The Pimpernel Plot tw-3

by Simon Hawke

  “Darrow’s soldiers?”

  Cobra nodded.

  “Well, at least now you know who they are,” said Finn.

  “I know who two of them are, anyway,” said Cobra. “Something might’ve gone down in Plus Time and Darrow sent one or more of his people back to contact them and tell them that the hit was on. Otherwise, they might have had standing orders to move the moment they knew where Mongoose was. They know who he is now.”

  “I want him apprehended just as much as you do,” Finn said. “If he can’t be taken alive, so be it, but I’d rather have him that way. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have been able to take that plate out, so we owe you. How can we help?”

  “At this point, I honestly don’t know,” said Cobra. “With his chronoplate destroyed, it’s just a matter of who gets to him first. I’ve still got three people I know I can depend on: one in Paris, two in Calais. If Mongoose goes underground, we may never find him. If he’s smart, that’s what he’ll do.” He grimaced. “However, I don’t think he’s that smart. He’s just wild enough to take it as a challenge to his abilities.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” said Finn. “I’ve got a problem, too. Now that his cover as Fitzroy’s been blown, I don’t have an Observer to pass on intelligence. He might’ve been a phony, but at least he played straight with me so far as that went.”

  “He had to,” Cobra said. “Since the information came from the agency field office, his cover would have been blown immediately if he gave you faulty intelligence. I’d have known about it, the field office would have known about it, and it might have meant an irreparable disruption. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take over that function for you.”

  “It will interfere with your trying to track Mongoose down,” said Finn.

  “I know. It can’t be helped. I’ve got my loyal operatives looking for him; I’ll just hitch up with your team and hope he makes a move toward you. I’ll need a cover.”

  “We’ll work something out,” said Finn. “By the way, I’ve got some information that should interest you. It’s about the boy.”

  “You found him?”

  “Andre did. He wasn’t completely honest with us, it seems. He is an orphan, but he’s got an uncle who runs a small tobacco shop in a cul-de-sac off the Rue de Vaugirard. Know what his name is? Lafitte.”

  “Jean Lafitte?”

  “Interesting, isn’t it? You think he’ll grow up to be a pirate?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cobra.

  “That Lafayette was born in 1780, in France. That would make him twelve years old right now. The boy’s about the right age. When he ran his small fleet of pirate ships out of Grande Terre Island in the Gulf of Mexico, his second in command was his brother, Pierre. I’d say it adds up to a hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you?”

  “Too much of a coincidence to be ignored,” said Cobra. “Christ! I don’t even know how to begin to handle this.”

  “You don’t,” said Finn. “Adjustments are my territory. We’re already working on it. Just stay away from the boy. Pass the word on to your people.”

  “I will,” the agent said. “What are you going to do?”

  “The first thing we’re going to do is get that kid under control,” said Finn. “Andre was a little hurt in that explosion, but she still managed to get back to that tobacco shop and entice Pierre Lafitte away. She said she came with a summons from his brother, that the ‘gentleman’ who hired him had work for both of them.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At Richmond.”

  “So now you’ve turned to kidnapping.”

  “I use whatever works,” said Finn. “I’ve got to get that kid away from Mongoose.”

  Cobra nodded. “Good luck. Meanwhile, I’ve got some information you can use. The Republican government has sent a representative to England. His name is Chauvelin.”

  “Our spy.”

  “That’s right. We’ll have to be very careful about him.”

  “We, huh?”

  Cobra grinned. “How about that? Looks like we’re working together after all.”

  Finn made a wry face. “Well, it’s about time something on this mission started making sense,” he said.

  Most of London society turned out to attend the premiere of Gluck’s Orpheus at Covent Garden. Among those attending the opera were several notable recent emigres from France, none of whom failed to notice the slight, black-clad man seated beside Lord Grenville in his box. Citizen Chauvelin was not unknown to them. The infamous right hand of Public Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville met the baleful glances of his former countrymen and women with a slight smile and a small inclination of his head. This gesture so infuriated them that they immediately looked away and ignored him for the remainder of the evening, a reaction Chauvelin found somewhat amusing.

  “It would seem that you are not entirely unknown in London,” Lord Grenville said to him as the curtain was about to go up on the performance.

  “Only because I was not entirely unknown in France,” said Chauvelin. “I see a good number of familiar faces here tonight, French men and women enjoying the hospitality of your government.”

  “We try to be equally hospitable to everyone,” Lord Grenville said, “regardless of their class.”

  “Yes, we, too, have no regard for class,” said Chauvelin. “You will recall our slogan, ‘Liberty, fraternity and equality.’ “ He smiled. “Only in England, it seems that some people are more equal than others.”

  Grenville’s reply was cut short by the start of the performance and he turned his attention to the stage. Chauvelin, however, had not the slightest interest in the opera. His attention was upon the box adjacent to theirs, where Lady Marguerite Blakeney sat with her husband. Chauvelin’s hand, as if of its own volition, fluttered up to pat his jacket pocket, feeling the letter hidden there, and he smiled. During the intermission, he excused himself and made his way to the Blakeneys’ box. Sir Percy had stepped out and Lady Blakeney was alone. It was an ideal opportunity.

  “Good evening, Citoyenne,” he said, slipping into the chair next to hers. “I told you that we would meet again in London.”

  “So you did,” said Marguerite. “How are you enjoying the performance, Chauvelin?”

  The little Frenchman shrugged. “To be quite honest, I have no ear for music, although I find the pageantry of some slight interest.”

  “Well, I am glad that we have been able to interest you at least to some degree,” said Marguerite.

  Chauvelin smiled. “Yes, well, perhaps I may interest you, Citoyenne. You will recall the discussion that we had in Dover?”

  “If you recall our discussion,” Marguerite said, “then you shall also recall my answer.”

  “Indeed,” said Chauvelin. “I was hoping that I could persuade you to change your mind.”

  “My answer still remains the same,” said Marguerite, stiffly.

  Chauvelin’s smile became even wider. “Yet I remain confident that I can prevail upon you to reconsider,” he said. “I have here a letter which I think will greatly interest you.” He reached into his pocket and passed the paper over to her. “It is a copy, of course. I retain the original. I am not greatly skilled in these matters, but I have made an effort to reproduce the hand as exactly as I could, along with the signature, to which I would draw your attention in particular. I trust you will recognize it.”

  Marguerite grew pale as she read the letter. “Where did you get this?”

  “From two young gentlemen named Ffoulkes and Dewhurst,” Chauvelin said. “I knew them to be members of this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, you see, so l thought it prudent to have my men…how shall I say it?… incapacitate them temporarily so that I might examine them for clues. This letter was quite interesting, I thought, but folded together with it was another note, from which I learned that there would be a meeting between Andrew Ffoulkes and the Scarlet Pimpernel at Lord Grenville’s ball at the Foreign Office. I trust that you will be in att
endance?”

  “Yes,” said Marguerite, in a low voice. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the paper. It wasn’t Armand’s handwriting, but it was a copy close enough to tell her that Chauvelin had worked from a sample of the original. “We have been invited.” She swallowed hard and made an effort to compose herself. “You are indeed quite bold, Chauvelin, to assault Englishmen in their own country like a common bandit.”

  “I had uncommon cause,” said Chauvelin, taking the paper from her hands and replacing it in his pocket. “You see, I know that the English, above all, insist on the proper form in all things. As an accredited representative of my government, I could hardly be accused of doing such a thing without conclusive proof. Your word would carry weight, I’m sure, but under the circumstances, I feel confident that you will keep my little secret.”

  “What do you want?” said Marguerite, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I thought that I had made that quite clear,” said Chauvelin. “I merely want you to listen and observe. Your brother has, quite foolishly, aligned himself with these criminals and has seriously compromised himself, as you can see. You can well imagine what his fate would be if this letter fell into the hands of Citoyen Fouquier-Tinville. However, I have no wish to see any ill befall Armand St. Just. I am satisfied that he is not a criminal, only misguided in his idealism. Still, people have lost their heads for far less than what he has done.”

  “Chauvelin, please-”

  “Do not plead with me,” said Chauvelin. “It would be to no avail. I will make you a promise, however, on my honor. The day I know the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, your brother’s self-incriminating letter will be in your hands and this copy I have made will have been destroyed. Help me to discover the Scarlet Pimpernel’s true identity and I will forget all about Armand’s involvement in this affair.”

  “You are asking me to murder a man to save my brother,” Marguerite said.

  “Consider the alternative,” said Chauvelin. “It is a question of bringing a criminal to justice or seeing your brother lose his head for his foolishness when you could have prevented it. You see?”

  “I see that I have no choice.”

  “We all do what we must,” said Chauvelin. “When you are at Lord Grenville’s ball, watch Andrew Ffoulkes. See who he comes in contact with. One of them will be the Pimpernel.” At that moment, Finn returned to his seat. Seeing Chauvelin sitting in his place, beginning to rise at his entrance, he said, “No, no, do not let me interrupt your conversation. Chauvelin, isn’t it? The French representative?”

  Feeling slightly faint, Marguerite performed the introductions. The curtain was about to go up again and Chauvelin excused himself, saying that he looked forward to seeing them again at Lord Grenville’s ball. “It promises to be a memorable occasion,” he said.

  Lord Grenville’s ball was, indeed, a memorable occasion. It was the highlight of the season. The grand rooms of the Foreign Office were exquisitely decorated with plants and art-works for the evening and there was a full orchestra on hand to play throughout the night. The Prince of Wales arrived together with the Blakeneys. On seeing the Comtesse de Tournay approaching with her children, Marguerite detached herself from the company, anxious to avoid another scene. She needn’t have worried. The comtesse totally ignored her as she swept past to pay her respects to the Prince of Wales.

  “Ah, good evening to you, Comtesse,” the Prince of Wales said. “Allow me to express my joy at seeing you and your children safely in England.”

  “You are most kind, Your Highness,” said the comtesse. “I only pray that my husband will soon be able to join us here.”

  “I am sure that all here will join in that prayer,” the Prince of Wales said, somberly.

  “Not all, Your Highness,” the comtesse said, as Chauvelin approached. She gave him an acid look.

  “Your Highness,” said Chauvelin, bowing very slightly from the waist. “You are looking very well, Comtesse. The climate here seems to agree with you. I see that there is color in your cheeks.”

  The comtesse ignored him. Lord Grenville looked ill at ease.

  “Welcome, Citizen Chauvelin,” the Prince of Wales said, breaking the awkward silence. “I trust that our English climate will agree with you, as well. Though we may not be in sympathy with the government you represent, nevertheless you are as welcome here as are our friends, the Comtesse de Tournay and her two children, whose presence here pleases us immensely.”

  “We owe our presence here to that gallant English gentleman, the Scarlet Pimpernel,” said the young vicomte loudly, with a pointed look at Chauvelin.

  “Please,” said Lord Grenville, touching the boy on the elbow. “Let us try to remember that this evening is-”

  “Do not concern yourself, Lord Grenville,” said Chauvelin. “I can quite understand the young man’s attitude for your fellow Englishman. The Scarlet Pimpernel is a name well known in France. We have as great an interest in this man of mystery as you English seem to have.”

  “Everyone seems to be fascinated by this fellow,” Finn said. “He has become quite the rage on both sides of the Channel. I heard Sheridan say that he was thinking of writing a play about him. Perhaps he could use a bit of doggerel I’ve composed upon the subject. You might recommend it to him, Your Highness, if you find it amusing:

  “We seek him here, we seek him there,

  Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

  Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?

  That demmed elusive Pimpernel.”

  Grenville looked pained, but the Prince of Wales chuckled and slapped Finn on the back. “Excellent!” he said. “You must tell me how that goes again, Percy! What was it? We seek him here, we seek him there…”

  Within moments, everyone was repeating it. The Blakeneyites were chanting it like a Greek chorus. Marguerite might have wondered at the imbecility of it all, but she had spotted Andrew Ffoulkes talking with Suzanne de Tournay and she felt a sudden tightness in her stomach.

  Sometime during the evening, Ffoulkes would meet the Scarlet Pimpernel. If she did not help Chauvelin unmask this man, Armand was lost. If only she had been able to convince him to remain with her in England! He would now be safe and she would not be helpless in Chauvelin’s power. She would not have to betray a man whom all of England admired and respected. She watched Andrew Ffoulkes and felt that everyone could see that she was watching him. What if she could not help Chauvelin? How could she save her brother then?

  Ffoulkes spoke with Suzanne for several minutes more, then parted company with her and started across the room. Marguerite’s gaze was riveted to him. As Ffoulkes crossed the ballroom, he passed Lord Hastings, who shook his hand and slapped him on the back before moving on. Marguerite stiffened. For a moment, she thought that she had seen Hastings give something to Ffoulkes. Yes, there it was, a note! Ffoulkes was putting it into his pocket, unaware that she had witnessed the brief exchange. Feeling lightheaded, Marguerite followed him. Could it be Lord Hastings? Was he the Pimpernel?

  She followed Ffoulkes as he left the ballroom and entered a small drawing room which was, for the moment, empty. He closed the door behind him. Marguerite felt terrible. She was on the verge of being sick, but for Armand’s sake, she had to know what was written on that piece of paper. She waited a moment, then opened the door and entered the room. Ffoulkes was reading the note. He glanced up quickly, fearfully, then recovered and quickly lowered the note, attempting to make the gesture seem casual and inconsequential. He failed.

  “Andrew! Goodness, you gave me a start,” she said. “I thought this room was empty. I simply had to get away from that throng for a short while. I was feeling a bit faint.” She sat down on the couch beside which he stood.

  “Are you quite all right, Lady Blakeney?” he said. “Should I call Percy?”

  “Goodness, no. Don’t make a fuss, I’m sure that I will be all right in just a moment.” She glanced around at him and saw that he was putting the note to the flame of
a candle in a standing brass candelabra. She snatched it away from him before he realized what she intended.

  “How thoughtful of you, Andrew,” she said, bringing the piece of paper up to her nose. “Surely your grandmother must have taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign remedy for giddiness.”

  Ffoulkes looked aghast. He reached for the paper, but she held it away from him.

  “You seem quite anxious to have it back,” she said, coyly. “What is it, I wonder? A note from some paramour?”

  “Whatever it may be, Lady Blakeney,” Ffoulkes said, “it is mine. Please give it back to me.”

  She gave him an arch look. “Why, Andrew, I do believe I’ve found you out! Shame on you for toying with little Suzanne’s affections while carrying on some secret flirtation on the side!” She stood up, holding the piece of paper close to her. “I have a mind to warn her about you before you break her heart.”

  “That note does not concern Suzanne,” said Ffoulkes, “nor does it concern you. It is my own private business. I will thank you to give it back to me at once.”

  He stepped forward quickly, trying to grab the note from her, but she backed away and, as if by accident, knocked over a candle stand.

  “Oh! Andrew, the candles! Quick, before the drapes catch fire!”

  The bottom of the drapes did begin to burn, but Ffoulkes moved quickly and smothered the flames. While he did so she quickly glanced at the note. Part of it had been burned away, but she could read:

  “I start myself tomorrow. If you wish to speak with me again, I shall be in the supper room at one o’clock, precisely.”

  It was signed with a small red flower.

  She quickly lowered the note before Ffoulkes turned around.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said. “My playful foolishness almost caused an accident. Here, have your note back and forgive me for teasing you about it.”

  She held it out to him and he took it quickly, putting it to the flame once more and this time burning it completely.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said. He smiled. “I should not have reacted as strongly as I did and it’s of no importance. No harm’s been done.” He smiled at her and then his look changed to one of concern. “I say, you really don’t look well.”