The Terror Time Spies (29 page)

The others were watching from the fine carriage, as the front door opened and there stood a timid, spotty faced maid, no more than sixteen. 

Strangely, as soon as she opened the door, she stood well back in the hall.

“Oui?” she said nervously.

“Bonjour, Citizeness,” cried Henry, thinking how much the blonde girl looked like Juliette, “Henry and Nellie Bonespair, er, a voir notre grandmere.  Merci.”

The girl blinked in surprise, blushed at her own acne, which Spike was staring at, but ushered the Bonespairs inside a large marble floored hall. 

On the wall, by the door, in a chipped black frame, was a huge map of the winding streets of Paris.  It was framed by two large and dusty Grandpere clocks, both of which had stopped years ago.

“Moment, moment,” said the maid, hurrying away suddenly but, after about ten minutes, she returned and beckoned to them both. 

She led them towards two very grand doors which opened on their own now, as a lady in a black bonnet bustled out, glancing at the children, shaking her head and hurrying by.  Although dressed like a gentlewoman, she was carrying a large doctor’s bag.

She walked to the front door and let herself quickly out, as the servant girl led the children on into a large room, with very high ceilings. 

The room was entirely dark, except for three tall, flickering candles, like church crucifers. 

It had once been a very fine room indeed, but now the great paintings were missing from the walls and it looked faded and shabby.  Everywhere - laid across the backs of chairs, or across tables and desks, even hanging from the curtain rails - was finely worked lace, decaying and very moth eaten.

There was a great gilt dining table right in the middle of the room, laid with fine plates, but so covered in dust that they seemed not to have been used in years, surrounded by high backed red velvet chairs, that had holes in them. 

As Spike looked on, a tiny grey mouse popped from the back of one chair, jumped onto the seat, then scurried away down the chair leg.  A large black cat hissed too and crept from the shadows, but then just walked elegantly across the room, it’s tail raised high.  It seemed far too superior to chase such a scrawny looking rodent, even if it was starving.

At the end of the dinning-cum-sitting room, lit by those tall candles, that sent gloomy shadows dancing across the high ceiling, was a giant four poster bed, also slung with decaying lace drapes. 

Spike suddenly remembered Granny was on her death bed.

Under the coverlet lay an ancient old woman, like a statue, reclined in her faded nightdress, her face pointing to the canopy, utterly immovable.  They both wondered if their grandmother was dead already and if that woman had been her physician.

The maid curtseyed and retreated and the cat jumped onto the coverlet, as a pale, cadaverous hand lifted slightly and beckoned the children closer. 

“
Come, come, mes enfants
.”

Henry glanced at Nell and they both walked forwards, coming to a stop only a little way from Madame Geraldine de Bonespair herself. 

Her face looked as white as that lace, covered in talc and strange little bumps too, as she turned to regard them, then her thin lips moved faintly, and she opened her eyes.  They were dim, watery and pale green, but with a little glimmer of light.

“ ‘enri Bonespair, can it be you?” the old lady whispered. “I thought you were not…”

“Yes, Grandmother,” answered Henry, with a gulp, clasping Nellie’s hand, “We’ve come all the way from London, just to visit you.”

“But where is my foolish son?” asked Madame Geraldine, in a voice so faint it sounded as if it already came from beyond the grave.

“Er, that’s hard to explain, Grandmere.  Pa’s still back in England.  In Peckham.”

“Peck-HAM,” their grandmother almost spat, “And Simon sends you alone here, to Paris?  His own children. 
Mon dieu. 
That spineless, cruel, good for nothing…”

Spike looked rather indignant, as their granny went off into a series of highly colourful phrases that would have made a Headsman blush, although whispered in that deathly voice.   

Henry didn’t try to stop or interrupt her, for Granny Geraldine seemed in a world of her own and her outburst was actually rather useful too.  It meant that Henry didn’t even have to explain what they were really doing here. 

At last it subsided though and Madame Geraldine sighed.

“Well, what matter? I had wanted to put an end to the past, but that can never be now, and besides, the ungrateful boy only wanted my fortune. 
That
secret is well hidden.  I take it to the grave with me now, don’t I, my darling Malfort? None shall ever know it, my puss.”

Gerladine was addressing the cat, and Spike glanced at Hal, but her granny reached out her spindly hands, fretted with raised blue veins.

“Mes cheries, come closer still.”

Hal stepped forwards but poor Spike looked most reluctant.

“
Mavagoove, Spavagike
,” hissed Henry

Spike stepped up too, in the scruffy dress and spikey blonde hair.

“You are truly one of
my
line?” said the old lady doubtfully, “Little Eleanor Bonespair, no?”

Spike scowled but she nodded, although Nellie was suddenly convinced that this was none other than Madame Guillotine herself, lying on her deathbed. 

“And when did you both arrive a Paris?” asked the old lady.

“Last night, grandmother,” answered Hal, mentioning nothing about Monsieur Roubechon’s, “In our coach.  We’ve letters from the French embassy itself, back in London.  But we came with two friends.”

The old lady didn’t seem at all suspicious of this fact.

“Friends?  To look after you, of course?  Bon, bon.  That is good.  We all need friends.  Real ones.”

“And our driver,” added Hal, making it clear that there were five of them here.

“Well, there is room in the house, and stabling in the back.  It will be safe from the mob here.  I shall have the servants light all the candles and we shall have a grand reception for everyone in….”

A look of confusion suddenly came over Geraldine’s poor face though; a lost, haunted look.

“Mais non,” she sighed bitterly, “That was
then
, and this in now.  Oh Mon Dieu.  La Morte.  DEATH.”

Geraldine’s features had changed and her seemingly feeble hands reached out and gripped Nellie’s arm.

“Ouch,” cried Spike.  “You’re hurting me.”

“But can’t you
hear
it?” hissed the old Lady , as Malfort hissed back at them all and arched his back, “It’s great black wing’s are flapping over us.  It’s coming for us all.  HE is.  La Morte.  La Revolution!”

Henry and Nellie Bonespair looked horrified, far more by their weird granny than any silly French Revolution. 

They were listening intently for the sound of wings, thinking about the Devil loose in Paris, like some great black crow. 

There was a strange chiming in the room too and Spike and Henry jumped. 

They hadn’t noticed it before, but the sound was coming from a huge Ormerliue clock, sitting on the dusty mantelpiece.  It was two O’clock.

“That?” hissed Geraldine, in astonishment. “But that has not worked in years.  My husband collected them.  But you wish to look upon the face of Death yourselves?”

The children did not wish anything of the sort, but Geraldine released Spike and now her bony finger pointed, like the grim reaper himself, towards the top of a dusty chest, among all that rotting lace.   

Nellie shuddered.

“There, Eleanor.  Fetch it, quick.  SHE made it and brought it to me, just now.  C’est parfait.”

Madame B was clearly talking about that woman who had been carrying that bag.  Not a doctor at all, of course, since she was a woman. 

Spike trotted meekly over to the chest, where she found an object wrapped up in a linen bandage. 

“You mean
this
, granny?” she whispered.

The old lady nodded coldly and Spike found it very light, as she carried it back over to her.  Geraldine propped herself up painfully and took the thing, fumbling greedily with the linen wrapping.

“It is good work.  Very fine. 
Voila
, enfants.  Behold the Face of Death itself.”

Malfort hissed again and jumped from the bed, as Henry and Nellie’s young mouths dropped open.  What they were looking at was made of plaster or wax, but with all the features and contours -  the nose, lips, chin – described in perfect detail.  It was the face of Geraldine De Bonespair herself.

“A good likeness, no?,” hissed their grandmother, with a grin, “My Death Mask.  A fine memorial too, mes enfants, to the great Bonespair name.  Now they have no respect for us, nor the past.  No respect for anything any more.”

“Yes, granny” gulped Hal, looking in horror at the thing, “I suppose so.”

“
She
sculpted it especially, in wax.  That Tussaud Woman.  She does all the work for those filthy Republicans.  Moulding their victims, after they’re gone, bien sure,” the old crone added with a chuckle, “But the famous Madame Tussaud made an exception for me, at a nice price too.  She says that I can lie most beautifully still.  Deathly still.”

Their grandmother chuckled again, holding the thing as tenderly if she were holding up her own heart, as flecks of wax fell from her real face.

“So much death,” she wailed, “So many gone.  And millions more to come.”

Geraldine Bonespair gave a horrid, mournful sigh, that seemed to make those spaces on the walls where the paintings had been even more melancholy, and the lace about the room flutter faintly. 

Then the expression in her tiny, cunning eyes changed and what dim light was there sparkled.  Nellie realised the bumps on her cheeks were bits of wax too.

“You think I am mad, ‘enri” she asked suddenly, giggling.

“No Grandmere, of course not…”

“Well if I am, mes enfants, it runs in families…”

Henry suddenly thought of all the things he had seen or imagined on his journey, then of something that Armande had said of Isaac Harrison.  He felt a lump in his throat.

“Mais oui, it shall be,” cried Geraldine though, “Mes enfants, we shall have the grandest party, to welcome you to Paris.  A magnificeent Masked Ball.  I shall wear this, my death mask, and dance and dance, all night long.  The prettiest, loveliest belle in all the wonderful, deadly city.”

Geraldine Bonespair held her death mask to her face and her grandchildren experienced a strange double take, a horrid chill too, as the old woman gave a girlish little giggle and dabbed her spindly hair. 

Geraldine Bonespair suddenly pulled the waxen face away again though.

“If death exists, or is but a dream too,” she muttered.  “Like life.  If my husband’s theory of the transference of souls is true.  Perhaps life is just the strongest will, but ma cherie, my last husband, was a very great Alchemist.”

“Alchewot?” whispered Nellie, feeling terrified.

“Alchemist, enfant.  And an expert in the Occult too.”

Henry looked up sharply, because the word had been whispered at school, in to relation to bad stuff.

“What’s that?” asked Spike.

“Occluded from the eyes, child,” hissed Geraldine, “the unseen.  What is hidden, but what is as real as the nose on ‘enri’s face.  Or my mask.”

“
Mavagad,”
whispered Spike suddenly.  “
Navaguts.”

“But now I must nap,” sighed Geraldine, dropping her waxen face onto the coverlet.  “While you’ll rest in the very best rooms.  Be careful though.  The house is very haunted.  The dead live here with me.  Marius will take you there.”

“Marius?” said Spike, shivering at the thought of the dead actually living here in the Rue Beaulieu.  Their grandmother was looking across the room and they realised there was someone else here too, standing in the shadows. 

It was a boy, of perhaps fourteen, though almost as large as Skipper.  He was kitted out in the strangest clothes, a long red felt frock coat, very red indeed, and a huge turban on his head, a bit like Dr Marat’s. 

His face, which was as black as coke, was peering out of the gloom, watching them nervously with enormous, shining eyes.

Spike wondered if he had his own dressing up box.

“Show them, Marius, and tell Justine to prepare some special food for dinner.  It is too late for Luncheon now.  Go on.  Get out.”

Poor Marius bowed and led them back to the door.   

They went into the hall and the strangely dressed black boy picked up a golden bell on a side table and rang the dust off it.  Then he just stood there waiting, but Henry had noticed the ticking in the hall and that the Grandfather clocks were working again too.  How strange.

“Marius,” said Spike, peering at his fascinating African face and nodding to him, “I’m Nellie Bonespair, and this is my stupid brother, Henry.”

Hal began to translate, leaving out the ‘stupid’, but Marius interrupted him.

“I am speak Anglais, Monsieur,” he said.  “Your grandmere make me.”