The Terror Time Spies (36 page)

It was the same woman who had been in the carriage that very night that the Pimpernels had arrived, who Dr Marat had recently received in his rooms, to hear her denounce her fellow Frenchmen, but only on the assurance that they would simply be imprisoned and not killed. 

Charlotte Corday was staring glassy eyed across the room at that shoe-shaped bath tub, as Dr Marat slumped there still, with that soggy turban wrapped limply around his head. 

Charles Couchonet straightened, as he saw the fear and fury in the eyes of the soldiers and watching citizens too. 

Then the Spider heard the terrible clamour in the streets as well, against the Girondin murderess who had just slain the ‘Friend of the People’. 

The Black Spider suddenly realised that Dr Marat’s ‘Great Happening’ had arrived already, most amazingly in the form of his own murder. 

As he looked up at the painting in the background, he wobbled slightly though, for Couchonet imagined it had changed from a soldier and now a figure was looking back with gleaming red eyes, in a black gown and a black judge’s wig. 

His face looked like a skull, with bits of flesh dripping off it, as his eyes glittered, and he smiled down from the painting. 

It was the very face that Henry Bonespair had imagined in the storm clouds, and in his cousin’s burning vintner’s shop.

“Where Juliette gets something called a reprieve and we take a breather, to meet some very theatrical aristos, as the Pimples get a shock…”

A Great Happening it was,
Dr Marat’s own murder, which nearly made France explode like a powder keg. 

The only benefit of the terrible storm that erupted, and the fury that the French mob unleashed too, was that many ordinary executions planned for that month were actually postponed, including poor Juliette’s.

Not that the Revolutionary leaders, nor their Committees of Safety and Security - internal and external affairs – thought that the brilliant Guillotine should not be used just as savagely as ever. 

The thing is that they were turning their sights on far bigger fish now, compared to some sixteen year old émigré aristo, especially a minor one.   

A stay of execution came just a day later then, which made the Pimpernel Club nearly shout with joy, as Justine read it out at that gloomy dining table.  Both circumstance and luck had given the Pimpernel Club a vital breathing space. 

The famous slaying of the head of the Committee of Public Security by Charlotte Corday though was such a heinous crime, that the murder of Dr Marat - Swiss born philosopher, scientist and revolutionary, as Francis noted in his reliable history - was a godsend to the Jacobins, taking violent control of France.

It was the perfect excuse to cut off thousands of terrified heads, spurred on by Dr Marat’s own words about execution, three years before:  “
Five or six hundred would have assured your repose, freedom and happiness, but a false humanity has held your arms and suspended your blows; because of this, millions of your brothers will lose their lives
.”

One of the first to go was Citizeness Corday herself, who’s four day trial seemed rather unnecessary, considering that she had been caught red handed.  Except that, despite the tyranny taking hold across France, the famous
Reign of Terror,
at least public trials were still the order of the day.

Her trial then had revealed that far from being a murder engineered by Royalists, or any English League of Gloved Hands either, the Girondin sympathiser and staunch Republican
Corday, Charlotte
, who’s own brothers were émigrés, had acted all alone.  The woman had bought the knife in a nearby shop, still defiant when she told the Court that she acted against the coming dictatorship and killed one, to save a hundred thousand.

The famous Pimpernel Club was there to see the execution, not because they were turning as bloodthirsty as the Parisians, especially not Francis Simpkins, but because the children had made a fateful decision. 

If they were somehow to rescue Juliette, it would have to be in a place out in the open, just like the blood soaked Revolutionary Square itself. 

So here the Club were now, in their cunning disguise again, on the very day of Charlotte Corday’s death, to scout it out too: 
July 17
^th
1793
.  The very day that Juliette St Honoré’s own execution had been due in fact, but just reprieved by the strange turn of events.

La Place was even more terrifying than when Spike had seen that bouncing head.  The mob spat such hatred at the poor woman, despite her quiet dignity, that it seemed they would tear up the very stones and eat them.  Marat had been loved, at a healthy distance, of course, from a good Doctor of political philosophy and political machination.

So much so, that when the Corday woman’s poor head dropped off, a soldier picked it from the basket by her hair, held it up for the angry crowd, and slapped it.

  Spike was sure her face changed from resignation to angry indignation, but it was Francis who had not only turned to stone but gone quite green at the sight of blood, and so much of it too.

The brave Club also saw how many soldiers were on the Paris streets too now and how closely guarded were the routes that the Fournees rattled down, not to mention how they all watched the terrible scaffold. 

The Pimpernels came away with heavy hearts then, just half an hour later, wondering when Juliette’s turn was to be, although Francis was feeling a little better as he noticed a figure they had first seen in Dover, trailing a tumbril, piled high with brand new wooden coffins. 

It was Samuel Dugg, touching his scarred cheek, although he hadn’t noticed the Pimpernels.  Dugg seemed delighted with all he was seeing in Paris.

“Bleedin’ traitor,” growled Skipper.  “I’d thump him one if I had a...”

Hal wasn’t listening though.  He seemed suddenly deeply preoccupied.

“Wots wrong, ‘aitch?” said Skip. 

“What’s the time, Spike? Exactly.”

Little Spike glanced rather defensively at the Chronometer. 

“Ten fifty.”

“Come on then.  Perhaps we don’t have to rescue Juliette at all.”

Henry was suddenly kicking himself for not having thought of it earlier.

“Don’t have to?” said Spike, “what are you talking about now, ninee?”

“Where we going though?” asked Skipper. 

Henry’s eyes were glittering but he noticed that Francis had a rather lost look again.  Francis had spent most of his time recently in that great library, like a school swat.

“To the Rue Malplaquet,” said Henry,“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

The others were dying to know what Henry had come up with this time and it seemed to take an age finding it, Armande asking other Citizens for directions. 

At last though, the five loyal Pimpernels were standing in a row in front of number 24.

“You going to push ‘em under the door?” asked Skipper, as they lined up on the street, “To be shot of ‘em, and their stupid plot.”

“Not a bit, Skip,” answered Hal cheerfully, who had taken the Chronometer from Nellie again and was biting his lip, “You, Francis and Spike, wait here, and give The Call if you notice anyone strange coming.  Come on, Armande.  Quick.  It’s nearly twelve.”

Hal simply walked straight up to the front door and knocked loudly, like someone delivering the post, if the service had really been invented yet.  That man from outside the flower shop answered, because trustworthy servants were impossible to find in Paris, these days. 

The Marquis, sniffing a single red rose languorously, was amazed to see two boys in Sans Coulots, Tricolours and red Liberty caps. 

“They send children to harass me now?” he said coldly.

“Not at all, Marquis,” answered Hal, in his politest and most cheerful English, “We come from your
Glove makers
.”

Henry winked heavily and Gonse De Rougeville nearly fell over. 

“Come inside then, quickly,” he hissed.

The Marquis closed the door with a bang after them and led them into a long, high with-drawing room, kitted out in the English style.  Although, like Geraldine’s home, the signs were everywhere that the Marquis had fallen on hard times himself, largely because his estates in the countryside had just been confiscated. 

A single candle was burning in the middle of a round rosewood table.

“The Hand,” he cried though, filled with admiration for this English cunning of it, or the ruthlessness with which England was willing to employ mere children to do its dirty work.  “You’re from The League?”

“No, not really,” answered Henry Bonespair, with a shrug, “We’ve got your blasted letters though, Marquis, for this plot to rescue her Maj…..”

“Hush,” hissed de Rougeville, “even walls have ears now.  But the letters, boy, give them to me.”

“No,” replied Hal sharply.   

Armande looked at Hal in surprise but the Marquis, thinking he understood, went over to a bureaux for a little bag of gold.

“We don’t want your money,” said Henry indignantly, although Armande cast him a very reproachful look, since their coin had now run out, “but before I hand them over, I want your promise Marquis.  Your word of honour, as an adult.”

The Marquis’s dancing eyes twinkled and Armande flashed his bold leader another questioning look.

“What promise, boy?”

“First, that this
never
happened.  That you never met us, or even know anything about us at all. 
We do not exist.”

The Marquis de Gonse de Rougeville stared at the young strangers and blinked.

“Of course.  It is normal, nowadays.  And?”

Henry B turned to his co-Pample.

“This is Armande, Marquis, Ninth Count of St Honoré,” he announced, as grandly as he could.

The Marquis frowned at the scruffy little seeming Revolutionary, with a flop of dark hair poking from his dirty cap, and his silly eyebrows, because ugly Armande had just dipped his head very elegantly himself. 

The Marquis responded though;  a common courtesy between equal aristos.

“Armande’s sister has been condemned by the Committee of Public Security, Marquis,” said Henry, “to be Guillotined to death, by that horrid Frenchie machine.”

“Yes, I have heard of it.  I’m sorry, Count.”

“But Juliette is also looking after Marie Antoinette now,” said Henry significantly, “so we want you to promise us that when you rescue the Queen of France, you’ll rescue Juliette too.”

Armande St Honoré hadn’t foreseen this at all.  It was a brilliant plan and the Count suddenly didn’t regret for a moment that Henry Bonespair was the leader of their new Club, despite his humble origins and his age.

“But…” began the Marquise.

“There are no buts,” said Hal firmly. 

The Marquis straightened.  He suddenly looked every bit as threatening as Dr Marat.

“I could summon men”, he whispered dangerously, “and have them taken from you by force.  I could do it myself.”

“No,” said Hal bravely, thinking how much trouble adults caused in the world, “you’d never find them, Marquis.  They’re
very
well hidden.”

The Marquis bit his lip.  He detested violence, at least by his own hand.

“Her Majesty
and
the girl then,” he said reluctantly. “But you can be sure they’re together all the time, boy?” he asked, amazed by the boldness of these bold young people. 

Henry hadn’t thought of that.

“No, Marquis.  That’s your problem now.”

Count Armande looked even more impressed with his friend.

“But these things all take time, boys,” added De Rougeville thoughtfully, “First we have to draw money, buy arms, raise men.  We’ll have to contact the Queen too, somehow, and tell her of the whole plan…”

“Promise,” insisted Hal and the Marquis’s weak eyes narrowed again.

“While I refuse to act at all,” insisted de Rougeville, “unless these letters carry certain assurances that England’s chief spy himself….”

“Promise.  Juliette too, or no letters and no money either.  On your word of honour, Marquis, as a French Gentlemen.  I mean an aristo.”

The Marquis, who was often known to behave as anything but a gent, and very much as a
certain
kind of aristo, smiled at the naivety of children. 

“Very well then, I give you my…”

“Swear on
this
, Marquis.  And on your life.  We both have.”

Henry had pulled out the special Chronometer and was looking at the time.  The Marquis was quite non-plussed by this childish, melodramatic behaviour, but he put out his delicate hand and swore nonetheless.  He found oaths rather easy. 

Henry waited, tapping his foot, then swivelled the dial and the Glove toward to the witching hour, but as he did so, he blinked.

Henry Bonespair was sure that the candle had just flared and as the little flame parted, with an aura of orange light, just for a moment Hal thought he saw a silk gloved hand.  It was holding out a flower, and a delicate but older female hand was taking it, as Henry wondered if it was a pimpernel flower.