There, day in, day out, they would come to knit and darn, knit and sew, like cackling furies, as heads were unsewn from tender French necks.
Just as the weird took their seats, a shout went up too: “Sanson is coming.”
Spike was peeking over the barrel again and now she saw a very austere character mount the scaffold steps like a ghost. The reappearance of the black clothed Public Executioner, Sanson, who seven months before had pulled that little lever that had ended a King’s life, meant only one thing: The entertainment was about to begin again.
A hush fell over the hungry Revolutionary Square now, except for a single shout: “There. Les Fournees.”
It meant ‘batches’, prisoners destined for execution, divided into batches of twenty or more, and now Spike saw two large tumbrels - open wagons - trundling across the square, with prisoners standing or kneeling in the backs, as armed revolutionary soldiers walked at their sides.
The second ‘batch’ looked much the worst for wear, its passengers in torn and filthy clothes, sans-coulots, and mostly bare foot too - as down trodden as any human being could be.
Nell looked down at her own Sans Culots and wished she had never come to horrid Paris.
These prisoners were criminals from one of Paris’s twelve Houses of Arrest and their crimes ranged from anything from murder, to assault or theft.
It was the first tumbril that the eyes of the crowd were eagerly turned on now though. The figures in this cart were far better dressed, and among them were men, women and children too. Some of the adults stood and looked out defiantly, others sobbed, while some seemed so numb they were hardly alive at all.
One of the women was an old lady, dressed much like Comtesse St Honoré had been in Peckham, although her elegant dress was filthy now and very torn. Beside her stood a husband and wife and, in between them, a handsome young boy of about eleven: The old Lady’s grandson.
Spike saw his terrified little face and his frightened, innocent blue eyes, and the seven year old shuddered, as the tumbrel lurched towards the ghastly scaffold.
The crowd were spitting and jeering horribly now.
“Filthy Aristos,” they hissed, hurling tomatoes and rotten vegetables and secretly terrified that such a thing might happen to them instead.
In fact several of the prisoners were not aristocrats at all, but clearly destined to be the first batch. Soon the soldiers were forcing them off their cart and up the wooden steps.
The first man to mount looked like a lawyer, although he was only a notary. He was shivering and looking pleadingly around the crowd.
The executioner meanwhile was examining the traces of the Guillotine most methodically, to see that they were well enough oiled, as an official in a Phrygian cap read out the name and charge.
“Millet, Antoine,” he boomed, “Counter-revolutionary and Enemy of the People.”
Millet spoke though, as two soldiers took hold of his arms and pulled him to the machine.
“I’m innocent. My neighbour who denounced me wanted the deeds to my...”
The crown shouted him down, as they dragged him to the Guillotine and laid him face down on the long wooden table, below the suspended axe blade. His head was sticking out between those wooden polls and Sanson nodded to guards below the scaffold.
A deep, ominous drum roll began, just as it had for a King, and the crowd at last fell silent. Poor Spike’s heart was in her mouth, as that handsome, blue eyed boy buried his head in his mother’s breast, and the unfortunates looked on too.
The drumming stopped abruptly and Sanson pulled the lever.
There was a sharp sliding noise, but Spike didn’t see what happened next, because a man in the crowd had hoisted his son on his shoulders and blocked her view. When he lowered the child again though, Spike was amazed.
The man’s head had vanished, as if by magic.
Spike blinked and for a moment the little tom-girl thought of witchcraft, and the Nometer, until she saw that the straw was spattered with what looked like red paint.
“Pearl two, drop one,” cried the old crone, at the front of the crowd, with an evil chuckle and the other women burst out into a horrible cackling.
Spike was trembling, not sure if this was real or theatre, as soldiers took hold of the headless body and lifted it into a waiting cart, like an old sack.
That little family had mounted the scaffold too now and Spike wanted to cry out to the handsome boy: “Don’t fear. The Pimples are here!”
The silly words choked in her mouth though, and poor Nellie Bonespair knew it was both useless and foolish. Only she was here now, hiding on a barrel cart, all alone in Paris. Spike wondered if the others had managed to crack her secret message and where they were now. Wondered if the boys were here at all.
The father kissed his wife and son, turned and spat defiantly, as he stared loftily at the French mob.
As the man with the list read out his name, “Marquis D’Evremonde,” a great whistling erupted and Spike wondered what this man could ever have done, for so many to hate him so. The guards stepped up, but the Marquis pushed them aside, used to ruling other men, and laid himself down.
Spike turned away, of her own accord this time. The awful drum role started again, and this time Spike heard and imagined everything, and wished for the rest of her days that she hadn’t.
She heard Sanson pull the lever and the glinting blade fall. She heard a roar in the crowd, which parted now with a gasp because, as Spike opened just one eye again, she saw something rolling through them, like a ball, that stopped right in front of the barrel cart, just where Nellie was hiding.
It was the Marquis D’Evrimonde’s poor head, with its eyes still open, staring up accusingly, a silent curse on the head’s dead lips. Poor Spike was sure those eyelids flickered, as a glance of recognition at Spike’s hiding place flashed from its pupils, and then they closed forever.
Nellie Bonespair thought of DEATH and chickens and a magic Nometer, and might have seen a guard rush towards the poor head and snatch it up by the hair, before the crowd could get to it, except that poor little Spike had just fainted clean away.
TEN - THE MASK OF DEATH
“Taking us to a wine cellar, a startling mechanical discovery and, or so Spike’s convinced, a meeting with the real Madame Guillotine…”
A brilliant dawn had broken across Paris, a city the intrepid Pimpernel Club had been circling all bustling morning. Now William Wickham’s Chronometer said 11.30 –am, for Hal had put it forward by an hour, as Francis yawned heavily and Armande leant out of the window, still giving Skipper instructions.
Henry B was fiddling with the Patent Revolutionary Time Piece still, flicking that catch aimlessly, thinking it silly not to do anything, and turning the dial around and about, in line with the Roman numerals.
The little Glove came parallel with the raised twelve O’clock suddenly, when the Pimpernel’s carriage pulled up in front of a peculiar looking building, in a cobbled Cul-de-sac, with a boarded up front that said this on the top:
ROUBECHON - Négociant en vins – Depuis 1772
After getting lost for several hours in the darkness and the daylight Paris streets too, Armande St Honoré had just recognised his surroundings and led them safely to the vintners. There was nobody about and the place was set back, away from Parisians waking to a new day of wonder, work and utter horror.
“Come on,” whispered Hal, sliding the Nometer back inside his shirt, as the three boys climbed out onto the Paris cobbles and looked around nervously.
Henry had pushed all thoughts of magic or visions far from his mind now, thoroughly glad to get down to something practical again.
“Well done, Skip,” cried Hal. “You found it all right.”
Skipper Holmwood shrugged. It was Count Armande who had done all the real work, spotting street signs in Paris, since the coachman’s son couldn’t even read.
They had also noticed a sign for the Rue Beaulieu just nearby and the Temple Fauberg too
, which meant that Henry’s Grandmother was somewhere just around the corner.
Things were suddenly falling wonderfully into place for the Club, except for the sudden entry into the mix of reckless little Spike.
Hal and the others turned towards the vintners, wondering if Nell had introduced herself to Monsewer Roubechon, and what his cousin had made of the tom-boy, or if he had handed her over to the Revolutionary Authorities.
There was still hope in Hal’s heart though, because of his own apprenticeship to their cousin, but when the Pimpernels walked up to the simple shop front and Francis pulled the chain, nobody answered.
“Looks closed down to me, F.”
“Non,” said Count Armande, “ees boardeeed up. In La Revolution there are so many riots, no shop’s safe. Especialment du vin. The mob are very thirsty.”
“Look, H,” said Francis though, noticing a trapdoor at the side and pulling at the wooden covering.
The Pimpernels found themselves staring down some steps into a dark and dingy cellar.
In truth it should have been locked, but the cart drivers who had delivered their barrels hours before, after Spike’s dreadful ordeal, had been as slovenly as ever and forgotten to secure it behind them.
“I’ll turn the coach,” suggested Holmwood.
“Right oh, Skipper.”
Hal was already clambering down the wooden steps, as Skip geed the coach along the cul-de-sac and Armande and Francis followed Henry down.
The Pimpernels found themselves in a long low stone brick cellar, the far wall lined with wine and brandy, and the other walls with enormous stoppered casks. Francis Simpkins pointed to about twenty barrels though, all marked ‘DOVER’.
“They got here all right then, H.”
“But where’s Spike?” said Henry gloomily, “Has she met my Cousin already?”
The boys were wondering if it was pointless to search the barrels, noticing the heavy, grapey smell sticking to them in the cellar, when they heard voices from the street: French voices, coming straight towards them.
“Quick,” hissed Henry, “Hide.”
Francis and Armande managed to slink into the recesses between the huge casks, while Henry saw a barrel, larger and older than the new arrivals, and empty. Just as Spike had done, Hal climbed inside.
Three adults suddenly entered the wine cellar, one man talking rapidly and apologetically in French.
“I’m sure I locked it, Monsieur Roubechon. I swears it.”
He was addressing a short, stout, red faced figure, with the most enormous belly, who was glaring into the shadows with a pistol in his fat hand. The cellar suddenly smelt of garlic and paté.
“Who’s in here?” he grunted, “If I find anyone’s been stealing my wine, I’ll shoot to kill. Citizen or no damned Citizen.”
“No one, Roubechon,” said the third man, “Et la. The new Anglais barrels.”
The fat vintner lowered his weapon as he saw the casks marked Dover.
“One blessing then,” he grunted. “I’ve feared all week they’d go astray. You can’t trust anyone in Paris, nowadays.”
“I’ll count them, then shall we open the shop, Monsieur?” asked the first man, lighting a candle with a flint and placing it carefully on one of the barrels. The sudden blaze of light made the boys cower back in their hiding places.
“Not to today, Cavellion, I’ve a meeting with one of the League.”
Armande and Henry’s ears were suddenly up, in their hiding places, although both were feeling strangely dizzy too. Francis just crouched there, listening to the strange sounds, wishing he could speak French and promising himself he’d try and learn when he got back to school, but suddenly stifling a hiccup too. He slapped his hand over his mouth.
“Which member are you meeting?” asked the second man, thinking he heard a sound nearby.
“Gonse de Rougeville.”
“The Marquis is still in Paris then?” said the third, in astonishment.
“Of course, Canard, he swears he’ll never leave too, while she’s still a prisoner. He’s brave, that one. They’re watching him like a hawk though.”
“What’s the meet about?” muttered Cavellion.
“The great plot.”
Henry Bonespair felt very hot in his hiding place.
“De Rougeville’s expecting me to bring him something very important from England. Equipment from L’anglais. I’ll have to tell him it hasn’t arrived.”
“Important, Roubechon?”
Roubechon frowned. He was naturally wary and never shared the entire details of his plots, even with his own comrades.
“My cousins the Bonespairs should have brought it here by now. The father and his two children. Eleanor and his son.”
Henry Bonespair was utterly amazed. What was this Frenchman talking about?
“His son?” said Canard.
“’enri Bonespair,” announced Roubechon sourly, “I agreed to apprentice the boy, years back. Don’t know why. What could any Anglais ever know of good wine?”
Roubechon chuckled scornfully and in his barrel Henry disliked his cousin immediately, but he was feeling rather strange and dizzt too.
“But I owed that old witch his Grandmother a favour, and thought it might lead to the secret of her gold too. Then I got a message three days back, by carrier bird. Right out of the blue. The boy’s got it, if he ever gets here.”
Henry Bonespair was utterly astounded, as he clasped William Wickham’s gift and he felt an icy chill at his neck, although his spots were sore and he had a headache now.
“Now come on,” growled Roubechon, “We’ll lock up and get going.”
The portly vintner led them back up out of the cellar and the Pimpernels heard the trapdoor being slammed shut, then the loud click of a padlock.
They were locked in, though the man had forgotten his candle.
“Pssst,” hissed Hal, after a quite a while.
Henry climbed out again, wobbling slightly, and in the candlelit darkness he saw two dim shapes emerging from the looming casks, peering around them. The boys seemed rather wobbly on their feet too.
Hal heard a scratching as well and wondered if the cellar was infested with rats. But The Rat Catchers were far behind them now.
The candle that Cavellion had lit were casting an eerie glow through the dripping cellar and now they were groping about, among the barrels, trying to make their way back to the exit, although Francis had started to giggle and Armande’s head was throbbing terribly.
“ ‘enri?” said Armande though, as they suddenly collided, “You ‘eard? The League. And he talked of something you ‘ave, ‘enri. Hic.”
Hal blinked and grinned, strangely wanting to giggle too, although desperate about little Spike, as he rested his hand on the lid of one of the Dover barrels.
As Hal leant his full weight on it, suddenly wanting to sit down, it swung in, Henry slipped, and he heard a low “ouch”, as he struck a little shape inside.
Francis laughed and hiccupped, but Henry’s eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom and Hal gasped.
“Spike,” he cried, “There you are, Eleanor.”
Poor little Nellie was still inside, hunched up in a ball in her barrel, where she had fainted clean away. She had been there for hours and hours, fast asleep.
Spike opened her green eyes now and rubbed her little head.
“Hal,” she gulped, in a tiny, frightened voice, “I want to go home, Hal, please.”
Henry Bonespair was finding it hard to focus but he reached into the barrel and took his sister gently under her arms, lifting the seven year old out and standing her carefully in the French wine cellar.
“I know you do, Nellie. And we will. Soon. I promise. Hic.”
“Oh H, are you very cross with me?”
“Furious,” answered Hal softly, although he hiccupped again. “But that doesn’t matter now, hic, er, as long as you’re safe. Bonespair’s against the world. Are you all right though, Nellie? That’s all
that matters.”
“I’m all right, I think, but it was horrid, H, horrid.”
“The ship?” asked Francis, hiccupping again himself and giggling too, as Spike frowned at him.
“No,” she said, “Heads chopped off, like chickens. I saw a dead Frenchie blink at me. It’s true, I swear it. Magic.”
“Hush Nellie, and I believe you,” said Hal, “But we’re together again now and that’s all that matters. Death’s not touching us. Ever. Hic.”
Henry felt his cheeks glowing and he blushed. He wanted to fall over.
“Hello Spike,” said Francis, “Your secret note was amazing.”
Francis Simpkins belched suddenly and blushed too. What was wrong with the stupid boys?
“Genius, ma petite,” whispered Count Armande kindly, for the first time feeling a genuine affection for the wild little girl.
Spike beamed, even at Count Armande, but Hal was frowning seriously now, though shaking his head, trying to clear the awful dizziness.
“But now that you’re in France too, ma and pa will be worried sick. Hic. The letter I wrote will never have got home to Peckham.”
“Oh yes it will,” said Spike, “When Skip took me to the farriers, I popped it in a big box with some others. Posted it. Hic.”
In the barrel, with its closed lid, the air had not been so thick with wine fumes, but now it was starting to get to Nellie too. Hal glared at his little sister.
“Then you planned to stowaway all evening?”
“No, H. Well yes, but my hair was crossed. Honest.”
“Why you little….”
But Hal grinned and with that they all heard a loud “Awooh, Awooh.”
It was followed by a banging, then someone straining with the lock. There was a sharp crack, the trap swung open, sending a stream of warming sunlight into the cellar, making them all blink and shield their eyes, until a large shadow blocked it again.
“You lot all right?” grunted Skipper Holmwood.
Skip stopped, a huge smile bursting across his cheeks.
“Spike!! You’re safe, Spikee. Thank ‘eavens.”