THE TERROR TIME SPIES
David Clement-Davies
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE - NOOSE PAPERS – SUMMER 1793
TWO – THE NEW CLUB FORMS
THREE –THE BLACK SPIDER
FOUR - THE DOVER ROAD
FIVE - A TOUCH OF BRACING SEA COURAGE
SIX - FELLOW TRAVELLERS
SEVEN - ALL AT SEA
EIGHT - BINEGAR AND GABBAGE
NINE - PIGEONS
TEN - THE MASK OF DEATH
ELEVEN – GHOSTLY MUTTON
TWELVE – REAL TRIALS
THIRTEEN – STAYS AND CORSETS
FOURTEEN - DOWN TO WORK
FIFTEEN - PLANS GONE ARRAY
SIXTEEN - THE BIG DAY
SEVENTEEN - CLOUDBURSTS
THE END? – ENGLAND
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD: The Phoenix Tale
OTHER PHOENIX TITLES YOU MIGHT LIKE
PROLOGUE
Tell me, have you ever heard of the famous Scarlet Pimpernel? A writer, a Baroness, in fact, told wonderful stories all about him and his great adventures. A daring Englishman, he was, during terrible times in France, a Revolution there, who risked everything to help people. In times not always so different from our own, in fact, somewhere in the wide world anyway.
She told that he was handsome, brave and cunning, and dressed in fabulous disguises, but pretended to be stupid and hopeless, to fool the Frenchies; how he was an English aristocrat, in fact.
Well some say that he is just a made-up story, but others that the daring Scarlet Pimpernel really existed. That the writer had heard real stories herself, and so put them into her own books. Who really knows? What we do know about now though are the wonderful adventures, the almost unbelievable adventures, of the famous Pimpernel Club…
An Imprint of Phoenix Ark Press, London
Beginning the famous chronicles
of the Pimpernel Club
With kind permission from the Baroness Orczy estate
and AP Watt, London
These adventures appear as a series of factional novels, but true events have been reconstructed from the real records of the Club, recently discovered in a country barn, and signed in the careful hand of Francis Simpkins.
They also seem to confirm that the novels by Baroness Orczy, written nearly a hundred years ago, about the daring exploits of a Scarlet Pimpernel during the French Revolution might have been based on a real rumour, even a real man…
From an amused fan of the Scarlet Pimpernel stories,
for FUTURE generations
And for Marie P, and Christine.
Author’s note: Newspaper reports are taken from real clippings from the French Revolution, while William Wickham was a real diplomat and probably spy. The story is threaded with true facts, like Jean Paul Marat’s murder and The Affair of Carnations.
“Oh what a joy was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven.”
Wordsworth on the French Revolution.
ONE - NOOSE PAPERS – SUMMER 1793
‘Where we learn of a Revolution, speak of the Scarlet Pimpernel and encounter a very dangerous birthday present…’
The lean secret agent scowled, as a polished wooden globe span on his great mahogany dining table, and he re-read the terrible facts. The yellowing newspaper report he was holding was from a copy of The London Times, from six stormy months before, January 25th, that strangely famous year of 1793:
“By an express which arrived yesterday morning from Messrs’ Fector and Co. at Dover, we learn the following particulars, of the King's execution...’
The elegant English spy had not read it in a while, it was just too painful, but his dark and troubled memories were suddenly back there in Paris again, all those months before.
There William Wickham had stood himself, disguised in worker’s clothes, with a bright red liberty cap on his head, as the angry French mob all around him snarled for a death.
On a high wooden scaffold in Paris, a pale and trembling figure stood waiting by a very infamous machine: Madame Guillotine, the new French State nicknamed their brand new mechanical killer - a killer for a scientific age.
‘TYRANT’, came a screech, from a hate-filled face in the crowd, ‘Death to the tyrant traitor!’
A great cheer went up, as the lonely figure turned and lifted his powdered chin, then King Louis XVI himself tried to address his people. “I die innocent,” the French King said quietly, “I pardon my enemies…”
“Innocent!” snarled a ragged crone though, holding up her filthy, balling baby, “Why, yoose lying Royal swine. I’ll give yoose enemies.”
Soldiers grabbed his Majesty now and thrust the King of France himself between the two tall wooden poles, suspending that glinting axe blade: nearly Quarter past ten of the clock, reported the London Times precisely.
It was quite a time to turn a world upside down.
A sombre drum roll started now, as a gaunt, skull-faced man called Sanson reached out his bony fingers to pull a little lever on the guillotine. At the precise skill of the executioner, the terrible axe blade fell, straight towards that elegant Royal neck: Click. Shnaaaak. Plop.
It was finished, mechanically, as three hundred ‘Liberty’ hats were hurled into the stinking Paris air.
William Wickham shuddered rather guiltily, safely back home in the peaceful fortress of England now, as he touched his angular throat, in its high, white stock.
The King of France himself was dead, but in a way that represented the ‘modern world’ entirely to the English spy – by means of a filthy French guillotine. The English diplomat and secret agent suddenly remembered that old saying about never, ever living in ‘interesting times.’
William Wickham was dressed in an 18th century frock coat, stiff tailored grey trousers and polished brown leather riding boots. He seemed no spy at all, just the model of a perfect English Gentleman.
“Doing.”
Wickham jumped sharply, as an old Grandfather clock chimed somewhere beyond, touching his throat nervously again.
As the adult looked out now though, through his great drawing room windows, past his grand red velvet curtains, and remembered his failed mission to France, just then he noticed a young figure strolling happily outside and his eyes glittered savagely.
Coming towards Mr Wickham now, as that Globe came to a sudden stop, was a tall and handsome young lad; the son of William Wickham’ own Land Agent, Simon, who was currently staying in the Lodge House on his great estate.
A mop of rich black hair tumbled about the lad’s handsome, open face and a bright grin shone on his flushed cheeks. He had dark but piercing eyes, sparking with cleverness, fun and mischief. There was only one thing wrong with the perfect picture. Henry Bonespair’s nose was just a little too big.
Henry’s parents, Simon and Charlotte Bonespair, had brought their little family to Mr Wickham’s great Peckham estate for the long English summer, once again, to help Mr Wickham with his papers and business affairs. But so that his family could escape the terrible illness now raging in London too. THE CHOLERA. 1793 was a very dangerous year to be alive.
The Land Agent’s cheerful young son reached the old stone well now, in the big gravel yard in front of the house, and peered down inside, shivering as he started to crank the wooden wheel and raise the water bucket.
Henry Bonespair’s little sister Spike was convinced that the old well was haunted, while there were stories everywhere about ghosts haunting the big country house and great English estate.
Henry Bonespair preferred the rumour of a series of old underground tunnels though, from the days of the English Civil War.
Tunnels that might hide buried treasure.
Although tall, Henry Bonespair was only just fourteen, that very same morning, in fact. Now he was touching the slight rash that had come on his neck, wondering what the terrible cholera was really like, and, as the bucket rose, Henry noticed how damp and mossy the old stones were down there.
Henry shivered again, at thoughts of a haunted house, and opened his mouth like a fish.
“HELLOOOO THERrrrrre,” he called, delighted by the thin echo that came bouncing back at him – ‘HELLOOOOOOOOO Thairrrrrrr, Henry B.’
Inside the great house the spying adult’s eyes narrowed, yet he shifted nervously too, as he spotted two more children approaching his home.
They were strolling calmly in the distance, with their aging mother, along an avenue of beautiful, shimmering silver birch trees, and they looked almost ghostly in the limpid sunlight.
The boy and girl in the distance were far more smartly dressed than Henry Bonespair. The delicate children, Armande and Juliette St Honoré, they were called, were real French aristocrats, and only recently refugees from murderous France.
Their father, the old Count St Honoré, had died in Paris in an infamous prison called the Bastille, and now the finely dressed Armande, much taken by fancy tailoring, had inherited the title of Ninth Count of St Honoré, rather earlier than might have been expected.
William Wickham’s own network of English secret agents had been the ones who had spirited them away from the Revolutionaries and helped his mother and the children flee to safety, as what are called émigrés.
Through the large Bay windows Henry Bonespair had not seen the other children though and, as the bucket reached him at last, he peered eagerly inside, looking for the frogspawn that he had left here last week, from the big pond, where he had gone swimming again that same morning.
Nothing. The frogs eggs must have all hatched. Henry Bonespair was too cheerful to mind much though, catching his rippling face smiling back at him from the bucket water, and wondering who he was. The growing lad suddenly could not wait for his birthday to end.
Henry loved birthdays, of course, as much as any boy, but tomorrow something far more exciting was happening, that might help Henry to find out just who he was.
Tomorrow morning Henry Bonespair was leaving leafy Peckham, to travel to Dover and across the sea, then into the very heart of the wicked French Revolution itself.
The boy swallowed hard, feeling some pond water still stuck in his right ear, from his early morning swim, as he pondered the journey and shook his head.
After crossing the famous English Channel he, his little sister Eleanor and his father Simon would be in Paris then, for real, where daily now the English newspapers reported that the wooden tumbrils, the simple carts carrying their batches of condemned aristocrats, set out each morning to feed that infamous Guil-teen, as his sister called the Frenchie’s dreaded metal executioner.
The Bonespair’s crazy journey back to France at such an evil time was in order to visit their ever sickly grandmother, the great Madame Geraldine de Bonespair.
The poor old woman was on her deathbed now and had summoned them back to say a last, fond farewell, especially to her Grandchildren. No one ever denied the wishes of Madame Geraldine de Bonespair.
As Henry Bonespair looked out across the open fields now, in the glorious English day, he suddenly felt the most wonderful sense of freedom and adventure; a gigantic sense of coming liberation.
“BOO,” snapped a little voice though and Henry nearly jumped out of his skin. He felt like a frog.
“Oh look out, you idiot,” the boy snapped, spinning round furiously, as the bucket dropped onto the gravel drive and soaked his brand new woollen britches, his birthday present from his parents.
“Blast it, Spike. Don’t ever creep up on me like that!”
Henry Bonespair’s little sister just grinned back at him.
Little Eleanor’s chesnut hair looked rather crazy, while her Tomboy’s clothes were covered in dirt and straw. She was wearing torn britches down to her scuffed knees, simple canvas shoes and a thick artisan’s smock.
Spike had been climbing trees all morning, her favourite pastime, but the little tomboy was over the moon at having just caught her clever elder brother by surprise.
“Just testing for the trip, scaredy cat,” she laughed, “Though the Scarley Pimple would never have let me sneak up like that.”
Henry Bonespair glared down at his sister now, still panting heavily with her daring dash from the trees beyond.
“Pimpernel, Spike,” he snapped, “The Scarlet Pimpernel. You know that, stupid.”
Spike shrugged. Brave little Eleanor Bonespair didn’t rally care, although mention of the celebrated Scarlet Pimpernel always made Henry Bonespair’s heart beat faster.
The boys had first picked up the rumour of a mysterious English hero back in London, just a secret whisper in the play ground, but now the children were always imitating his daring exploits.
The Scarlet Pimpernel was an aristo, some said, a brilliant and cunning nobleman, who pretended to be just a fop and a fool, yet travelled all the way to France, in cunning disguises, in order to snatch away poor innocents from the vicious jaws of the dreadful Frenchie Guilteen.
Henry Bonespair had often pretended to be the brave and mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel himself, while here in the countryside poor Nellie had to serve as the Pimpernel’s entire band - his loyal League.
Now Henry suddenly wondered what his hero really looked like, but Spike stiffened and saluted her brother, touching a little fist to her grubby forehead. Spike had just thought of something far better than any stupid Pimple.
“Keeper of the Sacred Rat’s Tail reporting with Nooos, Hal,” she announced proudly.
Henry Bonespair straightened too, almost despite himself.
As the leader of the Rat Catchers, their special gang in London, which he had started with his best friend Francis Simpkins, Hal was always the first person to report any significant news to, although he suddenly wished that he wasn’t.
There was something Gallic in Henry Bonespair’s long, intelligent features - which sort of means French – for, coming originally from a Huguenot family, on his father’s side, but settled in England a time ago, the Bonespair children were partly of French origin themselves, although naturalised English now.
Spike and Henry Bonespair thought of themselves as thoroughly English, although both spoke the funny language a little, even if Henry Bonespair never admitted it at school. Especially not now the Frenchies were the enemy again.
“Oh go on then, Spike,” said Henry, “Un Revelation!”
Spike raised a sharp little eyebrow and her green eyes glittered at him.
“New discovery, Hal,” she said. “Informant – Skipper Holmwood, second coachman’s son. Skipper just showed me a special new Invisible ink, Hal.”
Henry Bonespair looked a little jealous, but raised a sceptical eyebrow too.
“Lemon juice or soap water, Spike?” he asked, though he almost yawned.
“Vinegar, ninnee!” cried Nellie irritably, furious at this smug dismissal. “Vinegar don’t show up, unless you rub red cabbage water on it. Some boy in Peckham village showed Skipper.”
Henry looked almost impressed now, as he picked up the bucket again and perched it carefully on the well. Anyone could write vanishing messages with milk, lemon juice, or sugar water, all knowledgeable and adventurous boys know that. But vinegar really was new.
“Right, Spike,” he said softly, “vinegar and cabbage. Thank you, Sacred Tail Keeper.”
Nellie Bonespair snapped her arm back to her side proudly, but she frowned too, at her brother’s clear disinterest in the vital work of the Rat Catchers.
The boys had let Spike into their great gang just four months earlier, although reluctantly, since she was a girl, but now she was by far the keenest member. Not to mention The Sacred Tail Keeper.
The position had been Spike’s own idea;
guarding the scrawny rat’s tail, that you held to take the most sacred Oath of Initiation: “I swear to be a true Rat Catcher, to get into mischief, to cause trouble, to have fun at all costs, and never, ever to reveal the identity of the Rat Catchers to the enemy…Grown Ups.”
A noble fire glowed in the little girl’s bright green eyes now, as she thought it much better than this silly Scarley Pimpernel who Hal seemed to worship, but she noticed her brother seemed distracted again, as she fiddled with the rat’s tail in her pocket. Henry Bonespair had cut it off a dead rat they had found in a stinking drain in London and they had pickled the sacred tail in rubbing rum, for a week.
Her brother’s attitude made Spike furious though, because the very best thing about joining the Rat Catchers was really getting to spend so much time with her elder brother, and his friends - Boys.
Eleanor admired Hal very much indeed. She hero worshipped him, in fact.
“And Skipper showed me something else, First Catcher,” Spike said rather accusingly, “Cut off a silly chicken’s head, right in front of me.”
The cheeky Tom-boy grinned again and made a strange gurgling sound, as she ran a little finger sharply across her throat. Nellie Bonespair did it whenever the Catchers talked about that clever new ‘Guilteen’ machine, over the sea in France.
“Instead of fallin’ down though,” she went on, “the stupid thing ran all about, with no head on at all. Magic, H.”
“Oh, magic’s for Ninnees, Spike,” said Henry Bonespair irritably, thinking of a guillotine, and trying to forgive her for sneaking up and surprising him, “but don’t joke about things like that, Spike. Don’t you read the papers?”
Now little Eleanor screwed up her face in absolute horror.
“Noosepapers?” she cried, “Course I don’t, stupid, I’m only seven. And there is magic, Hal, there is, just like Wickham’s smelly well is haunted. I want to go back to London right now.”
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