The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  “Oh Mamman,” she cried bitterly, “Dear Armande. I’m lost, lost.”

  Even agent Peurette felt a little sorry for the girl, but soon they were telling her to dismount, in a dripping stone courtyard, that returned all her fear and horror of enclosed spaces.

  The giant walls loomed all around her and made her feel as minute and insignificant as she was to the great tide of revolution and history.

  “A gift from Citizen Couchonet,” Peurette grunted to the guards, looking angry, rough and scruffy in their ragged clothes. “The St Honoré traitor. She’s soon to be tried for treason.”

  A hard looking female appeared and looked Juliette up and down coldly, then nodded and smiled.

  “An another pretty little aristo too,” she said. “We’ll put her with the other common scum. Criminals. Come Citizeness, follow me.”

  Poor Juliette found herself being marched up hard stone steps and down dank, echoing corridors, that seemed to get narrower and narrower, passed heavy prison doors, feeling more terrified with every haunting step.

  “Dear God,” she whispered bitterly, as she peered about her.

  “God,” snorted the woman gaoler at her side, “there is no God, fool. Only Man, and yer clever woman too. Or in ‘ere, only the Devil, to slay you aristos daily, en France.”

  They stopped suddenly at an intersection, where a long corridor led to a single, heavily guarded prison door. Deforlage raised an eye to the woman gaoler.

  “Citizeness,” he grunted, “Who ‘s in…”

  “The Antoinette criminal,” snapped the woman, with a scowl “It’s her pretty boudoir now.”

  Juliette’s eyes opened wide – The Queen of France was inside that horrid dungeon.

  Juliette soon found herself in another cell though, small and stinking, surrounded by prisoners of around her own age, or even younger, as the thick door slammed behind her, with a heavy thud.

  As it closed, Alceste Couchonet was also in Paris, waiting rather nervously in the house of none other than the head of the dreaded Committee of Public Security – the terrible Dr Marat.

  Alceste was staring at a great plaster bust of Julius Caesar and around him any number of supplicants – ordinary Citizens and Citizenesses – were waiting to present petitions to Marat, the scourge of reactionary forces, and the defender of Liberty.

  Liberty that was quickly being swallowed up by Terror.

  Dr Marat was talking to a member of his own spy network now, as he lay in his strange bath upstairs, a coarse silk shirt hiding most of his ugly and smelly skin complaint. It was a huge, old fashioned bathtub, in the shape of a boot.

  The famous Frenchie leader lying there had a large, hooked nose, like a crow, a flat face and very sensual lips. His hair was wild and black, although mostly hidden by a strange turban, and his eyes as piercing as an eagle’s.

  Dr Marat was holding a bar of rough soap in one hand and a large quilled pen in the other, as he scrutinized the new arrival. The strange weave of wet cloth around his head was also to ease his terrible, burning skin condition.

  “Well, Couchonet?” Marat whispered, putting the pen on the bath top.

  “This English plot’s real enough, Citizen Doctor,” said Charles Peperan Couchonet, “my source is indisputable. I came to Paris straight, to tell you myself, and to humbly assist in your ‘Great Happening’. If I can be so bold.”

  “You can try,” said Marat softly, running his hand through the soapy water, “But what English plot, Couchonet? Letters you say, to a noted Counter Revolutionary? We must have them, then. I’ve sent orders to the gates.”

  The Black Spider stepped a little closer to the bathtub and noticed the portrait of a soldier behind Dr Marat.

  “Splendid, Citizen,” said the Spider, “Then we’ll have the name of England’s greatest Spymaster too. We must turn all Paris into a trap now. A blood soaked mousetrap.”

  Dr Marat’s brilliant eyes narrowed and he smiled coldly.

  “And then perhaps your name too shall echo among great French spymasters too, eh, Citizen Couchonet?”

  The Spider almost blushed and clutched his gloved hands together.

  “But I’m just a humble servant, Citizen,” he whispered, “though have I the Committee’s permission to remain here now and to work to uncover this dangerous Anglais network?”

  The good Doctor leant back wearily and felt the water easing his aching skin, as Charles Couchonet tried to hold his nose. Dr Marat smelt awful.

  “Yes, yes, Couchonet. Draw gold from the Committee and report everything to me, while you are…holidaying in Paris. Directly to me, Couchonet, do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, Citizen Docteur.”

  “And the St Honoré child is in the Temple, you say?” added Marat suddenly and the Black Spider nodded again.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we shall proceed to trial, within the month. A mere sideshow now, Couchonet, but her uncle’s name’s still an irritant. Now go, Man. Get out.”

  Couchonet bowed and turned to leave, but Dr Marat stopped him again.

  “By the way, Couchonet, what have you heard of this Pampernelle’s Pact?”

  “Pampernelle, Citizen?” said the Black Spider lightly.

  “My ears in Dover,” explained Dr Marat, with a slight yawn, “my own three agents heard talk in an inn, by the English docks. The Eagle Inn.”

  Couchonet blanched slightly and Dr Marat read the thought.

  “Perhaps you think that the Committee of Security works through you alone, Couchonet?” he said.

  “No Docteur, of course not.”

  “Then don’t ever forget it,” snapped Marat, making a lather in his bath, “Or grow too ambitious either, Citizen. Madame Guillotine has many tastes. Even for inky little Spiders.”

  Charles Couchonet bit his lip, although he wanted to scream and stamp his foot. Everyone seemed to know his blasted secret code name.

  “They mentioned Paris,” said Dr Marat, picking up a sponge and starting to soap his arms gently, “But perhaps it’s nothing. Only children talking together - in an inn. A boy and girl. Perhaps playing make believe. My men took note of it, only because of who their father is. An Anglais aristocrat, we have our eye on too – one Lord Snareswood.”

  The Black Spider simply frowned and dismissed it all.

  Of course the Club did not see any of these living details, as they approached mighty Paris themselves, but instead the boys saw a vision of dark walls and flickering, ghostly fires, all about.

  It was a vision of the French revolutionary soldiers, who had swarmed in from the countryside, camped outside, ready to march straight to the Place de la Revolution, if they heard the new Republic was ever threatened.

  The brave boys were confident that their secret existence was perfectly secure and hidden, but they allfelt the very same thing as they arrived: That the city was somehow alive, like a great mind, or a beating heart, like some dozing dragon, that they felt very foolish indeed to ever disturb.

  Closer the Pimpernels drew and, with no papers at all, Count Armande ducked back reluctantly into his cramped hiding place below the seat.

  The train came to a halt at a main gate, as Hal and Francis clutched their papers like talisman.

  It wasn’t long before they heard French voices outside, raised angrily, and realised that some of the soldiers in their escort and the guards on the Paris gate were arguing.

  Soldiers were moving down the line too, inspecting papers and searching carriages, to a deal of cursing and blinding. One was also addressing a figure in another cart, who had come from a different direction entirely, and who was waiting quietly to enter the great city of Paris too.

  “Name,” asked the guard.

  “Corday,” answered a respectable looking French woman., handing him her papers, “Charlotte Corday.”

  Henry and Francis seemed to wait for ages, but at last they heard that rough voice again.

  “This is the last, so the only ‘iding place left”.
>
  “Keep still, Armande,” hissed Henry.

  “An’ by the looks of such a fancy coach,” cried the guard, “just the place to harbour criminals and Counter Revolutionaries. Especially this Anglais League. Come out, come out, my little chickadees.”

  A horrible face suddenly glared in at the window and Francis Simpkins thought he’d stepped into a terrible nightmare now. The guard was wearing a filthy Phrygian cap, sporting heavy stubble on his unshaven chin, and his teeth, or what was left of them, looked as if they had just participated in a murderous game of tiddly-winks, but lost.

  The air was filled with the stench of sour wine and garlic too, as the soldier burst out laughing.

  “Zoot alors,” he cried scornfully, “and we got up for this? Enfants. Little boys.”

  “I’m not a boy,” snapped Hal, thrusting his papers at the filthy French guard, “I’m Henry Bonespair, of Huguenot stock, and this is my...er, my brother, Edmund Bonespair. We’re English Gentlemen now, Sir.”

  The guard raised an eyebrow. He had some English too.

  “Bonespair?” he grunted, “Well then, Good Maître, welcome to Paris indeed.”

  The man saluted mockingly and gave a little bow, to the delight of his compatriots, but his suspicions had just evaporated. They were only boys.

  “And our pretty French Ladies will be delighted to welcome such fine young blades to the city, eh lads?” he said, “You can sit on their laps, little ones, while they knit you something really warm, in the great Square.”

  There was a loud burst of laughter, accompanied by a great shout of “Show ‘em to Les Tricoteuse”.

  “Pass on then,” cried the soldier, “and enjoy the sights, lads. But best of all is the show in ‘La Place’. The greatest barbers’ shop in all Europe now, and the closest shave too, care of our National Razor. Be careful to take a cloth though, to mop up all the blood.”

  There was more laughter, and Henry felt his neck itchy, as Franics nearly fainted and Skipper took his queue from the guard’s waving arm. The carriage bearing the terrified Terror Spies rattled on through the gates into the great city of Paris itself.

  “Tricoteuse?” gulped Francis, trying to write it in his notebook, but not knowing how to spell it, or what they were this time, and feeling faint at the sound of blood, this time. Hal shrugged.

  “And where to now, H? Your granny’s.”

  “First, we’ve got to find Spike,” answered Hal, desperately worried for his little sister now, as Armande clambered up out of his hiding place again and tried to straighten his clothes.

  “I think I can tell the way,” said the Count, peering nervously out of the window at his own fearful city and utterly miserable to be back home again.

  “Then let’s hurry, Armande. After that, we can plan what to do about Juliette.”

  NINE - PIGEONS

  “Where we learn of the rest of the world, as Wickham turns round and Nellie nearly loses her head…”

  What about all the rest of the busy, dangerous world? Poor Charlotte Bonespair. In the face of the revolutionary irresponsibility of her wild and reckless children, and the sudden disappearance of Francis Simpkins, and Juliette and Armande St Honoré, the expectant mother was nearly tearing her hair out in Peckham.

  It was Arthur Holmwood who had first alerted her to what was happening. Charlotte had woken as normal, five days previously, while the Pimpernel’s stolen coach bounced along that Dover Road, the occupants as yet unaware that they were even going to terrifying France.

  Charlotte had merrily set about making a special breakfast to add to the celebrations, after the trip had been cancelled.

  Mrs Bonespair had soon realised that none of the children were in their beds though, yet that was nothing unusual. They were often up at dawn, dressing up, seeking new hideouts, rabbiting, climbing trees, or just pranking about.

  Then the doorbell had tinkled and Charlotte had opened it to see the second coachman, with a look as if it might thunder in the heavens and felt slightly sick, clutching her back as if she was about to give birth early.

  “Me son, maam,” Holmwood had whispered, “Skipper’s skippered - I mean scarpered. With me second coach too, or Mr Wickham’s. Forgives the intrusion, but I was wonderin’ if your good children….”

  Charlotte Bonespair had gone a sickly pale.

  “I haven’t seen them all morning, Holmwood.”

  “Why, when I’s get my ‘ands on that stupid lad, I’ll…”

  “But the carriage, Holmwood. Wherever can they have gone?”

  Charlotte had lead Holmwood back inside and, within just a few minutes, discovered to her horror that not only was Henry missing, but so were the itinerary and letters of transit too, along with Simon’s coin.

  “But they can’t. They wouldn’t…”

  “Maam?”

  “I think they’re going to Dover, Holmwood. In your coach.”

  “What for, Maam?”

  Charlotte had shaken her head.

  “No, no. Don’t be a silly woman. They can’t possibly. They must be sitting down the road, in the coach, playing make believe as thehe Rat Catchers.”

  Arthur Holmwood didn’t know what the woman was talking about, and it didn’t matter if they had gone to Dover, or were only just down the road, because Skipper had stolen the horses and the coach, not to mention Holmwood’s favourite hat. By God, the lad would pay for it too.

  Just then the bell had gone again, and there in the driveway they had seen Robert Penhaligon, talking of the terrible distress of the Comtesse St Honoré and the disappearance of Juliette and Armande too.

  “Oh, dear God, Charlotte, whatever shall we do?”

  Simon Bonespair said it now, five days later, and Simon never swore.

  They were all in the little lodge, Charlotte seated in a deep armchair, with the old Countess there too, smelling salts locked to her nose, sniffling them furiously, as Arthur Holmwood stood respectfully in the background.

  There were too other people in the room who had not yet appeared on the Bonespair stage, dressed plainly and looking terrified. Francis’s distraught, disapproving parents had arrived that very morning and they were certainly quaking, as they listened. Simon had convened the council of war, as soon as he had got back from London.

  Simon helped himself to some more brandy now, from a large blue glass bottle and plonked it down on the table. The Countess raised a scornful eyebrow, as she noticed a book – Mary Woolsencraft’s The Rights of Women.

  “I’ll ride straight to Dover, Charlie. Maybe they’re on their way back by now.”

  The Land Agent seemed to change his often muddled mind.

  “But what if they went to London? Maybe they were missing home. Or school. Maybe I should…”

  “At least they’ve money,” said Charlotte, desperately trying not to cry and looking guiltily at the Simpkins, whose son had been their charge.

  “And my Children?” said the Countess, “They have none at all. Rien.”

  The adults were at a complete loss.

  “I knew it would be coming to no good to allow my darlings to mingle with the Lower Orders,” said the Comtesse St Honoré bitterly and Charlotte Bonespair swung her head furiously towards the old lady.

  “How dare you, Comtesse. My children are good enough to mix with anyone. Besides, your blessed son Armande’s the oldest, so probably put them all up to it.”

  The Comtesse lifted her bird-like head, at such disgusting Revolutionary ideas, and glared back scornfully.

  “The Ninth Comte of St Honoré would do nothing so irresponsible,” she said breezily. “Besides, it was because of your foolishness that this terrible trip was even planned.”

  “Please, please,” cried Simon, putting down his brandy glass and holding up his hands in despair, “Am I not a King in my own house now, and this helps no one, Ladies, surely? Charlotte, you mustn’t upset yourself either, in your condition.”

  “Or maybe it’s that ugly, common coaching boy,” sai
d the Comtesse suddenly, as if Skipper’s father wasn’t in the room at all, “Maybe he’s to blame…”

  “Comtesse,” snapped Simon and the ladies dropped their eyes guiltily. Simon was suddenly thinking hard.

  “I’ve decided, Charlotte. I’ll ride straight to Dover, now.”

  “Yes, Simon,” said poor Charlotte, looking up hotly, “And bring them all home again safely, please. Hurry, dear.”

  “If they haven’t…”

  “Haven’t?”

  “Gone to France already,” suggested Simon, in a whisper. Charlotte’s eyes opened in absolute horror and the baby kicked inside her.

  “They’ve the Itinerary and the letters of transit, my dear. And my coin too. Something big’s up. ”

  “Oh mon dieu,” groaned the Comtesse, not realising that the letters had not referred to Juliette and Armande anyway, and knowing nothing of kidnappings, the Black Spider, or a brand new Pimpernel Club.

  “Go to France?” gasped Charlotte. “But whatever for?”

  Simon Bonespair shrugged.

  “The adventure, I suppose. You know what they’re like, dear. Rat Catchers against the World.”

  “Then you’ve got to follow them,” cried Charlotte, struggling up from her chair.

  “I can’t, Charlotte. I don’t have letters anymore, and it would take a month to get a new one, even if I could, now the war’s hotting up. Mr Wickham might have used some influence, but he is on his way to Switzerland. I missed him in the capital.”

  Charlotte was shaking terribly, but just then the door bell jangled a third time and Arthur Holmwood went off to answer it. The coachman returned clutching a letter this time.

  “The Dover Post, Maam. The Man said they couldn’t find the lodge for two whole days. No decent addresses, these Estates. Sorry, Mr Bonespair, but there’s something to pay.”

  Simon gave Holmwood a coin and snatched the thing from him.

  The letter was addressed to Mother, Father and Comtesse St Honoré, The Lodge, Peckham. Simon recognised his son’s hand writing immediately, and tore it open.

  Dear Mother, there’s been some trouble, but we’re all right. You mustn’t worry. We’re in Paris, with Grandmother, and we’ll be back as soon as we ….”