll have to think of what to say when we get there, Spike,  and about the Pimpernel Club too.  Maybe there’s room for all of us.  But we’ll make you as pretty as a picture first.  Think of it as the Pimples’ punishment for being such a complete idiot.”

In the shadows poor Spike made a horrible seven year old face but she could not think of anything to say.

Barely an hour later then, the Pimpernels, or Henry and Nellie Bonespair at least, were ringing on another bell in Revolutionary Paris, attached to a rather grand house, in a rather grand street, the Rue Beaulieu, made much less grand by the filthy revolutionaries parading up and down, in short trousers and dirty, bare feet. 

The windows of the old house were shuttered up and from the moulding paint work it seemed that the inhabitant had fallen on very hard times indeed. 

As Hal stood there, he tucked the special Chronometer back into his shirt again, with its dangerous letters hidden inside.  Spike glared at him.

“But you made
me
Keeper …”

“You can wear it later,” said Hal, with a sigh, “It’ll look silly with you dressed like that.”

Spike hated the little cotton dress that Armande had purchased, in his best French, from a shabby little shop nearby, that made most of its money selling Liberty caps to the people. 

The owner had looked at the English money suspiciously, but at least it was coin and no one turned
that
down these days.  They had tried to do something with Spike’s hair, but the effect was as comic as ever.