Standing by her guardian’s side, Penny felt a frisson of pride. She had known as soon as she had put her pen to the page that the tale of The Thief Who Wasn’t There had the makings of a bestseller, but even she hadn’t foreseen what a sensation it would create. In the shadow of the King’s coronation, her story of an audacious plot to steal the Crown Jewels had captured the imagination of the nation. And with the character of the Black Crow, a criminal mastermind whose very identity was shrouded in mystery, she had created a fictional villain without equal.
With powers verging on the diabolical, the Black Crow had swept a swathe of villainy through the pages of The Penny Dreadful. A gentleman criminal, his features always hidden in the depths of his hooded disguise, the Black Crow could accomplish the impossible. Her story described how he had broken into the heart of the Tower of London, stealing past the soldiers guarding the jewels like a spectre in the night and then walking through walls to make good his escape. The reading public were enthralled by his villainous exploits and now waited with bated breath to see what cunning plot Montgomery Flinch would concoct for him next.
Her thoughts turning again to this very question, Penelope glanced across at Alfie. The printer’s assistant sat half hidden behind the stacks of letters piled high on his desk. Feeling Penny’s eyes upon him, Alfie looked up from the latest envelope he had opened, meeting her enquiring gaze with a weary shake of his head. There was still no sign of any further missives decorated with the sketch of a black crow.
Penny sighed. With the success of the story of The Thief Who Wasn’t There, she had expected the anonymous author of the letter that had inspired it to write in again to claim his prize. However, it appeared that the fevered imagination that had disguised his competition entry as a confession, even to the extent of ending his letter with a plea for help, was now, for some reason, reluctant to come forward. Penelope’s hopes of picking his brain for fresh inspiration were fading quickly. It looked like she would have to think up her own plot for the Black Crow’s next adventure.
The sound of a sharp knock at the door brought her thoughts back to the real world. She turned to see the office door swing open as Monty entered, brandishing a willow bat.
“Anyone for cricket?” he declared, stepping inside with a spring in his step. He was dressed from head to toe in his cricketing whites, a striped blazer flung over one shoulder. As Alfie rose from his seat in excitement, Monty tossed him his cricket bat.
“Give that a shine for me, will you, Alfie,” he asked with a smile. “I need this bat in tip-top condition if I’m going to turn out for Conan Doyle’s new team. He says that the great W. G. Grace is bringing along an eleven to face us. I catch the train for Esher in an hour.”
Alfie raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“I thought that Mr Doyle had said Montgomery Flinch’s game was more suited to the village pond than the village green after your pair of ducks in the match at Lord’s.”
Monty bristled as behind him Penelope tried to smother her smile.
“Arthur assures me that he was misquoted,” Monty replied, an indignant blush colouring his cheeks as he recalled the match report. “Besides,” he continued, turning now to face his employer, “he has made me a rather exciting offer that I believe will be to your liking, Penelope.”
Penny’s smile faded slightly.
“An offer?” she enquired.
Monty grinned.
“The chance to make literary history,” he replied. Draping his striped blazer on the coat stand, the actor eased himself into the chair behind Penelope’s desk. “Arthur has proposed to me that we collaborate on a new story pitting his creation against mine – Sherlock Holmes meets the Black Crow in the ultimate tale of mystery.” With a flourish, Monty perched his cricket shoes on the corner of Penny’s desk, then reached into his top pocket to draw out a cigar. “A capital idea, I thought.”
The swish of her long skirt followed Penelope as she strode across the office. As Monty fumbled for his matchbox, Penny plucked the cigar from his fingers, fixing the actor with an exasperated glare.
“But, Monty, how on earth can you collaborate with Arthur Conan Doyle when you haven’t written a single word of a story in your life? The only black crow I have ever seen you take an interest in is the one on the label of your whisky bottle. I trust you haven’t agreed to this preposterous proposal?”
Monty’s smile wavered.
“Ah, well, the thing is…”
“Oh, Monty!” Penny clapped her hand to her forehead. “How am I supposed to write Montgomery Flinch’s part of the story when you and Doyle are ensconced in the confines of your gentlemen’s club?”
“Details, details,” Monty replied, recovering his bluster with an airy wave of his hand. “I may have to share a few drinks with Arthur at the club as we work out the details of the plot, but when it comes to the serious business of writing then I’ll return here to the office and let you work your magic on the page.”
Penelope frowned, not fooled by Monty’s attempts at flattery.
“Just imagine what a story you could tell,” he continued, casting a rueful glance at his confiscated cigar. “To have the Black Crow pit his villainous wits against the famous Baker Street detective – the reading public will be eager to see who gets the upper hand.”
Penny glanced around the office to check the reactions of the others to this unexpected proposition. Familiar furrows lined her guardian’s brow, but Alfie’s face was lit up with a beaming smile.
“Sherlock Holmes versus the Black Crow – you simply have to write that story, Penny.”
Penelope pursed her lips as she turned back to face Monty. The idea was an intriguing one, she had to admit that. And the chance to write a Sherlock Holmes adventure was almost too delightful to resist.
Sensing that Penelope’s interest was piqued, Monty pressed home the proposal.
“Arthur suggests that we split the publication of the serial between the Strand and The Penny Dreadful. He reckons that this will help both magazines to increase their sales as the subscribers to the Strand then purchase The Penny Dreadful to read the next instalment, and our readers do the same in return.”
“Ahem.”
At the sound of Mr Wigram clearing his throat, all eyes turned towards him as the elderly lawyer rose from his desk at the rear of the office.
“It does seem as though Mr Doyle’s proposal might have some pecuniary benefits, Penelope. Perhaps we shouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.”
Meeting her guardian’s gaze, Penny slowly nodded her agreement.
“It seems as though the Black Crow will take flight in a new adventure,” she declared. “One where he will match his wits against the great detective, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Bravo!”
As Alfie clapped his hands together in delight, Penny turned her attention to Monty again.
“But before you depart for Esher, we must discuss some initial ideas for the story. You must convince Conan Doyle that the thoughts of Montgomery Flinch are yours alone. We cannot risk our secret being discovered.”
“Have no fear, Penelope,” Monty replied. He gestured towards the books lining the shelves behind him, leather-bound volumes of The Collected Tales of Montgomery Flinch. “I have played this role for so long that half the time even I believe that I have written these stories. There is no chance of Arthur discovering the secret that we share.”
The sudden rap of the door knocker punctuated the end of Monty’s sentence. As Penny’s gaze flicked to the door, the knocker rapped again, even louder this time.
“Keep your hair on,” Alfie muttered, hurrying to the door with Monty’s bat still in his grasp. As he opened it, the door knocker clanked back against its plate.
On the doorstep, a tall man in a shabby-looking suit glared back at Alfie. His dark eyes were set in a weasel-faced frame; his sallow complexion was more suited to the darkness than the bright light of day. The man was flanked by two police constables: the first a stocky, hea
vyset fellow who had the strap of his helmet pulled tight beneath his chin, as if to keep the few brains he looked like possessing safely secured, whilst his younger companion cast a nervous glance over Alfie’s shoulder, his fingers fidgeting above the pocket where his truncheon was concealed.
Alfie slipped the cricket bat behind his back, a guilty blush colouring his cheeks, although for what crime he had no idea.
“Can I help you, sir?” he stuttered.
“I am here to see Montgomery Flinch,” the man replied in a low voice, pushing past Alfie with a shove. “I have a warrant for his arrest.”
V
“What on earth is the meaning of this?” Mr Wigram demanded, looking up in alarm as Alfie staggered backwards.
Ignoring his protest, the man strode into the heart of the office, casting his gaze around its interior with a practised air. He sniffed as his eyes fell on Monty, the actor still sitting behind Penelope’s desk. The confident smile that had filled Monty’s face only moments before was now beginning to curdle slightly at the corners. Penny looked on with concern as the two police constables lumbered across the threshold too, handcuffs clinking from where they hung on their leather belts.
“I’ll ask you again,” said Wigram, raising his voice to a querulous pitch. “Who are you, sir, and what business do you have here?”
Keeping his eyes fixed on Monty, the man sniffed again as he gave his reply.
“I am Inspector Drake of the Metropolitan Police, and my business here is of a most serious nature.”
Penelope paled at the inspector’s remarks. The eventuality she had long feared must have finally come to pass. Somehow, someone must have uncovered Montgomery Flinch’s secret, and now they would have to pay the price for their lies. Her mind filled with dark imaginings of the charges the police could bring: fraud, conspiracy, deception…
If her identity as the true face of the Master of the Macabre was revealed, Montgomery Flinch’s reputation would be ruined and the renewed fortunes of The Penny Dreadful cast down with it too.
Blithely unaware of Penelope’s fears, Monty greeted the detective with a grin.
“Ah, Inspector, welcome to The Penny Dreadful,” he said, rising from his chair to offer his hand. “I will be delighted to help you with whatever matter is troubling your detectives, but are you sure that you haven’t confused me with my good friend, Arthur Conan Doyle? He is, after all, the creator of the famous Sherlock Holmes, whereas my tales tend to be preoccupied with events of a more unearthly nature.”
Inspector Drake stared down at Monty’s outstretched hand with disdain.
“No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “You’re the man that I’m after.”
“He’s not here to ask your advice, Monty,” Alfie called out, still rubbing his shoulder where the burly policeman had brushed past him. “He says he has a warrant for your arrest.”
The colour drained from Monty’s cheeks, but Alfie’s warning had come too late as, with a brief nod of his head, Drake gestured to the nearer of the two constables. Acting swiftly, the man promptly clapped his handcuffs around Monty’s outstretched wrist.
“What is the meaning of this effrontery?” Monty spluttered, staring down at the handcuffs in disbelief as the policeman twisted his wrist to secure the other hand inside. “This is preposterous! Do you not know who I am?”
Watching with a growing sense of horror, Penelope’s heart raced in anticipation of the inspector’s reply.
“I know exactly who you are, Mr Flinch,” Drake said as the police constable roughly shoved Monty back into his seat. “Or should I call you the Black Crow?”
Penny gasped in surprise, the sound of this drawing the inspector’s suspicious gaze.
“And who exactly are you, miss?”
For a moment, Penelope was lost for words, her thoughts a swirl of confusion at what she had just heard. The Black Crow was the villain from a story, not some real-life criminal. Surely this detective wasn’t so simple-minded that he couldn’t tell the difference between a fictional character and its creator. But inside her confusion, a seed of hope grew too. If the inspector didn’t know who she was, then perhaps Montgomery Flinch’s secret was still safe after all. She needed to find out what was really going on here.
Smoothing the pleats on her skirt, Penelope met the inspector’s gaze with a simpering smile.
“I’m Miss Penelope Tredwell,” she replied primly. “Montgomery Flinch is my uncle and I can assure you, inspector, that he is an innocent man. This must all be some terrible misunderstanding.”
“Quite right,” Monty grunted as he glared up at them from the chair. “What kind of cock-and-bull crime are you accusing me of anyway? If this is anything to do with my bar tab at the Athenaeum, then I assure you it is my intention to pay the bill in full.”
Peering out from his sharp face, Drake’s dark eyes flashed in anger.
“Do not mock me, Mr Flinch,” he said in a warning tone. “You know full well the treasonous crime of which you stand accused: the theft of the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London itself.”
Monty laughed in disbelief.
“But that’s just a story,” he cried. “You can’t arrest me for writing about a fictional crime!”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Drake towered over Monty as the actor shrank back into his seat. The detective leaned forward until his face was only inches away from Monty’s own.
“You might think you’re clever, Mr Flinch,” he hissed, “hiding your crime in plain sight, but your arrogance will be your downfall. Now tell me, where have you hidden the King’s crown?”
For a moment there was silence, and then Alfie’s voice piped up from the door.
“But surely if the Crown Jewels had been stolen it would be all over the newspapers by now? After all, the King’s got to use his crown for his coronation next week.”
“And that is why there has been no report of this crime,” Inspector Drake replied, keeping his gaze fixed on Monty’s face as he watched a bead of sweat slide down his brow. “If news of the theft of the Crown Jewels was to get out, there would be uproar: questions in the House, protests in the streets, the police and army pilloried for our failure to protect the King’s crown. How could the coronation go ahead in such circumstances?” He leaned in even closer. “Now, tell me, Mr Flinch, how exactly did you think you would get away with bragging about your crime in the pages of The Penny Dreadful?”
As Monty squirmed in his seat, Penny stepped into the breach. Tapping the detective on his shoulder, she fixed her face in a disarmingly attentive expression.
“Excuse me, inspector, but if the Crown Jewels have been stolen as you say, why on earth do you believe that my uncle is responsible? Surely the more logical explanation is a copycat crime. Some enterprising thief must have taken inspiration from my uncle’s story and then used its plot to enact their own audacious crime.”
Inspector Drake returned Penny’s gaze with a condescending stare.
“That would be the more logical explanation, Miss Tredwell,” he replied. “And rest assured, the Metropolitan Police would have pursued such an obvious theory if it wasn’t for one fatal flaw – the theft of the Crown Jewels took place some five weeks before your uncle’s story was published.”
The detective turned back to face Monty, the expression on his face grim.
“The Tower of London is a fortress. The Crown Jewels themselves are guarded in its highest tower, hidden behind locked doors and stone walls twenty feet thick. It is the most impregnable building in the whole of the British Empire, but the Keeper of the Keys swears that he saw the hooded figure of the Black Crow walk through its walls without a care.”
Behind Drake, the taller of the two police constables twitched, his eyes fixed on Monty’s outstretched wrists as if fearful that he would suddenly slip free from his handcuffs just like Harry Houdini. From the other side of the desk, Penelope listened with a growing sense of dread as the inspector continued to speak.
“Now, ordinarily I would have taken such a statement with a large pinch of salt and put down this tale of a phantom thief to nothing more than the fevered imaginings of an old soldier rather too fond of his rum. But when dozens of eyewitnesses say that they saw the exact same sight then I start to wonder myself. Especially when I then read every detail of the crime they described in the pages of your magazine.” He grabbed hold of Monty’s shirt collar, pulling the actor’s face close to his own. “How on earth did you achieve such a feat, Flinch? And what have you done with the Crown Jewels?”
Monty whimpered in fear. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” His eyes darted past Drake’s shoulder, seeking out Penny with a plaintive stare. “Tell him, Penelope.”
Penny stood there speechless, the inspector’s accusation still ringing in her ears: the Crown Jewels stolen by the hand of the Black Crow. It was impossible, but then with a sudden lurch of understanding she realised that it must be true. The letter…
The image of the envelope addressed to Montgomery Flinch sprang into her mind, an illustration of a black crow marking its seal. This had given her the name of her villain, whilst the anonymous letter inside had been the spark for her story of The Thief Who Wasn’t There. The first lines of this letter now echoed mockingly in her mind. You are the only man in London I can trust with this confession. The newspapers stay silent, but I know The Penny Dreadful will not fear to reveal the truth of this conspiracy.
Penelope’s gaze flicked to the piles of unopened envelopes still littering Alfie’s desk. At the time, she had thought this strange letter was just like all the rest: a flight of fictional fancy concocted by one of their readers, but now she could see the truth in its lines – the anonymous thief using The Penny Dreadful to mock his pursuers.
The Black Crow Conspiracy Page 3
