The Terror Time Spies (37 page)

The strange vision vanished, as Hal kept turning the dial, then flipped the catch, just as the big and little hands aligned at Twelve O’clock sharp.  There was a chime, a click, the back opened again and Hal pulled out the two neatly folded papers.

The Marquis de Gonse de Rougeville opened the little Money Order first and his eyes lit up.   When he read the miniature letter too, he kept nodding vehemently.

“The Earl,” he cried, looking down at that Griffin crest, “Just as we suspected.  This is genuine, bien sure.  Now I’ve proof that the League and England are behind us, I’ll raise such a Royalist rebellion that the whole world shall know of it.”

Hal was staring hard at the Frenchie fop, wondering who this Earl was, and if he could trust this Marquis either, or if he’d be any good at his plots. 

Henry and the Pimpernel Club had no real choice though and at least they were shot of the blasted letters.  Somehow it made Hal feel that the wonderful watch was
his
at last.

He thought angrily of William Wickham too though and wondered where the rat was now.   Yet in one great master-stroke Hal had killed two birds with one stone.  The purposes of the League and Pimpernel Club had perfectly aligned.

Hal suddenly wondered rather guiltily if he would become a great spymaster himself, one day. 

“We’ll be watching you, Marquis,” he said though, as threateningly as he could, giving the Marquise to understand that there was a whole army of such brave, dashing young figures in Paris now. 

The Marquis de Gonse Rougeville nodded coldly.

“Tell us then,” added Henry, “What you plan to….”

“At least a month, boy.  Come back in a month, mes enfants.”

“We’re not children,” said Hal furiously.

“A
month
,” gasped Armande, thinking bitterly of limp asparagus.   It seemed like a lifetime to Juliette’s brother, as Henry thought of his parents, not to mention the start of school in London’s Stockwell. 

The Marquis had put the precious letters carefully away though and just then they heard a tread on the stair and turned to see none other than the famous actress from the Eagle, Arlene Merimonde, gliding into the room, in the most beautiful ruffled chiffon gown, looking as if she had just woken up. 

The boys felt very silly in their floppy caps.

“Mon Cherie, I feel so….Oh.”

Arlene Merimonde stopped and straightened her gown, hiding the beautiful whale bone stays in her corset.  She was no longer in her duck grey wig and her shining, raven black hair flowed around her delicate shoulders.

“Citizens,” she said, with a blush, “You’re always welcome.”

Hal noticed the lovely woman give the Marquis a sharp, nervous look, but something strange come into her eyes too, looking at their two fresh faces. 

He wondered if she had recognised them.

“Our brave young Citizens were just leaving, my dear,” said the Marquis. “They came to tell me of a new decree to…er… raise a window tax.  How the new Republic serves us all now!  A moment, my dear, if you will.”

“Of course, Alexandre,” said Arlene warmly, “and I must dress for the theatre anyway.  You should come, Citizens, I’m sure you’d like the great dramas.  You shall have free tickets, and sit in the front row.  It’s just by La Place.  A wonderful building too.”

Hal smiled awkwardly.

“Merci.”

“They’ve a famous Illusionist performing too, the Great Bouzardi.  They say
he
can even make a live elephant disappear on stage.”

The lovely actress swept away, as beautifully as if playing a Queen, as the Marquis showed the boys to the front door and held out the bag of gold.

“You say you’re not from the League,” he whispered, “yet you’re English, at least, and bring me their letters.  Who
are
you then?”

“
That
, Marquis,” cried Hal, as Armande snatched the bag, “is a secret.”

“Wings,” hissed Madame Geraldine, that very same night, “Great flapping wings.  I heard them again last night.  The Devil comes for us all, in the end.  Even I.  Mon Dieu.”

Geraldine’s trembling hand helped itself to some more carrot, at the deathly table, as if it was the finest Fois Gras paté, which is of course a disgusting thing.    

Justine and Marius looked as embarrassed as ever, in the shadows, possibly the only two servants left in
all
Paris.  Geraldine was wearing the most extraordinary wig, in the shape of a basket, topped by a large ball.

The Pimpernels were dressed in their normal clothes, trying to sit up straight at table.  The prospect of a whole month of
this
was almost more than little Spike or Francis could bear, although at least F had all those books.

Yet their eyes were all glowing with admiration for their leader too now, since clever Hal had found a sure and certain way to help Juliette. 

Henry though was no longer so sure of anything at all - for two reasons.  Firstly that Marquis had been such a foppish idiot he doubted he could do anything well and secondly, because he himself had seen the Queen’s execution, somehow, in that strange light.  He knew it was somehow real.

“My eyes are not good,” said Geraldine suddenly, with a sly look at her young guests, “but my hearing’s sharp, so what have you
seen
in Paris?  The greatest city in all the World.”

No one would speak of Charlotte Corday’s head being slapped, and the memory of all that blood put Francis off the horrid food.

“Only in a city could such terrible things happen though,” said Geraldine, “Ah, I long for the country.”

The Club wondered what was happening in the rest of France. 

“You like it, Count?” asked the old lady though, with a coquettish grin, noticing that Armande was staring at her wig and the mouse poking his whiskers form the top, “Justine says it’s all the fashion now, with these new balloons.  We must try to be current, non? But remember the past too, always.”

Armande smiled uncomfortably, as Malfort hissed.

“It is so good to have company though, dear friends.  Just like the old days.  And even today, that charming Anglais gentleman, Monsieur Week’ham.”

Henry Bonespair jolted.

“Sorry, Grandmere, but what did you just say?”

“Weeck’ham, Henri.  Charming man.  Came with the English Ambassador, no less, and some fellow called Foxiwoods, with two others.  All very handsome boys.”

The old lady gave a delighted little giggle.

“I received them beautifully.  At first I thought they were our own soldiers, but it must be the modern fashion too.  They were most impressed with my Death Mask.  He asked after you too, Henri.”

The Pimples were staring at each other in utter astonishment.   What could it mean, and had William Wickham seen their visit to Gonse de Rougeville too?

“I told him you’re in good hands, at last.  He asked after you especially, Henri.  Said how fond he is of you, and wondered if you are guarding some lovely present that he gave you.”

Hal put his hand sharply to his gift. 

“Yes, Grandmother,” he said coldly, “I wind it every day.”

“Ah, you are a good boy, Henri.  Not like that worthless son of mine.  You should have said that you had a Birthday though.  How old are you.  Twenty two?”

“Pa isn’t worthless,” said Spike.

“So I asked Mr Week’Ham to send Simon and Charlotte a message.  To tell that ungrateful oaf that I’m glad he had not the courage to come to Paris himself, and that now he shall
never
have my fortune.”

The Club were wondering how on earth William Wickham could ever send a message home and how long it would take too.         

Even as Geraldine said it, Mr Wickham was in the garden of the Ambassador’s residence again, with Foxwood, Darney and Hayfield, by the dovecot that housed those vital carrier pigeons. 

They were alone in the house now though, because the English Ambassador had, with great relief too, finally been recalled to London. 

Wickham had just finished sending the strange old lady’s message, after visiting her house that very afternoon and discovering that the Bonespair children and Armande St Honoré were indeed staying there safely. 

He had quizzed Marius and Justine intently, only to discover that the strange visitors spent most of their days away, oddly dressed in Tricolors and Liberty caps.   

Then he had presented himself to Geraldine herself, with the specific intention of alerting the children to his presence in Paris.

William Wickham had changed the old lady’s message, of course, simply to inform his own Land Agent and the poor Comtesse that their children were perfectly safe in Paris, but would be coming home as soon as possible. 

The Diplomat had warned that it might take some time, but told the tutor to mention nothing of Juliette’s impending execution. 

Wickham was hoping that English journalists had not picked up reports of her trial and sentence too, consumed as they were by Dr Marat’s murder.   Or he was hoping that the Comtesse would believe that Juliette and Armande had travelled to France together, with the others somehow, for whatever purpose. 

Little did Mr Wickham know that at that very moment, back in Peckham, Constance was listening to Richard Forman’s most recent report of Juliette’s ordeal, sent via Messers Fecter and Co, and reaching for her smelling salts.

Wickham had also told Robert Penhaligon to make up some story about why Simon’s employer was visiting from Switzerland.  The spy did not want any chance of exposure for the League of the Gloved Hand. 

Wickham had three of those special embroidered gloves in his hand now though and was slapping them into his big fist, shaking his head in total confusion.

The third had arrived that same evening, a beautiful red silk glove this time, thrown over the garden wall by a woman, and had landed on Foxwood’s head.  Inside it had been a note from none other than the Marquis De Gonse De Rougeville. 

Letters Received.  Assurances accepted, mes brave amis anglais.  Steps are being taken.  Brave steps.  Have no fear.  They WILL be saved.  MDGDR.

The Marquis de GDR, certain of the authenticity of the documents, yet doubting their strange method of delivery, had decided to send word back, while he began to plot, to ensure that the English authorities knew of it at the Embassy.

“Well, I’ll be blowed if I can work it all out,” said Wickham, irritated by the self satisfied cooing all around them and starting to hate pigeons with all he was.

“Perhaps the boy went to Roubechon’s after all, Sir,” suggested Foxwood, “and the fat old vintner took it off him, just as you planned.”

“Rubbish, man,” snorted Wickham, “Henry’s got the Chronometer, and the vintner’s place is matchwood now, Foxy, while Roubechon has fled Paris.  I paid that man Cavellion for information.  The fire was nothing to do with the plot, but a local Paris vendetta, and the vintner had to skip fast.  Roubechon never even got to see De Rougeville.”

“Does it matter though, Sir? Now the plan’s fully underway again.”

For the first time in several years William Wickham shrugged helplessly.

“No, I suppose it don’t, if the result’s the same.  Though somehow they must have worked out a mechanism that no one can, Isaac Harrison’s, and if the boss even hears of the hash we’ve made, Foxy, there’ll be Hell to pay.”

Foxy touched his cravat.   At least they didn’t lop people’s heads off back in England, or quite so easily.

“Then we’d better not tell him, Sir.”

“No indeed, Foxy, but what does the blighter mean
They’ll
be saved?”

“The Queen and Marie Therese,” suggested Darney, “Now the boy’s gone to that blasted cobbler’s.”

“Yes.  That must be it then, Darney.  Well, the League must let the plan work itself out.  It’s the Frenchie’s turn to have a go now.   There are only four of us in Paris, so what on earth can
we
really do?  Besides, now we’ve got this other blasted business to sort out.”

“Other business?” said Hayfield.

“The children, and Henry Bonespair, at the old crone’s.   Now the borders are closed, somehow we’ve got to ensure that they get back to England in one piece, and stop whatever those little lunatics are clearly planning to do to help Juliette St Honoré too.  I’m sure that’s why they’re all dressing up.”

“Do?” said Darney scornfully, “See sense, man, I mean Sir.  They can’t be planning to DO anything.  They’re only children.  I can sort of understand them following to Dover, even to Paris, although it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.  But as for planning any rescue….”

“No,” said Wickham, with a frown, “Of course you’re right, Darney.  We leave them in place at the old Lady’s then, while we think of how to get them out.”

“Perhaps we should just recruit them,” suggested Foxwood glumly, “To the League of the Gloved Hand.”

William Wickham looked rather guilty as he thought of Henry Bonespair, recruited already by his own tricking hand, that Birthday morning in Peckham.

“And her?  Juliette St Honoré,” asked Hayfield sadly.