Shadows of the Silver Screen

by Christopher Edge

  Behind her, beyond the circle of candle light, she heard a faint rustling sound. Penny turned, her heart thudding in her throat as from the shadows she saw a dark shape rise from the depths of an armchair. Snatching up the candle from the stand, Penny took a faltering step forward, thrusting the flame before her like a rapier to keep this spectre at bay.

  But instead of a ghost, the face of a man emerged blinking from the shadows. His ruddy features had a curious waxy sheen. As he rubbed the sleep from his red-rimmed eyes, his gaze fell upon Penelope, and he let out a low gasp of surprise.

  “Amelia, is that really you?”

  It was the filmmaker, Edward Gold, his handsome features set in a haunted frown. Penny froze in fear as, with a heavy tread, Gold stepped towards her, reaching out with a trembling hand.

  “It worked,” he said, his voice little more than a cracked whisper. “It brought you back to me.”

  Gold’s fingers brushed against Penny’s as he reached for the shimmering light. She recoiled at his freezing touch, the candle slipping from her fingers and falling to the floor, its flame suddenly extinguished. In an instant, darkness surrounded them.

  Penelope felt as if she had been plunged into the depths of an icy black pool. She stared into the darkness, trying to make sense of the shadows that danced before her eyes. Then the silence was broken by the sound of a sob.

  “Amelia…”

  Penny turned and fled. Blundering through the shadows, she flung open the study door. Moonlight chased her silhouette as she raced across the dining-room floor, not daring to glance back until she reached the grand staircase.

  In the gloom of the study, Gold’s shoulders shook as he slowly wound the handle on the side of the camera. The Véritéscope whirred into life, a brilliant light springing forth from its lens again, and the filmmaker stared spellbound as the shadows danced across the silver screen.

  XII

  “Where is that blasted girl?”

  Monty rose from his armchair, the tails of his jacket flapping as he strode past dark oak bookcases. He stood four-square in front of the wide bay window. Outside, the moors were bathed in sunlight, the russet slopes flecked with gold.

  “If I find that she has left this house without my leave,” Monty said, his voice taking on a stern tone of warning, “she will face the full force of my fury.” He rested his hand against the window frame, surveying the landscape with a malevolent eye. His gaze fell upon the distant mine, nestled in the crook of the valley. “And if she has dared to return to that place—”

  “And cut!”

  Monty glanced up in surprise as Gold’s shout rang across the study.

  “But my speech still has another two pages to run,” Monty blustered. “What’s the point of my learning these lines if you keep cutting me off in my prime?”

  With an apologetic shake of his head, Gold looked up from the viewfinder to meet Monty’s disgruntled gaze.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Flinch,” he replied, his hand winding the handle on the side of the Véritéscope forward another half-turn, “but we need to press on with the story. It is time for Amelia Eversholt to take centre stage.”

  Behind the filmmaker, the figure of Miss Devey stood primly by the study door. She was dressed in a blue silk evening gown, a summer shawl draped decorously around her shoulders, her delicate features pinched into an impatient scowl.

  “At last,” Vivienne muttered, her words unheard by all except Penelope standing nearby.

  Penny watched as Mr Gold ushered Vivienne into place, positioning her in front of the grand marble fireplace, then turning back to fuss over the camera once more as he readied the Véritéscope for the next shot. Dark shadows lurked beneath his eyes, the easy smile he had worn during yesterday’s filming now replaced with a tight-lipped frown.

  Of last night’s strange encounter, he hadn’t said a word. As the company had assembled for breakfast before that day’s filming began, Gold had barely afforded Penny a second glance. Perhaps he had dismissed their meeting as some kind of nocturnal hallucination, an imaginary case of mistaken identity as the story of The Daughter of Darkness crept into his dreams. But something about the experience troubled her still. As she had fled up the staircase, back to the safety of her room, she could have sworn that she heard footsteps following her, but when she turned to look nobody was there.

  The sound of a sudden hiss in her ear made Penelope jump.

  “The nerve of the man!”

  Monty appeared at Penny’s shoulder with a glowering look on his face.

  “One would almost think that Mr Gold has forgotten that it’s the face of Montgomery Flinch that the audiences will be flocking to see.”

  Penny arched her eyebrow.

  “I think you’ll find that it’s Montgomery Flinch’s stories that the public are eager for,” she replied.

  With a distracted flutter of his fingers, Monty waved her objection away.

  “But the audience will expect more than just a mere glimpse of my performance. The queues for my recent readings at the Royal Albert Hall stretched halfway across Hyde Park.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes at Monty’s melodramatic claim.

  “After all, my dear,” the actor continued, puffing out his chest, “did you not think that my performance just now would have kept the audience on the edge of their seats?”

  Over Monty’s shoulder, Penny could see rows of leather-bound volumes stretching along a bookcase that only hours earlier had been hidden behind a sheet. Her thoughts drifted back to the scene she had seen played out on that screen, the flickering enchantment of light almost making her believe that she was really there. Somehow Gold’s machine held the key to this mystery, but how could she find out more when the filmmaker watched the Véritéscope like a hawk, even sleeping by its side it seemed.

  Behind her green eyes, another memory stirred. She had seen a camera much like the Véritéscope before. The image of the shabby rented room in Little France swam into focus in her mind. She remembered the boxlike camera, its lens fixed on a still life of dried flowers and a stuffed squirrel mounted on a plinth; the strange trick of the light that had made it seem as if the squirrel’s shadow had come to life.

  But No. 5, Leicester House, New Lisle Street was over one hundred and fifty miles away. There was no chance to investigate further whilst she was trapped here. There was only one person who could help her now. Penny glanced up at Monty, the actor frowning as he waited for her to acclaim his performance.

  “I need you to send a telegram for me,” she said.

  Monty’s frown turned into a scowl.

  “Of course,” he harrumphed, glancing past Penny to the spot where Vivienne was rehearsing the scene. “Playing a messenger boy might be the only chance I have to act again today if Miss Devey cannot remember her lines.”

  Behind Penny, Miss Mottram stepped forward, a sheaf of script pages flapping in her hand as she hurried towards Vivienne. Snatching these from her without a word of thanks, the young actress turned away to study her lines.

  “Could I just have a few moments, please,” she demanded.

  As a hush fell over the study, Monty rolled his eyes in exasperation whilst Penelope quickly scribbled her message. Folding the paper, she pressed this into his hand.

  “This telegram is to be delivered to the offices of The Penny Dreadful,” she instructed him. “For the attention of Mr Alfred Albarn.”

  XIII

  With his back pressed against the trunk of the tree, Professor Archibald stared up in horror at the inhuman creatures that were descending from its branches. Through the mists that still clung to the forest, he could just make out their devilish grins; more like imps of the night than any living thing. As the professor clutched at his heart in fear, the creature closest to him unfurled its claws with a slavering hiss. “So you’ve come to join us at last, my dear professor.”

  Raising his head from the page, Alfie pushed the magazine proofs across his desk with a shudder. This latest tale of P
enelope’s was proving to be her most terrifying yet. At the bottom of the page, beneath an illustration of a monstrous face peering through a canopy of leaves, the last line of copy held out the promise of more thrills to come.

  * * *

  Read the final instalment of

  Montgomery Flinch’s spine-tingling serial

  “A GREEN DREAM OF DEATH”

  in the September edition of The Penny Dreadful.

  Running his fingers through his messy thatch of blond hair, Alfie let out a frustrated sigh. How long would he have to wait until he could find out what happened next? He glanced across to Penny’s empty desk, the piles of papers and proofs there left untouched since she had disappeared with Monty into the depths of Devon. He would have given up a week’s wages for the chance to accompany Penny on this trip, anything for the opportunity to see the magic of the moving pictures up close. His head filled with dreams of the cinematograph screen: the lights and the cameras, the action and excitement. Maybe he would even have got the chance to appear in front of the Véritéscope himself…

  A knock at the office door interrupted Alfie’s daydream – probably another delivery of proofs for him to check. Shaking his head, he pushed back his chair and hurried to the door. As he opened it, he saw a messenger boy dressed in a navy-blue uniform standing on the doorstep, a yellow envelope held in his hand. From beneath his pillbox hat, the boy stared quizzically at Alfie, the printer’s assistant only a year or so older than him at most.

  “Telegram for Mr Alfred Albarn,” he declared.

  With a puzzled nod, Alfie accepted the envelope, the messenger boy tipping his hat in thanks before hurrying down the steps to where his bicycle was waiting below. Closing the door behind him, Alfie tore the envelope open and slid out the telegram. On the sepia postcard was a typed message stuck on in white strips of paper, the sender’s name and location revealed at the top of the page:

  POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS

  FROM:

  MISS PENELOPE TREDWELL, STOKE

  EVERSHOLT, DEVON

  ALFIE NEED YOUR HELP STOP

  SOMETHING STRANGE ABOUT GOLD’S CAMERA STOP

  GO BACK TO NEW LISLE STREET STOP

  FIND OUT MORE FROM THE FRENCHMAN STOP

  BE CAREFUL STOP

  DON’T TELL WIGRAM STOP

  From his desk at the back of the office, Wigram raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “News from Penelope?” he asked.

  A faint flicker of anxiety passed across Alfie’s eyes.

  “Er, yes,” he stuttered in reply. “Just a brief telegram to say that they arrived safely. Nothing at all to worry about.”

  Before Wigram could ask to see the telegram, Alfie slipped it into his pocket and sank back behind his desk, his mind now whirring with questions.

  The elderly lawyer sighed, deep creases furrowing his brow as he stared at the piles of papers and proofs left on Penelope’s desk.

  “I wish we could say the same,” he grumbled. “The deadline for the next edition will soon be upon us and I don’t know how we will get the magazine ready in time without Penelope here. I knew I should have stopped her from making this foolhardy trip. I blame Mr Maples for filling her head with all his stories of the glamour of the stage.”

  But Alfie was only half listening, his mind still preoccupied by Penny’s appeal for help. His thoughts flashed back to the rundown boarding house on New Lisle Street, remembering how they had both snuck into the rented room there. He could picture the camera standing on its tripod, the only thing of any worth in that threadbare room. Then, with a shiver, he recalled the wild-eyed Frenchman wielding a razor blade. It had only been thanks to Penny’s quick thinking that they’d been able to get out of there alive. And now she wanted him to go back.

  Something strange about Gold’s camera, the telegram said. But how did Penelope think that madman could help her? Alfie was torn between the beckoning mystery and the fear of what might be lying in wait for him if he returned to Leicester House. He weighed the dangers in his mind, then set his features in an expression of fresh resolve. Penny wouldn’t have asked him to investigate if it wasn’t important.

  Rising from his chair, Alfie reached up to grab his jacket from the coat-stand as Wigram glanced up in surprise.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Before the question had even left the lawyer’s lips, Alfie was already halfway towards the door.

  “I just have to pop out for a little while,” he called back over his shoulder. “There’s something that Penelope wants me to check at the library – research for her new story, I think.”

  And as the lawyer’s features furrowed into a frown once again, Alfie was out of the door. As it shut behind him with a slam, he hurried down the steps, the midday sunshine already baking the busy pavement below. Turning left, he headed for the Strand and, as he left the shadows of the office behind, Alfie couldn’t stop an excited smile from creeping across his lips. Now it was his turn to play the detective.

  As he stood outside the door, a crooked number five fixed to its peeling paint, the last traces of his excitement melted away. Alfie glanced nervously down the hall, making sure of the quickest escape route before he dared raise his hand to knock. Swallowing hard, he rapped his knuckles against the door and heard the sound of heavy footsteps crossing the room in reply. As the door swung open, Alfie stepped back in surprise as, instead of the expected figure of the Frenchman, he was confronted by the gargantuan form of a middle-aged woman.

  “What do you want?” she barked, her bare arms folded across a barrel chest. Standing in the doorway, she seemed to loom as large as the house itself and appeared to be just as dilapidated. Tufts of hair sprouted like weeds from places where no respectable lady would have willingly let them take root, whilst her sharp eyes inspected Alfie with disdain.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” Alfie began, trying to hide the nervous tremor in his voice. “Could I possibly speak to the person who rents this room?”

  “I’d like to speak to him too,” the woman spat in reply. “Find out where he’s got to with my twenty-six shillings – that’s the two weeks rent that he owes me. He just lit up and left in the dead of the night, stealing a set of my best bedding into the bargain as well. Damned Frenchies – you can’t trust them with anything.”

  Peering past the landlady’s ample frame, Alfie could see that the room was even emptier than when he was last here; the mattress on the iron bedstead now bare. There was no sign of a camera or even a suitcase, the Frenchman’s few possessions now gone too.

  “What do you want with him, anyway?” the woman enquired, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You’re not one of his friends, are you?”

  Alfie swiftly shook his head.

  “I just need to ask him a few questions. I don’t suppose you know where he might have gone?”

  The landlady sniffed, the sound of this making a rattling noise.

  “Probably back where he came from,” she replied. “Working on the fairground with the rest of those vagabonds who have sullied my door of late. They’re all smiles and promises at first, but then when the money runs out they sneak off back to the lowlife of the fair.” The woman stooped to pluck a tattered sheaf of handbills from where they were wedged to fill a crack in the doorframe. With a scandalised tut, she thrust these into Alfie’s hand. “I mean, look at what the man did – it’s hardly a respectable occupation, is it?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Alfie glanced down at the paper in his hand and saw the ghostly portrait of a young woman staring back at him. She was dressed in an evening gown that looked like it belonged to the last century, her bare shoulders half turned away from the camera, with long dark curls cascading over them. On the faded handbill, her figure seemed almost translucent, as though worn through by time or neglect, but something in her shadowy gaze sent a chill down Alfie’s spine. Glancing away, he read the boldly lettered text that lay beneath the photograph.

  “And if you find that thief Jacques Le Prince
,” the landlady growled, “tell him that I want that money he owes me and my bleeding bedding back.”

  With that she slammed the door in Alfie’s face, dust falling from its lintel on to his shoes as he stood there deep in thought. He hadn’t found the Frenchman, but at least he had a lead: a name, Jacques Le Prince, and an idea of where he could find him. Stuffing the tattered flyer into his pocket, Alfie turned to leave, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. It was time to go to the fair.

  XIV

  Standing at the far end of the study, Penelope watched as Gold prepared the scene. The filmmaker motioned for Vivienne to take a step forward, and stooped to fix his eye to the viewfinder, checking that the actress was captured in its frame. The blue silk of her evening gown shimmered beneath the gaslight, and a nervous blush coloured Miss Devey’s cheeks as she waited for the camera to roll. Facing her, Monty sat behind a broad oak desk, impatience marking his features as he fixed the Véritéscope with a glowering stare.

  For a machine he claimed to have invented, Gold’s grasp of the camera’s mechanics seemed rather limited. This last shot of the day had taken an age to set up; Monty’s thoughts were already turning towards dinner and a stiff glass of port as the filmmaker prodded at the controls. Finally satisfied, Gold took hold of the camera’s winder.

  “The camera is ready,” he declared, as he fixed his eye to the viewfinder again, then cranked the Véritéscope into life. “Action!”