Twelve Minutes to Midnight

by Christopher Edge

  Penelope, Monty and Wigram loitered inside the entrance hallway. Both Wigram and Monty stood stiff-necked in their winged collars and white bow ties, whilst Penny wore a cerise evening gown, its bustle trailing her skirt behind her. The lobby was crowded with guests, sombre middle-aged men with mutton-chop whiskers and bushy moustaches, dandyish young men in colourful silk waistcoats, and lean, pale-faced gentlemen hanging with a melancholy air at the fringes of the crowd. Scores of waiters carrying trays of drinks and canapés weaved their way through the throng. Penelope was the only girl there; in fact, she was the only member of the fairer sex to be seen.

  “I do wish you hadn’t come here tonight,” Wigram muttered, standing close to Penelope as they surveyed the gathering in front of them. “We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to your role at The Penny Dreadful. I could have chaperoned Mr Maples perfectly well on my own.”

  Behind them, Monty lifted a handful of canapés from the tray of a passing waiter and stuffed them in his mouth. He dusted the crumbs from his hands before quickly taking another vol-au-vent.

  “This is my kind of party,” he said with a wolfish grin.

  Penny shook her head. Looking around the room, she saw H. G. Wells, H. Rider Haggard, Rudyard Kipling and Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as countless more authors whose faces she had only previously seen peering out from pages of book reviews. The lobby of Burlington House was filled with the great and the good of literary London; everyone drawn here by the promise of the prize.

  “This is where I should be,” she told her guardian firmly. “I write the stories – The Penny Dreadful is my magazine. It’s only right that I get a chance to taste a little of Montgomery Flinch’s fame. Besides, I want to hear more about this prize. It can’t possibly be twenty thousand pounds – you could buy Burlington House itself with that kind of money. Something’s not quite right here and I want to find out what it is.”

  From out of the throng, a rakish-looking gentleman dressed in a brightly-striped waistcoat sprang towards Monty. Beneath a drooping handlebar moustache, a wide grin split the man’s face as he took hold of Monty’s hand and pumped it vigorously.

  “Monty!” he cried, clapping the bewildered actor on the shoulder “As I live and breathe it’s you.”

  Monty’s face quickly paled, a flicker of panic visible behind his eyes as he tried to extricate his hand from the man’s grasp.

  “Er, so good to see you,” he managed to stutter in reply.

  Penelope turned on her heels to face the dapper gentleman, fearful that Monty’s cover had been blown.

  “I read all about your Bedlam exploits in the papers at my club,” the moustachioed man continued. “What a story that will make. Some of us only get to write our tales of mystery, but you seem to be living them, my dear fellow! How long is it since I last saw you? Was it at the Lodge?”

  “Er, it could have been,” ventured Monty.

  Penny saw the sweat beading Monty’s forehead – he didn’t have any idea who this was. She coughed once politely, anxious to turn the man’s attention away from Monty to give him the chance to collect himself.

  The man glanced across at her.

  “And who’s this, Monty?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. “She’s a little young to be your secretary, isn’t she?”

  Penelope shook her head, taken aback by the man’s presumption.

  “I’m Mr Flinch’s niece, Miss Penelope Tredwell,” she said, offering her hand in greeting. However, instead of the expected handshake, she felt the gentleman slip his business card into her hand by way of reply. She peered down at it in surprise.

  Mr Max Pemberton

  Acclaimed Author, Intrepid Journalist and

  Esteemed Editor of Cassell’s Magazine

  c/o The Savage Club, 6–7 Adelphi Terrace,

  Westminster, London

  “We must talk about you coming to write for Cassell’s,” said Pemberton, turning the full glare of his attention back towards Monty. “I was only saying to Conrad just the other day that we ought to get some of Montgomery Flinch’s fiction into the magazine. You’ve been wasting yourself on the pages of The Penny Dreadful for too long.”

  Penelope fumed as she listened to this brazen attempt to poach her own stories. She coughed again, more pointedly this time.

  “My uncle has an exclusive agreement with The Penny Dreadful.”

  Pemberton shook his head dismissively.

  “I haven’t seen an agreement yet that my lawyers couldn’t find a way around,” he told Monty conspiratorially, curling his moustache as he spoke. “Anyway, I don’t really see what business it is of yours.” He fixed Penny with a withering stare. “I’m sure your uncle will still be able to keep you in pretty dresses with the rates we pay at Cassell’s.”

  Catching sight of someone across the room, Pemberton raised his hand in greeting. “Arthur!” he called out as he plunged back into the crowd.

  “Remember what I said,” he called back to Monty over his shoulder. “Pop into the club and we can talk terms then.”

  “Who was that?” said Monty, shaking his head in confusion.

  “The competition,” Penelope replied, tearing Pemberton’s card in two and depositing the pieces on a passing waiter’s tray.

  From out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an unexpected face: the thin, boyish features of Mr Robert Barrett, the journalist at the Pall Mall Gazette. He was munching on a canapé and the moment his gaze met hers, he swiftly looked away. Penny narrowed her eyes. This wasn’t part of the agreement. She turned towards Monty.

  “Don’t talk to anyone,” she told him, “I’ll be back in just one moment.”

  Swinging the bustle of her dress behind her, Penny strode towards Barrett before Monty had the chance to argue. The journalist made a guilty start at her approach, his eyes flicking around the room as if in search of the exit.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Mr Barrett,” Penny smiled disarmingly. “I thought that Mr Flinch had made it quite clear to your editor what his side of the bargain was. The Pall Mall Gazette’s exclusive interview with Montgomery Flinch was only granted on the condition that your harassment of him ceased.”

  Barrett scowled.

  “Don’t worry, I’m just going,” he snapped in reply. “I wouldn’t want to upset Mr Flinch, would I? My editor’s already put me right on that score. He said that he will stick me behind a desk reviewing bad poetry and books for children for the rest of my career if I go within a mile of Montgomery Flinch.”

  Glancing across the room, Barrett fixed Monty with a grudgeful glare.

  “Your uncle can keep his secrets – whatever they are. I’m not interested any more.”

  His eyes flicked back to Penelope, a forced smile fixed to his lips.

  “I shall bid you goodnight, Miss Tredwell. Please pass on my regards to Mr Flinch – I’m sure he’ll understand why I don’t say farewell in person.”

  With that, Barrett turned on his heel. Penny watched as he weaved his way through the throng of authors and out through the grand double doors into the darkness outside. Finally satisfied that he was gone, she slowly walked back towards Monty and Mr Wigram. As she rejoined them, her guardian frowned.

  “Speaking to the press again I see,” he said with a disapproving tone. “You need to be careful, Penelope, that you don’t end up becoming the story.”

  Penny shook her head with a smile.

  “The only story that Mr Barrett will be writing for the Gazette is a review of Kidnapped by Cannibals or some other boys’ own adventure. He’s not going to give Montgomery Flinch any more trouble.”

  Before she could explain herself further, the sound of a bell rang out. High on the wall, in an alcove above the lobby, a grand clock chimed seven times.

  As if in answer, the doors to the meeting room swung open and an elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman stood framed in the entrance. He clapped his hands twice to call for attention and, gradually, the hubbub of noisy conver
sation faded into silence.

  “The extraordinary meeting of the Society of Illustrated Periodicals and Literary Magazines is now called to order,” he announced. “If you could just make your way through to the meeting room, gentlemen, then we can get things under way.”

  A ripple of excitement spread through the lobby, and then Penelope, Monty and Wigram followed the lines of authors as they eagerly filed into the meeting room. Through the crowd of bobbing heads, Penny could see a raised dais at the front of the room. In the centre of the platform, a lectern stood empty whilst the authors settled themselves on long oak benches facing the stage. However, when Penny reached the door, a long arm stretched out in front of her, blocking the entrance.

  “I’m sorry, Miss.”

  She looked up to see the tall, grey-whiskered gentleman who had called the meeting to order barring her path.

  “This meeting is for authors, editors and proprietors only. No children allowed.”

  Penelope felt a resentful wave of anger welling up inside, although she kept this well hidden. The Penny Dreadful was her magazine – she was its editor, lead author and publisher. Montgomery Flinch wouldn’t exist without the stories she wrote.

  “I am an author,” she replied with a simpering smile. If she couldn’t sneak into the meeting, perhaps a little coquettish charm would do the trick.

  “Now, Penelope, I’m sure this gentleman is far too busy to listen to your foolish fancies.” Penny felt her guardian’s hand rest on her shoulder. “Writing for your school magazine doesn’t make you the next Jane Austen, you know.”

  She glanced up at her guardian. As she met his gaze, Wigram’s hooded eyes flashed in warning.

  “I think it would be best if you just wait here,” he said pointedly, “whilst Mr Flinch and I hear more about this prestigious new literary prize. I’m sure you will be able to find a quiet spot to indulge in some embroidery.”

  Behind them, the last few authors still waiting to enter the meeting room were starting to grumble. Penny slowly nodded her head. Her guardian’s words infuriated her, but she knew why he had said them. There was no way she could get into that meeting room now without making a scene.

  “Fine,” she replied, tossing her hair back with a shrug, “I’ll wait in the lobby.”

  As a relieved smile crept across his face, Wigram nodded graciously. Then, with a ruddy-cheeked Monty by his side, they led the last of the authors into the meeting room before the doors closed behind them with a slam.

  Penelope stood there for a moment, silently fuming as she stared at the closed doors. She could write half of the hacks in there under the table. Yet she was stuck out here whilst the greatest literary prize London had ever seen was unveiled inside. A sudden clattering sound pulled Penny’s attention away from the fug of indignant thoughts swirling around her mind.

  Glancing to her left, she saw a line of waiters trooping through a second set of doors. Their trays were loaded with half-finished glasses and, as the doors swung open in front of them, Penny could hear the chatter of voices from the meeting room grow louder. Maybe there was another way in.

  Penny slipped through the doors before they swung shut again. Ahead of her, the waiters were traipsing along a dimly-lit corridor. The babble of conversation was even louder now. Halfway along the corridor on the right, Penny saw a small galleried window looking out over the meeting room, screened by a pair of thick velvet curtains.

  Hurrying down the corridor, Penny hid herself in the folds of the curtain, her cerise dress almost invisible against the red velvet. From her vantage point, she could see the whole of the meeting room laid out in front of her. Four domed chandeliers hung from its vaulted ceiling, shining with the steady brilliance of electric light, whilst from the walls, a legion of white-bearded gentlemen stared down from their portraits on to the proceedings below. The room was packed to bursting, rows of writers, editors and publishers squeezed uncomfortably on to the hard oak benches facing the stage.

  Penelope glimpsed Monty sitting in the front row, sandwiched between Arthur Conan Doyle and H. Rider Haggard, whilst her guardian, Mr Wigram, was standing at the far side of the room. His arms were folded across his chest as he stood deep in conversation with the editor of Cassell’s Magazine, a frown spreading across his features as Pemberton’s gestures became ever more animated.

  Meanwhile, at the front of the room, the tall, grey-whiskered gentleman had climbed up on to the raised dais. He solemnly stepped forward to the front of the stage and, looking out over his gold-rimmed spectacles, rapped his knuckles against the lectern.

  “Gentleman, if we are all quite ready to begin.”

  XX

  “As President of the Society of Illustrated Periodicals and Literary Magazines, I am pleased to see such an array of distinguished guests gathered here this evening.” Gripping the sides of the lectern, the grey-whiskered gentleman peered out at his audience, who were now listening with a respectful silence. “Before me are the finest voices in English literature and I have brought you together, gentlemen, to hear news of a dazzling new literary prize.”

  Across the meeting room, there came the sound of creaking benches as the assembled authors leaned forward in their seats.

  “In the past week,” the president continued, “the Society has been approached by an anonymous benefactor, who, in these last days of the nineteenth century, has proposed a thrilling literary challenge, a unique competition which comes with a breathtaking reward.”

  His solemn features flushed as though he could barely contain his own excitement at the news he was sharing, and his hands cut the air in flurries of motion as he spoke.

  “As we stand on the brink of the twentieth century, the challenge I lay down before you this evening, gentlemen, is for you to write and publish a story about the wonders of the new century that is to come. The author and magazine who are judged to have produced the winning story will share a prize of twenty thousand pounds.”

  A gasp rippled through the room, nobody having dared to believe until that moment that the size of the prize was true. Apart from a few of the literary giants seated in the front row, most of the authors gathered in the room were more used to scratching a living, selling their stories for tens of shillings not thousands of pounds. It was an incredible sum of money.

  From her hiding place, Penny’s nerves started to jangle. The competition, the prize – it was all too good to be true. Something wasn’t right here.

  “What’s the catch?”

  The call from the floor of the meeting room echoed Penelope’s own thoughts.

  “The Society will publicise the competition,” the president replied. “We have taken out advertisements which will be printed in all the daily newspapers tomorrow to inform the reading public of this exciting literary challenge. However, the competition itself has only one important rule – the winning story must be written and published before the new century dawns.”

  The room erupted in a chorus of protest, the authors’ clamouring voices shouting out their concerns.

  “But it’s New Year’s Eve in two days’ time!”

  “Impossible!”

  “It can’t be done.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen.” The president raised his hands to calm the uproar. “If you don’t think you can rise to the challenge then that’s perfectly all right. However, think about the prize at hand if you do.”

  The room fell silent as his words hung in the air, all minds turning again to dreams of unimagined wealth. Then, from the back of the room, a portly man of about fifty rose to his feet, his face set in a suspicious expression.

  “Who is going to judge this competition then?” he demanded. “I don’t want to see another stitch-up like the Fraser Prize fiasco. Every single book on the shortlist was published by John Fraser himself!”

  The president solemnly shook his head as knowing snickers of laughter rippled along the long oak benches.

  “Our benefactor will judge the competition herself,” he rep
lied.

  At this comment, Penelope’s vague feelings of unease began to sharpen into a sense of dread. The pieces of the jigsaw slotted into place at last: the challenge to write a story about the century to come, the impossible deadline, the astounding prize and the mysterious lady who was behind it all. Her fingers whitening as she gripped the heavy velvet curtain more tightly around herself, Penny knew who had brought them all here tonight.

  Back in the meeting room, the doors to the side of the stage swung open. From the wings, a long line of waiters emerged, their brimming trays replenished with drinks again. Moving along the rows of oak benches, they presented each of the gentlemen sitting there with a tall glass of fizzing champagne. Monty snatched his glass from the tray with an enthusiastic hand as, from behind the lectern, the president began to speak again.

  “And to celebrate the inauguration of this grand new prize, I propose a toast, gentlemen.”

  He waited until every single guest in the meeting room had a charged glass in their hand, and then as the waiters filed out of the room once more, the president brought his own glass aloft.

  “Here’s to the twentieth century and your stories that will bring it alive.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  As one, the assembled audience stood and raised their glasses aloft before taking a swig of the sparkling liquid. From the galleried window, Penny watched on aghast as a strange silence suddenly fell across the room.

  Every figure was standing motionless, the authors frozen in position with the now-empty glasses fixed to their lips. At the front of the stage, she could see the president of the Society, his pinched features now as grey as his whiskers. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were glazed and unfocused as though held in some kind of trance. Then the glass slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor where it shattered into countless pieces.

  As the sound of the splintering glass echoed through the silence, a dark figure stepped from the shadows at the side of the stage. It was a tall woman, dressed in a flowing black gown, her shoulders muffled in a black fur stole and her face shrouded by a thick black veil. Arriving at the front of the stage, she carefully stepped past the circle of shattered glass and then pulled back her veil to gaze out at the audience beneath her.