The Terror Time Spies (47 page)

“I’ll have to ask my pa,” said the seven year old, furious that this silly Boffin had been so rude about magic, and not understanding in the slightest.   

Garimondo smiled indulgently though.

 “I humbly submit Bambini, that you can’t,” said the celestial Italian lawyer softly.  “Ask your papa, I mean.  And you cannot have representation either, unless you
want
it.  It’s against the laws.”

“But why?” said Nellie, “I can do anything I…”

“No, Eleanor.  You will remember nothing of the other worlds, in your own world, because your thoughts are moving so fast now, it is all happening in the blink of an eye, that you will not even register back
there.”

“We’re in the Cloudburst,” insisted Spilling, with a kindly, feminine smile, looking around the weird, shining cloudburst, “The revolutionary historic maelstrom.  The atmospheric interface of worlds too, and so in a sense the waiting room of the Special Tribunal, where only those who have really touched the Chronometer have some access to legal counsel, and the best advocates.”

Boffin looked rather sceptical.

“But this will be over soon,” said Garimondo, “and so you will only recall what you see of us in
your
reality. And that you will have to work out for yourselves, still, when you’re back again.”

The Pimples were scratching their heads.

“It’s against the Laws to know of the worlds
at the same time
,” squeaked Boffin ominously, “not to mention extremely dangerous.  Look at Howling Harrison.  It’s the most heinous crime to speak of those to non Pimples too. 
They
never believe, and always forget too, as non Pimples just get rusty.”

“But I saw you there, silly,” said Spike.  “In Paris.  And now here too.”

“Ah yes, Miss Eleanor,” said Spilling rather sternly.  “But there you’re sworn to secrecy, by the rules of your own Club. Besides, they were just visions to you there.”

“But why?” cried Henry desperately.  “What’s going on?”

“
You are
, Henry Bonespair,” answered Spilling, smiling at the boy, “since, when something’s been set in motion, it has its natural path, and so we will see if you are innocent, or indeed if anyone is.  And your Godfather wanted to help, while we think that the Great Judge is trying to understand the mechanism again, now its got so very complicated.  Although he’s only First among the Twelve.”

“Mechanism?” said Henry Bonespair indignantly, “I’m not a mechanism.”

“And whether you’re due for acquittal,” interrupted Garimondo, rather gravely.  “One day.  But that’s rather far ahead in the future, boy.  The problem of evil concerns us too though,” added Garimondo, with a scowl. “
Eternally. 
The Black Barrister’s on the case as well, of course.”

“Black Barrister,” gulped Juliette, thinking of the trial at the Champs de Mars, and Charles Peperan Couchonet, not liking the sound of it in the slightest.

“And they used to call
him
the…”

“SILENCE, Spilling,” snapped Garimondo furiously. “That’s confidential.”

“Is he a KC, or QC nowadays?” asked Boffin, looking rather too eager.  “The Black Barrister.  King or Queen’s Counsel?”

“HE’s beyond such primitive stuff,” said Garimondo.  “Besides, both the King and the Queen have been removed now, Boffin.  There, anyway.  Or will be.”

“Marie Antoinette,” cried Henry suddenly, “then in the fire, I
did
see her death?  The Queen’s.”

The other Pimples looked at him sharply.

“I’m afraid so,” answered Garimondo sadly, “soon, though we argued very eloquently for her.  Spilling’s a firebrand at defence litigation.  But the Black Barrister was just too convincing, in the end.  A bit intimidating too.”

Boffin looked rather jealous and fumbled with his brief case on the floating platform.

“The future,” said Henry though, “I’ve told the future too.  Seen it.”

Hal remembered his strange prophecy in the hallway.

“Oh yes, Hal.  You want to again?” asked Garimondo.

“What do you mean, Sir?” said Henry nervously.

“Just a glimpse, lad.  Hold the special watch up, turn the dial to the eye and think of something that happened.”

Henry did so, thinking of when they had first read the inscription on the Dover Road, the milestone. 

The Club all gasped, as a kind of window appeared in the cloud, in the shape of an eye, and they saw a straight, long road.  But it was far wider than the earth road they had taken, and along it, at horrifying speed, moved strange metal machines like large, upended Guillotines, with lights on and the noise was horrible. 

The terrible vision vanished again, as the eye seemed to close and disappear.

 “The Black Barrister,” gasped Henry though, lowering the Time machine again, “But I saw him in the channel storm, Garimondo.  His face was glaring at me.  It was horrible.  In Paris too, when Roubechon’s was burning.”

“Saw him!” cried Garimondo, in absolute horror, and all three advocates looked at each other very nervously indeed now, “but
he
never puts in a direct appearance
there.”

“Watch for the Black Barrister though, Pimpernels,” said Spilling.  “And the really very bad.  It isn’t nice at all.”

“So be careful too, if you ever come
back
,” said Garimondo.

“Back?” said Henry nervously.

“To Paris.  You’re going to fight on, aren’t you? All those poor Pimples, in such danger, high and low.  Not to mention the Pimples of the future.  We believe them to be in very gravest danger too now, with all the terror about.”

The Pimpernel Club looked rather reluctant, as if asking why.

“I’m never getting on another ship again,” groaned Francis Simpkins.  “Besides, it all takes so much time.  How will I ever study anything properly?”

“Ah yes, but maybe there are other ways to travel,” said Garimondo.  “or will be.  Quicker routes, lad, or better special adventure equipment.  Influenced by the future, now that you have that watch.”

“I heard of plans for a new tunnel, Professor,” said Spilling, “Between France and England.  A Channel Tunnel.  Perhaps the Yesmeter can reveal a special one now instead, far ahead of time, for
them
to use more quickly here.”

“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: