Shadows of the Silver Screen (14 page)

Jacques pushed his glasses back up his nose, staring at Wigram with an unsettling intensity.

“I learned all of this from Eddie himself, less than a year ago. When he saw the newspaper reports of Lord Eversholt’s passing, I heard him curse the man’s name, pouring out this tale of injustice, filled with a boiling rage that death had robbed him of the chance to take his revenge.”

“I still don’t see how this has anything to do with Montgomery Flinch,” Wigram replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Admittedly, there are some similarities with his tale of
The Daughter of Darkness
—”

“Don’t you realise?”Jacques interrupted. “The coincidences are uncanny – that must be why Eddie has chosen this tale. He wants to reveal to the world what a monster Lord Eversholt was, and by twisting Flinch’s story he can finally take his revenge. But that’s not all.” Behind his glasses, Jacques’s eyes blazed with a fierce conviction. “Using the power of the Véritéscope he told me he plans to bring Amelia back from the grave. The ghosts that Flinch writes of will be real when the camera rolls.”

XXII

 

The black jewel hung heavy on the velvet ribbon around Penny’s neck. Reaching up, her slender fingers nervously stroked the tear-shaped stone, before slipping it again beneath the ruffles of her gown, safely out of sight.

At the sound of a curse, Penelope turned to see Edward Gold hunched behind the Véritéscope, the small door on the side of the camera hanging open as he struggled to fit a fresh reel into place. As the film neared its finale, it seemed as though even the Véritéscope was reluctant to see how this story would end. The cinematograph reel slipped from Gold’s fingers, its casing landing with a clatter on the floor, and the filmmaker let fly another volley of curses.

Penny turned away with a faint sigh of relief. She could only hope that this latest delay might help her to escape the camera’s gaze for another night at least. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes as she stared into the shadows that lurked beneath the bookcases, her trembling fingers betraying her fear. Since she had seen Amelia’s ghostly figure step into this room only hours before, Penelope felt as though she was being stretched thin. She glanced down at her hand, the pale skin there almost translucent beneath the lamp light. What was happening to her?

With a sharp click, Penny heard the door of the Véritéscope shut and, glancing back, she saw Gold begin to turn its winding handle to prepare the film reel. As she watched this a peculiar
light-headedness
came over her and Penny reached out to the bookcase to steady herself as the shadow it cast lengthened around her.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Tredwell?”

As quickly as it had come, the dizziness passed and Penny looked up to see Gold staring at her impatiently, the winding handle of the Véritéscope now still.

“I think so,” she replied, with a faint tremor to her words. “Although, perhaps I could sit down for just a moment.”

Reluctantly, Gold nodded. Leaving his post by the camera, he hurried to offer Penny a helping hand, guiding her towards a nearby armchair. Once seated, she looked up at the director with an inquisitive gaze. In the bright glow of the gas lamps, Gold’s features seemed more careworn than when he had first stepped into the offices of
The Penny Dreadful
. His red-tinged whiskers were now peppered with grey but behind the lines, Penny could still glimpse the features of the young Edward Gold, the face she had seen staring out from the faded photograph, hidden in the dark recesses of Eversholt Manor.

She remembered the closing lines of the letter she had found in the same bundle as the photograph:
I only hope that it will be in my power one day to return to right this great wrong
. Was that what Gold was trying to do here? But what wrong did he wish to right? When she’d returned to the room to try to find out more, the bundle of papers had gone.

Unaware of Penelope’s deliberations, Gold glanced down at his watch.

“Are you quite recovered?” he asked, unable to hide his impatience.

Penny stared up at him, her face still pale and shook her head apologetically.

“If I could just rest a little while longer,” she replied, a faint quaver still lingering in her voice. “I think that the strain of the day has taken its toll at last. Perhaps we could delay the filming of this scene until the morning?”

His eyes narrowing as she spoke, Gold stared at Penny intently, the expression on his face transformed into a tight-lipped scowl. As the gas lamps flickered, his shadow quivered with a barely contained frustration.

“Fine,” he finally snapped. The filmmaker turned to leave, but before he could take a step Penelope fired at him the question that still plagued her.

“Could I just ask, Mr Gold, why did you choose to make a film of
The Daughter of Darkness
?”

The filmmaker turned back to face her, his haggard features wreathed in shadows.

“After all,” Penny continued, “Montgomery Flinch has penned many more celebrated stories. Why not a film of
The Dread Mare Rises
or
The Secret of the Withered Man
? What was it that drew you to this particular tale?”

Gold fixed Penelope with an unwavering stare.

“
The Daughter of Darkness
spoke to me,” he replied simply. “The tragedy that lies at the heart of this tale is a truth that must be told. Somehow through his pen, your uncle has breathed new life into the faded memories of the past. I will not let them be forgotten again.”

As Gold spoke, Penny caught a glimpse of the pain that lurked behind his gaze. She recalled his words to her when they had first arrived at Eversholt Manor.
“There are other stories that lurk within these walls as well. Rest assured the changes I have made all add to the truth of this tale.”

“Besides,” he continued, a wry smile curling his lip as he glanced up at the portrait of Lord Eversholt on the wall, “the name of Montgomery Flinch opens many doors. I have your uncle to thank for this priceless opportunity.”

The filmmaker reached out a hand to help Penny from her seat, and as she leaned forward to accept it, the jet-black stone around her neck slipped into the light. Catching sight of it, Gold let out a sudden gasp.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, his hand now reaching for the ribbon around her neck.

Penny tried to move away as Gold’s fingers closed around the stone, pulling the ribbon more tightly around her throat as he bent forward to inspect it.

“Mr Gold, you’re hurting me,” she gasped.

Ignoring her protest, Gold stared at the jewel in his hand, his gaze as black as the gemstone itself.

“Tell me!” he demanded. “Where has it come from?”

Inside her mind, Penny saw Amelia’s face emerging from darkness, silver strands of mist still clinging to her shadow as she held the glittering jewel in her hand. She remembered her whispered words: “
I once gave you the gift of this stone. Now you are giving me the gift of life in return. I want to thank you, Edward
.”

Penny stared up into Gold’s face, his
dark-browed
features seething with a strange mixture of hope and despair. Somehow she knew she couldn’t tell him the truth.

“I found it,” she replied, finally twisting herself free from the filmmaker’s clutches. “It was in my room with the rest of Amelia’s costumes. I thought that you had left it for me there.” Her hand reached up to the velvet ribbon, feeling the chill of the tear-shaped stone beneath her fingers. “I didn’t realise that the sight of it would cause you such alarm.”

Penelope’s answer seemed to break the spell that Gold was under, the fire in his eyes beginning to fade as he met her gaze again.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “It just took me by surprise.” His gaunt features were haunted by the ghost of a smile. “Of course, you must wear this, Miss Tredwell, it is only fitting and right. Consider it my gift to you for bringing Amelia to life.”

Penelope blanched, the strange echo of Amelia’s words making her shiver.

“And now you should rest,” Gold continued, his gaze glinting as black as the Véritéscope’s lens. “For tomorrow we must return to the shadow of the mine where we will show how this story ends.”

XXIII

 

Resting his hand against the window frame, James Denham stared out across the desolate moor. Clouds shrouded the skyline and a drizzling mist was beginning to creep down the slopes of the valley. Noon was fast approaching, but the day seemed to have already turned its mind towards dusk as the sun remained a memory. James’s gaze followed the black beetle-like shape of a motor car as it climbed the winding track that led towards the distant mine. Behind the wheel, Edward Gold was transporting the Véritéscope to its final filming location.

The young actor’s shoulders gave a shudder as from the corridor the echoing sound of footsteps drew near. Monty’s face peered around the doorframe. His cheeks were flushed, but as he spied James’s figure standing before the bay window, a relieved smile lit up his face.

“There you are, Mr Denham!” Monty exclaimed, stepping into the salon with a fresh spring in his step. “So this is where you’ve been hiding. I have been looking everywhere for you. We must depart at once for the mine. Once this final scene is filmed, we can all leave this godforsaken place and get back to the bright lights of London at last.”

Monty rested his hand on the young actor’s shoulder and then recoiled in surprise as James turned to reveal the tears streaming down his face.

“Good grief, what on earth is the matter?”

In reply James slowly shook his head, unable to speak of the fear that lay within his heart. That morning he had watched Gold film the final argument between Amelia and her father, Lord Eversholt – the encounter where his character’s terrible fate would be sealed. As Monty and Penny delivered their lines, he had felt an icy hand rest on his shoulders and then heard the whisper of Amelia’s voice in his ear.

“Edward…”

With a yelp of alarm, James had almost jumped out of his skin, his panicked cry bringing the scene to an abrupt close. Turning from the Véritéscope, Gold had fixed him with a murderous glare.

“Get out!” he had snapped. “Get out!” But James hadn’t needed telling twice as he fled from the library and the shadows that lurked there. Now, as he met Monty’s worried gaze, he fumbled for the words to explain his fear.

“I don’t think I can carry on, Mr Flinch. This story of yours is haunting me. I must leave before it’s too late.”

Monty frowned. Without James, how could they film this final scene when the boy’s presence was demanded on every page of the script? The prospect of how this could delay his return to London filled Monty with dread. Thinking quickly, he threw a reassuring arm around James’s shoulder.

“Nonsense, my dear boy,” he said. “You’re just suffering from a touch of stage fright. It happens to the best of us.” Monty began to shepherd the young actor towards the door, eager to get him on set so that he could finally escape from this place. “You’ll feel differently once you’re in costume. Come now, best foot forward – the show must go on.”

With a curse, the driver twitched his whip across the backs of the horses’ necks, urging them on through the gathering mist. The carriage lurched forward again, slowly climbing the rutted track as it neared the summit and the stone cottages that lay in the shadow of the mine. From the carriage window, Penny stared out at the half-shrouded scene. Sat facing her, Monty leafed through the pages of his script, dressed in Lord Eversholt’s black frock coat.

Swirls of mist were still rolling in from the moor, their shadowy fingers clinging to the stone tower of the pumping works – a mocking reminder of the steam that once hissed from its chimney. But the mine itself lay in silence as, beyond the pithead, Penelope saw the ragged line of extras following the track that led to the chapel. Their heads bent against the drizzling rain, men, women and children alike were enacting a scene they had performed for real so many times. At the head of the line, four stout-shouldered men bore a single wooden coffin, its slender dimensions hinting at the youth of the body carried inside.

Penny shook her head, her sense of unease growing with every passing minute. The story of
The Daughter of Darkness
had reached its final page, where Oliver would rise from his grave to take his revenge on Lord Eversholt. But as Edward Gold stood waiting on the steps of the tiny chapel, his camera trained on the approaching mourners, Penny fervently wished that she had never written the tale.

As the mist flowed and eddied around the wooden crosses surrounding the chapel, the coffin-bearers picked a path towards a freshly dug grave. Sheltering there beneath an umbrella, ready for his resurrection from the dead, James waited. His face was caked in make-up that gave his skin a deathly pallor, a pale blue rim running around his mouth and his eyes, whilst his gaze searched the gathering mist.

With a nervous whinny, the horses were reined to a standstill, the carriage lurching to a halt some twenty feet from the grave. Monty glanced up in surprise.

“Are we here?”

Hidden beneath the folds of her black shawl, Penny clasped the jet-black stone tight. She slowly nodded her head, trying not to betray the fear running through her veins.

From his vantage point, Gold lifted his gaze from the viewfinder, carefully checking that everyone was in position before he turned the handle to roll the film for the final time. The bark of his voice cut through the mist, a single word that sent a shiver of electricity through everyone who heard it.

“Action!”

Pushing past Penelope, Monty reached for the door with a sigh.

“Once more unto the breach,” he muttered, “and then we can get out of this blasted place at last.”

Monty flung open the door and, as the mists swirled around him, he climbed down from the carriage, snatching the whip from the hand of the driver as he went. Raising his arm, he gave it an experimental snap and, in reply, the horses shied skittishly away. A devilish grin spread across Monty’s features. He may as well send the old villain off in style. Stepping forward, he surveyed the huddled band of mourners now gathered around the open grave.

The coffin was being lowered into the pit, the bearers’ hands braced against the straps as it slowly disappeared from sight. Ignoring this and all conventions of common decency, Monty didn’t break his stride, swishing the riding crop in front of him as he stepped through the swirling mist.

“Get back to work,” he snarled, “else I’ll take my whip to the rest of you. That copper won’t mine itself!”

The sullen faces of the extras turned towards him, a glowering hatred hidden behind every pair of eyes. They remembered all too well Lord Eversholt’s cruelty, forgetting for this moment that it was Monty standing there in his stead. As the rain fell like tears across the graveyard, Monty raised his arm with a growl, the whip flashing back, ready to strike.

This was Penelope’s cue. Leaning forward, she reached for the carriage door, but then fell back in her seat as a sudden dizziness stole over her again. Her mind reeled, gripped by panic as this strange sensation seized her. Through fluttering lids, she saw the carriage fill with shadows, the ghostly figure of Amelia Eversholt looming before her in the gloom.

Soft curls of hair framed her deathly pale features, the girl wearing the same grey gown as when Penny had first glimpsed her in the shadows of Eversholt Manor, somehow more real now than ever before. With a spectral hand, Amelia reached out towards Penelope, her ashen fingers stealing towards the jet-black stone.

“Thank you,” she breathed as she lifted it from Penny’s grasp. “It’s time for
you
to sleep now.”

Penelope tried to speak, but no words came; her limbs seemed heavy and lifeless as she sat there in a daze. Powerless, she watched as Amelia turned to step down from the carriage; the ghostly figure taking her place at last. As the mists swirled around her, Amelia walked towards the open grave, gliding past Monty as if he wasn’t even there.

“I have returned,” she said, as the figures huddled around the grave watched her through fearful eyes. “You have all suffered at my father’s hands, but now it is time to put right the wrong that was done.” In her right hand she held up the obsidian stone, the jewel shimmering with an unearthly light. Amelia’s eyes glittered darkly and, when she spoke again, her words came out in a hiss. “Let us take our revenge at last.”

With a sweeping gesture, Amelia cast the stone into the open grave.

For a second there was silence, the only sound that could be heard the distant whirr of the Véritéscope. Then a pale hand thrust its way free from the grave and James’s ghostly features rose to greet them, the boy shaking the earth from his shoulders as he climbed out of the open pit.

“It can’t be,” Monty cried in mock-surprise, little realising that it wasn’t Penelope who had summoned this counterfeit ghost. “You’re dead, I tell you, dead! I heard your neck break when I pushed you down the pit.”

James’s gaze burned with an unearthly light as, clutching the stone, he moved towards Monty with a relentless tread. Letting out a low whimper, Monty scrambled backwards, trying to reach the sanctuary of the carriage, his long frock coat trailing in the mud.

From his vantage point on the chapel steps, Gold still turned the winding handle, his eye fixed to the camera’s viewfinder. The noise of the Véritéscope seemed to be growing louder with every passing second; wisps of what looked like smoke were seeping from the corners of its casing. The camera’s whirr was turning into a whine – a strange humming sound that filled the air as it reshaped reality around them.

From the graveside, the huddling mourners had fallen into step behind James – an avenging Pied Piper at the head of his horde. All around him, the faces of men, women and children alike shone with the same hatred; the strange power of the Véritéscope twisting their minds to unleash their true desires at last. Long memories of brutish lifetimes spent toiling down the copper mines, slaving to fill Lord Eversholt’s pockets, came back to them. Now was their chance for revenge.

Still frozen in her seat, Penny watched as Monty tried to scramble up the steps of the carriage. It was as though she was looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope, the world outside slowly shrinking from view as shadows filled her mind. Just before arms reached up to drag him back, Monty caught a glimpse of her face framed in the window. In confusion, he glanced back at Amelia’s ghostly grey silhouette.

“Wait!” he cried out. “Who are you?”

Hoisting his struggling body between them, the muddied tails of his frock coat twisting in the wind, the four coffin-bearers turned with a lumbering gait to follow James, the pale figure of the boy already picking his path back to the grave he had risen from. As the rain flattened her raven curls, Amelia turned to watch this macabre procession, a malevolent grin splitting her shadowy features.

“Unhand me!” Monty cried with real fear in his voice. “Let me go!”

The ragged crowd swarmed around him, hauling Monty towards the beckoning grave. Struggling wildly, his eyes darted across their faces, searching for the one person who could save him. As his spread-eagled form was hoisted over the empty pit, Monty let out a loud wail of terror.

“Penelope!”

Trapped inside her own mind, Penelope could only watch helplessly as the horrors of the tale came to life; the lines of the script leading inexorably towards the grisly end Gold had penned. She had to stop this somehow. Struggling to shake the strange lethargy that still clung to her limbs, Penny tried to stand; swaying for a moment on the carriage’s step before falling in a swoon. As Monty’s despairing cries rent the air, Penelope lay there slumped in the mud, her waxen features wreathed in shadows.

The villagers were crowded round the empty grave, Amelia’s spectral form standing at its head. Still struggling, Monty was pitched forward into the pit, the rain-sodden earth breaking his fall. He scrambled to his feet. Glancing around him, Monty’s eyes widened with fear as, in the darkness of the grave, he caught a glimpse of another shadowy form. Reaching up, he tried to pull himself free, his hands scrabbling against the side of the hole, but the ground just crumbled beneath his fingers.

“Help me!” he cried, his mud-smeared face staring up in despair.

A hideous whine filled the air as Amelia reached down to pick up a handful of earth, the dirt falling from her shadowy fingers as she scattered it into the grave with a sigh.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Following her lead, James and the others cast their own handfuls into the pit, the earth showering down on Monty as he cried out in anguish.

“Please, I beg of you – no!”

Then from the track came the clatter of horses’ hooves. As she lay in the shadow of the carriage, Penny saw a cart lurch to a halt at the roadside. Perched next to the driver, she caught a glimpse of her guardian, Mr Wigram, staring over his spectacles in surprise at the scene that greeted them.

Penny tried to lift her hand, but then stared in horror at her translucent fingers, the sky almost visible through her skin. “Help me,” she breathed, the whisper of her words lost on the wind.

From the back of the cart, Alfie swung himself to the ground. Scrambling through the thickening mist, he followed the sound of Monty’s voice, the fear he could hear driving him forward. Behind him, a second man had sprung down from the cart. Rain misted his spectacles and Jacques Le Prince peered through them with a look of consternation. As Alfie plunged into the throng of mourners, trying to battle his way to the graveside, Jacques darted in the opposite direction, heading for the steps of the chapel where Edward Gold stood.