The Terror Time Spies (22 page)

Suddenly a man in a long black coat appeared right in front of her, with a hard, rat like face, and next to him one of the passengers from the Spirit of Endeavour. 

“It’s safer here, I think, Citizen,” said Charles Couchonet softly, in broken English, and looking about suspiciously, “Voila.”

The Spider held up a little bag and Spike heard the jangling of hard coin.

“Thanks, Couchonet,” said Samuel Dugg, reaching out and pocketing it, “Much obliged, I’m sure.”

“You may call me Citizen, Citizen.  I’ve been waiting for you all month.”

“Don’t mind if I don’t,” said Dugg. “I’m an Englishman, Couchonet.  Don’t you forget that.”

“And one willing to betray his own country, for the right price,” said the Black Spider coldly, as Spike’s Pimply ears stood on end.

“When it comes to business, I’ve no allegiance,” said the coffin specialist, touching his scar “And it’s your lot that’s turned everyone into Spies now.”

“Indeed, Citizen,” said Couchonet, with a smile, “and England’s famous for its taste in
trade
.  Deliver your report then.  What news of the League?”

Spike thought of the Scarlet Pimpernel immediately, wondering if he was real after all then, until the coffin man spoke again.

“The League of the Gloved Hand,” said Dugg, with a nod,  “It certainly exists, Couchonet, I’m sure of it now.  Sure they lie at the very heart of our spy network too.  There are rumours everywhere.  Something big’s up too, some great plot to end your damned Revolution, in a single, sudden stroke.”

“Then it’s true,” cried the Black Spider, clenching a gloved fist, “A plot, that I, Charles Peperan Couchonet, will foil all alone.”

The French Policeman’s eyes glittered savagely.

“Don’t you mean ‘
I the Black Spider’
, CPC?” said Dugg though, as Couchonet scowled, furious that Dugg should know his secret code name, even if the traitor did work for him too.

“It is just what the new Republic needs now,” Couchonet whispered to himself though, “Dr Marat believes we need a Great Happening, Citizen.”

“Happening, Sir?” said Dugg.

 “Of course, Citizen.  La Patrie herself is in the balance, and if we have a civil war, with war abraod, what hope has France against her enemies?  Yet a plot, exposed and defeated now, will be Marat’s Great Happening, so will finally tip the country in favour of the Jacobin Club’s absolute power.  Total Dictatorship.”

“Oh,” said Dugg, as Spike wondered what the ‘nitiation was to join this silly Frenchie Club.

“So the Gloved Hand, Dugg,” said Couchonet,“What plans have the League?”

Samuel Dugg frowned and touched his scar again.

“I only know this.  That they’re sending special letters to a some contact in Paris, who’ll not act without direct instructions from England’s chief Spymaster.  The leader of the Gloved Hand himself.”

“Leader?” gasped Couchonet.  “
He’ll
give his real identity then?” 

“He must,” said Dugg,  “To reassure the Frenchie plotters here.”

Charles Couchonet clenched a black gloved fist again, delightedly.

“Then France must have these letters,” he hissed, “and his name too, Dugg.  I, The Black Spider, must.  Who carries this message though?  One of your fellow passengers, perhaps?”

The coffin man grew thoughtful now, as poor Nellie tried to understand it all, thinking of horrid
politics,
which always made her fall asleep
at home,
and wanting it all to go away.

“Dunno, Couchonet,” answered Dugg eventually though, “I talked to most on board and there are some possibles.  A lawyer, called Guttery.  A journalist, Foreman.  Even an American, Obediah Tuck.  That famous Frenchie actress too, Arlene Merimonde.  But little certain.  There were some boys aboard too, obviously of no consequence.  I rifled the adult’s bags, during the storm, but could find nothing.”

“Well,” said Couchonet sourly, “they’re all being trailed to Paris anyway.  And what of the Leader of the Hand?  Your suspicions, Citizen?”

“I’ve some names,” said Dugg, “Again only speculation though.”

“What names?  Perhaps I may turn your suspicion to hard fact.”

“Lord Portman.  The Duke of Gloucester.  The Earl of Strathern,” said Dugg thoughfully, “No friends of me and mine.  Perhaps a member of the English Government itself.  Edmund Burke, and others less likely.  Adam Henderson.  William Wickham.  Simon Marchmont.”

Charles Couchonet looked up sharply and so did Spike, as she bumped her head on the lid of the barrel.

“Wickham,” hissed Couchonet.

“Yes.  A diplomat from Yorkshire,” said Dugg, as Nellie’s heart started thumping strangely, “In Switzerland now, I think.  You’ve heard of him?”

Inside the barrel little Nellie Bonespair felt a deep sense of mystery suddenly enfold her and she thought of the magic Nometer.  Nel felt that it alone would protect her now.

“Yes,” answered Couchonet, “I’ve heard of this Wickham, in relation to the return of an émigré traitor , Juliette St Honoré, to stand trial in Paris.”

         Spike almost tipped the barrel over now, she was so excited. 
Juliette.

“But perhaps it’s mere coincidence,” sighed Couchonet, believing that nothing in life was mere coincidence, if you only looked hard enough.

“The child left this port an hour ago and shall be locked safely in the Temple fortress.”

“The Temple,” said Samuel Dugg and a strange look came into his eyes, “Isn’t that where they’re holding the Queen.  Er, Citizeness Capet? It means
Head
, don’t it, Couchonet? The Head you all want to chop off.”

The Spider stiffened and his eyes narrowed viciously, as Dugg thought of what Couchonet meant in English – little pig.

“Your information is good, Citizen Dugg,” answered the Black Spider, “so be careful I do not take you for an Anglais Double Agent, playing off both sides.”

The coffin man blanched.

“No fear of that, Citizen.  I know where my bread’s buttered, while your little Revolution brings cash to Baldertons, in good English coffins.  Besides, how could anyone outwit a genius like you, Citizen Spider?”

Charles Couchonet slapped his hand down sharply on Spike’s barrel and it shuddered.

“Then be careful Monsieur, that you don’t become one of your
own
customers. Or perhaps we should invite you to stay a while and find you a job here as a Mouton.”

Nellie had heard the Frenchie word in one of her boring lessons.  It meant Mutton - or Lamb. 

“Les Moutons crowd our prisons most usefully, Dugg,” said Couchonet,  “Informing on plots and private confessions.  It might be a job for you too.  With your English Bourgeois heart, and your love of money.”

There was deep scorn in Couchonet’s fervent Revolutionary voice.

“Now go,” he cried, with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand, “I must be in Paris tomorrow, to report on the St Honoré traitor.  Perhaps we shall meet again, there, in the capital.”

“No thanks,” said Dugg, “Rather not, if it’s all right with you.”

The English traitor and the secret policeman parted with curt nods and Nellie sat there shivering, wondering about all she had overheard.   

It was incredible, impossible and almost totally incomprehensible to the seven year old too;  like some strange and rare story. 

Spike knew one thing though.  Somehow she had to tell the Club, no matter how angry her brother would be with her for coming to France at all.  Besides, Nellie Bonespair was thoroughly convinced now that the special Nometer was magic and she wanted to get near it as soon as possible. 

Even as she thought it, Spike blinked in astonishment.  Right in her line of sight, through the hole in the barrel, her elder brother had just walked out of a building, not two hundred yards away.  Hal was looking at the very Nometer she was thinking about, and stretching in the courtyard of the Moulin, smacking his lips.   Then it
was
magic.

Francis Simpkins came up right behind him too, carrying what looked like a wine sack and just then a fine coach came trundling into the courtyard, driven by none other thandearest Skip.  The Pimples were at hand again.

The boys were all preparing to get on the road though and Spike realised the only thing to do was to make a dash for it. 

But Spike heard loud adult voices again and a horse trotted into her vision.  The soldiers were gathering to escort the travellers and goods straight to Paris, and they were right in her way.

Poor Spike was wondering desperately what to do, when she saw Skipper move Snareswood’s carriage out onto the road.  It stopped again, as a soldier raised his hand and made it wait.

The line of supply carts that Spike was on were beginning to move off instead and Nell saw the first of them pass the Pimple’s carriage, no more than a hair’s breadth away.   

It was just possible to leap from her cart.  But no, two horrid Frenchie soldiers were leaning against the back of the carriage, idling and talking.  Poor Nellie was stuck on the stupid cart, about to take her to Paris, all alone.  The seven year old had to think fast and somehow had to get the Pimples a message. 

Spike suddenly remembered that blank piece of paper from the Eagle and pulled it out.  She could write on that, the little girl realised cleverly, and use the end of the catapult as a pen, but poor Nellie had no ink. 

“Oh come on, come on,” whispered Francis Simpkins, in Snareswood’s coach, half an hour later.  “I just can’t stand this awful waiting, H.”

A wine sack was sitting on the seat next to him, from the Petite Moulin and Henry was sitting opposite.  Count Armande was nowhere to be seen.

“Shouldn’t be long now, F,” said Hal consolingly, glancing at the panel below him, “keep your wig on.”

A whole succession of carts were just passing the carriage, piled with lobster pots, hay and crates of fresh vegetables, but as the last one went by, a barrel cart, something shot through the window and hit Francis hard on the shoulder.

“Ouch,” cried the boy painfully, clutching his arm, “That hurt.”

The Club, now just the two of them, looked down at the floor in surprise, at what looked like a battered cauliflower, wrapped in something white. The boys had just spotted Alceste hurrying by too, towards another official looking coach.

“Why, that little tyke,” growled Francis, but Hal was leaning down to pick up the strange projectile. 

It was half a red cabbage, wrapped in a sheet of paper he recognised.

“What’s that, Citizen?” said a sharp voice though.  One of the soldiers was leaning in through the window and Hal had no idea how to answer him.  He frowned and blushed hotly.

“Just papier, Monsieur, and cabbage, Sir,” he answered,  “Er, for our lunch.”

“Donnez-moi,” ordered the soldier suspiciously though, “Le papier.”

Henry held it up reluctantly, suspecting some message and the soldier snatched it away.  When he looked at it though there was nothing written on it at all. 

The soldier thrust it back again and looked scornfully at the lump of red cabbage  that Francis was now holding, as he sniffed the air.  There was something sharp on the breeze.

“You Anglais are all mad,” he grunted,  “Yorkshire puddeeengs.  Roast beefs.  Now Cabbage eaters too.  Get moving now.  Allez, allez.”

The other coaches were beginning to move off at last and as they went too the French countryside was suddenly filled with hectic activity. 

Everywhere soldiers were on the road, tricolours flying from the houses, many of the looks of the country folk frightened and angry, others filled with the burning intensity of a Revolution, and now a war too, foreign and civil. 

“I think it’s safe, Armande,” hissed Francis in the carriage and from under their legs a shape suddenly began to struggle and after a little while the French Count appeared too, from his hiding place behind the panel below the seat.

“Ooof,” he said, looking very crumpled, as Armande rose and sat opposite too.  “Could ‘ardly breathe down there.  I don’t know how Spike was managing in the coach.”

“It’s just while there are soldiers about,” said Henry, “and checkpoints, Armande.  You haven’t any papers.”

“I could use yours,” suggested Armande, “and you could…”

“No,” snapped Henry, “for the leader of the Club it wouldn’t be dignified.  I’m sure you understand, Count.”

Armande gritted his teeth.

 “What’s that smell?” he said though, suddenly sniffing the air, “Vinegre.”

Henry Bonespair looked up sharply, but the Count had just seen the paper in his hand and the vegetable on the seat next to Francis.

“What is that, ‘enri?”

“Why Nellie Bonespair,” cried Hal, “When I get my hands on you I’ll…”

“Nell?” said Francis, with a sigh, “Going back to Peckham, right now, the lucky thing.”

“Not if I’ve guessed right.  The veg, F,” said Hal though, “break it into bits.  Right now.”

“Bits, Henry?”

Still completely at a loss, Francis began to do as he was told, pulling cabbage leaves off like there was no tomorrow, while Henry handed Armande the paper and snatched up the wine sack, which was in fact just water for their journey.