Shadows of the Silver Screen E-Book

Christopher Edge

• Herausgeber: Nosy Crow
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Twelve Minutes to Midnight Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 261

Beschreibung

Step into the past in this spine-tingling historical adventure from award-winning author Christopher Edge. Penelope Tredwell is the feisty thirteen-year-old orphan heiress of the bestselling magazine, The Penny Dreadful. Her masterly tales of the macabre are gripping Victorian Britain, even if no one knows she's the author. One day a mysterious filmmaker approaches The Penny Dreadful with a proposal to turn their sinister stories into motion pictures. Filming begins but is plagued by a series of strange and frightening events. As Penelope is drawn into the mysteries surrounding the filming she soon finds herself trapped in a nightmare penned by her own hand... Can Penny uncover the filmmaker's dark secret before it's too late? Spine-tingling historical adventure series with a supernatural twist! From the acclaimed author of The Many Worlds of Albie Bright and The Infinite Lives of Maisie Day. Related discussion notes and activity ideas available on the Nosy Crow website.

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“Packed full of intrigue and drama, this reads like Sherlock Holmes for kids”

The Bookbag

 

“A clever Victorian romp, fast paced and very readable”

Books for Keeps

 

“A thriller with a fast-paced, cinematic style… an electrifying story from an exciting new author”

 

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I

The corridor was shrouded with shadows, its dark walls flickering with an almost-spectral impermanence. The only light cast on the scene came from a glowing candelabra gripped in the hand of a woman in white. With a shudder, she stepped towards the corridor’s end, the silent swish of her long gown gliding noiselessly across the floor. There, a door stood slightly ajar; the open crack an invitation for the darkness to creep in.

A low murmur of music seeped through the frame, an organ thrum that filled the ominous silence. Black hair cascaded over the woman’s shoulders, framing her deathly white features. With her free hand, she reached for the door handle, her fingers trembling as if in fear of what she would find within.

As the organ music swelled in warning, a dark shadow fell across the woman’s back. She turned in horror, her mouth gaping wide in a silent scream. This was echoed immediately by a shrill chorus of shrieks as the face of a man loomed large. His gnarled hands reached out with murderous intent and, as the candelabra fell to the floor, its last flash of light silhouetted the two figures locked in a deadly embrace before darkness finally fell across the scene. The music rose to a swirling crescendo and the words “FIN” filled the screen.

Leaping up on to the raised stage in front of the screen, a frock-coated showman brandished a bullhorn, his bushy whiskers almost as untamed as the riotous red of his coat-tails.

“That’s your lot, ladies and gents,” he called out, his voice booming through the tent. “Make your way to the exits, please!”

As the curtains across the exits were pulled back, letting the evening sunlight stream into the tent, the audience rose from their seats, the air of entrancement that had been cast by the cavalcade of moving pictures slowly fading into memory. An excited babble of voices battled to be heard as their owners shuffled towards the light, every set of eyes as wide as saucers at the marvels they had seen.

“Here, I leapt out of my seat when I saw that feller spring up. What a horror!”

“I know, I thought he was going to strangle me himself!”

“A most remarkable performance – one could’ve almost believed it was real.”

Near the rear of the tent, a young girl in a stylish tailor-made suit slowly rose to her feet. Her long dark hair brushed past the collar of her jacket, its light-green serge perfectly matched to the colour of her eyes. Next to the girl, the lanky figure of a boy was already standing, his own jacket of a decidedly more threadbare design.

“So what did you think, Penny?” The boy scratched his scruffy mop of blond hair in wonder, a broad grin of excitement spread across his face. “Wasn’t that the most terrifying thing you ever have seen?”

Raising an eyebrow in surprise at her friend’s enthusiasm, Penelope shook her head.

“I’d hardly call such a hackneyed collection of scenes terrifying, Alfie,” she replied scornfully. “Haunted castles, witches’ cauldrons, mad monks and swooning women – the makers of this moving picture show have just stolen ingredients from every gothic tale ever told and thrown them together on to the screen with no regard for the plot. If I printed a story like this in the pages of The Penny Dreadful, Montgomery Flinch’s name would be mud.”

As the orphan heiress of The Penny Dreadful, Penelope Tredwell had transformed the fortunes of this once fourth-rate literary magazine, turning it into a bestselling sensation. Writing in its pages behind the pseudonym Montgomery Flinch, her tales of terror had entranced more than a million readers and made Montgomery Flinch into one of the most celebrated authors of the age. Only a few people knew the real identity of the renowned Master of the Macabre, and as the printer’s assistant on the magazine and Penelope’s very best friend, Alfie was one of them.

“All right, so maybe the story wasn’t up to much,” Alfie conceded as the two of them started to trail the tail-end of the crowd towards the exit. “But what does that matter when you feel as though you are really there? The picture’s the thing! I heard that at a show over at Hampton Court Fair, half the crowd fainted when they saw a ghost train rushing towards them out of the screen. These filmmakers can make you believe that anything is real.”

A crush of picture-goers still milled around the exit to the tent, seemingly reluctant to leave in case the wonders they had seen on screen sprang into life again. Their gleeful voices mingled with the cries of the fairground hawkers outside.

“Ladies and gentlemen, step this way please for the fright of your life. Don’t be afraid to experience the phantasmagoria of fear!”

Digging his elbows into the jostling crowd, Alfie barged a path for them through the throng. Penny quickly followed behind him, rapping the knuckles of a scruffily-dressed boy as his fingers snaked opportunistically towards her purse. Then the two of them emerged from the shadow of the tent, blinking in the sunshine that still warmed the sky even as evening slowly slipped towards night.

Before them the summer fair was in full swing, a state of perpetual bustle and noise spilling across the fields of High Barnet. Crowds of people surged between the attractions, all in search of the ultimate thrill. Nearby, a volley of shrieks erupted from the swirling gallopers, the riders whooping as their carved steeds rose and fell at dizzying speeds. With a clang, steam yachts swung back and forth, a gaggle of young urchins lurking nearby in case loose change fell from the pockets of those onboard. And beyond the Razzle Dazzle, helter-skelter and switchback rides, yet more novelties filled the fairground, all eager to separate the crowds from their money: circus booths, boxing shows, fortune-tellers and menageries of exotic beasts. The warm air hung heavy with the heady scent of spiced nuts and pickled whelks.

As Alfie tugged on Penny’s arm to pull her into the heart of the fray, she glanced back at the fairground cinematograph show, its grand facade screening the interior of the tent from view. Carved angels twined around ornate golden columns, whilst a backdrop of luridly painted scenes hinted at what waited within. In the centre of this elaborate frontage a towering organ pumped out a queasy tune of welcome as a new stream of visitors hurried up the steps, their eyes wide in anticipation. The sign above the entrance read:

Penelope frowned. Was this all that people wanted from their stories nowadays – a second-hand fright in the dark? Turning, Alfie saw Penny still staring back at the ornate facade.

“We can queue up again if you want to see the show a second time,” he told her. “I wouldn’t half mind watching it again.”

“I really don’t want to sit through that nonsense again,” Penny replied. “I’m just surprised that so many do.”

“But all the fairs have got moving pictures now, they’re ever so popular. I even heard that they’re thinking of opening a cinematograph show on Shaftesbury Avenue itself.”

Penny shuddered at the thought of such a shameless novelty springing up amongst the glittering theatres of London’s West End. Her thoughts crept back to the pages of The Penny Dreadful. She had to show that stories still mattered, much more than mere spectacle. The next issue of the magazine would have to cast this passing fancy into the shade. She would show her readers what fear really meant.

Penelope looked up at Alfie, her pretty green eyes sparkling with resolve.

“We need to catch the next train home.”

Alfie’s face fell.

“But we’ve only been here a couple of hours,” he grumbled. “The fair stays open until late.”

Penny shook her head firmly.

“I need to start work on the August edition of The Penny Dreadful right away. This new story I’m planning from the pen of Montgomery Flinch needs to be something big; an epic tale of terror that will have the nation scurrying beneath their bedclothes in fright.”

Alfie sighed. He’d hoped that by bringing Penny along to the fair, they could both escape the long shadow of The Penny Dreadful for just one evening. But now a reminder of the printer’s proofs piled up on his desk awaiting his return crept into his brain.

“Just one more ride on the velocipedes?” he ventured hopefully, knowing the answer even before he asked.

“We really need to be getting back,” Penny replied, “else Mr Wigram will start to worry.”

At the mention of Penelope’s guardian, Alfie immediately nodded his agreement. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the stern-faced lawyer, who was also his employer on The Penny Dreadful.

“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The two of them set off through the fair, heading across the tramped-down field for the railway station that lay just beyond the far line of trees. Screams and shouts of excitement followed their every step as they weaved their way through the crowds. The noise of a dozen fairground organs competed for attention as they squeezed past a row of brightly painted booths, ignoring the hawkers’ cajoles and ducking behind a wheezing generator.

Gradually leaving the hubbub behind, Penny and Alfie followed a ragged line of fairgoers traipsing down the path that led towards the station. Immediately in front of them, a swaying couple leaned against each other for support, their senses dulled by the day’s entertainment.

Alfie glanced towards Penny.

“So what’s this new story of yours going to be about, then?” he asked with a smile. “Are any mad monks or haunted castles going to make an appearance?”

Penelope grinned.

“I think I’ll leave that kind of story to the cinematograph show,” she replied. “The power of the printed word can find more subtle ways to shock.” Behind her smile, the beginnings of a story were already starting to take shape in her mind.

II

“It’s quite intolerable. I can’t go on like this!”

His face flushed, the man drew himself to his feet, towering over Penelope’s desk in the cramped office of The Penny Dreadful. Penny looked up from the papers scattered in front of her, fixing a weary smile to her face. She glanced across at her guardian, Mr Wigram, who was seated at his desk at the rear of the office, sunshine slanting in through a high window and falling across his face. With his silvery hair blanched almost white by the light, Mr Wigram blinked hard and then frowned, his own annoyance written across his features.

“I can’t go anywhere – speak to anyone – without that blasted Montgomery Flinch getting in the way. They follow me, you know!” the man exclaimed, reaching into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief. “Some have even stooped to sneaking up on me in the sanctuary of my own club, thrusting their grubby scraps of paper into my hand for me to sign. It’s got to stop.”

As he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, Penelope saw a chance to put an end to his rant.

“Monty, you knew perfectly well what you were getting into when you signed the agreement. As the public face of Montgomery Flinch, it’s only to be expected that some of our avid readers will wish to share their enjoyment of his stories with you. You need to attend to their enquiries with the courtesy and grace your position demands.”

“But the questions they ask,” Monty moaned. He slumped back down into his chair as quickly as he had risen from it only moments before. “‘Mr Flinch, what was the secret of the Withered Man?’ ‘Mr Flinch, how many times did the “Dread Mare” rise?’ ‘Mr Flinch, where exactly did The Tale of the Shattered Heart take place?’”

Monty gripped the arms of his chair in a flash of anger.

“How am I supposed to know!” he hissed, his knuckles whitening as he stared back at Penny. “I didn’t write the damn things!”

At that moment, Alfie emerged from the back office, carrying an armful of galley proofs. Sensing the air of tension that filled the room, he glanced from Penny to Monty. The actor’s usually jovial face was clouded with fury, his eyes flashing darkly beneath bristling eyebrows. Alfie tiptoed to his chair, slid the proofs on to his desk and then settled back to watch the show.

Penelope frowned, a slow worm of worry burrowing into her brain. This wasn’t one of Monty’s usual weekly moans which could be soothed with a few words of praise or the promise of a raise to his contract. This was a full-blown actor’s tantrum and would need careful handling. She couldn’t risk even a hint of Montgomery Flinch’s true identity reaching the ears of anybody who wasn’t in this room.

“Mr Maples—” Wigram started to speak, but Penny raised her palm to show she had the situation in hand.

“I’m sorry, Monty, but the contract you signed with The Penny Dreadful was an exclusive one that allows us to retain the sole rights to your superb theatrical services,” she began, her tone of voice a soothing mix of flattery and threat. “The generous weekly fee that we pay you is to reflect the fact that playing the part of Montgomery Flinch is a full-time role.”

“Full-time would be fine,” Monty replied with a groan, “but this part is taking over every second of my life. The author tours, public readings, book signings and after-dinner talks. If I’m not careful, I’ll forget who I really am. Monty Maples, the finest actor of his generation snuffed out at the hands of Montgomery Flinch.” He held his head in his hands, his mournful eyes fixing Penelope with a beseeching stare. “I need a break.”

Penny sighed. Monty was no use to her like this. In his present mood, the actor was a walking stick of dynamite waiting to explode. All it needed was for someone to ask for his signature at an inopportune time. A rash response from Monty could bring Montgomery Flinch’s carefully-crafted reputation crashing down in ruins.

Maybe it would be best to allow him a short vacation – a trip to a spa town perhaps to restore his good spirits. The Penny Dreadful could afford to pick up the bill. She reached for her desk diary. They would have to cancel Montgomery Flinch’s scheduled engagements first, concoct some story about the author retreating to the country to work in solitude on his latest tale. A faint smile crept across Penny’s lips. With Monty out of the way for a while, it might even give her some time to write it.

“If you wanted a holiday, Monty,” she said, “then you only needed to ask.”

The actor’s eyes widened in surprise at Penelope’s unexpected reply; then he sprang forward from his chair to seize her by the hand.

“Thank you, my dear sweet girl!” Monty declared, a broad grin clearing the clouds from his brow. “I knew you would understand. I’ll only be away for a mere month and then I’ll return to play the part of Montgomery Flinch with aplomb.”

Wincing, Penny tried to retrieve her fingers from Monty’s grasp.

“Wait a second, what do you mean a month?” she replied in a flustered tone. “I was proposing a week’s vacation – a trip to Bath, perhaps, to sample the restorative waters there. The costs of this will be paid by The Penny Dreadful, but of course deducted from your future fees.”

Now it was Monty’s turn to wince.

“But I need longer than a week,” he said. “The tour of the provinces is scheduled to last for the whole of August.”

As soon as the sentence had slipped from his lips, Monty clasped his hand to his mouth, suddenly realising that he had said too much.

“What tour of the provinces?” Penny demanded.

A look of guilt momentarily flashed across Monty’s face. Then he threw back his shoulders as if casting off a weight, his appearance taking on a determined air as he met Penelope’s gaze.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I need a break from the role of Montgomery Flinch,” he announced. “I’m an actor. I want to sing, to dance, to astound an audience with the full range of my theatrical skills, but instead I find myself reading these same macabre tales night after night. It’s enough to drive a man to drink.”

Monty clasped his hand to his chest as though the strain was almost too much to bear. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he drew out a plain postcard, bearing the familiar stamp of the telegraph office.

“When I received this telegram from an old actor friend of mine, I knew it was the answer to my prayers. He has invited me to appear in his production of The Pirates of Penzance, playing the leading role of the Pirate King. It’s just the tonic I need – far more soothing for the soul than any week away in a spa town. Once the tour is completed, I will return refreshed and ready to light up literary London again.”

The corners of his mouth creased into what Monty hoped was a winning smile.

“Besides, surely a month’s leave can be arranged. It is the summer after all.”

Penelope sat dumbfounded at her desk. Her slender fingers whitened as they gripped the pencil in her hand. Monty was actually serious about this.

“Are you mad?” she asked, her voice incredulous. “Montgomery Flinch is known throughout London as the Master of the Macabre. We’ve created one of the most celebrated authors alive today: a man of mystery, danger and intrigue. How would it look if he appeared on stage dressed like Blackbeard himself, singing ‘Oh What a Glorious Thing, To Be a Pirate King’? You would ruin everything!”

As Alfie tried to stifle a laugh, Monty bristled with indignation.

“I hardly think that Seymour would have cast me in the show if he thought I would be its ruin.”

“Not the show,” Penny fumed, “I’m talking about The Penny Dreadful. We’ve got more than a million readers eagerly waiting for the next serial to fall from the pen of Montgomery Flinch. If just one of those readers was to discover that he wasn’t who he claimed to be, the scandal would make the front page of every newspaper in the land.”

From his desk at the rear of the office, Mr Wigram cleared his throat.

“Your contract is quite clear, Mr Maples,” he intoned, brandishing a sheaf of papers in his hand. The lawyer’s forehead creased as he peered at the page. “May I draw your attention to clause four: ‘If you act or behave in a way which could damage the reputation of Montgomery Flinch, The Penny Dreadful has the right to terminate the agreement forthwith and all fees paid to you thus far must be repaid immediately.’”

Monty’s face fell at the thought of this financial blow.

“But it’s a tour of the provinces,” he protested. “Nobody there will have even set eyes on Montgomery Flinch. I’ll use my own name – a pseudonym even – I just have to get back on the stage!”

“It’s out of the question,” Penelope replied firmly. “There’s no way we can let you take such a risk.”

His dark eyes flashing angrily, Monty threw his arms wide in exasperation.

“Then I quit!”

As the words left his lips, Penelope stared up at him in shock. Shaking his head, Mr Wigram sighed as he bent his silvery thatch over the contract again, searching for the severance clause.

An eerie calm fell over the office. Penny and Monty glared at each other, both silently seething at this position they now found themselves in. Then the silence was broken by a knock on the door.

For a second, nobody moved. The door knocker rapped again, twice in quick succession, and, jumping up from his desk, Alfie hurried to it. He opened the front door to reveal a man in a pinstripe suit standing on the doorstep, jauntily tapping his walking stick in time to the tune he was humming. Behind the man, a mouse-like woman peered from beneath her parasol, its white-laced fringe shading her plain features from the sun.

“Can I help you, sir?” Alfie asked.

The man leaned forward, peering around the door frame to inspect the office within. He was a tall and well-built man, just setting out on the journey into middle-age. His handsome suntanned features were framed by red-tinged whiskers, which gave his face a vulpine cast. Spotting Monty standing in the middle of the office, he turned back towards Alfie with a broad smile.

“I’m here to see Montgomery Flinch,” he replied, his voice as smooth as his countenance. “I’ve come to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

III

Brushing past Alfie, the man strode into the office as though it was his own. His eyes darted around its interior, mentally photographing every element on display: the dusty bookshelves, the desks filled with scattered page proofs, typewriters and all the familiar accoutrements of the magazine trade, before he bounded up to Monty and grasped him by the hand.

“Mr Flinch, what an honour to meet you at last,” he exclaimed, pumping Monty’s hand in a hearty handshake. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Edward Gold, the proprietor and president of the Alchemical Moving Picture Company. I’ve come here today to present to you a proposition that will transform your literary fame into cinematographic stardom.”

From the doorway, the man’s companion had shuffled apologetically into the office, lowering her parasol to reveal a homely face framed by locks of dark-brown hair. The man glanced back and, snapping his fingers, gestured for the young woman to join them.

“This is Miss Mottram, my secretary,” he continued, as the woman half curtsied in front of Monty. “She has in her possession the contracts I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up to show the seriousness with which I make this offer to you, Mr Flinch.”

Miss Mottram fumbled at the catch to her leather valise, then drew out from the bag a hefty sheaf of papers. She thrust these into Monty’s hands with a simpering smile.

Puzzled, Monty glanced down at the papers, his gaze almost immediately glazing over as he began to read the topmost page.

Memorandum of Agreement made this fifth day of July 1900, between the Alchemical Moving Picture Company, 22 Cecil Court, Covent Garden, London, hereafter called the Producers, and Montgomery Flinch, care of “The Penny Dreadful”, 38 Bedford Street, The Strand, London, hereafter called the Author, whereby it is agreed that…

“Ahem!”

With a pointed cough, Mr Wigram rose from his chair at the rear of the office.

“If I may interrupt,” he said with a frosty tone. “I am Mr Flinch’s legal representative, and as such, all enquiries of this nature should be directed to me. Mr Flinch is a very busy man and certainly has no time to speak to you today. If you care to leave your proposition with me, I will consider it in due course, but for now, sir, I must bid you good day.”

With a tap of his cane, the filmmaker turned towards Wigram and fixed the lawyer with the full beam of his wolfish smile.

“I would be delighted to set out my proposition to you all,” he announced. “I want the world to hear how I will put Montgomery Flinch’s name up in lights at the front of every cinematograph show. I am going to make him a moving-picture star.”

Wigram’s brow furrowed, lending his features a pinched and disapproving air.

“Mr Flinch is a serious writer,” he replied stonily. “Not some fairground performer. I would suggest that you take your proposal elsewhere. It is of no interest to us—”

Raising his hand, Monty waved the elderly lawyer into silence. A strange gleam seemed to shine in the actor’s eyes. Sat behind her desk, Penelope looked on, powerless, almost holding her breath in fear of what Monty might say next. He’d told her that he’d quit. She prayed that he wouldn’t give Montgomery Flinch’s secret away.

“Let’s not be too hasty, William,” Monty began, an intrigued smile spreading across his face. “You’ve got to admire the pluck of the fellow in coming here today. And besides, I could do with a diversion from my latest grim tale.” He turned back towards the filmmaker. “How exactly do you propose to make me a star of the silver screen, Mr Gold?”

With a flourish, Gold unbuttoned his jacket; the sunlight slanting in through the high window putting him into the spotlight.

“The Alchemical Moving Picture Company is one of the leading practitioners of the art of the cinematograph. Our moving picture shows have entranced audiences from Abbey Wood to the Uxbridge Fair.”

As the filmmaker spoke, Miss Mottram stared up at him, her eyes wide in adoration.

“But the times are changing,” Gold continued. “The crowds are starting to tire of the same old cinematographic shows – the films of tortoise races, donkey derbies and boxing bouts. The flickering scenes of everyday life no longer suffice. They are eager for more crafted forms of entertainment. Some have tried with feeble spectacles of terror, limp frights that go bump in the night. But the audience thirsts for more substantial fare. Stories of mystery, drama and suspense; a tale of truth that will hold them spellbound as they huddle in the dark.” The filmmaker fixed Monty with an unflinching stare. “Stories like yours, Mr Flinch.”

Penny glanced across at Alfie. Her friend’s mouth gaped wide with excitement, already imagining the pages of The Penny Dreadful brought to life on the cinematograph screen. But an uncomfortable shiver ran down Penelope’s spine. She hadn’t worked so hard to write the stories of Montgomery Flinch just to see them turned into cheap entertainments. It was time to take control of this situation, before things got out of hand.

“What exactly are you proposing?” she asked in a clipped tone.

Gold glanced down at Penelope, as if noticing her for the first time. His eyes flicked over her face as if framing her for a close-up shot and, for a second, his expression froze. Then, with a forced smile, he replied.

“Why to bring one of Montgomery Flinch’s finest fictions to the silver screen, of course. I propose to make a film of The Daughter of Darkness.”

Penny was struck dumb by his reply. The Daughter of Darkness was one of the very first stories she had written under the pen name of Montgomery Flinch.

Set amidst the wild moors of Devon, this tragic tale of murder, betrayal and revenge told the story of Alice Fotheringay, the only daughter of the widowed Earl of Taversham. With her mother dead, Alice is kept almost prisoner by her father in the gilded cage of Taversham Hall, waited on by a retinue of servants. The earl’s fortune comes from the vast copper mines that lie under the sprawling lands of his ancestral estate. These mines are worked by local villagers; men, women and children alike, whom the earl rules over with a rare cruelty. One day, when Alice escapes from the manor house, she finds herself lost on the moors but is rescued by Oliver, a young boy who works down one of her father’s mines. To guide her home, Oliver gives Alice a present of a strangely carved stone he has unearthed from the depths of the mine, but when the earl discovers this, he flies into a rage and storms off to confront the boy. When Oliver is discovered dead in the mine the very next day, Alice knows her father is to blame. Pouring out her hatred, she stares into the heart of the stone and the darkness within creeps into her soul, filling her with a terrible power … the power to bring Oliver back. But when the dead return, they wreak a terrible revenge on those who have wronged them – as the Earl of Taversham discovers to his cost…

When the tale was first published in the pages of The Penny Dreadful, the reviews had been somewhat sniffy. Whilst all showed admiration for the power of Montgomery Flinch’s prose, many reviewers had found the subject matter somewhat sensationalist. However the enthralled readers of The Penny Dreadful didn’t agree with their verdicts and the magazine’s sales had shot through the roof.

As Penny now tried to order her thoughts about Mr Gold’s unexpected proposition, Monty was ready with his answer, his face flushed with excitement.

“A wonderful idea!” he declared. “And would there be a part in this moving picture for me to display my own thespian talents? You may have noticed that my performances of dramatic readings from my stories have found favour with the public. I recently sold out five nights at the Royal Albert Hall!”

“You must have been reading my mind, Mr Flinch,” Gold replied, half bowing in deference to the author’s quick thinking. “I wanted to offer you star billing: the part of the earl himself, no less. With the power of your performance, you will have the audience hanging on your every word, their eyes fixed to the screen as you portray the cruelty of this villain’s dastardly deeds.”

“Wait a minute,” exclaimed Alfie, suddenly sitting up in his chair, “the cinematograph shows are silent. How will they hear what Monty – I mean Mr Flinch – says?”

Turning to face the printer’s assistant, Mr Gold rapped his cane on the office floor before pointing it at Alfie like a wand.

“The young gentleman is right,” he replied. “But trust me, Mr Flinch – I do not intend to make you stand in front of a camera holding up a board that spells out your script!”

At this quip, his secretary laughed coquettishly, the shrill sound halfway between a squeak of a mouse and the hiss of an owl. Frowning momentarily, the filmmaker dropped his cane back to the floor before continuing his explanation.

“At the Alchemical Moving Picture Company we have invented a new form of cinematograph. A camera that can record and project both picture and sound – the Véritéscope! This trailblazing innovation will transform our moving-picture shows and the stories we are able to tell.”

He turned back to face Monty, a Messianic gleam in his eyes.

“With this wondrous invention, I will take the cinematograph show out of the travelling fair and instead set up screens on every high street. Crowds will eagerly queue outside town halls, assembly rooms and variety theatres to see the marvels of sight and sound combined.”

Gold glanced across at Wigram, who was still staring at him with suspicion.