After seven years of bitter fighting, the thirteen American colonies had finally won their Independence too. Now their first leader, General George Washington himself, known by the strange title of President, had been elected to lead them all, in the very same year as the Revolution in France - 1789.
Thomas Guttery felt something close to admiration, as he thought of the famous George Washington, although an enemy of the British King. For a start he wasn’t a blasted Frenchie, and besides, hadn’t ‘Farmer Washington’ been a determined and brave fighter?
A great spy too, Francis Simpkins suddenly remembered, a great Spy Master, in fact, wanting to put this all down in his reliable history.
“Yes, of course, Sir” said Thomas Guttery, “Though the Law, that’s what we need back again, Sir, and Justice too. And what is it like, Sir, over there?”
“Another World,” bellowed Obadiah Tuck, with a knowing smile, stroking his great moustache thoughtfully, “Another World entire, Siree. Though takin’ this world there too.”
“And what takes you into France, Sir?” enquired the lawyer.
“Why business, Siree, business,” drawled big whiskered Tuck, “The very life blood of Nations. As your great economist Adam Smith said, we are all moved by an unseen hand.”
“Indeed, Sir. Aspire, Acquire, Retire,” said Guttery more approvingly, and Henry Bonespair thought it a rather sad ambition, but remembered miserably their rapidly dwindling coin, “So tell me Sir, what do ye think of England – of our inns and modes of transport?”
“England has its civilised side,” answered the American, with a sceptical smile, “but its tyrannies too, and I find yer carriages slow indeed, Siree, now that a Man may fly.”
Little Spike looked up. What on earth was the funny colonist talking about?
“Fly?” whispered the lawyer, taken aback himself.
“Why yes indeedee, Siree. Fly like a bird. For my own cousin is none other than Dr John Jeffries himsel’.”
Obediah Tuck said this as if the whole world should know the name, but the lawyer just shrugged blankly.
“Balloons, Sir,” the American almost bellowed, by way of explanation, “Cousin John flew with Mr Blanchard himsel’, thee natural heir to the works of the great Montgolfier twins. All the way across your English Channel, in a mighty big balloon too, from France, held up entirely by hot air.”
Spike gasped now. It sounded incredible, almost unbelievable, and the seven year old suddenly wanted to do it too, to actually fly. What an age this was to be alive.
“And thees days are filled with enlightnin idees, Siree,” said Tuck, “Extraordinaree and Revolutionary idees. Progress. A world where anything may happen. That certainly appeals to me great love of humanity, Siree. Maybe one day Man may discover how to travel to the moon, Siree, or even through Time itself. They say one Isaac Harrison is making great new strides in exactly the matter.”
Henry Bonespair blinked, for against his chest he had just imagined that Harrison’s Patent Revolutionary Chronometer had moved, all on its own and Francis gave him a keen look.
“So the United Boston Balloon Company has been newly formed, Siree,” the big American went on, in that booming voice, “of which I am proud first President, to carry the miracle throughout the civilized world.”
Thomas Guttery did not seem to agree that this was very civilised at all.
“At our Embassy in France,” said the American, “Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson assure our firm certain protection, and I tell ye, Siree, manned flight will revolutionize the whole world.”
The portly lawyer smiled rather thinly and shifted on his feet.
“You should establish a Patent then, Sir,” said Guttery, doing a quick calculation of expenses in his head, “and proper ownership too, which Guttery, Prank and True might advise you on. But you approve of a World Revolution, Sir, and of what occurs in France now?” he asked, with a dark frown, as Obediah Tuck seemed suddenly lost in his own thoughts. “The Devil’s loose abroad, Sir, in Frenchie disguise.”
The American’s strong brow had furrowed, but he smiled.
“A lot occurs that a Man may not approve, Siree,” he answered gravely, at last, “in acheeevin great and difficult change. But now France has a Constitushon, like our great Americas, by which men may govern themselves, and so be free. Freedom, or fear and tyranny, that’s the battle of man and the world now. Are we not all born equal under God, Siree, born with free will, and did not your own countrymen cut off a King’s Head too? An English tyrant’s. King Charles I.”
Knowledgeable Francis Simpkins was nodding and Thomas Guttery frowned.
“Well, History is certainly being made,” the lawyer admitted quietly. “For good or bad.”
“History, Siree?” said Tuck, with a scornful laugh, “History is never what happened, Siree, only what you think happened, inevitably.”
Despite the interest of this gown up talk, Henry Bonespair suddenly noticed the Snareswoods eating in their own room beyond, protected by a half drawn curtain, attended by three nervous servants. Adam Snareswood was staring across the room, whispering to his sister Emily, who seemed excited too. Could they be talking about them?
The Pimpernels drifted closer to the fire now, in a little huddle, thinking of what Henry had said in the coach about looking for spies. As they passed a table, with three rough characters dressed in the same sombre black, Spike thought she heard one talking in French, but Henry had drifted over to the fireplace on his own.
As he looked into the flames again, Henry felt tired and dizzy in the smoky room. He wondered what the time was, but he suddenly blinked, then almost cried out loud.
There, just like back in the Night Watch Inn, was that same ghastly scene again, and those three strange figures, watching that woman on a wooden scaffold.
Henry Bonespair knew it was a Queen now, the Queen of France herself.
The three watching so intently seemed not quite part of the scene though, somehow of the fire instead, and there was something most unusual about them too.
The vaguely familiar one was an enormously tall and thick set man, with hair in a black ribbon, just like a pirate. He looked Italian and Henry remembered that strange voice down the well. It had sounded Italian too.
Beside him was a lady, a rather striking redhead, but the third was quite the oddest of all the three. He looked like an overgrown child, much shorter than the other two, yet with an enormous bald head, that he kept rubbing painfully.
The two males were dressed in what seemed to be silk pyjamas, with a little crest on each of their pockets, and the beautiful woman in the fire, who’s face reminded Hal of another picture that he had seen once in a noospaper, of a figure called Lady Liberty, was wearing a red velvet gown and bright blue stockings.
All three carried flat leather cases like Mr Guttery’s and they were wearing orange leather gloves. Henry Bonespair suddenly wondered if they were lawyers too.
But as he watched, Hal saw a skeletal hand reach for the lever on the great scaffold and the terrible axe blade fall. Even as it did so, Henry remembered what Armande St Honoré had said was the one thing in France now, so close across the Channel too: DEATH.
Suddenly though the three watchers turned and they were looking straight back at Henry Bonespair himself, from the fire, their eyes glittering knowingly.
Henry almost pinched himself, but he knew he was not asleep now, even on his feet.
These dream like figures could see him, Henry knew it, out there in the Eagle Inn, with the other passengers waiting to embark for France. In fact they were watching Hal Bonespair most intently and Henry was suddenly terrified.
“Havagal,” hissed a voice though, “Frevegenchevegees.”
Hal blinked, the scene was gone, just flames licking against blazing, sparking logs and Henry swung round, still dazed by his reverie and wondering where he was.
“Frevegenchegees,” repeated Spike, glancing at the three men in the corner, and wondering what wa
s wrong with her silly brother.
“Yeveges, Spavagike. Shavagoosh.”
The three French seeming travellers did not look up, or notice the children by the fire either, and Spike broke into English again.
“But Hal, wots a Double Agent?” she asked, rather too loudly.
“Hush, Spike. Not in here.”
Henry was really troubled now and he began looking around at the others in the room suspiciously. He suddenly felt terribly threatened, as he noticed a gaunt figure, all in black too, with a vicious scar across his right cheek, keeping himself very much to himself.
Then Hal spotted a man he hadn’t noticed before, hidden in the shadows, in a tight stock and scruffy business-like clothes. He had a weaselly little face and an alert, but secretive air, writing on reams of paper on the table in front of him, his tankard and empty plate thrust aside.
“And you Madam,” Francis Simpkins heard Obediah Tuck ask suddenly though, to an elegant but very self possessed lady in the corner, “What takes you to revolutionary France, if I may so boldly enquire, beautiful Lady? Who are ye, Madam?”
The dark eyed Lady was in a flowing taffeta dress and duck grey wig, fanning herself airily and Spike suddenly thought she looked rather wonderful, despite the little girl’s feelings about Grown Ups.
“Arlene Merimonde,” answered the Lady, with a graceful curtsey and again those three figures at the table looked up and seemed very interested now.
“By Jesu, Almighty,” bellowed the American though, “the famous Frenchie actress, no less?”
The beautiful lady dipped her head and fluttered her fan, as the man writing furiously looked up too and cocked his head.
“Yes, and you are too kind, Monsieur,” said the woman delightedly, “Mais oui, and you must attend the theatres yourself. Indeed Arlene Merimonde invites you all,” she cried, waving her fan theatrically. “For politics is the answer to nothing. There is only art, Monsieur, beauty and the eternal play.”
Spike wanted to see a theatre immediately, especially with this beautiful lady inside it, but time ticked on now and Francis and Armande sat down in a window seat, with the dressing up bag between them, both looking strangely worried.
Henry had slipped out the Chronometer, to see that it was almost nine, when he saw Obediah Tuck approaching him.
“But that’s a mighty fine watch that, ladee,” said the American, “My own pa had something just like it. Always used it when we went a huntin’ and a trappin’. You boys can’t be coming to France on your own though?”
“Yes Sir,” answered Hal, “Father’s taking us, Sir,” “ he added quickly, “He should be here soon.”
“And are ye frightened, lad, of their Frenchie Revolushon over the waves?”
There was something about this bluff, open-faced American that Hal trusted immediately but what he had just seen, or imagined, in the fire place came back to him: That poor woman, in the white hat and black ribbon, losing her head on the Guilteen.
“Yes, Sir,” he found himself whispering truthfully. “A little frightened.”
“An’ very well said, lad,” cried the American, with a smile, “There’s no shame in honestee, and you’ve an honest face. The kind of face that a Man can trust. In these exceptional times, a person must be rather exceptional, too, I find. But remember me motto, boy, ‘time waits for no man.’”
Henry Bonespair suddenly thought of Robert Penhaligon talking of limitations.
“And watch yerselves, ladee,” said the American, “But if I can ever be of service, over there, feel free to call on me in Paris. Perhaps I could show you all my business too. Hot Air.”
Tuck laughed, twisting his great moustache and reached out to squeeze Henry’s shoulder, then marched off again, while Hal saw the proprietress staring doubtfully at them all. She was beginning to grow suspicious.
Hal was starting to grow very uncomfortable himself, wondering what to do, when the door to the Eagle burst open.
“And here’s father now,” cried Henry, with relief, as Skipper ducked through the door and looked around.
Skipper’s large face was still shawled in his mother’s big scarf and the proprietress looked rather taken aback by his rough appearance, as poor Skip sneezed. He looked very little like an S Bonespair, Gentleman.
“Pa,” cried Henry though, marching towards him, “we’ve got the rooms, just like you asked, Father.”
Skipper blinked at him in surprise but he caught on and nodded and the Club were soon shown up a low attic room first, then into a nice enough chamber below, with an open fireplace too, although the embers were low in the fireplace.
“Shall I pokes it?” asked the fat landlady, as the Club looked around.
“No,” snapped Henry nervously, recalling his vision downstairs, “no thank you very much.”
The proprietress managed an awkward curtsey and closed the door behind her.
“Wot was that all about, ‘aitch?” grunted Skipper, “SON?”
The others grinned, as Henry explained, then, trying once more to dismiss what he had seen downstairs, Hal reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the special letters of transit.
“Here, Skip. Take father’s papers now,” he whispered, handing Simon’s to Skipper, “That’s your disguise now, Skip… as Pa, and your promise of safe passage tomorrow into France.”
Count Armande seemed preoccupied and had drifted away across the room, as Skipper took the document rather proudly, and the Count began opening the bag of dressing up clothes they had brought, and was suddenly rummaging around deeply inside.
“Downstairs, Hal” said Nellie though, “Frenchie spies, I’m sure of it. Shouldn’t we post a look-out? They can give the Owl call, if someone….”
“Hush now, Nellie,” said Henry though, “In England all we need to worry about is getting you back home safely, with Francis. We’ll all meet back in London very soon.”
Spike glared at him and was about to argue when Francis butted in.
“No, Henry,” he suddenly and Hal swung round.
“No, F? What do you mean no?”
Francis Simpkins was quivering furiously now, his owlish face and his hundreds of freckles flushed like a freshly dug beetroot.
“I…I’ve been thinking, Hal,” he whispered, “About what Captain Nelson said, and about poor Juliette too. I…I want to come to France with you.”
Francis Simpkins’s eyebrows had knotted and he was biting his lip so hard that his friend wondered if it would bleed and make him faint. He was fighting with himself, just as Henry had done on the quay side.
“You mean you’ve changed your mind?” asked Hal, in astonishment, “But you never change your mind.”
“ I….yes, I have,” said Francis, as firmly as he could, “Just this time, Henry. I can’t let you go alone, H. I’m under oath now too. Besides, I’m code expert and the Club Historian too, and I want to see a theatre, and a balloon. In France.”
Little Spike was glaring at him jealously.
“Are you sure, F?” asked Henry softly.
Francis almost stopped shaking now.
“Sure, H. Or I think so. I was a coward when Jack Skanks asked me for the coin. I’m sorry. If you promise to get us all back again soon.”
“Of course, I promise,” cried Henry, delighted he had picked exactly the right gang, and not thinking Francis Simpkins a coward at all, but Hal suddenly frowned too.
“But you can’t,” he cried. “We’ve only got three letters and what about Spike, here?”
“I don’t think I could drive the coach anyhow,” shrugged Francis, a little mournfully, although puzzled about the papers. “I don’t really like horses much. Sorry Spike.”
“Unless we send Skipper back with Spike,” suggested Hal, half-heartedly. Skipper was the last person he wanted to lose now.
“Henri,” said a voice suddenly though, ‘There is another way.”
They turned to see Armande, Ninth Count St Honoré, or what had suddenly become Armande
the common French ragamuffin, because the Count was suddenly transformed.
Count Armande’s fine clothes had vanished and now he was dressed in a rough tunic, like sacking, a kind of long artisan smock, which he had found in the dressing up bag, although the young Aristocrat was still holding the lace handkerchief that Skanks had given him.
“Armande?” said Henry crossly, “This is no time for messing…”
“I’m not,” cried Armande, “But you ‘erd Snareswood, ‘enri. They’re listening for French accents in Calais, for Double agents, so it’ll be safer going a different way. By the anchor rope. I’ll get on board tonight and stowaway.”
“Stowaway,” gasped Nellie, suddenly looking deeply impressed with the Count.
“I’ll ‘ide, and if they catch me, I will say…” Armande paused and looked down at his humble clothes, rather distastefully, but was suddenly keen to prove himself just as capable a leader as Henry Bonespair, “say that I’m a Calais fisher boy, on board all along. We can meet again on the other side. The Club.”
Hal seemed lost in thought.
“Well, it’s possible,” he whispered, “Then the three letters will cover me, Francis, and Skipper. But that still leaves the carriage and…”
“The farrier was talking, ‘aitch,” interrupted Skipper Holmwood now, looking even more guiltily at Spike, and speaking very slowly indeed, as if trying to work it all out, “N’ there’s a Post Coach back to Lundun, at 9 tomorra. An express with Fecter and Co. Children travel on it regular, n’ alone too, coz it carries an armed guard.”
Henry Bonespair’s dark eyes lit up, although Spike was glaring at Skipper, feeling utterly betrayed by her new friend, and by the whole stupid Pimple Club too.
“And your father’s carriage?” asked Hal doubtfully.
“With the war they’s offering virtually free stablin’, if they gets to use the ‘orses. I’ll go n arrange it now. Show Spike the way too.”
“That’s it then!” cried Henry Bonespair delightedly, “Nellie must go back to Peckham all on her own, under armed guard though.”
The Terror Time Spies Page 11