His eyes gleamed brightly behind his gold-rimmed glasses.
“Every night I repeated this experiment, turning my camera towards all the corners of the fair and then watching as the ghosts of the past wandered like shadows through its frame: the freaks and the mountebanks, bare-knuckle fighters and long-forgotten clowns. I saw Evangeline again, her shadowy figure growing more distinct each time the camera fixed her in its gaze, but when I saw this, a strange sense of dread stirred in me too. When I watched these moving pictures, I began to believe that this camera’s power was beyond even that imagined by my father. As well as preserving the glimpses of these spirits, I grew to suspect it could also bring them back. With the revelation of this fearful truth, I christened my invention the Véritéscope.”
Jacques paused for a moment as if relieving a painful memory.
“Wishing to share my concerns, I gave Eddie a demonstration of the camera’s strange power, explaining to him the fears that I had. Eddie convinced me we should set up a new business – the Alchemical Moving Picture Company – to investigate this phenomenon further. I signed the contract he prepared, thinking this vestige of respectability would help us to consult the finest scientific minds in the country, but realising too late that Eddie had his own plans.” Jacques shook his head. “When I learned what he wished to do, I tried to persuade him of its folly, but the contract that Eddie had tricked me into signing gave him possession of everything. He took the Véritéscope from under my nose, leaving me here and setting up his own office in the heart of Cecil Court. When I followed him there to demand my camera back, Eddie threatened me with the full force of the law. With his underhand trick, he had stolen my invention and I couldn’t do a thing.”
His story at an end, Jacques cast Alfie a quizzical glance.
“How have you heard of the Véritéscope anyway?” he asked. “Are you a journalist?”
“No,” Alfie replied. “I work for The Penny Dreadful. Edward Gold is using the camera to make a film of one of Montgomery Flinch’s tales of terror.”
Jacques Le Prince suddenly paled. “What is it about?”
“Oh, just one of Montgomery Flinch’s usual tales of murder, betrayal and revenge,” Alfie replied, slightly mystified. “Mr Flinch and his niece are down in Devon now watching Gold bring the story of The Daughter of Darkness to life.”
“Mon Dieu!” Jacques cried out, his eyes widening with fear. “After all my warnings, he still persists with this madcap scheme.” The photographer sprang forward and seized hold of Alfie’s shoulders. “We have to stop him before it is too late!”
Wigram peered over his glasses, his sharp eyes scrutinising both Alfie and Jacques as they stood in front of his desk. The rest of The Penny Dreadful’s office lay in darkness, the shadowy clock on the wall now nearing midnight. From above the lawyer’s desk, the amber glow of the single gas lamp still lit was reflected in Le Prince’s spectacles, the photographer’s eyes behind these impatient as he awaited Wigram’s reply.
“I am sorry to hear of your own misfortune, Mr Le Prince,” the lawyer began, “and these revelations about Edward Gold’s conduct do cause me some concern, but I have absolutely no authority to stop the production of The Daughter of Darkness. Montgomery Flinch has signed a contract giving the Alchemical Moving Picture Company the exclusive rights to create this film, and he is in Stoke Eversholt as we speak, supervising the adaptation of his tale.”
Leaning forward, Jacques banged his fist down on the desk with a growl.
“Then we must go there too,” he answered, barely able to keep his emotions in check. “Do you not understand what I am telling you? You cannot allow this film to be made. It is too dangerous!”
Wigram’s brow furrowed in reply, a flicker of distaste creeping across his countenance at the Frenchman’s show of emotion.
“I understand that perfectly, Mr Le Prince,” he said. “You have told me nothing else since you arrived here with Alfie at nearly midnight, although I’m still at a loss to know exactly why. How on earth could a film of The Daughter of Darkness possibly be dangerous?”
As amber shadows danced across his face, Jacques frowned in reply.
“I have told you, Monsieur Wigram,” he said, failing to keep the frustration from his voice. “This story is not what it seems. I have heard Eddie speak of Stoke Eversholt before – it is the place where he was born and the setting for the injustice that scarred his young life. His family worked down Lord Eversholt’s copper mine; the aristocrat who owned the land on which Stoke Eversholt stands.” Jacques sniffed. “If only you English had followed France’s example and rid yourself of such vermin. Anyway, one night when he neared fifteen, Eddie was out poaching rabbits when he found Lord Eversholt’s daughter, Amelia, lost on the moor. He guided her safely home and, as a token of her gratitude, Amelia gave him a gift of a precious stone; a family heirloom. However, when Lord Eversholt discovered this, he flew into a rage, accusing Eddie of theft and beating him to within an inch of his life; then when Amelia cried out in protest he took his whip to her as well. Banished from Stoke Eversholt, Eddie fled to London, eventually finding his way to the fair, whilst the next that he heard of Amelia was when his family sent word that she had passed away, only weeks after he had left. Consumption they said, but Eddie knew the truth.”
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 loo
ked 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 suff
ering 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.
Shadows of the Silver Screen Page 13
