Shadows of the Silver Screen (12 page)

“What do you want?” he stuttered.

With ghostly fingers, Amelia reached up to the black ribbon tied around her neck and Penny noticed, for the first time, the jet-black stone that was threaded there. Shaped like a tear, its obsidian surface seemed to shimmer in the gloom.

“I once gave you the gift of this stone,” Amelia whispered as she stepped forward again, her feet seeming to glide across the floor. “Now you are giving me the gift of life in return. I want to thank you, Edward.”

Unfastening this simple necklace, she held it out towards James with a shadowy hand. In the dimness of the library the stone shone with an unearthly light.

From her position beside the Véritéscope, Penelope stared at it transfixed. She felt as though the room was spinning, the ghostly figure of the girl growing more real with every moment that passed. Her mind whirled, this peculiar
light-headedness
making her feel as though she was about to faint. Penny reached out for the camera to steady herself, her hand catching hold of the winding handle as from the corridor outside there came the sound of footsteps.

As a shadow fell across the doorway, Amelia let out a panicked cry. The hulking figure of a man loomed large in the gloom. Beneath bristling eyebrows, they caught a glimpse of the ghastly face of Lord Eversholt, his translucent features set in a snarl of rage.

Penelope felt herself falling into a swoon. As she slumped towards the floor, her fingers tightened around the camera’s winder, wrenching it to a standstill. With a groaning sound, the Véritéscope juddered to a halt and, with a gasp, Lord Eversholt and Amelia melted into the darkness, their shadowy forms disappearing as if by magic.

Slumped against the tripod, Penny shook her head; the strange dizziness slowly clearing as she stared at the empty space where Amelia Eversholt had stood.

“What the Devil’s going on here?”

Edward Gold rushed into the room, his features contorted with fury as he strode towards the camera, pulling Penelope to her feet with an angry cry.

“How dare you!”

Penny winced, the man’s grip around her wrist painfully strong. She cast a desperate glance past Gold’s shoulder, imploring James to come to her aid. But the young actor just stood there in silence, slowly shaking his head, looking for all the world as if he had just woken from a nightmare.

Gold twisted Penny’s wrist to drag her gaze back to his. The dark shadows beneath the director’s eyes gave his face a fiendish aspect.

“Where is she?” he hissed.

In her mind, Penny could still see the image of Amelia’s ghostly figure, the memory of this making her shudder, but before she could even try to answer the sound of another voice boomed across the room.

“Are you all right, Penelope?”

Penny glanced across to see Monty standing in the doorway, his brow furrowed as he took in the sight of Gold’s hand wrapped around her wrist. As Monty raised a questioning eyebrow, Gold released his grip, meeting Monty’s gaze with a stern-faced stare.

“I would appreciate it if you could remind your niece, Mr Flinch, that this equipment of mine is not some toy to be trifled with. The Véritéscope is a unique invention – a precision instrument – not the plaything of some giddy young girl.”

The filmmaker brushed past Penelope to attend to his invention, carefully inspecting the camera to ensure that it hadn’t been damaged in any way.

Normally Penny would have bristled at his barb, but out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a glint of light, some tiny object lying abandoned on the floor. Stealing forward, she reached down to pick it up, her fingers closing around a tear-shaped stone. As Gold fussed with his camera, Penny stared down at the stone with a growing sense of disbelief. The jet-black jewel was ice-cold to the touch, its glittering darkness slowly fading to a dull glow as she held it in her palm. This was the same stone that had hung round Amelia’s neck, somehow now made real.

“It is your good fortune, Miss Tredwell, that you appear to have avoided causing my invention any irrevocable harm.” The sound of Gold’s voice made Penny jump in alarm. “From now on I must insist that you stay in front of the camera.”

Hiding the stone in her hand, Penny reluctantly nodded her head in reply. But behind her green eyes, the realisation was growing that the mystery that lay here was darkening at every turn. With an air of disapproval, the filmmaker turned back towards Monty.

“Now, Mr Flinch,” he declared. “It is time for us to rehearse this morning’s action. There are only a handful of scenes left to be filmed. Soon, the story of
The Daughter of Darkness
will reach its rightful end.”

Penelope shivered at these words. She knew from the script the grisly coda Gold had penned for her tale; the final scene where Lord Eversholt would meet his comeuppance. Her blood ran cold at the thought of the horror still to come.

XIX

 

Alfie pushed the pile of proofs across his desk with a sigh, the thick wedge of pages covered with countless corrections for him to make. He’d be lucky to get away from the office before nightfall. Mr Wigram’s desk, with its empty chair, stared back at him reproachfully. Before he had set off for his meeting that morning, the elderly lawyer had instructed Alfie to make sure that all the printer’s proofs were checked by the end of the day.

“I think you have spent quite enough time at the library helping Penelope with her research,” Wigram had told him. “It’s time you got down to some real work. The deadline for the September edition is almost upon us.”

Alfie shook his head with a sigh. He couldn’t tell Mr Wigram that this research had involved him visiting half the fairs in London in search of Jacques Le Prince. From High Barnet to Britannia Fields, he’d searched in vain for any trace of the elusive Frenchman, asking stallholders and fairground hawkers if they had heard of Gold & Prince Pictures, but all to no avail. The case of the missing Frenchman remained unresolved.

Reluctantly he turned to the next pile of paper. His detective work would have to wait for another day. But as he bent his head to his task, there came the sound of a sharp knock at the door. Grateful for this distraction, Alfie leapt to his feet, pushing back his chair and hurrying to the door. As he opened it, he saw a primly dressed woman standing on the doorstep, the handle of her parasol raised high as she prepared to knock again.

On seeing Alfie’s face, the woman’s eyes lit up in recognition.

“Mr Albarn,” she declared in a tone almost as shrill as her expression. “Thank goodness you are here. I need to speak to you on a matter of grave urgency.”

Lowering her parasol, the woman brushed past Alfie as she entered the office, leaving him standing there perplexed. Closing the door behind her, Alfie turned with a frown as he tried to work out exactly who she was.

The woman was dressed in a checked walking suit, the wide lapels of her jacket cut in a style that had last been in fashion in the previous century, whilst the hemline of her skirt afforded the merest glimpse of a pair of slightly plump ankles. She was standing by Alfie’s desk, tapping the tip of her parasol impatiently against the floor as she waited to address him.

For a moment, Alfie was at a loss, unable to place her face.

“If I can I help you in any way, miss—”

“Miss Mottram,” the woman replied in as confident a squeak as she could muster. “I am – I mean to say, I
was
Mr Edward Gold’s secretary at the Alchemical Moving Picture Company. We met, Mr Albarn, when you returned Montgomery Flinch’s signed contract for the cinematographic adaptation of his story
The Daughter of Darkness.”

In an instant, Alfie remembered Miss Mottram’s face; her plain features lighting up with a squeal of delight as he had handed over the contract.

“Of course,” he replied, blushing slightly as he recalled too how Penny had told Miss Mottram that he was one of Montgomery Flinch’s legal advisers. “And what precisely brings you to
The Penny Dreadful
today? I trust all is well with Mr Gold’s production.”

The secretary fixed him with an anxious stare.

“Edward Gold has turned into a monster,” she replied, every word delivered in a hushed tone of fear. “And his invention threatens to do the same to Mr Flinch. That’s why I’ve come here today – to warn you of the dark shadows that this moving picture has cast and beg you to help bring it to an end.”

Alfie’s mouth fell open in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“Since he reached Eversholt Manor and started filming
The Daughter of Darkness
, Edward has been a man transformed,” Miss Mottram began. “His every kindness has turned to cruelty. I cannot tell you of the evil that haunts that place when he stands behind the Véritéscope to bring the story to life. It has even infected Montgomery Flinch himself – I have seen him strike out in a rage, reducing poor Miss Devey to tears.”

Alfie shook his head in disbelief.

“That’s impossible, Monty wouldn’t—”

He caught himself just in time, cutting off his own sentence before he said too much.

Miss Mottram cast him a curious glance.

“You seem to be on rather familiar terms with your employer,” she replied with a sniff, “but I know what I saw, Mr Albarn. Something wicked lies at the heart of Montgomery Flinch’s tale and, with his niece Penelope now playing the part of the prima donna, I fear that she will be the next to fall prey to its poison.”

Alfie stared back at her blankly.

“The prima what?”

“The leading lady,” Miss Mottram wailed, her patience finally snapping. “She has taken the role of Amelia Eversholt and is playing the part of the daughter of darkness herself.”

With this final revelation, Miss Mottram burst into tears. For a moment, Alfie stood there nonplussed, staring in consternation as the young woman’s shoulders heaved with every sob. Then he reached into his pocket to extract his handkerchief, offering it to her with a nervous hand. The once-white material was covered in a spiderweb of ink stains, but Miss Mottram accepted it without a second glance, blowing her nose with a mournful honk.

His mind racing, Alfie tried to piece together everything that she’d told him: Edward Gold turned into a monster by his own invention; Monty flying into a violent rage; and now this declaration that Penny had taken the lead role in the production. Alfie shook his head. He remembered Penelope’s scornful reaction to the picture show they had watched at the funfair. There was no way she’d have ended up starring in one.

Miss Mottram let out another snivelling sob. The woman was almost hysterical. Could he even believe a word that she said? He glanced across at Mr Wigram’s empty desk, wishing the elderly lawyer was here to listen to Miss Mottram’s evidence.

“I’m very sorry,” Alfie began as the former secretary’s sobs finally quietened to a low sniffle, “but how do I know that you’re telling me the truth? What proof do you have for these wild accusations?”

Miss Mottram stared back at him.

“It is of no consequence to me whether you believe me or not, Mr Albarn,” she replied in a trembling voice. “But if you care for Mr Flinch’s wellbeing and the safety of Miss Tredwell, I urge you to do everything in your power to bring an end to this film.”

This warning delivered, Miss Mottram turned and headed for the door. As she opened it, Alfie called out one final question.

“Then why are you telling me all this?”

Miss Mottram glanced back to reply, her
red-rimmed
eyes now filled with resentment.

“Revenge,” she said simply. “Edward has turned into a monster – more terrible even than any creature that Montgomery Flinch has ever penned. He has to be stopped.”

With that, the front door closed behind her with a slam, leaving Alfie standing there alone. He shivered, her words sending a chill down his spine. He thought back to Penny’s telegram with its cryptic warning:

Since then he hadn’t heard a thing from her and in his heart the fear grew that what Miss Mottram had told him was true.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly midday. Mr Wigram wasn’t due back in the office until late that afternoon, but if Penny was in danger he had no time to waste. He
had
to find the Frenchman and discover the secret that lay behind Gold’s camera.

Grabbing his jacket, Alfie hurried to the door. Locking it behind him, he hurried down the steps, racing to leave the shadows of the office behind. He only hoped he could find Jacques Le Prince before it was too late.

XX

 

Alfie weaved his way through a heaving sea of people, the thickening crowd pressing in from all sides. The excited babble of sound that filled the evening air seemed to be reaching a fever pitch; the candy-striped lights of the fair flickering into life as dusk descended and the day slipped away.

“A penny a ride for the thrill of your life!”

Ignoring the bellowed entreaties of the fairground hawkers, Alfie ducked through a gap in the crowd and headed down a side alley, its stalls showcasing some of the fair’s less savoury exhibits:

Susie the Snake Charmer, Professor Fenwick’s Flea Circus, the Wheel of Fortune
and
Jack Chadwick’s Boxing Booth.

A card-sharper dressed in a worn velveteen jacket sat hunched over a table, a lit cheroot hanging from his lip.

“Fancy trying your luck, lad?” he called out to Alfie with a wink. “Find the lady and win yourself a half-crown.”

Shaking his head, Alfie hurried on. It had been an arduous journey that had brought him to this place, travelling halfway across London by omnibus, tram and underground train to reach Upper Green on the outskirts of the city just in time for the last night of the Mitcham Fair.

Back at
The Penny Dreadful
, Mr Wigram was probably cursing his name; the pile of unread proofs on Alfie’s desk getting higher with every hour that he wasted on this wild goose chase.

He peered at the stalls ahead with a frown. If he had to return to the office without finding Jacques Le Prince, there was no way that he’d be able to convince the elderly lawyer of the truth of Miss Mottram’s warning. Mr Wigram would probably think he had just taken a half-holiday and dock him a day’s wages for sure.

The noise of the fair seemed quieter here, its well-oiled patrons far fewer on the ground as these more remote attractions failed to live up to their billing.
Richardson’s Waxwork World of Wonders, Madame Xanadu Fortune-teller, Tales from the East – an Exotic Magic Lantern Show.
Then Alfie saw it: a shabby-looking booth at the far end of the row; its once brightly painted facade now peeling and tired, but the words above its door could still be read:

 

The 5 had been scored through and the number three crudely painted in its place – a desperate attempt to draw any passing trade inside.

Alfie’s chest swelled with pride. Sherlock Holmes himself – God rest his soul – would’ve been impressed by his detective work. In a city of more than six million people, it looked like he had managed to track Jacques Le Prince down. Now it was time to find out if he had any answers.

A makeshift curtain was drawn across the entrance to the booth, but as Alfie approached this he heard the sound of a sob emanating from the interior.

“I never thought I would see her again!”

Alfie jumped back in alarm as with an anguished cry, the curtain across the door was flung open. A distinguished-looking gentleman stepped out from the photographer’s booth, his silver hair and smartly clipped whiskers framing plump cheeks that were puffed out in an expression of wondrous disbelief. In his hand he clutched a large photograph and, as Alfie glanced down at it, he saw the man’s face staring back at him in black and white, but with the figure of a woman standing beside him.

Her expression was shrouded in shadows, her eyes meeting the camera’s gaze with a
coal-black
stare. Below the frosty rime of her hairline, the woman’s face seemed to have an ethereal appearance, her skin almost translucent. Alfie shivered as he glanced up from this ghostly image to see the man’s eyes stained with tears.

“There is another world,” he breathed, clutching the portrait to his chest. “Beyond this vale of tears. And now that I know that my beloved Alice is waiting for me there, I can live my life in peace until we are together again.”

Wiping a tear from his eye, the man turned away, heading back towards the heart of the fair. With a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach, Alfie pulled back the curtain left dangling across the entrance and peered inside.

The booth was lit by two arc lamps, stationed at either side of a grubby white sheet that hung across the far wall: the missing bed linen from number 5 Leicester House discovered at last. In front of this sheet, a straight-backed chair stood ready for the next sitter, whilst across from the chair the figure of a man crouched behind a camera tripod. His glasses were perched halfway down his nose as he peered into the camera’s interior. With an expert touch, he slid a roll of film out from the boxlike camera, placing it into the small canister that was open at his feet.

As Alfie stepped inside the booth, letting the curtain fall behind him with a swish, the man glanced in his direction.

“I will be with you in one moment,” Jacques Le Prince said. “I just have to prepare the camera to shoot the next
carte de visite
.”

Taking a small penknife out of his pocket, he scored open a fresh roll of film, carefully unspooling it as he threaded it into place inside the camera. With the film secured, he closed the door of the camera with a click and then rose to his feet to greet his new customer.

“Now,
monsieur
,” he began. “Who is it that you wish to see? A beloved parent perhaps or maybe a long-lost friend? I am afraid there is no way of telling which spirits the camera will capture.”

Jacques Le Prince held out his hand in greeting as Alfie emerged from the shadows, but then curled his fingers into a fist.

“You,” he hissed in disbelief. “
Le voleur!
”

Alfie shrank back in fear. The sight of the knife jutting from the photographer’s shirt pocket reminded him of their last encounter. But Penelope wasn’t here to help him now.

“Why do you still plague me?” Le Prince asked, advancing on Alfie with a snarl. “Hasn’t Eddie Gold stolen enough from me already? This is all I have left.”

“You don’t understand,” Alfie stuttered, desperately searching for the words that would quell the Frenchman’s fury. “I’m no thief. I’ve just come here to find out the truth about Edward Gold’s invention. What can you tell me about the Véritéscope?”

This question stopped Jacques Le Prince in his tracks. A momentary look of confusion crossed the photographer’s face, then his shoulders sagged as if the burden that he had been carrying had finally become too much for him.

“The Véritéscope is mine,” he replied, the gleam of anger in his eyes now dulled to a weary spark. “Eddie Gold stole it from me.”