Shadows of the Silver Screen

by Christopher Edge

  Propped on the table was an array of knick-knacks: a cracked shaving mirror and straight razor, a vase of dried flowers and a stuffed squirrel mounted on a plinth. But Penelope’s gaze was immediately drawn to the apparatus standing in the centre of the room. Mounted on a tripod was a boxlike device, its small wooden frame filled with folding leather bellows that extended like a concertina until they ended in a round brass lens. The back of the camera was hidden beneath a black sheet that hung down like a shroud.

  “Looks like the feller’s a photographer,” Alfie said, glancing nervously around the room. “Maybe that’s how he knows Mr Gold.”

  Penelope stepped towards the camera. With its brass fittings and mahogany frame, it reminded her of the Véritéscope, even though this device didn’t have the film reel you would expect to see in a cinematograph. The camera’s lens was pointing towards the table, the objects left there creating a strange still life.

  As Alfie silently fretted, Penny ducked her head beneath the black cloth to take a closer look at the camera. The material fell over her shoulders, enveloping her in a musty embrace. Penny sniffed, trying to ignore the unpleasant odour, and then pressed her eye to the viewfinder.

  At first, her view was blurred as though some kind of gauze was pressed against the camera lens. But as she shifted position to try and make sense of the smeary shapes she could see, the picture suddenly sharpened into focus.

  Through the viewfinder she could see the vase on the table, the delicate bloom of its dried flowers providing a splash of colour against the drab wallpaper. Next to this, the mounted squirrel fixed her with a beady gaze, its paws outstretched as they reached for a nut that was no longer there. The long shadow cast by the stuffed animal reached up the wall, frozen forever in an imitation of life. Then the shadows of its paws twitched; the unexpected movement so swift that Penelope couldn’t believe her eyes. She stepped back in shock, the black cloth falling from her shoulders as she suddenly straightened.

  “Did you see that?” she gasped, staring at the spot where the stuffed squirrel stood. The animal was frozen in the same posture as before; its shadow now still. No hint of a movement could be seen.

  “What do you mean?” Alfie asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

  But before Penny had a chance to explain, she heard the creak of the door opening and then the sound of a sudden exclamation.

  “Mon Dieu!”

  Standing framed in the doorway was an angry-looking man. His eyes blazed behind half-moon glasses as he stepped into the room. With his dark cropped hair and sharp-cornered beard, Penelope recognised him immediately. It was the man she had seen storming from the offices of the Alchemical Moving Picture Company only days before.

  “Les voleurs,” he spat, advancing on Alfie with a snarl.

  As Alfie backed away, the man snatched up the razor from the table, brandishing it before him like a knife. Penny looked on in horror, torn between the urge to escape and the need to rescue her friend. Backed into the corner of the room, the space between Alfie and the man was narrowing with every second.

  “Stop,” she cried. “We’re not thieves. I just want to know who you are.”

  The man turned towards Penny, his dark eyes narrowing as they fixed on her face.

  “You know who I am,” he snarled, his words smeared with a thick French accent. “That’s why that film-making thief has sent you to steal what is mine. Well, it’s not going to work this time.”

  With a swish of his blade, he turned back towards Alfie with a murderous intent. Trapped, the printer’s assistant called out with a desperate plea.

  “Penny!”

  Next to her, the camera squatted on its tripod. All thoughts of the strange shadow she had glimpsed through its lens were for a moment forgotten as Penelope struggled to wrench the box free.

  “Wait!” she shouted. “Is this what you think we came for?”

  Seeing the camera in her hands, the man stopped in his tracks.

  “Give it to me,” he snapped.

  “Let my friend go,” Penelope replied, her face set in an implacable expression. “Otherwise I’ll take care of this.”

  The man sneered as he watched Penny struggling to keep her grip on the camera, its cumbersome weight heavy in her hands.

  “You won’t get very far carrying that.”

  “Maybe not,” Penny replied, hefting the camera from one hand to the next, “but I can smash it to smithereens.”

  The camera wobbled precariously and the man’s face darkened with the sudden realisation that Penny meant what she said.

  “Now drop the razor and let us go.”

  Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, the man’s eyes blazed with rage. For a moment, he held Penelope’s gaze as if challenging her to go through with her threat, then his fingers twitched and the razor fell to the carpet.

  “Get out.”

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the camera, the man watched as she slowly backed away to the door, Alfie hurrying to her side. As they reached the threshold, the man raised his hand in warning.

  “The camera,” he reminded her.

  Penny looked down at the unwieldy box in her hands. The camera lens stared back at her, an inscrutable eye jutting from the dulled lustre of its brass mounting.

  “Catch,” she said.

  With a heave of her arms, she launched the device towards the Frenchmen. As he dived to save the camera with an anguished howl, Penny grabbed hold of Alfie’s arm.

  “Run!”

  They fled, their footsteps clattering down the hall as behind them the man let fly a volley of unintelligible curses. Alfie barged the front door open, Penelope hurrying close behind, not allowing the swish of her long skirt to slow her for a second. Outside on the street, the sun beat down, the few passers-by walking at a stately pace, but Penny and Alfie didn’t stop running until they reached the Charing Cross Road.

  Panting, Alfie turned towards Penny, a wry smile curling the corners of his lips.

  “I think you’ve found out all you needed to know about the person who sent that letter,” he told her through halting breaths. “The man’s a maniac.”

  Still trying to catch her own breath, Penelope nodded her head. She couldn’t shake the image of the razor blade glinting in the Frenchman’s hand. Despite the warmth of the day, Penny shivered. They’d been lucky to get out of there alive.

  She glanced at her watch, the time nearing a quarter to two. This was a mystery that would have to wait for another day.

  “Let’s get back to The Penny Dreadful,” she said decisively, sweeping back her dishevelled hair into a semblance of style. “We’ve got a magazine to publish.”

  VIII

  Penelope stared at the cover proof laid out on her desk, the artwork for the August edition finally in place. Beneath the familiar masthead of The Penny Dreadful, its gothic letters emblazoned in red, the figure of a man blundered through the heart of a forest. He was dressed in his nightclothes, the unfastened belt from his checked dressing gown trailing in the leaves whilst he raised his arm to ward off the flailing branches that scratched at his face. Across the bottom of the cover, the contents line proclaimed:

  Featuring

  “A GREEN DREAM OF DEATH”

  by Montgomery Flinch

  and thirteen more tales of terror

  Penny leaned closer to inspect the illustration. With his dark whiskers and close-clipped beard, the man in the picture reminded her of the mysterious Frenchman. It had been over a week now since she and Alfie had fled from the boarding house on New Lisle Street, his angry curses echoing in their ears. Any thoughts of returning there had been stymied by her memory of the glinting razor blade.

  But this hadn’t stopped Penny from investigating the mystery further. The letter had spoken of a stolen invention, so her first port of call had been to the elegant buildings of the Patent Office, just off Chancery Lane. Here she had searched in vain for any patent application for the Véritéscope, but the clerks could find no record of t
his. It had been the same story when she had checked the lists of registered companies, with no records filed for the fledgling Alchemical Moving Picture Company. And of Mr Gold himself, they had heard no word apart from a counter-signed copy of the contract returned by post a few days ago.

  Penny tapped her fingers against the desk. So far everywhere that she had looked to try to find out more about Gold and his curious invention she had only turned up blank pages. There was something that she was missing here…

  Her musings were interrupted by the rattle of the door handle. Penny looked up from the cover proof to see the front door of the office flung open with a theatrical flourish. With the sunlight streaming in behind him, Monty bounded into the office, his voice booming out in greeting.

  “What a glorious day it is today!” he proclaimed, a broad smile lighting up his face. “The London streets look almost elegant in the sunshine. It is a pity I have to bid them goodbye.”

  Monty was dressed in a striped flannel blazer with smartly pressed trousers cut from the same cloth. Beneath this blazer, Monty’s shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his summertime ensemble completed by a straw boater set at a jaunty angle. He looked as though he was dressed for a seafront promenade rather than the streets of the city.

  “Are you off on your holidays, Monty?” Alfie asked, looking up from the layouts Mr Wigram had just placed on his desk. Next to him, the lawyer’s frown deepened as his stern gaze took in Monty’s garb.

  “I don’t think we’ve agreed any period of leave for you, Mr Maples,” Wigram began. “If you remember, you need to be available at a moment’s notice for when the Alchemical Moving Picture Company begin their filming of The Daughter of Darkness.”

  “Don’t worry,” Monty replied with a grin. “I’m ready to go. My case is packed, I have the script and the hansom cab outside is waiting to take me to the station. I just came to wish you all a fond farewell.”

  He raised his straw boater in a valedictory salute, but before he could turn to the door, Penny was already on her feet.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded, a note of indignation rising in her voice. “I haven’t seen any film script yet.”

  Nonplussed, Monty plucked a letter from his blazer pocket and handed it to Penelope.

  “It arrived earlier this week,” he told her. “When we met with Mr Gold, he took the liberty of asking me for the address of my club so that we could stay in touch.”

  Casting her eyes over the letter, Penny felt her sense of fury start to grow.

  Dear Mr Flinch,

  I have the pleasure of enclosing the script for the cinematographic adaptation of your tale, The Daughter of Darkness. I trust you will find this to your satisfaction.

  I am currently making the final arrangements for filming and will be in touch shortly to confirm your travel arrangements.

  I look forward to commencing our collaboration.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mr Edward Gold

  Seeing the storm clouds start to gather across Penny’s brow, Monty reached out to rest a conciliatory hand on her shoulder.

  “You have no need to worry, my dear,” he reassured her. “I’ve read it from cover to cover. The script is sensational. Some might say it even improves on your tale.”

  With a glowering look, Penny shook Monty’s hand from her shoulder. She turned towards her guardian, who was watching the scene with a shrewd eye.

  “Can he even do this?” she demanded. “The agreement we signed was supposed to give me final approval of the script!”

  Wigram shook his head with a sigh.

  “The agreement gives Montgomery Flinch the final say,” the lawyer corrected her. “We can hardly blame Mr Gold for not knowing exactly who that is.”

  Fuming at her own carelessness, Penny turned back towards Monty, who had started to edge towards the door.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” she asked pointedly.

  “My hansom cab is waiting,” Monty protested. “I need to get to Paddington Station by three. I have a train to catch.”

  Behind her pale green eyes, Penelope’s thoughts raced. There was only one way that she’d get to the bottom of this mystery. “Tell the cab driver he’ll have to wait a little longer,” she told Monty. “First, I need to pack. I’m coming with you.”

  The carriage bounced along the rutted track, Penny clinging to the rail of the trap as the driver sat on the box seat in front of them, his hands gripping the horses’ reins. Next to her, Monty was slowly turning a bilious shade of green as the cab lurched forward again. His straw boater had been blown from his head several miles back, lost to the winds whipping in from the moor.

  The evening sun lurked just above the horizon, throwing long shadows across the heather-strewn wilderness. Scattered stumps of stone dotted the vast landscape, ancient reminders of those who had walked here thousands of years before. The carriage was climbing towards one of these cairns, a windswept huddle of rocks stark against the skyline. Above this outcrop, a buzzard wheeled, searching for its prey as the light started to fade.

  Penelope shivered. She could scarce believe that only a few hours before she had been sat behind her desk at The Penny Dreadful. Now, as the forbidding moor stretched in every direction she could see, civilisation seemed a long way away.

  It had taken all of her powers of persuasion to convince Mr Wigram that she should accompany Monty on this trip. At first, her guardian had been adamant that with The Penny Dreadful due to go to press in less than a week’s time, and Monty a far from reliable chaperone, it was out of the question. However, as Penny artfully employed her wiles, reminding him of the damage that Monty could wreak to Montgomery Flinch’s reputation without someone to keep him in line, her guardian had finally relented. He had immediately despatched a telegraph to Mr Gold informing him that Montgomery Flinch’s niece would be accompanying her uncle on his visit to the film set. Then, with his features set in their sternest expression, the elderly lawyer had reminded Monty exactly what his responsibilities were.

  As the actor chafed at Wigram’s strict instructions, Penelope had turned towards Alfie, who met her gaze with an envious stare. “I don’t suppose I can come with you?” he had asked, but Penny could only shake her head in reply. “I wish that you could,” she had told him, her mind still uneasy at this rapid turn of events. “There’s something not quite right about all this. I need to keep a close eye on Mr Gold and this strange invention of his. Don’t worry, I’ll send word as soon as I find out more.”

  Dashing to the hansom cab, Penelope and Monty had made it to Paddington Station with only seconds to spare, boarding the last express train to Plymouth. Settling into the seats of their first-class carriage, Monty had begun to regale Penny with his tales of theatrical life, whilst she had leafed through the pages of the film script. As she read, her anger grew as she saw the countless alterations Gold had made to her story. The names of people and places had been changed, scenes cut and rearranged, even her heroine hadn’t escaped unscathed. According to the script, Alice Fotheringay was now named Amelia Eversholt, her father had changed from an earl to a lord and their home was Eversholt Manor. Penelope fumed. How dare Gold take such liberties?

  With a frown lining her brow, Penny had continued to turn the pages of the script as through the window the London sprawl gave way to views of rolling hills, the afternoon slowly slipping away as the train arrowed westwards. She felt as though she was reading The Daughter of Darkness through a warped looking-glass, every detail of her tale strangely twisted until the story that stared back at her was no longer her own. The centrepiece of her plot, where Oliver rescued Alice from the moors, presenting her with a strange stone unearthed from the depths of her father’s mine to guide her home, had now been replaced with a scene where Amelia gave the boy a gift of a precious jewel in thanks for her safe return. It made no sense. Why would Gold make such a change to her story? Soon Monty’s snores filled the carriage, but Penelope read on, fuelled by a quiet fury, only
looking up from the last page of the script as the train pulled into Plymouth station.

  There, a railway porter had hefted her hastily-packed case across the platform as they changed trains to a smaller branch line. Staring from the window, Penny had watched as the rolling green slopes of the landscape grew bleaker and wilder, the train twisting and rising as it skirted the moor before finally coming to a halt at a small wayside station at the end of the line. Waiting for them there had been this lone horse-drawn carriage, the taciturn driver sent by Mr Gold to transport them on the last leg of their journey.

  Seated next to Penny on the swaying trap, Monty’s exuberance had now worn away to weariness. As the carriage neared the rise, he stared out across the melancholy expanse of moorland, its bracken and bramble gleaming in the light of the sinking sun.

  “Are we there yet?” he moaned.

  The rattle of the wheels died away as the carriage crested the rise. Penelope gasped as she looked down into the valley below. The track wound down a russet-red slope, tracing the path of a stream that sprang from behind a grey boulder, but where before only ancient stones had broken the landscape, there now stood the shapes of buildings.

  A cluster of cottages sheltered in the shadow of a steeple, four towering legs braced against the earth with what looked a giant clockwork wheel rising from its summit. Beyond the pithead lay more buildings: engine houses; pumping works; a crumbling mill, its waterwheel creaking in the wind. But where you would expect to hear the rumble and hiss of industry, the scene lay in silence, the only sound the whistle of the wind across the moor.