The Terror Time Spies Read Online Free

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