“Only that journalist from the Gazette, he’s still digging around for tittle-tattle about Montgomery Flinch. It’s nothing that a warning letter to his editor won’t solve.”
Wigram’s forehead creased into its habitual frown, his hooded eyes narrowing as he watched Penelope start to draft her letter.
“I really don’t think you should rise to the provocations of the gutter press.” He sighed. “I did warn you that giving Montgomery Flinch a more public profile might draw some unwelcome attention.”
Penny looked up from her letter, her fountain pen poised in mid-flow above the paper.
“But we had to do something. Since we published Flinch’s first story in The Penny Dreadful, the other magazines have been scrambling to keep up with our sales – sending their authors on publicity tours, public readings, even signing sessions. We couldn’t risk the public forgetting about Montgomery Flinch.”
“I don’t think there’s any chance of that,” her guardian replied with a droll half-smile. “Have you seen the latest sales figures for the December editions?”
He pushed the ledger he had been studying across to Penny’s desk. Setting her letter to one side, she picked up the ledger, her eyes quickly scanning across the rows of titles and figures.
“Pearson’s Magazine – 200,000 copies sold to date, The Boy’s Own Paper – 250,000, The Strand – 350,000 – and that’s with the latest Conan Doyle story.” Penny paused, her eyes flashing in a double take across the page. “The Penny Dreadful – 750,000 copies. That’s three quarters of a million!”
“And there’s still ten days to go before Christmas,” Wigram replied. “When the sales from the provinces are added in, we could be looking at our first million-seller. We’ve gone to a seventeenth print run already.”
A disbelieving grin spread across Penny’s face, her green eyes sparkling with pleasure. The Penny Dreadful in a million homes! When she’d first taken over the magazine after her father’s death, her only wish had been to keep his memory alive in its pages, a tribute to his unfulfilled dreams of literary stardom. But ever since she’d taken on the pen name of Montgomery Flinch and started filling the pages of The Penny Dreadful with her stories, the magazine had become a bestseller. If only her father were still here to see what she’d done.
“Don’t you see,” she said triumphantly, all thoughts of Barrett’s prying flying out of her mind, “that shows that we were right. Montgomery Flinch’s first public appearance has pushed sales through the roof. If we can capitalise on this publicity for the next edition of The Penny Dreadful, then the sky’s the limit.”
Her guardian looked at Penelope doubtfully, lines of worry still creasing his forehead.
“Hmm,” he mused. “Just remember that all publicity isn’t necessarily good publicity.”
Behind them, the door handle rattled and Penelope spun round in her chair.
“I’ve told you, Mr Barrett, Montgomery Flinch is not here,” she yelled. “There will be no interviews today!”
The door slowly opened and two nervously blinking eyes topped by a scruffy mop of blond hair peered around the frame.
“Alfie!”
At Penelope’s relieved greeting, the lanky figure of the printer’s assistant emerged from behind the door frame.
“Morning, Penny, morning, Mr Wigram.”
Closing the door behind him with a click, Alfie stepped towards Penelope’s desk, brandishing a copy of The Times in his hand.
“I thought you’d want to see this,” he told her. “Monty’s made it into the papers.”
He laid out the newspaper on the desk in front of Penelope. Quickly turning past the first few pages, he pointed to a headline halfway down one of the dense columns of text on page five.
“Look.”
Penelope’s heart lurched in her chest as she saw the headline, but as she began to read her nerves slowly began to settle.
MASTER OF THE MACABRE FINALLY UNMASKED
At the Lyceum Theatre earlier this week, one of the rising stars of London’s literary scene finally made his first public appearance. Mr Montgomery Flinch cut a dashing figure as he took to the stage to give a reading of his very latest tale of terror before its exclusive publication in the December edition of The Penny Dreadful. Such was the excitement at this unprecedented event and so numerous was the throng assembled at the doors of the theatre that hundreds were turned away before the “reading” could commence. Mr Flinch’s astonishing rise to fame and his phenomenal success has convinced many of his literary genius, but until now the man himself has been an enigma. However, his performance on Tuesday evening confirmed his standing as potentially the greatest writer of his age.
Without the aid of artificial amplification, he held the huge auditorium spellbound as he recounted his Christmas chronicle of dread, contriving by the modulations of his voice and facial gesticulations to make the characters rise as phantoms before the imagination of his audience. Truly marvellous was the state of suspense created as Mr Flinch approached the final moments of his story of supernatural betrayal and revenge. So minutely, indeed, were the increasing fear and the gradual advance of death represented by mere force of voice and facial expression that at the close of his tale, several listeners fainted dead away. If this performance is the herald of others to come, Mr Montgomery Flinch will surely take his place in the coming century as one of the titans of English literature.
“Not bad, eh?” said Alfie, as Penelope looked up in amazement from the newspaper. “And the reviews in the rest of the papers all say the same. Monty’s reading has caused quite a stir – people can’t wait for the next performance. I reckon you could sell out another ten nights in London alone before the New Year.”
Penelope’s pale green eyes momentarily glittered at the thought of the sales yet more readings by Montgomery Flinch could bring, but then she winced as she remembered the whereabouts of her leading man. Since the incident at Bedlam, Monty had retreated to his club, drinking away his earnings and keeping a safe distance from Penelope’s anger at his cowardly conduct. She shook her head.
“No more performances this year,” she said flatly. “We still need to keep a sense of mystery around Montgomery Flinch.”
She folded the newspaper in two to hand it back to Alfie, trying to ignore the disappointment on his face, but as she did she noticed another news headline tucked away at the bottom of the page.
BETHLEM HOSPITAL CLOSED TO NEW PATIENTS
Penny’s hand froze in mid-air as she quickly read the brief report, the text of it only a single sentence long.
We understand that the Royal Bethlem Hospital has, by order of the Physician Superintendent, Dr Charles Morris, M.D., F.R.C.P., closed its doors to new admissions until further notice.
She’d tried to put the mysterious events at Bedlam out of her mind, throwing herself into her preparations for writing Montgomery Flinch’s next story for the January edition of The Penny Dreadful – a suitably sinister tale to greet the new century – but the baffling mystery hidden behind the doors of the asylum still gnawed away at her, and now seeing this headline she was determined to find the answer.
She stood up from her desk.
“I’m going out,” Penny told her guardian as she reached for her cloak hanging from the stand behind her.
Wigram looked up in surprise.
“And the new story?” he asked her, his gaze pointedly turning towards the pile of blank pages stacked beside her typewriter.
Drawing her cloak around her shoulders, Penelope swept her long hair back from her face. “I need to do some more research. In fact,” she said, turning towards Alfie, who was running his expert eye over the latest set of printer’s proofs on her desk, “I could do with some help with this, Alfie – if you could spare a few hours.”
Alfie grimaced at the thought of spending his half-day holiday holed up in some dusty library.
“I was thinking of going to see the Hotspurs at White Hart Lane this afternoon,” he replied, but
looking up from the proofs he saw a devil-may-care smile flash across Penny’s face – a look that held out the promise of adventure. He swiftly nodded his assent. “But I can go along to the football next week. I’ll come and help you.”
Oblivious to this secret exchange, Wigram shook his head in exasperation as the two of them turned towards the door.
“I’ll just hold the fort here then,” the elderly lawyer called after them in a withering tone. “The January edition of The Penny Dreadful is scheduled to go to press in less than two weeks. There are twenty pages of new fiction to commission, letters to edit, countless illustrations to check. And that’s before we even think about the advertising. This periodical won’t publish itself, you know.”
But his muttered litany of complaints were cut off in mid-flow as Penny and Alfie closed the front door behind them and hurried down the stone steps to the bustling street below.
“So where are we really going?” Alfie asked, as they pushed their way through the crowds. A hansom cab was clattering over the cobbles towards them and Penny flung out her hand to hail it. As the cabbie reined his horses to a halt in front of them, she turned to Alfie, her face flushed with excitement.
“Bedlam,” she replied with a grin.
VIII
“So you think this Jenkins character has something to do with what’s happening to all the patients in there then?”
Penny shook her head.
“I don’t know, but he knows something – I’m sure of it. There was fear in his eyes when we arrived in his office and Dr Morris told him that Monty and I wanted to see the Midnight Papers. He could hardly stop himself from twitching the whole time we were there. And when we discovered the patients’ writings had disappeared, I could tell there was something else that he was hiding. I’d have found out what it was, too, if Monty hadn’t given up the ghost on the search before we’d had the chance to get it started.”
Pinning up her long dark hair, Penny reached out and took the flat cap from Alfie’s hand. She pulled it down over her forehead, the low brim shielding her eyes in disguise.
“But we can put that right now.”
“And what about this brute of an orderly – Bradburn, was it?” Alfie asked, scratching his uncombed thatch of hair. “Where does he fit into the picture?”
Penny looked down at her hand at the place where her sleeve ended, the pale, slender strip of skin there marked with a harsh red line where Bradburn had viciously twisted her wrist.
“He didn’t want me hanging around to find out.”
From a short distance, there came the sound of voices and the two of them turned to peer through the hospital railings. A straggling line of workers was traipsing across the entrance court, leaving the grand columns of the portico behind them. Penelope saw the burly figure of Bradburn leading the way, his scarred face twisted into a cruel smile as he shared a joke with three more orderlies who flanked his steps. Twenty feet behind them, half-hidden amongst a stream of other grey-suited office staff, she glimpsed Jenkins’s jowly face, his eyes nervously darting from side to side as they neared the gates.
“It’s the end of the morning shift. They’re coming out.” Hanging back in the shadow of the asylum, Penny turned back to Alfie. “Remember what we agreed. I’ll follow Jenkins and you stick close to Bradburn. Find out where he goes, who he sees. Whatever you do, don’t let him catch you following him. He’s a nasty piece of work.”
“Don’t worry about me, Penny,” Alfie replied with a grin. “I’ll be like the great Sherlock Holmes tracking down the dastardly Professor Moriarty. He’ll never see me coming.”
Penny frowned.
“Professor Moriarty murdered Sherlock Holmes at the end of ‘The Adventure of the Final Problem’,” she reminded him sternly. “Just keep a safe distance and I’ll meet you back at The Penny Dreadful when we’re done.”
Glancing up, she saw the departing hospital workers filing out of the gates. Bradburn had stopped for a moment, a copy of The Sporting Life newspaper tucked under his arm. As the other three orderlies crowded around him, Penny strained her ears to catch their conversation.
“Come on, Bradburn,” said the youngest of his cronies, a spotty-faced fellow who didn’t look much older than Alfie himself, “let us into your secret. How do you keep on picking the right horses? That’s seven straight winners you’ve backed on the trot.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Bradburn sneered. “You’ll have to wait until I’ve got my own stable of horses racing at Ascot – maybe I’ll give you a couple of tips then.”
“That’s a good ’un – you owning a racehorse!” The young orderly’s pimply face creased in a grin. “That game’s fit for Lords and Ladies, not the likes of us.”
Penny saw Bradburn’s expression change in an instant, his scar whitening as his face flushed red with anger.
“You’ll see,” he snarled in reply. He shoved his way past the young orderly, who recoiled in fear. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my days clearing out bedpans in Bedlam like you fools will.”
Leaving his workmates behind, Bradburn stepped out into the traffic, shouting an angry curse in the direction of a dray-cart driver who frantically reined in his horses to avoid a collision. As Bradburn crossed the street in the direction of the Kennington Road, Alfie glanced across at Penny.
“Wish me luck,” he breathed as he set off in close pursuit.
Penny kept her eyes fixed on the gates of the hospital. From between their white pillars, she saw Jenkins emerge and quickly turn left, scurrying down the Lambeth Road. With the cap pulled low and her cloak wrapped around her, Penelope followed him, keeping to the shadows as she stalked Jenkins’s path.
A wintry western wind was blowing in from the river, bringing with it a fog that clung to the sides of the buildings, suddenly shrouding the street in shadows even though it was nearly midday. Passers-by were like grey ghosts shuffling through the smoky soot-stained air, reaching out to steady themselves as they stumbled half-blinded along the road. Penelope had to quicken her step to keep Jenkins in sight, dodging past the other pedestrians blocking her path as the clerk plunged onwards into the gloom.
They were nearing the Thames now, the hum and hiss of life on the river penetrating through the cloaking fog. Penny heard the clatter of loading barges, lost in the shadows of the embankment, their moorings creaking as ropes were pulled tight. Through the smoke and steam, she could just make out the indistinct shapes of steamboats with red and green eyes of fire plying the treacherous pathways of the great river, their shrill horns shaking the air.
Pushing her way through a loitering crowd clustered around a street trader hawking his wares out of a wheelbarrow, Penny fought to keep Jenkins in view. She ignored the thrusting hands of a young beggar clamouring for change as the fog rising from the river thickened around them, blocking her view to only inches ahead.
“Confound it,” Penny fumed, as shaking off the urchin she stumbled onwards, her hands scrabbling against the granite wall of the embankment for guidance. Then the wind shifted, and ahead of her in the gloom, she glimpsed Jenkins’s portly figure, his dark grey suit almost lost in the fog. He was heading across Lambeth Bridge.
Penny hurried forward, her footsteps clattering up the steep cobbled approach that led to the bridge. Its ugly iron framework squatted in the mud of the Thames, the wide spans of wire cables curving across the river wreathed in mist. Passing an abandoned toll booth, Penny hurried along the footway. Jenkins was some thirty paces ahead of her, his grey figure stepping like a phantom through the smoke and shadows. Penny quickened her step.
As they neared the far side of the bridge, a line of high chimneys rose out of the fog. Jets of smoke and steam spouted from the dark warehouses and factories, creating a scene that looked more like one of Flinch’s visions of Hell than the London Penelope knew. Pulling her cloak across her mouth to shield herself from the stench of industry, she followed Jenkins as he hurried across the cobbles towards the Horseferry Ro
ad.
At the corner of the street, an immense shipping advertisement covered the entire side of a building, its once bright colours now streaked with soot and dust. In his grey business suit Jenkins looked oddly out of place as he plunged into the crowd that thronged the square where the river met the road. Rough journeymen loaded carts with sacks and barrels, whilst dirty-faced boys played leapfrog over broken street posts. In the gutter, a half-naked tramp picked through the rubbish, flinching from the whip crack of a passing carriage. The filthy street was filled with every kind of squalor.
Penny hurried on, dogging Jenkins’s trail as he fled into the warren of steep streets, heading west. Where was the man going? Ahead of them a deadlock of carts had come to a sudden standstill as the load from one lay spilled across the cobbles. A curious gaggle of bystanders pressed noisily around the scene, drawn by the clash of wheels and hooves. As the two drivers exchanged threats, the clamour from the crowd rose at the promise of violence.
The pavement narrowed as Penny tried to elbow her way through the press. Stepping into the road, she winced as her boot slipped in the steaming ordure left by the horses. Her anger rising, she pushed her way through the crowd, just in time to see Jenkins disappearing through the doors of a dingy public house.
Penny looked up at the shabby sign hanging above its entrance – The Three Crowns – but from the dirt-encrusted windows and the two drunks slumped in the gutter outside, she could tell that this wasn’t an establishment favoured by the aristocracy.
She had to find out what business Jenkins had there. Pulling the cap further down over her face, she stepped towards the door of the tavern. Then she felt a hand grab at her shoulder and a voice whisper in her ear.
“Penny!”
She wheeled in surprise to see Alfie emerging from the shadows.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed. “I told you to follow Bradburn!”
“I did,” Alfie replied. “He’s inside the pub. I was going to follow him, but then I saw Jenkins arriving too.”
Twelve Minutes to Midnight Page 5
