The Terror Time Spies (3 page)

Then William Wickham span the Globe even faster and looked harder at Henry Bonespair.  The bluff Yorkshire man had little time for children, but the spy almost liked the strange, large nosed lad.  Certainly more than the boys who had bullied him so mercilessly at Harrow school. 

Simon Bonespair’s son was usually polite, but full of spirit too, if his theatres were anything to go by, because Robert Penhaligon had told Mr Wickham all about the children’s favourite new game – “
The Return of the Scarlet Pimpernel
”.   

The spy snorted and bit his lip. 

Pimpernel!  How did that silly verse about this Scarlet Pimpernel go, thought the English secret agent angrily, and almost turning scarlet himself? 

“
They seek him here, they seek him there, those Frenchies seek him everywhere - Is he in Heaven, or is he in Hell, that Demmed Illusive Pimpernel
?”

That was it.  He was supposedly a dashing English hero then, to the gullible and innocent, at least.  For cunning William Wickham had no doubt that a Scarlet Pimpernel, named after a silly little pimpernel flower, was a total fiction, dreamt up in London’s smoking rooms, to raise War moral and poke fun at the ancient French enemy. 

If such a preposterous figure
really
did exist, then William Wickham would certainly have known about it, he always told himself, because the cunning spy knew everything important that went on in England now, or at least his Master did. 

William Wickham felt almost jealous too, at the children’s clear admiration for the mythical hero, since Wickham could never reveal his own identity.  

But then the Pimpernel’s very legend was a menace too, since  it only showed up Wickham’s own blunders and constant mistakes.  Like the mistake that had cost a King his head.

The blunders were getting worse too now.  The massacres in France last September had ushered in the true horrors in France and with them France’s two great Revolutionary Committees, the Committees of Public Safety and Public Security. 

Now though the spy thought hopefully of the gift that he had just given Henry Bonespair.  It was why Wickham had been so ready to help his Land Agent’s dangerous journey into France tomorrow too. 

Wickham had been as amazed as anyone else at Madame Geraldine’s strange request to see the youngsters in Paris, on the very eve of a war, and in the middle of a bloody Revolution. 

He naturally suspected the real reason that Simon was so willing to take his children into such terrible danger though – which experience had long taught him really motivated men:
Money. 
It had caused a Revolution, after all.

The rumour was that Madame Geraldine de Bonespair had a great deal of it, as the last in a long line of prosperous Huguenot lace makers, yet learning to hide their business profits abroad, before she had returned to Paris one sudden day, to marry again and settle there for good, or bad. 

The marriage itself, though now her second husband had suddenly passed away, had been the reason for Simon Bonespair’s estrangement from his own mother, and it had threatened any hope of inheritance.

Now though it was time to repair the damage, so maybe a real fortune lay at the end of this very unusual little journey - a vast pile of Huguenot gold.

Yet as soon as William Wickham had heard of the perilous voyage, and with his own secret plans afoot too, the English diplomat had very readily helped the Bonespairs secure the necessary passes from the French Embassy in London. 

He had even offered Simon Bonespair one of his own carriages, to take them all the way to Dover, while Mr Wickham was making his own tracks abroad, that very same day, to prepare for his new Diplomatic posting to Switzerland, the following year. 

It was almost total madness, thought Wickham, as he watched Henry and his little sister by the old well, with the French Revolution poised on a knife edge now.    

“Mr Wickham gave it to you!” gasped Spike outside, although she didn’t like her father’s employer either, “blimey, Hal, you lucky thing.  Wot is it though?  A Crow…
No.”

“Chronometer, Spikey.  It’s a sort of watch.  A brand new Time piece, for telling the Time more accurately than
ever
before.  Mr Wickham said it was made by Isaac Harrison himself.”

“Oh” said Spike, none the wiser.

“And we’ll all need clever things like this in the coming fight, Mr Wickham says,” said Henry hotly,  “The genius of England, in our war with France.”

Eleanor didn’t know what a war really was, let alone a Revolution, although she knew that her brother and the boys in London were often fighting each other.  Boys just did.

       “Hal,” she said suddenly though, “Can I carry it tomorrow? Pleeease, Hal.  No one ever gives me presents like that.  I won’t lose it.  Promise.”

“No, Spike.  You’re just a girl and there’s a war on now.”

“Not for you, Ninnee,” said Spike sourly, “not if you’re to be apprenticed.”

Henry Bonespair scowled and that feeling of glorious freedom suddenly vanished. 

An apprenticeship had long been hanging over Hal Bonespairs’s poor head, marked out as he was to learn a trade with a French cousin of the family’s, named Monsieur Roubechon, a wine merchant in Paris - a vintner.

Of course the wicked Revolution had thrown the prospect into doubt, thankfully, but somehow hearing of Henry’s visit, this Roubechon had asked to see the boy too, and sent his father his Paris address. 

So Simon Bonespair had decided they might kill two birds with one stone, since Mr Roubechon had partners in London too. 

The Land Agent wanted to establish if his boy was really suited to the wine trade, so might be found some humble position in London first, and afterwards in Paris too, when the looming War was over, of course, and won by England. 

Hal Bonespair suddenly wondered how long a war took, but he didn’t want to be a stupid vintner, and grow fat and old and red cheeked.  What did the Frenchies call such silly people?
Bourgeois
.   

Henry Bonespair wanted to join the army, or go to sea as a bold young Midshipman, or travel the world and have great and daring adventures.  If truth be told, Henry Bonespair wanted to be so many things that he changed his mind every single day.

“Besides,” said Henry, “Mr Wickham only gave it to me on three conditions, Spike.  That I wear it on all my journeys, that I remember to wind it, and that I conceal it at
all times
from the damned Frenchies too.  He made me swear that especially, Spike, on my life.  Oh, I wish we were leaving today.”

Hal suddenly wondered why hiding it from the Frenchies was so important, but he started flicking a little silver catch to the left of the strange watch, like a tiny metal tongue.

“What’s
that
do, H?” asked Spike.

“Dunno, Spike.  Doesn’t seem to work.  Not like this gold winding key on top.  But look, these pictures around the dial move.”

Henry was even more delighted with Spike’s enormous, goggling green eyes now, as he twisted the thing and the symbols on an outer ring started to turn, in an arc, until that glove almost lined up with The Roman numerals XII, larger than the others and slightly raised on the surface: 
Twelve O’Clock.  Midnight.  The Witching Hour. 

The sunlight made the porcelain flash suddenly, hurting their young eyes and there seemed to be a strange glow around the children.

“Hal,” whispered Spike, “The Nometer’s magic, I know it is.”

“Oh, don’t be so daft, Spike,” said her elder brother, “this is modern, just like us, and that Frenchie guillotine too.  Scientific, F would call it.  It’s just a watch.”

Just then a dove burst from the dovecot beyond, shooting across the bright blue heavens like a white arrow and with that the most bizarre thing happened.  Suddenly the bucket slipped from the wall, plunging into the depths and Henry Bonespair thought he heard a muffled
‘Ouch’
 from below. 

Then Henry was sure he heard a man’s voice too, although it was impossible, whispering from somewhere inside the well itself, in an accent like Italian, which Hal had heard once in London.   

It was like a hollow echo, caught up with the sound of those beating wings above. 

“IS
TIME BONESPAIR,”
it seemed to say,
“TIME.”

Hal jolted and thought of ghosts and tunnels and a haunted estate.  Time for what?  Henry and his sister leant in, peering down into the old well, to see nothing but the yawning drop and the water rippling far below them in the darkness. 

Spike, who also loved hiding in small spaces and surprising people, suddenly wondered what it would be like to live down there, like a frog.

“See, Hal,” she whispered, “It’s magic.  The bucket fell on its own. ”

 “Oh come on, Spike,” said Henry irritably, “we’ve got to pack for France.  I wish we were going right now.  This waiting’s the worst.  I’ll be dead before I ever have a real adventure.”

The two children turned away together and inside the great house William Wickham’s thoughts were turning even darker. 

War with France had been declared now, and even in England suspicion and assassination were everywhere.   Just as the French Revolutionaries themselves had overplayed the evils of the infamous Bastille though, where only eight prisoners had been living when it was stormed, so far the Royalist English newspapers had eagerly  spiced up the horror in France too. 

It was a story that sold papers daily.

Yet the English spy had no doubt that what was really coming would be every bit as terrible as the lurid news reports, especially if that French fanatic Maximillian Robespierre, or his closest allies, like Danton and Marat, ever managed to take power in France.   

The French Revolution was about to enter its deadliest phase too –  the blood soaked ‘Reign of Terror’ – which would  coin a new word in the growing dictionary of human horror – TERRORISM. 

The English spy stared at Henry Bonespair more intently, as the Bonespair children trotted off, and thought of that special watch, with something close to anguish now.  His own father, a diplomat just like him, had given it to William Wickham, after the end of American Wars, and he had loved the thing as a boy himself.

Yet the secret agent would have it back again, he thought greedily now, just as Henry Bonespair’s temporary Birthday present must be swiftly removed, as soon as he arrived in Paris.  What better way to fight Evil though, thought the spy, than with Innocence itself?

Wickham’s little plan was a gambol, because if that very special watch, and most especially what was hidden inside its strange mechanism now, ever fell into the hands of the terrible Committee of Public Security, then English spies would become a laughing stock abroad. 

When people laughed nowadays though, others started to die. 

Somehow
its desperate secret must get through, thought the secret agent, because his Master’s identity, and the plan to strike at the very heart of the French Revolution, depended on it. 

      “Mr Wickham, Sir,” said a piping voice suddenly.

      “Jesu man,” cried Wickham angrily, jolting like Henry Bonespair had and turning to see the tutor Robert Penhaligon suddenly standing in the doorway. 

     “I’m sorry Sir,” said the stiff tutor, with a thin, ironic smile, “I didn’t mean to fright you, Sir.”

    “Fright me, man?  Well, we’re all wound up now,” grunted Wickham, blushing and trying to hide his embarrassment, “but I must be leaving before dark Robert, via London, for Switzerland.  The work of the Diplomatic service waits for no man.”

Wickham’s eyes narrowed significantly. 

“No indeed, Sir,” answered Penhaligon softly.  “
And at my back I always hear, time’s winged chariot hurrying near.”

Wickham frowned at the famous quotation.  It was considered ungentlemanly to quote things, but the tutor had just noticed a headline in that yellowed Newspaper too:
Isaac Newton honoured posthumously by Royal Society.

“And ye must help Simon Bonespair and his son on their journey tomorrow, man,” said Wickham, “I’ve offered them me own carriage.  Me second best.”

“Indeed Sir.  Holmwood’s greasing it right now, Sir, and yours is ready too.”

“Good, Robert, good,” said the Yorkshire man, somewhat mollified, “You’re in charge when I’m gone and I want ye to keep a note of
everything
, and an eye on our Frenchie guests too.  I fear for them, Robert, with their name, and French spies aboard.”

Penhaligon nodded.

 “But first I want you to send out another little message, Robert, to tell our
friends
abroad to be especially vigilant now.  The plan’s just getting underway.”  
      

Again William Wickham thought of Hal with his special Chronometer and what else was at stake too: the honour of England’s most important and mysterious spy network -
The League of the Gloved Hand.

“Yes, Sir.  Ever vigilant, Sir.  Just as I always know my limitations.”

It was Robert Penhaligon’s his favourite phrase and the expression on his face was suddenly especially smug.