Shadows of the Silver Screen (16 page)

Every face in the room was turned towards hers, awaiting her reply. When Penny looked up, her pale green eyes were set in a resolute stare. There was only one thing they could do.

“I think a trip to the theatre is in order,” she said, tossing her hair back decisively. “It is time for Montgomery Flinch to take back his story.”

XXV

 

Standing at the end of the long line of dignitaries, Monty shifted uncomfortably in his tail coat and trousers. His hastily knotted bow tie sat crookedly amidst the winged collars of his stiff white shirt, whilst his ordinarily florid complexion had taken on a rather paler shade.

“I cannot continue with this charade any longer,” he hissed, a bead of sweat trickling down his troubled brow. “I have played the part of Montgomery Flinch in every circumstance you have asked of me, but lying to the Prince of Wales himself – that’s treason!”

Standing next to him, Wigram placed a warning hand upon the actor’s arm.

“It would be treason to allow this show to go on,” he said. “If what Jacques Le Prince claims is true, then even the prince himself could fall prey to these supernatural spectres. Just remember what Penelope said. We have to persuade Edward Gold to abandon the premiere before it is too late.”

Monty’s eyes darted nervously along the line. The filmmaker was already escorting the Prince of Wales across the red carpet, introducing each of the waiting guests to him in turn. Beneath the bright lights of the foyer of the Theatre Royal, a panoply of stars were gathered, all of them eager to bask in the glow of the heir apparent. Actors and actresses, playwrights and poets, the great and the good of the West End stage bowed and curtsied as the prince passed along the line.

Next to the portly frame of the crown prince, Edward Gold’s pale figure appeared gaunter than ever. As the two men neared the end of the line, the filmmaker’s fingers twitched, already eager to turn the winding handle and crank the Véritéscope into life. His dark eyes swept over Wigram and Monty as the Prince of Wales came to a halt in front of them both.

“Your Royal Highness, may I introduce…”

His voice trailed away as his gaze reached Monty’s face. A flash of surprise crossed Gold’s features and for a moment he stood there frozen, staring at Montgomery Flinch with a barely concealed fury.

“Ahem,” the Prince of Wales coughed to clear his throat. “You were saying, Mr Gold?”

Recovering himself, the filmmaker forced his frown into a tight-lipped smile.

“Your Royal Highness, may I introduce you to Mr Montgomery Flinch – the author of
The Daughter of Darkness
.”

As Monty bowed his head, the bald, bearded figure of the Prince of Wales stared back at him with a gleam in his blue-grey eyes.

“Montgomery Flinch, eh?” the prince declared, his voice suddenly booming across the foyer. “So you’re the fellow who has half of my staff at Sandringham jumping out of their skin whenever they read
The Penny Dreadful
.” He leaned towards Monty with a conspiratorial air. “I must admit, Mr Flinch, that I much prefer to read the horse-racing pages of the
Sporting Life
rather than any of these so-called literary magazines, but that new story of yours has me gripped.”

Under his heavy lids, the prince’s gaze shone with an inquisitive gleam.

“You’ll have to tell me this though, how on earth will that chap Archibald escape from the creatures by the end of the tale? Those inhuman swine have him trapped with no way out.”

Behind the rictus of his smile, a distinct look of panic flickered across Monty’s features. In the haze of the days he’d spent holed up in his club, Monty hadn’t yet got round to reading the final instalment of Montgomery Flinch’s latest tale. The means by which Professor Archibald orchestrated his escape in
A Green
Dream of Death
was as much of a mystery to him as it was to the prince.

As Wigram looked on with an expression of concern, Monty scrabbled for the right answer to give.

“Your Royal Highness,” he stuttered, “I’m sure that you wouldn’t want me to spoil the hidden twist in my tale for you. After all, if you read the final instalment, you will surely spot the cunning trick Professor Archibald employs to make good his escape.”

Unused to being refused any request, the prince stared back at Monty with a look of surprise. His portly frame strained at the buttons of his jacket, the immaculate tailoring just about containing the royal paunch. Then, with a hearty roar of laughter, he clapped Monty on the shoulder.

“Read the final instalment, you say,” he chuckled. “I think, Mr Flinch, that you will be asking me next for a royal warrant of appointment for
The Penny Dreadful.”

With a relieved grin, Monty quickly nodded his head in reply.

“That would be most kind of you, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps, Mr Flinch, perhaps,” the prince replied with a sparkle in his eye. “If this cinematographic showing of your story lives up to the pages that I’ve read, then I’ll speak to the Lord Chamberlain on your behalf.”

“And as the show is now due to begin,” Gold cut in with an icy tone, “I really should escort you to the royal box, Your Highness.”

“Of course, of course,” the prince agreed, clapping his hands together with delight. “We must see this marvellous entertainment of yours.”

From behind the closed doors of the auditorium, the restive sounds of the audience waiting inside could be heard.

“This way please, Your Highness,” Gold said with a gesture towards the red-carpeted staircase that climbed from the foyer. But as the prince and his retinue stepped towards it, Wigram reached out to grasp hold of Gold’s arm.

“If we could just have a brief word first, Mr Gold,” he began, “there is a rather pressing matter that Mr Flinch wishes to discuss with you.”

Shaking Wigram’s hand from his sleeve, the filmmaker cast the elderly lawyer a contemptuous glance.

“You will have to be brief,” he replied curtly. “I have given the cinematograph operator strict instructions to commence the show at seven.”

Composing his features, he turned back to face the prince.

“If Your Highness would care to take your seat in the royal box,” he said. “I will join you before the curtain goes up.”

Raising his eyebrow at this unexpected breach of etiquette, the Prince of Wales took his leave with a grunt of farewell. As he bustled towards the stairs with his courtiers in tow, his gaze lingered admiringly on the pictures that lined the walls of the foyer, photographs of the famous actresses who had graced the theatre’s stage.

With the prince now out of earshot, Edward Gold rounded on Monty and Wigram with a snarl.

“How dare you!” he growled, his dark eyes blazing with anger. “You have no right to be here.”

While Monty quailed, Wigram calmly reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out an envelope. With a shake of his head, he placed this letter in the filmmaker’s hand.

“Mr Flinch has every right,” he replied. “He wrote the story of
The Daughter of Darkness
and, as this letter explains, he has now withdrawn his permission for you to exhibit your cinematographic adaptation with immediate effect. This premiere must be cancelled at once.”

Glancing down at the letter, Gold laughed out loud.

“The story of
The Daughter of Darkness
is
mine
. The contract that Montgomery Flinch signed was watertight – I made sure of that.” Ripping the envelope in two, he thrust the torn pieces back into the lawyer’s hand. “Now if you’re going to stay, I’d advise you to make your way to the stalls – the film is about to begin.”

Turning on his heel, Gold started for the stairs, but before he had even taken two steps, Monty had blocked his path.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” he said, his voice trembling with fear. “That infernal film of yours is too dangerous to be shown. You saw for yourself the demons it unleashed when we filmed that last scene at the mine. They were going to bury me alive!”

Gold nodded in reply, a macabre smile now creeping across his lips.

“It’s all part of the story,” he said. In the hollows of his face, Gold’s eyes glittered darkly. “And this story needs to be told.”

Pushing past Monty, Gold strode across the foyer. As the filmmaker reached the staircase, he bounded up the red carpet two steps at a time, heading for the grand circle, where the royal box was situated.

“It’s too late,” Monty moaned, turning to Wigram in despair.

But the lawyer’s gaze followed Gold through the shadows as he climbed the grand staircase. Beyond the royal box, the stairs twisted towards the upper circle and beyond this was the balcony, where long rows of seats perched beneath the gilded beams of the theatre ceiling. Thousands filled the auditorium, all eager to see this latest sensation of the age. As Gold disappeared from view, Wigram slowly shook his head.

“We can only hope that Penelope has more success in bringing this show to an end.”

XXVI

 

Beneath the glow of an array of glass and gilt chandeliers, an air of anticipation filled the auditorium; the buzz of conversation could even be heard from the street outside. Reaching up to the theatre’s cream-and-gold ceiling, a sweep of three tiers of seats faced the stage, their parapets festooned with gilded garlands of flowers and foliage. In these seats, the more respectable elements of the audience sat in expectation, whilst beneath them in the stalls, a huge mass of heads stared up at the vast white sheet that was stretched across the stage.

Flanking the grand proscenium arch, a number of private boxes peered down at this makeshift screen, the rich upholstery of their interiors providing a comfortable perch for the theatregoers seated within. Here was the cream of Victorian society: aristocrats, bankers and captains of industry, rich merchants and respected businessmen. From the splendour of their seats, they looked down on the heap of humanity below.

A sudden fanfare erupted from the orchestra pit and the audience rose to their feet as one, all eyes turned towards the royal box as the Prince of Wales took his place. Behind him, Edward Gold’s gaunt face could just be glimpsed, the filmmaker glancing impatiently at his watch as the national anthem played. It was seven o’clock. Showtime.

As the last strains of “God Save the Queen” faded away, the audience noisily retook their seats, impatient for the evening’s entertainment to begin. Then, as if in response to some secret signal, the chandeliers gradually dimmed. A sudden hush fell across the auditorium as from the darkness, a silvery beam shone from one of the boxes. Like a beacon, its light played across the stage, bathing the white sheet in a sepia glow.

This ghostly light gradually softened to form swirling patterns on the screen, the shapes shifting to reveal letters and words as the title of the film came into view.

As these words slowly disappeared, the image of a face filled the screen, dark locks of hair framing Penelope’s sad-eyed stare. Her gaze instantly pierced the hearts of everyone watching, the sorrow haunting her eyes shining more brightly than any chandelier. With its vivid colours, the pin-sharp picture seemed more real than any cinematograph show they had ever seen and, as Penelope began to speak, a shocked gasp rippled through the audience.

“My name is Amelia Eversholt,” she said, the amplified sound filling the theatre with her words. “And this is my story – a tragic tale of murder, betrayal and revenge.”

The gasps in the auditorium turned to cries of delight. The assembled audience watched astounded as Penelope began to recount her tale. In the royal box, the Prince of Wales leaned forward in his seat, listening intently as she described the workers slaving in the depths of Lord Eversholt’s mine where children were chained and harnessed like dogs, the crack of the whip driving them on. The prince’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the arm of his chair. He had never believed that such cruelty could exist.

In the darkness, Gold’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he gazed down at the stage. As Penelope stepped across the silver screen, he caught a glimpse of a shadow at the edge of the frame – the pale wisp of a figure that seemed to shimmer in and out of sight. Soon he would see Amelia’s face again.

Dressed in an olive-green evening gown, Penelope led Jacques and Alfie along the long theatre corridor. The soft glow of gas lamps set high on the walls illuminated a frieze of dancing figures, the painted panels edged with a decorative white border.

Ahead on the right, two footmen dressed in red livery stood guard outside the door of the royal box. In his borrowed suit, Alfie shifted uncomfortably beneath their suspicious gaze, whilst beside him, Jacques kept his head low. Fanning herself ostentatiously with their theatre tickets, Penny swept past the footmen with a flourish.

“I think our box is up ahead, gentlemen,” she called out. “I do hope we haven’t missed too much of the show.”

The corridor followed the curve of the auditorium, and as they hurried along it, the footmen were soon out of sight.

“From the stalls it appeared that the Véritéscope had been set up in the centre of the grand circle boxes,” said Penny, glancing back over her shoulder. “That should be the next door on the right.”

As they neared the door to the private box, Jacques met her gaze with an anxious stare.

“I only hope that we’re not too late.”

After the lights had gone out in the auditorium, it had taken them nearly half an hour to reach this spot. Slipping from the stalls, they had climbed the flights of the grand staircase, hurrying down passageways and corridors as they searched for the place where Gold had set the projector. Through the walls of the theatre, they could hear the crackle of amplified sound: rattling carts and the hiss of steam, faint snatches of dialogue, but there was no way of telling how far the film had run.

As Penny reached for the door handle, she felt a muzzy sensation steal over her mind. She clung to the door for support, her fingers pale as they gripped the handle. The dizziness was getting worse with every episode, her mind filling with shadows until the strange sensation passed.

“Penny, are you all right?” Alfie asked.

With shaking fingers, Penelope turned the door handle.

“I’m fine,” she replied, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. “Let’s bring the curtain down on this ghost show.”

She pushed the door open to reveal the plush interior of the chamber within. At the front of the box, a row of four seats were set behind the parapet on which a strange brass and mahogany case was fixed – the Véritéscope. The solitary figure of the cinematograph operator was seated beside it, his silhouette illuminated by the silvery light spilling out from the camera. This bright beam shone from the brass eye of its lens, the light fanning out across the auditorium and filling the stage with life.

Penelope’s eyes were drawn at once to the huge screen; the scene she could see eerily familiar. Through a swirling mist, she watched the figure of a girl gliding across the moor, her face half hidden in the darkness. Penny’s heart skipped a beat; the strange light-headedness that plagued her was growing stronger with every step the girl took. From the opposite direction, she saw James step into the frame as the lantern in his hand spilled its light across the screen. As this brightness shone, the camera’s lens slowly closed in until the girl’s shadowy face filled the screen. Penny stared into her eyes and saw Amelia staring back at her.

“Miss Tredwell!”

Penny felt a hand grab hold of her shoulder, roughly shaking her gaze from the screen. Jacques stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the stage. Peering over his spectacles, he flashed her a warning stare.

“Do not let the spirits catch your eye,” he hissed, “else they will steal what is left of your soul. We must destroy the film reel now.”

Trying to ignore the shadows creeping inside her mind, Penny slowly nodded her head. Shielding her eyes from the stage, she followed Jacques as he advanced towards the Véritéscope. Behind them, Alfie stood framed in the doorway, his gaze inexorably drawn towards the cinematograph screen. He watched as Amelia peered out into the darkness, the jet-black stone that hung from her neck glittering with an unearthly light. The same light that shone in the eyes of the watching audience – a light that now burned in Alfie’s gaze too.

Unaware of this, Penny and Jacques crept in front of the seats. The camera was fixed to the parapet, its mahogany case strapped into place with a complex arrangement of cords and ties. It would take far too long to untangle them all. On the side of the Véritéscope, the winding handle turned of its own accord – unspooling the story of
The Daughter of Darkness
one frame at a time.

Penny glanced past the camera to where the cinematograph operator was sat motionless, his gaze fixed to the screen. In the reflected light, Penny could see his strange glazed expression. He hadn’t even noticed that they were there.

Jacques unhooked the clasp holding the small door on the side of the Véritéscope shut. Pulling it open, he peered inside the camera’s interior, his face suddenly bathed in a silvery glow. An incandescent bulb shone brightly within, illuminating each frame of the film reel as it whirred past the lens.

On the screen the scene had shifted again. Monty’s face now filled the frame. As his voice rang out, a shiver ran down Penelope’s spine.

“Let me look at you, girl,” he growled, his amplified voice echoing around the theatre.

Without thinking, Penny began to turn towards the stage; the sound of his words a siren call drawing her gaze to the screen. At Monty’s shoulder she glimpsed the shadowy outline of another man’s face. Then the image froze on the screen, the frame flickering and then fading from view as the beam of light was broken.

Turning back, Penny saw Jacques hunched behind the camera, its winding handle now still.

“I just have to pull this free,” he grunted, struggling to release the film reel from where it was nestled amidst the spokes and tubes of the camera’s interior.

Penelope peered over the parapet as a low murmuring spread through the theatre, the audience’s voices raised in confusion. Then, from the corridor outside, came the sudden thunder of footsteps.

Gold burst into the box, pushing past Alfie as he stood there in a daze. The filmmaker’s gaze filled with rage as it fixed upon the figure still bent over the Véritéscope. Snatching up a bust of Shakespeare from the pedestal by the door, Gold vaulted over the seats with a snarl. As Jacques glanced up in surprise, Gold brought the Bard down on his head with a vicious crack.

Penny watched in horror as Jacques slumped to the floor, his eyes rolling senselessly back into his head. With a frightened cry, the projectionist fled from the room and, with a swift hand, Gold reached out to the camera and pushed the switch beneath its winder. As the handle began to turn once more, a stream of light sprang forth from the lens to play across the silver screen.

Gold turned towards Penelope, his mouth twisted into an ominous smile.

“So we have reached the final reel at last, Miss Tredwell.”