The Terror Time Spies (44 page)

At the far end of the line now, Charles Couchonet had seen that Lord Snareswood’s carriage had just arrived.  The Pamples were here, and now in plain view.

“We have them!” cried the Spider triumphantly, snatching at the air and almost dribbling, “come on then, boy.  And you lot,” he added, to the soldiers standing around.  “Continue looking, just in case the others are travelling a different way.  Let nothing through now.  Nothing goes out of Paris at all.”

As they ran towards Snarewood’s carriage, soldiers’ muskets were soon pointing up at poor Skipper Holmwood, waiting on the pillion.  They had them, all right, even if it did seem a little too easy. 

Alceste tore open the carriage door furiously, to see Juliette St Honoré sitting quietly inside and he beamed, although suddenly wondering where the other Pimpernels were. 

Again Alceste thought the girl rather fine. 

“Yes, uncle.  We have
her
.  The St Honoré traitor’s here.”

Except that Alceste Couchonet suddenly did a double take, because it was not Juliette St Honoré at all sitting in front of him.  He had just noticed the pimples on her face. 

Sitting there, in a simple cotton dress, was none other than Geraldine de Bonespair’s maid, Justine. 

The quiet girl was waiting bravely in the back, but looking strangely proud of herself too, because, with the Club’s reassurance, she had at last conquered her fear of open spaces, and with the sun that had been shining on her pretty face, the last three days, her spots had cleared up a great deal.

“Is anything wrong, Citizen?” she said politely, with the sweetest smile. 

Alceste glared at her and looked up at the driving seat. 

On the pillion the driver had just taken off Holmwood’s big floppy hat and unfurled Skipper’s scarf, to reveal Marius’ smiling, coal dust face, blinking down as stupidly as he possibly could.

“Monsieur?  Is anything wrong?”

“Who are you?” cried Charles Couchonet furiously, “what are you doing….”

“Some boys paid us, citizen, Sir,” mumbled Marius, very stupidly indeed, “to dress up, and drive this fine coach to the main gate. We are humble servants, Monsieur, so take orders.”

“Liar,” stamped Alceste, “you’re part of their…”

“Not now, idiot,” cried Couchonet, “we’ll question them later, in the Temple prison.  Now we’ve got to get a move on.”

“Move on, uncle?”

“I’ll have a troop of soldiers provisioned within the hour,” cried the Black Spider, “We ride
straight
for Calais, idiot.  It’s the only way back to England now.  We’ll have them Alceste, or you’ll be doing fatigues for a year.”

In fact, it was two hours later that saw the Black Spider, Alceste Couchonet and a band of Frenchie soldiers making hell for leather down the dusty Calais road. 

They were in furious pursuit of the miraculous, vanishing Pimpernel Club, almost as famous as the great Bouzardi and his startled elephant, Ethel. 

The pursuers passed many transports, already searched leaving Paris, so Charles Couchonet had his mind set on another purpose now:   Closing the trap in Calais. 

       The secret policeman had already sent word ahead that a keen eye was to be kept for any English ships there, confident still that he would not fail and even enjoying the adventure. 

       As he and his men passed over the brow of a low hill, one cart in particular pulled up sharp by the side of the Calais road.

“All clear,” cried Samuel Dugg, still sitting in the driving seat. 

The horse tied to the back whinnied, but those eight coffins sat deathly still. 

Suddenly one of the coffin lids burst open though and up sat Henry Bonespair, then little Spike, like a pair of red hatted jack-in-o-boxes, gasping for air. 

“Phew,” cried Hal, breathing hard, but grinning hugely. “That was close, Nellie.”

Something jumped into the air, and landed on the cart next to the coffin, lifting its tail and arching its black back.  It was Malfort.

Next came Skipper, sitting up in his own wooden box, grinning wildly too, then Francis Simpkins, blinking and gasping like the others, and Count Armande, who climbed out and pulled the lid off the next in the batch.   

Armande reached in and lifted his sister from her hiding place, clasping Juliette in his arms and spinning her round.

Juliette was desperately pleased to breath fresh air again, yet, like Francis and blood, Justine and open spaces, Henry and cowardice, she had seemed almost comfortable in the coffin, and had conquered her own fear too.

“Thank God, Juliette.  You’re safe.”

They were all beaming, as the sun blazed down on the extraordinary little Club and Juliette was so bewildered that she could hardly speak, although she held her brother’s hand, hard.   

Juliette had hardly known what had been happening, when the diversion, led by Pelle and the sewer gang, had begun. 

It was they who had tipped off the club to Alceste’s full knowledge of the Pimpernels’ plan, when Hal and Armande had slipped out of the house, through that secret passage in the library. 

Hal had paid a hefty tax for the help, and the amazing diversion too, far better than Francis’ silly, mad jig.  Ethel the elephant was an inspiration.

Juliette had been climbing the steps to her certain death then, when she had heard Henry Bonespair calling out below her, pulling her down between him and Armande. 

There, beyond the drain that Armande had just opened, eight empty coffins had been waiting and seeing Francis and Spike dash around towards her too, Hal had made them all climb inside the ghastly empty boxes, and almost pushed Francis Simpkins inside too. 

There were only five available without bodies, so Henry and Spike had had to share their own, just as a black shape had jumped in too:  Malfort. 

Juliette had lain there in the dark then, with her head miraculously still on, wondering if she was bewitched, as Skipper, at the back of the scaffold, had slid all the lids on, climbed into one himself, then dragged his lid on too. 

Then Juliette had heard an English voice, Samuel Dugg’s voice, order the coffins dragged from under the scaffold and loaded onto his cart. 

Meanwhile, with perfect timing, Justine, in a humble cotton dress from the house, and with two of the sewer rats in Liberty caps, playing the parts of  Henry and Alceste, had climbed from the other drain, and rushed to the carriage, as visibly as they could, where Marius had been waiting all along, dressed up in Skipper’s clothes. 

With the great illusion working perfectly, Marius had driven the carriage around the Paris streets with Justine in the back, dropping off the rats at another drain, while Samuel Dugg himself had driven the Club through the gate, right under the noses of Alceste and Charles Couchonet, at just after mid day.  Indeed, with the very assistance of the Black Spider himself.

“Don’t worry, Juliette,” said Armande, thinking the illusion just as spectacular as any vanishing elephant, “You’re safe now.  Thanks to the Club.”

“Not yet,” said Henry though, holding his nose thoughtfully, but very proud of them all too, “Mr Wickham’s ship sails at the tide, Monday, and they’ll be no stopping it now.  If we miss that, we’re still lost.”

Samuel Dugg jumped down, scowling, as Skipper sprang into the driving seat instead, glad to take the reins once more. 

Francis and Henry began pushing the horrid coffins off the back of the cart.  Three had real bodies in them.

All Francis’ senses had returned now, with the triumph of such a highly rational plan, away from that terrible house too, and jumping out of a coffin, Francis Simpkins had just decided that ghosts were absurd, and that he did want to be a scientist after all.

Samuel Dugg untied the horse tethered to the back and mounted, then looked strangely at the Club, his scar gleaming, as he noticed their little red monograms:
PC.

“Marius and Justine,” said Hal, with a frown.  “You’re sure you can help them too, Dugg, in return for our….”

Henry was going to say
silence
, as the Coffin maker interrupted him. 

“They know me at the Temple prison, boy,” he said coldly, touching his scar, “and with a generous bribe, it’ll be no problem.  Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen though,” he added, about to spur his horse away. 

Samuel Dugg stopped though and looked back evilly.

“You youngsters think you can escape, don’t you?” he grunted. “You can’t, you know.  The world kills us all, bit by bit, day by day.  So I’ve a little job for Baldertons, before I go to any rescue.  A note came about a new coffin request, just today.  One Madame Geraldine de Bonespair.”

The Club looked at him in horror and Dugg grinned and galloped away. 

The Pimpernels did not know what to say, with the old matriarch gone too, but this was no time for mourning now.

“Get going then, Skip,” cried the leader of the Pimpernels.

“But I don’t understand, Hal,” said Spike, who had been following Hal’s orders dutifully all day long, “that Dugg’s a stupid traitor.”

“Yes, so he obeyed orders, Nellie,” said Hal proudly, “when I went to see him with Skip, yesterday.  I told him we’d tell Mr Wickham everything, and that he’d never be safe in England again, if he didn’t help.  I made him our own Double Agent.”  

The Pimpernal Club all grinned and went on and for nearly two whole days they raced hell for leather for the coast, hardly stopping to sleep or rest. 

There, near Calais, that coming Monday morning, William Wickham was standing on a headland in the rising wind, and wondering. 

The English ship Endurance, a strong three-masted schooner, was still anchored behind him and a little rowing boat was waiting on the rocky shore, with three sailors and a boatswain manning it in the rising surf.

“We’ve got to go now, Mr Wickham, Sir,” cried the boatswain, “the Cap’ain can’t wait no longer.  There are three Frenchie frigates laying just round the head.”

“Wait, man,” snapped Wickham, “they’ll be here soon.  I know it.”

It was twenty minutes later, when William Wickham sighed with pure relief.  Foxwood was driving a cart furiously down the track, now dressed in his own English clothes.   

Wickham’s face fell though, when it lurched to a halt but only his compatriots jumped off:  The League of the Gloved Hand.

         “What’s happened, Foxwood?”

“Aren’t they here?” cried Foxwood. “The imps vanished.  A French boy brought us this.”

Wickham snatched the note he was holding out and read it, then hurled it away furiously. 

“Damn their eyes.”

“We’s got to sail, now,” insisted the Boatswain furiously in the water.

“We can’t just leave ‘em,” said Foxwood desperately.  Foxwood had children of his own. 

William Wickham seemed almost in an agony of doubt but something else decided it for the League. 

Just then a troop of French soldiers came over the brow of the hill, some on horseback, others on foot, firing their muskets, as soon as they saw the bold Englishmen, with Charles Couchonet and his nephew riding furiously at their head.

 “Into the demmed lifeboat,” snarled Wickham, “we’ll have to come back later somehow, and find ‘em.  I have to be in London too, in four days time, to report to the boss.  He’ll be mad, all right, but there’s a War on.”

        Into the skiff the adults clambered then and their sailors pulled for the Endurance. 

From his horse Couchonet was training a telescope on them, and although they were escaping, the Black Spider was delighted, because there was no sign of Juliette St Honoré or the wicked Club at all. 

It was they who still had the watch, the Pampelles, and, so Couchonet still thought, the vital letters concealed inside. 

The Spider had already locked the port of Calais as tight as a strongbox too, but it was only that same evening that an informer had brought him word of an English ship down the headland.  It had to be their only escape route.    

The Frenchies all paused now and the soldiers were seeking directions whether to follow or not.

“No,” snarled the Black Spider, “up onto the coastal path instead, and be ready for
new
arrivals.”

William Wickham and the others reached the last ship for England safely, as the furious captain, in a passion to catch the tide and winds home, ordered them to weigh anchor.  The ship’s great sails were unfurled and the Endurance turned for England.

It was hardly half an hour later that the desperate Pimpernels crested the hill too, racing furiously for the sea.  Hal Bonespair was holding up the map that Wickham had given him and Francis was lifting his own little telescope. 

“It’s gone, Hal,” Francis cried in horror, now wearing his three cornered hat again. “We’ve missed the boat again.”

The Club sat there, staring desperately at the vanishing ship, and Juliette almost wanted to cry.  But Hal suddenly grabbed Skank’s telescope, although strangely he didn’t point it out to sea at all.

As Hal did so, Alceste, his uncle and their men stood on the coastal path, like a line of newly planted trees, wrapped in tricolours.  The way ahead was barred and the only means of escape had just sailed with the tide.  Not only that, but Alceste had just spotted the coffin cart racing along the hill.