Peril in Paris (Taylor and Rose Secret Agents)

by Katherine Woodfine

  But Alex grabbed her arm. ‘Wait – I know,’ he said through a gasp. He darted quickly inside the ballroom, making Miss Carter hiss after him furiously: ‘What d’you think you’re doing! Come back at once!’

  But a moment later he was back, and now he was carrying the velvet curtain they’d used as Prospero’s cloak. ‘It was still in there,’ he explained. Rather shakily, he unfolded it and put it round Anna’s shoulders. In that moment, it felt like a hug.

  Now it was Karl who led the way as they hurried onwards, to the trapdoor that led down to the cellars. He helped Miss Carter to heave it open, even as the sound of running feet drew closer.

  ‘Look – I’ll try and head them off,’ said Karl. ‘You go – quickly!’

  ‘You’ll be all right?’ Miss Carter asked, not quite a question, nor quite a statement either.

  Karl nodded. ‘Goodbye, Your Highnesses,’ he whispered, as he helped them one after the other down into the darkness below. ‘Keep safe. Good luck.’ A moment later, Miss Carter had pulled the trapdoor closed over their heads, blotting out his white, anxious face.

  It was not a moment too soon. Even as they stumbled down the steps and into the cellars, Anna could hear angry voices above them.

  ‘They went that way – upstairs!’ she heard Karl say.

  ‘Then what are you standing there for – find them!’ the Countess screeched, her voice loud and harsh now, without its usual precise sound.

  ‘Hurry! ’ whispered Miss Carter. But it was hard-going in the pitch dark of the old cellar. They had no lamp or candle; Alex’s wheezing grew louder; and once Anna stumbled into an old barrel and almost cried out. For a moment she was frightened she had lost her way in the dark, but at last, after what seemed like a very long time, she managed to find the door that led out into the grounds. Thank goodness for all the hours she’d spent putting her nose in places she wasn’t supposed to, she thought as the door creaked open, loud and alarming in the dark. A moment later they were stumbling together through the grounds, under the cover of the trees, and through the secret door in the wall that led out on to the mountain path.

  It was almost dawn, and the darkness was beginning to fade into the pale light of early morning. Miss Carter would not let them rest even for a moment, but hurried them onwards, up the steep path that Anna had come just a few short days ago, stones skittering beneath their feet.

  Not far up the path was a rough wooden hut that the cowherds used. Now, Anna realised that someone was standing there watching them, in the chilly grey light. A bronzed cowherd with a feather in his hat was looking down on them, as though he was not really very surprised to see them. ‘Gruß Gott,’ he said cheerfully. Then, speaking in English with a British accent as crisp as Miss Carter’s own: ‘Well done, old thing! I wasn’t sure whether you’d pull it off ! And I suppose you must be the young prince and princess. Jolly good to meet you, chaps! Right-ho, let’s get out of here, shall we?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Sorbonne, Paris

  Bells were ringing out across the city, as the motor car rumbled south, carrying them over the River Seine. Sophie gazed out at the the colours of Paris – the pale yellow stone, the grey-blue slate rooftops, the vivid scarlet of a window-box full of geraniums. Outside the great church of Notre Dame, she saw that tourists were gathering: little groups clustered around a tour guide, pointing out its stone gargoyles and columns; or poring over a Baedeker’s Guide to Paris; or photographing the view of the river with their pocket cameras. The motor rolled on, past the bouqinistes on the Left Bank, where people were rummaging through stalls of yellowing second-hand books; past the pavement cafés, where smart ladies and gentlemen sat under striped canopies, drinking iced drinks in tall glasses, or coffee in tiny cups.

  Sophie found herself watching a girl in a beribboned hat tucking into a succulent-looking strawberry tart with something like envy. She knew that was exactly the kind of thing that her mother had done when she’d visited Paris as a girl; it was the kind of thing Sophie would have liked to do herself, if she wasn’t here on the trail of a murder.

  The university district was pleasant: cooler and quieter, with shady green trees clustered around stately stone buildings. Sophie thought that the Faculty of Letters looked rather forbidding, with its tall statues labelled La Littérature and L’Histoire, but as a student herself, Tilly seemed perfectly at home. ‘Why don’t I have a look around while you go and talk to Dr Bernard? Term will be over now, but you never know, I might be able to make the acquaintance of some of the Professor’s students,’ she suggested, as they walked together across a cobbled square with a fountain at its centre.

  Sophie felt an unexpected stirring of envy at her confidence in these surroundings. What would it be like to study in a place like this, she wondered, as she went up some stone steps and through a great door, surrounded by immense pillars.

  Inside the corridors were empty and echoing – there was only an occasional student passing by, with an armful of books or an over-stuffed satchel. A secretary helped to direct her to an office door marked Lettres et Langues, where a slim young man with a neat little moustache answered Sophie’s knock. She had expected Dr Bernard to be older – a grey-haired man in tweeds – so she was rather surprised when he answered her in perfect English, with a charming smile: ‘Yes, I am Dr Bernard. Can I be of any assistance to you, Miss …?’

  ‘Miss Blaxland,’ supplied Sophie promptly, and saw the young man’s eyes widen in recognition at the name.

  ‘Miss Blaxland! Then you must be the Professor’s niece. I am very sorry for your loss. I’m new here this year, so I am afraid I did not have much time to get to know your uncle, but I know he is greatly missed by everyone.’

  ‘I didn’t know him very well myself,’ explained Sophie. ‘In fact I barely knew him – I hadn’t seen him since I was a little girl.’

  Dr Bernard looked surprised. ‘So? But of course – I remember he once said that he did not see eye to eye with his relations. Though I know he was proud of you, Miss Blaxland. He spoke of you many times – it is Cambridge you’re planning for, is it not? The young ladies of my acquaintance speak very highly of Newnham,’ he added, rather giving the impression that the young ladies of his acquaintance were numerous. He flashed her another smile and said: ‘If there is anything I can do for you, Miss Blaxland, please do consider me at your service.’

  Sophie had to repress the desire to grin. This was exactly what she had hoped for. Evidently Dr Bernard was far more accustomed to independent young ladies than the elderly M. Dupont.

  ‘I believe my uncle had an office here – would it be possible to see it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dr Bernard at once. ‘Please, come this way.’

  He showed her along a corridor and into a small office – a wood-panelled room with a desk beside the window overlooking a courtyard. She had hoped he would leave her to examine the room alone, but instead he lingered as she glanced quickly around at the desk, and the sturdy bookshelf arrayed with expensive books with gilt-tooled spines. It was very orderly, although everything was covered with a thin silvering of dust. ‘Professor Blaxland only used this office occasionally – he did most of his research at home,’ Dr Bernard explained.

  Sophie collected together a few things – a bundle of letters, a silver ink stand, a cigar case, a grand-looking leather appointment book, mostly empty but for the occasional note scribbled here and there. She left the books on the shelves where they were, remembering that the Professor’s will had specified that his books were to be left to the university library. However there were a couple of books lying on his desk: a heavy Greek lexicon and beside it, rather unexpectedly a dog-eared copy of The Riddle of the Sands. She picked it up and leafed quickly through the pages, noticing that a postcard had been used as a bookmark. It was a vivid image of a blue-and-silver crescent moon, surrounded by a circle of colourful figures. Written in scarlet lettering across the top were the words LA LUNE BLEUE.

  �
�What’s La Lune Bleue ?’ she asked.

  Dr Bernard glanced at the postcard and laughed, sounding a little embarrassed. ‘Oh, it is a dance hall in Montmartre. The bohemian quarter of Paris. Can-can girls, cabaret. Not really the kind of place you would find a distinguished Professor! I expect this was simply a convenient bookmark.’

  Sophie had turned the postcard over. On the back was scribbled a short message, reading Café Monique, 2pm.

  ‘Café Monique,’ she read aloud. Where had she heard that name before? ‘Where’s that?’ she asked.

  Dr Bernard glanced briefly at the message. ‘Hmmm … certainly not anywhere around the university. Though of course there are so many cafés in Paris. Now, is this everything? I will have it all packed up and sent to you, Miss Blaxland. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind. I’m at the Grand Hotel Continental.’

  ‘Very pleasant. And is this your first visit to Paris?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie, still examining the postcard, but remembering a moment too late that Miss Blaxland was very well-travelled. ‘I mean, that is to say, it’s my first visit here alone,’ she amended hurriedly. ‘And I don’t know it half as well as I should like. It’s a wonderful city,’ she added, thinking for a moment of how her mother had described it in her diaries.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Dr Bernard. ‘Though of course it becomes quieter over the summer months. The Grand Saison is coming to an end, and tout Paris are beginning to think of leaving for the Riviera. But there will still be plenty for you to see, Miss Blaxland, if you are not too busy with your uncle’s affairs. There are galleries and museums and the theatre. And of course you must see the launch of the Grand Aerial Tour, they say it will be quite a spectacle. We have some of the pilots staying with us here at the university, you know – Charlton, a British fellow, and Captain Nakamura, an officer of the Japanese Army. As a matter of fact, there is to be a dinner to celebrate the launch of the tour tomorrow night.’ His charming smile became even more charming. ‘Perhaps you might care to attend, as my guest?’ he suggested. ‘Since you are here alone and I, well –’ He gestured around him rather mournfully at the empty room, as if to suggest that bookshelves and dusty desks were the only other companions he had.

  Sophie looked up, surprised. How would a young lady like Miss Blaxland respond to such an invitation, she wondered? Would she be affronted? Would she think it inappropriate to go to the launch of an air race so soon after the death of her uncle? Would she give a cool, polite refusal? But Sophie couldn’t bring herself to say ‘no’. Somehow she didn’t think Dr Bernard looked like someone with designs on an heiress, but rather a fellow who couldn’t resist the opportunity to try and charm any passing young lady. Besides, she reasoned, he might well be able to help her learn more about Professor Blaxland.

  She accepted the invitation, and Dr Bernard looked pleased: ‘It’s to be at the Palais Antoine, not far from where you’re saying,’ he explained as they strolled together back towards the office. ‘Sir Chester Norton is hosting it. He is the backer for the whole race, you know. He’s the owner of newspapers all over Europe – Paris-Soir here in France, The Daily Picture in London, and so on.’

  After they’d made all the arrangements, and Sophie had said a polite farewell to Dr Bernard, she stepped back into the square, where she’d agreed to meet Tilly by the fountain. There, rather to her surprise, she found her friend talking very excitedly to a young man dressed in a trim blue uniform, her prim maid’s persona all but forgotten.

  ‘… and a three-cylinder engine?’ Tilly was saying.

  ‘Indeed yes, and a propeller in the new style, with two blades.’

  ‘Of course, so much more efficient than the old four-paddled kind.’ Seeing Sophie approach, Tilly turned to her with bright eyes: ‘Do come and meet Captain Nakamura, He’s one of the pilots flying in the air race, and he’s come all the way from Japan to compete. He’s got a brand-new two-seater Blériot XI and he’s been telling me all about it – isn’t it thrilling? Captain Nakamura, may I introduce S— Miss Celia Blaxland,’ she corrected hurriedly as Sophie gave her a warning glance.

  ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said the captain in careful English, bowing to her rather stiffly. ‘Your friend knows a great deal about aeroplanes,’ he added, sounding somewhat surprised.

  Sophie grinned and agreed that she did, before explaining that she’d just met Dr Bernard who had been kind enough to invite her to accompany him to the air-race dinner the following evening. ‘It will be a great pleasure to see you there,’ said the captain, with an old-fashioned formal courtesy that seemed quite at odds with a daredevil young pilot. ‘And of course, you must both come and see the launch of the air race,’ he added, with a little bow in Tilly’s direction.

  ‘Oh yes, I should love to,’ said Tilly enthusiastically. ‘All those marvellous planes!’

  ‘If you come I will show you over the Blériot,’ Captain Nakamura promised her.

  Tilly looked more excited than ever, and began badgering him at once with more questions about his plane. Soon they were busily discussing things like horsepower and rotary engines and three-axis control, which were so mysterious to Sophie that they might as well have been talking in Japanese for all she could understand them. But she did not really mind – whilst Tilly talked to Captain Nakamura, she was thinking hard.

  The air-race dinner would be the perfect opportunity to find out more about Professor Blaxland from Dr Bernard, she decided. But there was more she could investigate too. Dr Bernard had made it sound like the postcard she had found in the Professor’s book was merely there by coincidence, but Sophie felt certain it was a useful clue. She would track down the Café Monique, and visit La Lune Bleue too, if she possibly could. But first, she wanted to get inside the Professor’s apartment, and she made up her mind that they should try that night.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Train to Zurich

  Hundreds of miles south-east of Paris, a train was making its slow way through the Swiss countryside, and inside it was Princess Anna of Arnovia. She’d never felt less like a member of the Royal House of Wilderstein than she did just then, leaning back against the hard wooden seat, hot and dirty and tired.

  She and Alex had never gone anywhere without carriages and guards and maids to accompany them. They’d certainly never travelled in a train. And yet here they were, in a perfectly ordinary second-class compartment, on their way to Zurich, with no one to look after them but Miss Carter and a cowherd.

  Of course, the man with them wasn’t really a cowherd at all. He had turned out to be another British agent in disguise, and had introduced himself to the children as Captain Harry Forsyth. At that very moment Captain Forsyth was standing with one foot up on the seat, relating a thrilling tale about the time he had single-handedly outwitted a nest of German spies in the Scottish highlands. He was a good storyteller, and Alex was listening, enthralled, but Anna somehow couldn’t pay attention. Her ears were too full of the jangle of unfamiliar sounds: the rattle and hiss of the train carriage, the long blast of the whistle, the clamour of feet and luggage barrows when they pulled into stations, the distant clang of a bell.

  Everything looked so different too. Colours seemed brighter: the intense green fields outside the windows; the rich blue lake; even the red and white of the checked cotton frock she wore. She smoothed the skirts and stretched out her legs, still aching from the long walk over the mountain pass. Neither of them had ever walked so far before: Alex had wheezed and coughed, and she’d got such dreadful blisters that she had begun to limp, but at last Miss Carter had said: ‘There, now we’re over the border. There’s a train station in another two miles.’

  During the last part of the walk, there had been a good deal of discussion between the captain and Miss Carter about what they should do next, but at last Miss Carter had seemed to win the debate, and had bought them all tickets for the train to Zurich. Alex had slept for the first few hours
of the journey, exhausted by everything that had happened, but even curled up under the old velvet curtain that still smelled of Wilderstein Castle, Anna had been unable to close her eyes. Her heart had pounded when the Swiss train guard had come into their compartment, but he’d just grunted when Captain Forsyth had shown him their tickets, and gone on his way.

  She felt very grateful for the clothes that Captain Forsyth had brought for them in his knapsack. They were quite different from those they usually wore – shorts and a shirt for Alex, and a simple cotton frock and pinafore for herself. She was even wearing her hair in two plaits – just think of that! She’d never been allowed to plait her hair before. ‘If anyone asks, you’re at school in Paris. Miss Carter here is your schoolmistress, and I’m the stern schoolmaster,’ Captain Forsyth had said to them with a wink. Alex had got into the spirit of things at once, coming up with new names for them all. Imagining what the school was like, and making up stories about it had kept them busy and helped to take Alex’s mind off wheezing as they’d traipsed on up the mountain. But now, they really could have been ordinary schoolchildren, Anna thought, staring at Alex who was munching a thick ham sandwich as he listened to Captain Forsyth’s story. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what the Countess would have said to a Crown Prince eating sandwiches in the second-class carriage of a train.

  The thought of the Countess made her feel sick, but then Miss Carter leaned over and interrupted her thoughts. ‘Not long until we get to Zurich,’ she said.

  In her mind, Anna seemed to see the coloured pages of the big schoolroom atlas. The European map Miss Carter had made them copy just a few days before, their train moving across the spaces she’d carefully outlined with her pencil, towards the red dot that marked Zurich. ‘What will happen when we get there?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘We’ll change trains. Don’t worry, Anna. Everything is going to be quite all right.’