The Terror Time Spies (35 page)

It seemed to please the portly ambassador, because he wouldn’t have to draw down any disgusting amounts of cash.

“If the lad kept good care of the Chronometer,” said Wickham with a nod. “Like I made him swear.”

“The St Honorés?” whispered the ambassador though, “One’s on trial today.  Juliette St Honoré.  Citizeness.  It’s been all over the papers.”

“Juliette’s on trial!” gasped Wickham, frowning hard, then standing there deep in thought.  The others watched him and waited.

“Kidnapped,” he cried suddenly, beginning to piece together something of these extraordinary events.  “Frenchie agents must have kidnapped Juliette and when the children heard about it, they raced to follow.  It’s incredible.”

 “She’s been in the Temple Prison too,” said the ambassador, although he never stepped inside common prisons himself, “tending to her Majesty.”

“To the French Queen?” said Wickham.

“Indeed.  The only one allowed near her now, Mr Wickham.  Today the girl’s up for trial though.  I’m convinced it’s a way of discrediting her uncle Charles.”

The members of the League of the Gloved Hand were shaking their heads, wondering what to do, but suddenly thinking of this vital point of access to her Majesty.

“The Bonespairs,” said Wickham though, “They planned to visit a Madame Geraldine in Paris.  Do you know where she lives, ambassador?”

“Odd name,” answered the ambassador thoughtfully, “but no, Mr Wickham.   The Committee of Public Safety have confiscated all lists of Paris residents.   I’m sure we can find out though, but it may take me a while.  I don’t have many men in Paris now.  Staff shortages.”

William Wickham nodded gravely.

“And Juliette,” he said thoughtfully himself, “in such close contact to the Queen of France.”

Someone else was thinking of the Queen, at that same moment, in a little flower shop in central Paris, standing in an explosion of July blossoms – Azalias, roses, lilies and carnations, quivering prettily around him.

He was an elegant, foppish looking man, with long black hair that flowed about his feminine shoulders, whose natural style was only diminished by having to wear such comparatively plain clothes around Paris. 

He was wondering what flowers to buy for his new Mistress and what had happened to his contact in the League of the Gloved Hand too.  There had been no sign of blasted Roubechon, nor any correspondence from England.

“Anything take yer fancy, Citizen de Rougeville?” asked the little florist in the shop.

“Gonse De Rougeville,” snapped the Marquis, “Yes.  I’ll have a dozen roses, man, blood red, and take them straight to this address.  No, make that two dozen.”

He handed the man a note and the florist, who wasn’t  interested in politics, revolutionary or otherwise, as much as feeding his huge family, beamed.

“Of course, Marquis.  Thank you, my Lord.”

Gonse De Rougeville waved a limp hand and turned to leave. 

He stepped smartly out onto the pavement and cursed at some ruffians, in their odious revolutionary caps, who he had just avoided bumping into:  Five of the scruffy creatures.

“Citizen De Rougeville,” called the florist though, following him out and making those same five ruffians suddenly stop and swivel round, “credit ain’t quite as long these days, I’m afraid.  I’m sorry, citizen.  Hard Times.”

“Yes, yes,” sighed the Marquis distastefully, wondering why the gang was staring, or if they were about to rob him, “Send your bill to my home too.  24 Rue Malplaquete.”

The Marquis de Gonse Rougeville walked off in exactly that direction.

“It’s
him
,” hissed Spike, “Gonsy Roojvil.  Magic, see.  The Pimples can give them to him right now then, Hal.  Those tricksy letters.”

From the arcade behind them that following figure stepped nearer to listen intently.

“Hush, Spike,” snapped Hal.

“Spike’s right, though, ‘aitch,” said Skipper, “We can get the letters off our ‘ands right now and concentrate on Juliette.  I wake up every mornin’ worryin’ about it all.  Makes me ‘ead ‘urt.”

“I could just give him the Chronometer, Henri,” said Count Armande, “With les lettres inside.  It might be better from a Frenchman.”

“But you can’t,” said Spike, thinking how short Armande was and not a Man at all, “It’s magic and we need it.  It’s just the silly letters they want anyhow.”

Hal held out his hand though and Spike took off the Chronometer yet again and Henry turned the Glove towards twelve, but he suddenly shook his head. 

“Too late,” he whispered.  “It’s almost one.  We can’t open it now.    We know where he lives now though, to dump the letters later, Pimpernels.”

To Spike’s annoyance Henry put the Nometer back over his own head and they raced back to the trial. 

For a moment the figure who had just been watching in the pillared arcade was too astounded to even follow.   

Alceste Couchonet’s look was just as concentrated as ever the Black Spider’s.  What he had just overheard from those boys he had recognised from Calais outside the Tribunal was making his young brain do cartwheels. 
The Pampernelles. 

His uncle had told him of a pact of ‘Pampelles’, and here were these English, with a French lad in their train, but disguised as revolutionaries, talking of exactly that, and fingering that wonderful watch, with something hidden inside: 
Letters.

They were dangerous spies all right, Alceste knew it now. 

Alceste’s heart was suddenly beating like a war drum, his young brain seized with the clarity of hate, that he had first felt when he had met Henry Bonespair. 

Now he would have them though, just as promised, and that lovely watch too.  Then he would send them all to the Guillotine, so showing his doubting Citizen Uncle exactly what he was made of. 

Alceste Couchonet turned on his heels and began to chase them, as fast as his young legs would carry him.

“Citizeness Honoré,” scowled a wigged prosecutor, even now, standing inside the great Paris Court House, in front of the row of sombre grown ups, “You may say you are an innocent, and just a
child
, but I remind you that the Capet traitor was fifteen when she married that man who called himself
King
.”

Juliette St Honoré clutched a little balustrade, to steady herself in the dock and her accusers and the whole busy Court glared at her horribly. 

“While your actions in fleeing the Republic condemn you as traitor.  Nor is sixteen too young to face the grim penalty that France demands:  DEATH.”

The hatred from some of those hungry eyes watching was so physical, so intense, that Juliette wanted to faint, yet anger and pride prevented her. 

The prosecutor, talking of the traitorous Charles St Honoré too, and the black name of the St Honoré family, had painted such a terrible picture of poor Juliette that she had almost begun to believe it herself. 

To all these accusations he had added Juliette’s obvious affections for the Widow Capet, and her devoted service to her in prison, marking her out as an implacable enemy of the French Revolution.

 This Juliette thought especially unfair, since Juliette had been ordered to help the Queen by the Revolutionaries.

Her defence lawyer, appointed by the Tribunal, and half drunk, was well aware that Dr Marat and Citizen Couchonet were behind Juliette’s arraignment.   

So, not being brave
or
honourable either, he had mumbled something about her quiet nature and her tender age, then promptly sat down again.  Another lawyer in the audience, Mr Thomas Guttery, looked on in his Quizzing Glass and shook his head sadly.

“Now the Tribunal has wasted enough time on this pitiful case,” cried the prosecutor angrily, “so it demands the swiftest of verdicts.  Guilty.”

The judges on the great bench of Revolutionary Justice nodded sagely, for although many were brilliant men, the coming terror was wiping that all away, and they began to whisper, then turned to deliver their formal verdict.

The Pimpernels heard it too, as they pushed towards the now open doors, the verdict being passed back by word of mouth, straight through the hungry crowd, like a bush fire. 

ST HONORÉ.  JULIETTE.  GUILTY

“
DEATH
,” hissed an approving voice, “Tomorrow week.  Guillotine.”

“Death,” cried Count Armande in utter horror, “Juliette.”

“Tomorrow week,” said Hal at his side, any plans vanishing into thin air.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” gulped Francis Simpkins, catching sight of a man in the crowd that they had seen on the Spirit, scribbling furiously.  It was that English Reporter, Richard Foreman.    

Spike and Skipper didn’t say anything at all.

The Pimpernel Club were looking helplessly at Juliette, now being man handled back towards a cart, on which condemned prisoners were taken off to die, or straight back to prison, to await their terrible fate. 

Juliette kept looking back in their direction, in search of her friends and each brave Pimpernel wanted to cry out, or to follow her, as the cart trundled off again, but it would not only be futile, but fatal. 

There was suddenly a fury in Hal’s bold eyes, as he noticed a figure striding out of the Court too, down the route they themselves had lined that morning:   The Black Spider.

Charles Couchonet was scowling, not because it hadn’t been a good verdict, but because none of the Anglais League had tried to contact the blasted girl at all, so Couchonet would have preferred far longer a period before her execution. 

He wanted the League to try again.

“Out of the way,” he snarled, shoving an old lady, “In the Name of the Committee of Public Security.”

People backed off and soon the Spider was at the edge of the crowd, when he heard a piping voice.

“Stop, Citizen.”

Couchonet had no time for another supplicant and he strode on.

“Oh, not now boy.”

“Please, Citizen Uncle.  I’ve got something important to tell you.”

The Secret Policeman didn’t slow as he saw his nephew break from the crowd, because he was on his way to Dr Marat’s now. 

The real purpose of Juliette’s kidnapping was pointless, with her uncle gone from Paris, but the death of a fairly prominent aristocrat child would not come as any unwelcome news.

The Black Spider was wondering what medicinal soap Marat was using today, or if he’d be in a good or bad mood, when his nephew reached him.

“Please Uncle, Citizen, I’ve found out something very important...”

“Can’t you see I’m in a hurry, boy?”

The spot on Alceste’s nose was glowing.

“But I’ve uncovered something, uncle, all on my own.  This Pampernelle pact you…”

“Oh for pity’s sake, Alceste, the Revolution has far more important things to…”

“But this
is
important, Uncle.  English Boys, dressed in disguises.  In Paris.”

Charles Couchonet swept on scornfully and swung round the corner, into the street where Dr Marat lived and what he was hearing would have made him laugh, if he had had a sense of humour.

“Boys?” he spat, “Please, Alceste.  We’re in Paris now, not Calais.  Do try not to loose your silly head.”

“But, Uncle, it’s true,” pleaded the sixteen year old, “They were outside the Tribunal, so I followed them and overheard them talking.  There really is some Pampelle….”

“Then why don’t you run along and track them down?”

Couchonet wanted to say
get some friends
.

“And what they had, Uncle.  A magic…”

Alceste blushed and Couchonet looked even more scornful, but with that they heard a terrible scream. 

They both looked up to see people rushing towards the door of Dr Marat’s house. 

Couchonet started to run too and, when they reached it, an old woman was standing outside in a tatty Liberty cap, wailing loudly.

“
To me, my dear friend
,” the crone sobbed woefully.  “That’s what Dr Marat said.  The Friend of the People.  The Revolution’s finished.”

Charles Couchonet burst through the door and rushed upstairs.  He didn’t have to explain himself to the guards, or prove his credentials either.  There wasn’t anyone guarding, any way.

Instead, as they both reached that medicinal bath tub, what they saw made even the hardened Black Spider rock back in disbelief and young Alceste stop dead and frown, before a little smile broke out on his lips.

A pretty young woman was being held by two startled guards, a woman who was wearing a strange green bonnet, her hands dripping with blood, her bold eyes glaring, as a local dentist with terrible yellow teeth, a woman who had tended to Marat from time to time and various muttering citizens stood around in horror.

Dr Jean Paul Marat lay there, stone dead in his bath tub. 

A ghastly, waxy pallor hung over his lifeless, open eyes and a simple dagger was sticking from his chest.  Citizen Couchonet suddenly wondered if this League of the Gloved Hand were responsible. 

“They’ll
all
be guillotined,” whispered the dazed young woman, who the soldiers were restraining, “That’s what the pig said, when I told him their names.  The list of honest Girondins in the provinces.  But I gave the murderer a taste of his own medicine first. 
Doctor
Marat.”