The Terror Time Spies (40 page)

Pelle laughed in Henry Bonespair’s face though.

“Later?  You think anyone keeps their promises now?”

“We do,” said Hal indignantly, “We’ll swear, if you like.  On our word of honour.”

Pelle had just decided to throw the Pimplernels into the drink, especially Armande and even the menacing Skipper.

“Which of yous is the leader?” he said, as the others stepped in around him, “because they’re getting a dipping in the drain.”

“He is,” said Henry and Armande at once, pointing at each other.  

But Henry B suddenly blushed.

“I am,” he whispered guiltily, “I’m their leader.”

“Then you’re going in the…” started Pelle, when ZooZoo suddenly nudged his boss hard.

“Looks, Pell,” he hissed.

ZooZoo was pointing not at the Leader of The Pimpernels but at Spike, who, only able to understand half of this silly Frenchie talk, had grown nervous at the horrible surroundings and started fingering all the things in her pockets, for reassurance. 

The catapult was still there, that she had wisely decided not to try and use, but Spike had just pulled out something that she had carried all the way from the barn in Peckham, and ZooZoo was pointing straight at that. 

“Well, why didn’t yous say so, straight?” cried Pelle, who reached into his own pocket and pulled out a little tail too, just like the Sacred Rat’s Tail  that Spike was now holding up, scrawny as ever. 

As Pelle did so, all the others in the gang pulled out tails too, as if they were drawing a hundred sparkling swords.

“Safe passage, brother,” said Pelle, “these give yer safe passage down here.  How else to keep a check on the gangs muscling in, or control the rats too?   Got to have rules, and be scientific, or it’d be murder down here.  Just like
up there
.”

“Oh,” said Spike, thoroughly agreeing and thinking it very
PC
too.

“So I’ll take your word, right,” said Pelle, looking at Hal and rather liking his face now, “an you can pay us later, and use the tunnels too.  Just once, mind.”

Count Armande was delighted that his sister’s only possible escape route had just reappeared, thanks to a simple rat’s tail and the help of the
Lower Orders
, but Spike looked rather suspicious of any further alliance. 

It was
their
secret
Club, not anyone else’s.

“Now where do you want to go?” asked Pelle though, “Tunnels run for miles, wiv  exits points all round the city.  You’d never find your own way round them, and you have to be careful not to take one that drops you straight in the river Seine, or lands you in the catacombs.”

The filthy children around him suddenly looked very frightened indeed.

“Catawot?” whispered Spike.

“The great catacombs.  Yer don’t want to be lost in
there
.  That’s where they all ends up.  Their ‘eads.”

As Pelle said it, from the holes above, they heard another great
Snaaack
and a furious roar, louder than ever.

“Back to the theatre please,” said Henry, with a gulp. 

So, within just ten minutes, the Paris sewer Gang had led the daring Pimple Club back to the spot where they had entered and they were all climbing back up again. 

“An’ don’t forget the tax, brother,” cried the sewer leader.

“Sure, Pelle,” called Henry, feeling strangely moved at the appellation, “You have my word of…”

“Honour
,”
snorted Pelle, with a grin
, “
Yeah, I know.”

Pelle laughed and the foundlings were left in the dark again.

“You trusts ‘em, boss?” whispered ZooZoo, down below.

“They had a tail, didn’t they?” answered Pelle, with a shrug, “but no, Zoo.  So wait a bit, then follow ‘em back to their hideout.  Don’t be seen.”

Above the cart was still obscuring the drain, as the Club climbed out again, covered in gunge, looking more Revolutionary and Liberty-striken than ever.  They suddenly felt a kind of wild joy though, all except Francis Simpkins.

“What now?” he said, as non-plussed as Skipper at what had just happened, so following Henry as meekly as a lamb. 

“Back to Headquarters,” ordered Hal, “to plan some refinements, but it’s what happens afterwards that I’m reallly worried about now.”

“Oh, not another meal,” said Francis, with a groan. “Don’t think I can stomach it, H.  Rather eat paper.”

The Pimpernel Club hurried off in the direction of Grandma’s though and at the sewer grating the cart had just moved off.  A little face had just popped up too that rarely waited for cover anyway, well used to darting safely in and out of the thronging crowds. 

ZooZoo was just in time to see the Pampernelles then, on the far side of the Square, as Count Armande paused and turned back alone, while three new tumbrels came rattling loudly into La Place, with a batch of brand new prisoners, obscuring his view. 

Zoo was pulling himself out to follow them, when the grimy ragamuffin felt a heavy hand on his collar and was yanked right out of the storm drain.

“Oiiiiii.  Get off me.”

Poor Zoo started to kick furiously, but whoever was holding him now was managing to keep him at arms length too. 

The sewer rat was turned, to find himself looking up at a cruel faced boy, with a livid spot right next to his nose and red hair.

       Alceste Couchonet’s appearance had changed distinctly.  Now the sixteen year old had a brand new liberty sash on, bound tightly about his waist, while there was a definite air of officialdom about the lad.

This would have been enough to check Zoo-Zoo itself, even if six armed revolutionary guards had not been standing right behind Alceste too, pointing their horrid muskets straight at his furious little head. 

Alceste’s uncle had relented at last and even given his nephew a troupe of soldiers, all of his own to command. 

They were all fresh faced, little older than Alceste, new recruits to fight for their country, or with it, and angry to find themselves ordered about by a mere teenager.

The Black Spider could not quite believe that English children were really working for the English Crown.  Yet the secret policeman was not foolish enough not to cover his options. 

So the Black Spider had set his own nephew loose, with his little band of toy soldiers, and for five days Alceste Couchonet had been searching out the Club himself. 

He had just seen them again in the Square too and spotted the last of them coming out of the storm drain:  Hateful Henry Bonespair.

Alceste Couchonet had raced towards them, only to be foiled by the tumbrels cutting off his path.   But then, seeing ZooZoo, he had collared the filthy little boy, to find out all he knew.

Alceste let go of the imp and was wiping his hands distastefully, curling up his nose at the filthy smell.

 “Over there,” he ordered.  “Now.”

His recruits marched the little boy straight into an alley, as ZooZoo wondered how he might make a sudden dash for it. 

Alceste stood him against a wall though, as the young soldiers held up their muskets and cocked them. 

Alceste suddenly wondered if these could be his friends and thought better of it.

“You’re with them, aren’t you?” he said. “The Anglais Pamples?”

“Wot you talking about?” whispered Zoo, scratching his head innocently and trying to be brave.

“Those Anglais spies, in disguise.  I saw them coming up too.”

“Oh,” gulped Zoo, his heart sinking. “Them?  Yes, Sir.”

“So what are they planning? Tell me everything, Citizen, or else.”

“Else wot?” said Zoo defiantly, plucking up his courage again, “I’m too young for the great Chopper.”

“Wrong,” snapped Alceste, but remembering words about subtlety too, “But why talk of Choppers, or even the Temple, when I’ve got
this
?”

 “In which everything changes, then changes back again, as William Wickham takes a hand - gloved of course…”

“I just can’t think
of anything else,” sighed Hal, as the Pimpernel Club stood back at headquarters. “So we drive the coach straight for Calais, then just improvise, I suppose.  It’s worked before.”

Henry Bonespair stood at the window of Granny Geraldine’s house, looking down into the darkened Paris streets, and wondering where Armande had got to.   The Count had left them suddenly, to retrieve something he had dropped in the great Square.

“Spike,” he said though, turning like a general overseeing a great battle now, “Francis.  You’ve both got it straight about the diversion on Saturday?  Francis!”

“What?” said Francis, with a jolt. “Oh.  Yes, I think so, H,” Francis whispered, starting to hop up and down unconvincingly, “We pretend to be as mad as ‘Alfonse’. Dance about, right in front of the horrid scaffold, while you snatch her down the steps and into the drain.”

Nellie looked rather sour.  It was hardly very original, or dignified either, and the Tom-boy wanted none of it. 

The leader of the Pimpernels turned to Skipper too.

“While you’ll have the horses fed and ready to go, Skip?   If they get on our trail, we can’t stop for nothing, I mean anything.”

“Right, ‘aitch.”

“Good Man,” the fourteen year old said grandly and blushed.  “Two days time then.  I wish we could get Juliette another message, to warn her to be ready, but we’ll just have to chance it now.  It’s her only hope  Oh I wish Armande was back too, there’s so much to tell.”

“And the Queen, Hal?” asked Spike.

Henry Bonespair thought of the firelight at the Night Watch Inn and the Eagle and felt sick and very frightened.  Then he saw that horrible, judging face in his thoughts again, with that black wig on.  Hal seemed to recognise him from somewhere.

“It’s Juliette who we swore to help, Nellie.  Besides, as I said, I don’t think the Queen’s got a….”

Instead of saying
Hope
, Henry gazed down mournfully at the street below again.  He had just seen a figure who he had recognised walking up the steps of an old house on the corner.  Hal’s eyes sparkled suddenly but he turned back to the others.

“It’s raw courage that we need now,” he said, “and lots of luck too.  We can do this though, I
know
we can Pimpernels.  If we just have faith.”

That night Count Armande was missing at table too, as they sat around Granny Geraldine, fiddling with their tiny bits of very off, grilled mutton. 

Granny kept asking after the charming Count, but at last Henry decided to speak up.

“Grandma,” he whispered, clearing his throat, “er, we’ve got to leave you soon, Grandma.  Go back to England.”

As Henry said it, he slipped something out of his pocket though and slipped it onto Francis’s half eaten cutlet, with a wink.  It was the sprig of Rosemary that man had given him to ward off the evil eye. 

Something malicious came into the old lady’s watery eyes though and Malfort hissed and arched his back, although Francis looked desperately relieved.  Not that they were going home, but that the horrid mutton might taste a little better, with a touch of very dry herb.

“Leave me, Henri?” cried Geraldine. “What on earth do you mean leave me?”

“We’re leaving on Saturday, Grandma,” said Henry Bonespair firmly.  “To get back to Peckham and London.  My parents must be worried sick, and school starts soon.”

Geraldine Bonespair blinked, uncertain why her celebrated dinner guests were talking about School.

“But I’m just a poor, lonely old lady,” she moaned,  “On my death bed too, and all on my own in Paris.  Oh mon dieu.”

Geraldine looked as if she was about to faint and Henry wondered if the old lady would
ever
die - wishing rather guiltily, for the tiniest flicker of a second, that she might get on with it.

“You’ve Marius and Justine to look after you,” he said, “er.  And we can always come back again and visit Paris, when the war’s done.  Or the Revolution.”

Hal’s kind words seemed to have a positive effect.

“Visit?  Why, yes, yes, you must come back soon, my dear.  I shall ask the Archbishop of Rouen, and the Marashal of all France.  Such feasts we’ll have and such parties too, and dances worthy of our royal blood.”

The Pimples all looked at each other with raised eyebrows, as Geraldine sighed.  She had clearly lost the plot completely now.

“Royal?” said Henry though.

“But of course, Henri.  What does that stupid son of mine teach you in Peck-Ham?  Do you not know, that on your Grandmere’s side, you have truly aristocratic blood flowing through those veins?”

“No,” said Henry Bonespair, wishing Count Armande was there to hear
this
.

“Mais, bien sure.  For you and Eleanor are none other than descendants of the Great Baron Maurice de Bonespair, who won his spurs in the Crusades to Jerusalem.”