Shadows of the Silver Screen (17 page)

XXVII

 

Gold stepped towards Penelope, his heavy-set frame silhouetted against the parapet as behind him on the vast screen, the scene shifted again. A swirling mist filled the frame, the shadows of crosses glimpsed in silhouette as a band of mourners gathered around an open grave. Four coffin bearers stood at each corner, their shoulders braced against the strain as they lowered a coffin into the grave.

Penelope shrank back in terror, stumbling as she reached the edge of the parapet. For a
split-second
, she felt herself sway into the empty air. As her mind reeled, the pit of the auditorium yawned beneath her, a thousand faces bathed in a spectral glow. But then, with a painful jerk, Penny was dragged back by the scruff of her neck, Gold’s vicelike grip twisting her head until it was pinned to the lip of the parapet.

As her eyes stung with tears, Penelope felt the sharp hiss of Gold’s voice in her ear.

“This is Amelia’s story,” he whispered, his words making Penny’s blood run cold. “Now watch as it begins again.”

Frozen in fear, Penny tried to close her eyes, but she couldn’t stop her gaze from returning to the screen. She watched as the dark figure of a man strode into the frame. Dressed in a black frock coat, Monty swished his whip before him as he walked towards the grave.

“Get back to work,” he snarled, “else I’ll take my whip to the rest of you.”

Larger than life, the sullen faces of the mourners turned to gaze out at the audience, an unearthly light shining behind every pair of eyes. The projection screen shimmered, the strange alchemy of light and sound holding the audience entranced.

With a snarl, Monty raised his arm high, the whip flashing across the screen. As Gold’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, Penelope felt herself slip forward towards the edge of the parapet. In a panic, she grabbed hold of the gilded beam, but she felt her fingers sink into the stuccowork. As she stared down at her hands, Penny could see they were starting to fade; the ghostly outline of her fingers only just clinging to life. She tried to cry out for help, but no sound came as, on the screen, the figure of a girl stepped through the mist.

“Amelia,” Gold murmured.

Unable to tear her eyes away, Penelope watched as the ghost of the girl cast a stone into the grave. Her face was wreathed in shadows, but as she lifted her eyes, Penny could see the darkness that lurked there. An expectant silence hung over the theatre, the audience waiting to bear witness to this final reckoning. As the whirring Véritéscope crackled with unseen electricity, Amelia stepped forward again, slipping through the shadows and out of the frame.

The audience gasped in amazement. The ghostly figure of the girl floated in front of the screen, her long grey gown shimmering in the silvery light. At the front of the stalls, the audience could see that Amelia was hovering above the stage; no sign of wires or rigging to create this illusion. The girl peered into the darkness of the auditorium, her gaze sweeping from the orchestra pit to the heights of the balcony as she searched for the spark of life she desired. Her eyes alighted on Penelope as she lay slumped across the parapet like a sacrificial lamb.

With a shiver of delight, Amelia began to rise. A murmur of astonishment rippled through the audience. From every corner of the theatre, a sea of faces turned to stare mesmerised, watching as her ghostly form climbed through the air. From the royal box, the Prince of Wales looked on in amazement.

“I cannot believe my eyes,” he murmured. “What kind of trickery is this?”

Her mind spinning, Penny watched as Amelia’s spirit drew closer. She could feel herself slowly ebbing away and knew that if the girl reached her, then the ghost would take what was left of her soul. Penelope struggled to break free, but Gold was too strong.

“The marvel of this machine,” he whispered, “to resurrect the dead and give life to this poor girl once more.”

Amelia hung suspended in the air. Her dark eyes glittered with a startling light, colour starting to creep across her deathly pale features once more. Meeting her gaze, Gold raised his arms high in exultation as the whisper of her words filled the auditorium.

“Thank you, Edward,” she sighed. Then, with a spectral hand, she reached out for Penelope’s soul.

Penny felt an icy chill rising up through her body as Amelia’s fingers crept towards her. A swirling blank vortex filled her mind, obliterating every sensation until the only thing that remained was the cold. And as soon as Amelia’s fingers reached her, Penelope knew that even this would be gone. Feeling Gold’s grip lift from her neck, she quickly rolled to her left, desperate to escape from this ghastly fate. Her mind whirled dizzily as she dived clear of Amelia’s despairing grasp.

On the screen, the film of
The Daughter of
Darkness
still played as a pale hand thrust its way out of the grave. Then the audience shrieked again in astonishment as the ghostly form of Lord Eversholt clambered free from the screen. Shadows clung to the dark shape of his frock coat, the silvery light from the Véritéscope falling across the villain’s face to reveal his vengeful features. Beneath pitch-dark eyebrows the spirit’s gaze raked the theatre, searching for the face of his daughter in the darkness. Then with a hiss he took flight, his spectral figure swooping over the heads of the audience as their shrieks quickly turned to terror.

“Amelia!”

The ghostly figure of the girl twisted in the air. At the sight of her father, she cried out in alarm. The theatre rang to the sound of screams as Lord Eversholt rose to the parapet, his shadow falling across Gold’s face as the filmmaker stepped back in fear.

“No!”

In the midst of this confusion, Penelope flung herself forward. She reached for the Véritéscope, the giddy whine of its motor twisting the shadows in her mind. The small door on the side of the camera hung open still, the film reel inside whirring wildly as its images played across the screen. Lying prone at her feet, Jacques Le Prince’s eyes flickered open, his pleading gaze telling her what she had to do.

Penelope plunged her hands into the camera’s innards, feeling her fingers melting between rubber tubes and strange frills as she seized hold of the spinning reel. With a grinding squeal, the image projected on the screen juddered to a halt, flickering into a half-life as she tried to wrestle the film free. The ghosts shimmered in the air. As the heat from the burning bulb scorched her hand, Penny gritted her teeth, straining with every ounce of strength that she had to bring the show to an end.

“How dare you!” With a hiss, icy fingers closed around her throat. “This machine is my salvation. I will not return to the shadows.”

Gasping for breath, Penny felt herself lifted from the floor. Her feet kicked against empty air as Amelia twisted her backwards, the ghostly girl dragging her with an unnatural strength towards the edge of the balcony. Her mind reeling, Penelope tightened her grip on the Véritéscope; her hold on the film reel inside the only thing keeping her from being flung over the edge. Then she heard the straps holding the camera in place start to snap and, as the Véritéscope swung round, she finally wrenched the reel of film free.

As Penny was pitched backwards, she saw the camera fall and, behind this, caught a glimpse of Amelia’s despairing face. With a howl of fury, the ghostly figure of the girl melted into the air, her shadow disappearing as she was sent back to the grave. Her wail echoed around the theatre. The spectre of Lord Eversholt disappeared too, joining his daughter in the darkness. As the camera hit the ground, the lens cracked and its light went out for good.

Slumping against the box seats, Penny looked up into the filmmaker’s face. Gold’s gaunt features were stretched in a grimace of pain as he stared into the space where Amelia had been. Then, with an agonised cry, he turned to flee. As Gold raced towards the door, a boot sneaked out from the shadows to trip him, sending the filmmaker sprawling.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Alfie said as he smartly sat down on Gold’s back, pinning him to the floor, “but I think that Mr Wigram has a new contract for you to sign, Mr Gold – one giving up all your rights to
The Daughter of Darkness
.”

Defeated, Gold sobbed as he buried his head in his hands. Next to Penny, Jacques had pulled himself to his feet, wincing slightly as he reached out a hand to help her up too. But from the darkness of the auditorium there came a rising tide of sound – a frightened clamour of voices slowly reaching a fever-pitch.

Peering over the edge of the parapet, Penny looked down at the audience massed beneath her. A panic-stricken throng of men, women and children were beginning to push their way to the exits. The vast screen that stretched across the stage was dark, but the terror it had spawned refused to be silenced.

Penny’s thoughts raced in fear. There were too many of them, all turning to escape at once. The house lights were still down. If the crowd in the stalls stampeded towards the aisles as those in the galleries fled for the stairs, the crush could be worse than the Victoria Hall disaster. Where was the theatre manager to calm this panicking mob? Then, from out of the darkness, a single spotlight illuminated the stage.

For a moment, the noise of the crowd quietened as every face turned towards the light. Dressed in a dark tail coat and trousers, a lone figure stepped across the stage, his face hidden in shadows until he finally reached the bright glow of the spotlight.

Beneath his bristling eyebrows, Monty blinked nervously, staring out at the sea of frightened faces. As their murmuring began to grow louder again, he raised his hand to gesture for calm.

“Your Royal Highness,” Monty began, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I must apologise for any alarm that my tale has caused you.

“Tonight, the shadows you have seen flicker across this silver screen were but ghosts of what might have been. A dark dream of the macabre: a sinister tale to chill the bones on a warm summer’s night. Do not shiver in fear, my friends, or let the phantoms you have seen trouble your thoughts as you sleep.”

Monty stepped forward to the edge of the stage. He peered out into the darkness to make sure that his words had been heard. Then with a gleam in the corner of his eye, Monty raised his hand high in the air. “Just remember that to banish the ghosts all you have to do is turn on the light.”

With a click of his fingers, the chandeliers hanging over the stage flooded the theatre with light. Hidden in the wings, Wigram feverishly flicked the electric light switches in response to Monty’s signal. Bathed in this brilliant glow, a deep sigh of relief swept through the theatre as the shadows were finally banished. Then the entire audience rose to its feet as one to acclaim Montgomery Flinch.

Penelope’s hands stung as she led the applause, the thunderous ovation threatening to lift the roof of the theatre. She looked down on Monty, the actor bowing deeply as he acknowledged the audience’s applause. As he straightened, he glanced up at the box and met Penny’s gaze with a triumphant grin.

Penny laughed. After everything that had happened, it appeared as though they had both got what they wanted in the end: Monty standing in the spotlight as the audience’s stamps and cheers rang out into the night.

XXVIII

 

Monty sat perched on the edge of Alfie’s desk, his face set in an expression of eager anticipation as the printer’s assistant leafed through the pages of the
Illustrated London News.

“Home news, obituaries, letters to the editor,” Alfie muttered, his eyes flicking across every column of print. “Ah, here we are, ‘Arts and Entertainment’.”

Alfie fell silent as his gaze ran down the page.

“Well?” Monty demanded, unable to endure the wait. “There must be some mention of the cinematograph show. It was a royal command performance after all!”

Glancing up from the pile of papers on her desk, Penelope raised an amused eyebrow. Since the one and only showing of
The Daughter of Darkness,
Monty had been desperate to read the notices, anxious to find out what the critics had made of his performance. Meeting Penny’s gaze with a grin, Alfie began to read the review aloud.

“At the Theatre Royal on Friday evening, the world caught its first glimpse of an exciting new development in cinematographic entertainment: the presentation of moving pictures perfectly synchronised with the speaking voice. Before an audience including His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, the hitherto little-known Alchemical Moving Picture Company demonstrated their production of
The Daughter of Darkness,
a macabre tale of murder and revenge by the celebrated author, Mr Montgomery Flinch. As well as penning the tale, Mr Flinch also took on a starring role in the production, but to this reviewer’s eyes his theatrical talents appeared to be somewhat limited, as his performance often lapsed into caricature. Some of the scenes were played with passion, and the picturesque locations presented with panache, but the most striking element of the evening’s entertainment came at the climax of the performance. Before the eyes of an astonished audience, the characters’ flickering figures appeared to step from the cinematograph screen, to float unencumbered in the air. Though this illusion was received with gasps of awe, such theatrical tricks seem more reminiscent of the magic lantern shows of old and I cannot believe they will create more than a passing fancy for today’s theatregoer. It is the opinion of this reviewer that Montgomery Flinch’s fictions are still best enjoyed on the page.”

Alfie glanced up from the newspaper with an apologetic grimace.

“That’s all it says.”

Still seated on the edge of his desk, Monty had turned a rather interesting shade of red.

“My theatrical talents appear to be somewhat limited?” he spluttered. “My performance lapses into caricature? How dare he!” Monty snatched the paper out of Alfie’s hands. “I’ve got a good mind to pay a visit to the offices of the
Illustrated London News
to set this fellow straight.”

From his desk at the back of the office, Wigram glanced up from his ledger with a warning look.

“Mr Maples, I would suggest that you don’t rise to the provocations of the press. Such behaviour would not befit Montgomery Flinch.”

Monty glowered in reply, whilst his grumbling continued under his breath.

Penelope sighed. It was time to tend to Monty’s pride again.

“I wouldn’t worry yourself, Monty,” she began. “After all, you have already proved the man a fool.”

Monty knitted his brow in a puzzled frown.

“What do you mean?”

“If your theatrical talents are really so limited,” she replied, “then how do you manage to make the world believe that you are actually Montgomery Flinch?”

At this, Monty’s eyes immediately brightened, a broad grin spreading across his face.

“By Jove, you’re right,” he declared. He cast the newspaper aside as he sprang to his feet. “I think that a drink is in order to celebrate!”

“And I think you will need a clear head tomorrow,” she reminded Monty sharply, “when you take your turn in the witness stand.”

Monty sank back down, deflating slightly as he contemplated the next day. Edward Gold was appearing before the magistrate, on trial for numerous counts of fraud, forgery and miscellaneous deception. Counterfeit contracts, obtaining goods without payment, the unpaid hire of a motor car – the list went on – but the star witness for the defence was Montgomery Flinch.

Penny had gone against her guardian’s sternest advice in convincing Monty to take the stand, but in some strange way she felt that they owed Edward Gold this favour. It had been her story that had inspired his twisted scheme and she couldn’t shake the memory of Gold’s tear-filled gaze as he stared into the space where Amelia had been. Besides, with the rights to
The Daughter of Darkness
back with
The Penny Dreadful
once more and the Véritéscope destroyed, she knew that he couldn’t do any more harm. They could afford to be magnanimous.

Penny’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her guardian’s voice.

“I meant to tell you, Penelope,” Wigram began, rustling through his in-tray to pick out a sepia postcard. “We received this telegram from Monsieur Le Prince this morning, sent from Southampton before his ship set sail for the United States. He wanted to thank us again for our generosity in paying for his fare and let us know that he has managed to track down his mother and brother at last.”

At this news, Penelope smiled. At least there was the prospect of one happy ending as a result of this strange adventure. Jacques had promised her that he would leave all thoughts of the Véritéscope behind. Start a new life with his family, away from the darkroom and the cinematograph.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“They are living in California,” Wigram replied. “A small village ten miles west of Los Angeles.” He peered down at the telegram again, squinting as he tried to decipher the name. “Somewhere called Hollywood.”