“The old stone well,” suggested Boffin, rubbing his head again, “If they work it out. Though why the firm should act free of charge, I just don’t…”
“Boffin,” snapped Garimondo, “They’re still only Pimples.”
“And potentially very rich Pimples, if they ever got their hands on that huge pile of...”
“Meanwhile” interrupted Garimondo, with a sigh, “the firm can afford it, Boffin. You do enough chargeable hours, as it is. Besides, I’ve developed quite a soft spot for young Henry Bonespair, here. I’m happy to help him choose.”
“Choose?” said Henry, feeling like some experiment himself.
“Not yet, Hal, not yet,” said Garimondo softly, ‘First you must learn to be your own judge and jury, perhaps. Though we’ll be watching and advising.”
Garimondo gave Henry a very significant look and ‘Pop’, the cloud exploded, the lawyers vanished, the musket ball went whizzing past Armande’s nose, as the balloon lurched, and the Pimples were thrown across the huge basket.
Francis just managed to scrawl BCA and Spill_ in his book, as Obediah Tuck was once more stoking the flames, as if nothing at all had happened.
Each of the Pimpernels felt something very bizarre had just occurred, instantaneously, like waking out of an afternoon dream, a strange daydream, or a reverie, or seeing a ghost, but wondering why their clothes were suddenly sopping wet.
Yet still the ordeal was not over yet, because the Pimpernel Club had somehow to get aboard the Endurance, as it looked as if a collision was about to take place between the balloon and the ship’s two huge masts.
Here Mr Tuck’s amazing dexterity with the new flying machine came into play and some considerable luck too, because, as they drifted closer, Foxwood just managed to jump and catch the dangling tether rope.
Tuck hurled a long wooden step ladder over the sides, as the adults on the bucking ship struggled to hold back the looming collision.
“Quickly, Sirees, the wind’s dropping,” Tuck cried, as the other men on board caught hold of the ladder to anchor the balloon, “down ye all go.”
Francis was nearest, but Armande held out his hand to his sister.
“Excuses mois,” the Count said rather loftily to Francis and Hal, “our position. The Ninth Comte St Honoré, and his sister. You understand, Simpkins.”
“Ninnee,” whispered Spike, picking up Malfort.
Armande and Juliette went first then, swaying slowly down the dangling step ladder, to the deck of the great ship, followed by Francis and Skipper, much less elegantly.
“You, lad,” said the jovial American, “You’re an aristocrat like him? But an English one, I guess.”
Henry almost blushed, forgetting completely about what Geraldine had said of Baron Maurice de Bonespair.
“Er. No, Sir. I’m only the son of a Land Agent.”
The charming American looked Henry Bonespair straight in the eye.
“You’re a King, lad,” he cried, “and don’t ye ever forget it, ladee.”
“Go on then, Spikey,” ordered Henry, feeling as if we could fly, which of course he could, “and no fooling around now. Thank you Mr Tuck, Sir.”
“Greatest of pleasures, my boy,” cried the happy American, “Glad to be of some small service.”
“Yes,” said Spike, as the seven year old shinned over the side too, trying not to drop her grandmother’s cat, “all the Pimples owe you, Tucky, forever.”
“Quiet, Spike,” snapped Henry.
“Pimples?” said Tuck, wondering why his fob watch had stopped.
“We’re the famous Pimple Club,” announced Spike happily, “and with Lord Jack Skanksie, you’re the only silly grown up to ever know it. So you’ve got to keep it secret.”
Spike smiled sweetly but suddenly had the definite sensation that someone else knew about it too.
“Right,” said the bold American, “you’ve my word, Missee.”
Malfort hissed at the adult.
“You’ll be all right, Sir?” asked Henry though, as Spike disappeared down the rope ladder too with the black cat. “The Frenchies won’t…”
“Heavens no, Henry lad. France and the Americas are allies, for now, and I’ve the protection of Mr Jefferson and Mr Franklin themselves, in Paris. Besides, they’ll find their justice again, one day, and their freedom too.”
Henry climbed overboard as well, feeling rather sorry to be leaving the clouds, without really knowing why, and he and Spike were both negotiating the swinging rungs, when Obediah Tuck leant over the basket, as the great balloon kicked and bucked against its weird sea-borne mooring.
“I’ll see you again, I hope, Henry Bonespair,” he called, holding his moustache, as if it might blow away, “and if you ever make a voyage to the Americas…”
William Wickham and the others couldn’t hold onto the twisting ladder any longer though and Spike and Henry had to jump.
As both landed, with a cry, among the members of the English League on board, the adults were knocked clean over.
Up the great balloon sailed again, to catch a current of air travelling back inland, and in ten minutes they were standing at the rail of the Endurance, staring at the tiny receding figures of Charles Peperan Couchonet and his horrible nephew, Alceste, on the ever shrinking French coastline.
“Idiotic boy,” growled the Black Spider, as they stood there helplessly.
“It was you, Citizen,” cried the Little Spider defiantly, wanting to stick out his tongue, “You who let those coffins through.”
The Black Spider clipped the Little Spider hard round the head, despite the obvious justice of the remark, and Alceste fancied that he saw stars, and a face in a terrible black wig, glaring down at him from the clouds.
Obediah Tuck though had just managed to land his balloon on a sturdy outcrop of rock, further down the coast, now perfectly safe himself. He was waving furiously to his new friends.
“He made it,” cried Hal, with an enormous sigh, delighted that Tuck was safe too and, as they stood their in the bracing sea wind, the Pimpernel Club felt more alive, free and real than they had ever done before.
“Thanks to you, ‘enri,” whispered Juliette, looking at him fondly.
Henry felt a strange warmth glow in him, and an extraordinary pride too, but he blushed, because Hal realised that pretty Juliette was looking straight at his nose.
“Yuch,” whispered Spike, staring between them both.
“You’ve got a deal of explaining to do though,” said William Wickham gravely, shaking his head behind them, and wondering how these children had managed to out-spy the celebrated League of the Gloved Hand itself. “When we get you all back safely again.”
“How does the history end though, F?” whispered Spike, as Hal thought it was Mr Wickham and the adults who had the explaining to do, and Spike saw Francis writing in his book, so she leant over to read:
“Not even Skipper…”
“Safely?” said Skipper though, looking at Wickham with a heavy frown, “when my pa finds that I’ve lost his blasted hat, I’m finished.”
THE END? – ENGLAND
“In which … well, see for yourself, dear reader. It’s a happy ... beginning.”
Not even Skipper Holmwood paid the price for their great adventure, when, six days later, William Wickham brought them all safely back to his estate in Peckham, along with his second best carriage, collected in Dover.
Charlotte and Simon were so relieved, after nearly two and a half months of terror, that they danced in the lodge sitting room together, just like they had at their engagement.
The Comtesse St Honoré, who had heard of Juliette’s planned execution in the noosepapers, and gone into a virtual coma, if they had had the term back then, kept wringing her old hands and kissing both her children, promising her daughter that she would never, ever have to be a governess, like the Lower Orders, then bursting into tears of joy.
All the adults thought that they had Mr Wickham to thank for it, using his diplomatic contacts,
and treated him with more gratitude and respect than ever.
Late in September though, Charlotte and Simon Bonespair were sitting one afternoon in the lodge, having tea, and the Pimpernel Club sat around them, with Juliette and Armande, now beautifully dressed again, as Simon leafed through another noosepaper.
A baby was lying fast asleep in a cot, and Charlotte looked as thin as a pole. Spike kept glancing into the cot and shaking her head. The birth of her little brother was more miraculous than anything that had happened so far.
As the little girl looked into Marcus Bonespair’s dimly focusing eyes, Spike was convinced that there was far more intelligence glittering in them than there should normally be.
Charlotte saw her gaze.
“And who shall we ask to be Godparents,” she said. “For darling little Marcus?”
Henry looked up and felt very strange.
“Listen to this, children,” cried Simon though, putting on a pair of spectacles, shaking out the London Times, and clearing his throat, “It should interest you all, after your mad little jaunt to Paris. By an express which arrived from Messrs Fector and Co at Dover, we learn the following particulars of the mysterious Affair of the Carnations.”
The Pimpernels sat up, and even baby Marcus opened his eyes wide, as Henry remembered that flower in the candle and that hand reaching out to take it.
The feared Committee of Public Security recently uncovered a plot to rescue the Queen of France, who revolutionaries call prisoner 208, when the Marquise de Gonse Rougeville passed her a note in prison, talking of her impending rescue, hidden in the petal of a flower, a carnation. The Queen’s reply however was that she was no longer interested in escape, and would accept her bitter fate. The uncovered plot has increased the savagery with which the French authorities are turning to methods of Terror to enforce their Revolution. Every day now there are calls for her majesty’s trial, with the fear of one certain result.
Nellie drew a finger across her throat, but resisted gurgling, and Juliette looked desperately sad, as she wondered what would ever become of pretty Marie Therese.
Henry somehow knew about the poor Queen, although it gave him a strange ache in his head, as if he was trying to remember something else.
“So it’s back to London, for you,” said Simon, snapping the newspaper shut, “and school. High time you learnt something useful too.”
Spike looked jealously at the boys.
She would be learning at home, like so many girls, if they learnt at all, but at least with this family she would be learning many things, and after school she’d get a chance to join the boys and outsmart the Rovers too.
“And you’ll be staying on the Estate, to be tutored by Mr Penhaligon?” asked Charlotte, to the two French children, who both nodded politely.
“At least you’ll have Skipper,” said Nellie, looking rather mournful.
“Hal,” said Simon though, “what’s the time?”
“Twenty past eleven, Pa. Precisely. I wound it this morning.”
“Well, I think I’ll take your mother for a walk.”
“Watch Marcus, children,” said Charlotte, looking lovingly at the cot, as she gave the others a warning glance.
The adults got up and went upstairs, as Spike leant into the cot and gave the baby a big wet kiss on his tiny nose.
“That’s for being an honory Pimple,” the little girl whispered lovingly. “You look a bit like Granny’s mother, Marcus, Madame Guilteen’s ma. Though they’ve both gone now. Ghostied.”
Suddenly a dark shape jumped onto the cot and Malfort the cat’s eyes glittered.
Spike glanced at the magic Nometer but lifted the pendant she had given her.
“It’s not a big pile of Huguenot gold, Marcus, but it’s better than nothing.”
“And I wish we did have a big pile of gold, Nel,” said Hal, wondering where the summer had gone to. “Then we might really be able to do something important. To create a league of daring Pimpernels everywhere. You saw those children they were executing. But in all that we’ve done, it seems to take so much money.”
The others nodded, thinking of that Money Order for Fifty Thousand Francs, but Spike had just decided to seek for the treasure down William Wickham’s well.
“Use the Nometer to get some, H,” she whispered though. “Just turn the dial to the Chest. It’s magic.”
The others smiled indulgently.
“But don’t you see, Spike,” said Henry softly, “We did this, all on our own. That’s what people can do, if they really decide to.”
“You’ll see, ninnee,” said the little girl.
“We will miss you, Hal,” said Juliette softly, “While you’re away at school.”
Henry almost blushed and held his nose, as Spike raised here eyebrows.
“We won’t be far, Juliette,” said Hal, “and you can come and visit, in London. Now you’re both Pimpernels too. We’re all sworn on the watch.”
“I wonder what the others will say though,” said Francis.
“They’d never believe us,” said Hal, with a sigh, “And besides, we can’t tell anyone, F. But at least I’m never going to be a stupid vintner.”
The doorbell rang and Simon, just leading his wife out into the gentle September air, answered it, as they all heard a familiar voice.
“Simon, man, I were wondering if I might talk to yer children.”
Henry almost opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it.
“They’re in there, Mr Wickham, Sir,” he heard his father say and the burly Yorkshire man strode into the room, as Simon and Charlotte went outside.
“You’re all well, and recovered, I see,” cried the adult, looking at Juliette rather guiltily, “but off back to London tomorra, I hear? Cholera’s over too.”
Hal, Spike and Francis Simpkins nodded and William Wickham noticed the object around Hal’s neck, with a sudden pang.
“My watch,” he whispered, and this time the spy almost blushed, “well, you must keep it, course, lad. T’was a Birthday present, after all. Though my father’s.”
Wickham gave a longing sigh.
“And it’s Switzerland for me,” he cried, “so no more plots, eh? But I’ve come to ask you all again. The identity of the leader of the Gloved Hand, you swear you do not …?”
“NO,” the Pimpernels all answered at once, though thinking of the Earl.
“And safer that ye don’t,” said Wickham, with relief, “if Couchonet or them Frenchies, forgive me Count, French, ever thought that you did, then your lives might be in very grave danger indeed, with the war.”
The Pimpernel Club looked far more animated than they had done at tea, but Hal was thinking not of Charles Couchonet, but his horrid nephew Alceste, and how much he’d like to outwit the nasty Little Spider again.
“And you must all give me yer words to forget everything you ever knew of The League. Other lives may depend on it. Adult lives. I have it?”
“Our words of honour,” said Henry Bonespair, very coldly indeed.
“What’s really happening in France though, Mr Wickham?” asked Francis suddenly and the secret agent’s eyes grew grave.
“It’s bad, Snipkins. A true Dictatorship now, and Terror everywhere. They say executions don’t stop, day n night. Sanson’s arm is seizing up and they have to douse the traces of the Guillotine, to stop her catching alight.”
William Wickham looked at them all sharply.
“But never again are yer to do anything so foolish as to go…”
“No,” said Henry, and he glanced at the others, “never again.”
“We’ve got our own club, anyway, ninnee,” said Spike, “and it’s far better than your stupid gloved League, or any silly Scarley Pimple either.”
The others looked at her in horror, but little Spike glared at Wickham.
“The Rat Catchers,” whispered Nellie, with a grin at the grown up. Just then Henry Bonespair thought he heard a familiar voice, coming from inside the Grandmother cl
ock and making it wobble: Garimondo’s voice.
“Is Time, Bonespair, Time. And the clock’s still ticking.”
THE END
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Fire Bringer by David Clement-Davies
1 - Birth and Prophecy
‘When the Lore is bruised and broken, Shattered like a blasted tree, Then shall Herne be justly woken, Born to set the Herla free.’ Herla Prophecy
A lone red deer was grazing across the glen swaying through the deep tangle of heather which covered the hillside. The stag’s coat glinted russet and gold in the dying sunlight slanting down the valley and on its head a pair of ragged antlers reared into the sky, like coral or the branches of a winter oak.
The stag was a royal with twelve spikes, or tines, on its proud head and its antlers marked it out instantly as an animal of power and distinction. The antlers’ beams were covered in summer velvet, the downy grey coating that lines new antlers as they grow. From their base, the two sharp brow tines flayed out like curved daggers. Above them the bez tines were slightly smaller and, further up the beams, the trez tines rose larger again, before the antlers flowered into their high cups.
The stag’s fur was already thick but this could not hide a series of cuts and wounds on its sides and haunches, the marks of innumerable battles, and a livid scar that ran from the bottom of its neck clear to the base of its spine. The deer was not an unusual sight in the glen, for although this was long ago, in the days when the Great Land was still known to many men as Scotia, red deer were as plentiful then as they are in our own time. But it was unusual to see such a magnificent animal and such a splendid head of antlers.
Suddenly the stag flinched and swung its head towards the beech wood on the edge of the western slope. Its ears pressed forward, its muscles tensed and its nostrils began to flare, sending out wreaths of vapour that hung in the air. The stag’s huge eyes pierced the thickening twilight, casting restlessly along the shadow of the trees. But the scent it had caught on the breeze was lost and the deer’s head returned to its mossy pasture, nosing through the undergrowth, rooting out the juiciest of the summer stems.