Shadows of the Silver Screen

by Christopher Edge

  As the trap rattled down the track, Penny leaned forward to tap the driver’s shoulder. He half turned in his seat, his weather-beaten face creased in a craggy frown.

  “Where are all the people?” she asked.

  With a grunt, the driver pointed with his whip to the horizon. There, beyond the blight of the mine, lay a broad tangle of woodland. Rising above the trees, Penny glimpsed a gothic tower silhouetted against the skyline, bathed gold by the rays of the setting sun.

  “Eversholt Manor,” he replied, his broad accent almost unintelligible to Penelope’s ears.

  Penny settled back in her seat, her brow furrowed in confusion. This was the name of the place in the rewritten final script. As the carriage trundled down the track, she saw the half-hidden turrets creep ever closer. The driver spurred the trap past the stone buildings that lay in the shadow of the pithead, an acrid smell rising from the ruins of the smelting house.

  Monty wheezed as the driver raised his whip again, the horses straining as the track began to rise. Loose scree tumbled from the mounds of spoil as the wheels of the carriage trundled past, gradually leaving the scene of the mine behind as they curved upwards on the lane that led to the manor house. A few minutes later, they had reached the cover of the trees. The branches moaned and flailed in the rising wind, and, as he pulled his blazer more tightly around himself, Monty cast a superstitious glance into the shadows.

  “This place could do with some electric lamps to light the way,” he grumbled. “I don’t know why we’ve had to come this far anyway. Surely Mr Gold could’ve filmed The Daughter of Darkness in a London studio.”

  Penelope frowned.

  “Have you even read my story?”

  Before Monty had a chance to reply, the carriage suddenly swung to the right. Bracing herself against the rail of the trap, Penny found herself looking up a long, dark drive to where a grand house stood in splendid isolation. As the horses trotted down the drive, Penny stared up at the hall. It looked as though it had been hewn from the same granite that littered the moors; black towers and turrets rising up against a darkening sky. The front of the building was draped in ivy, its dark green leaves creeping around countless windows and crawling up the stone walls, but from the porch there came a faint glimmer of light.

  The driver brought the carriage to a halt in front of this entrance. As Monty swung down from his seat with a groan of relief, a tall man stepped out of the shadows to greet them.

  “Good evening,” said Mr Gold, his vulpine features lit with a smile. “Welcome to Eversholt Manor.”

  IX

  “Come in, come in,” said Gold, his voice booming as he beckoned Monty and Penny to follow him into the vast entrance hall. Mounted high along its wood-panelled walls, gas lamps were flickering into life with a hiss, as outside the last remnants of daylight slowly faded. Behind Penny, two footmen dressed in threadbare uniforms were unloading their cases from the carriage. “Your belongings will be taken straight up to your rooms, but before you retire, let me first give you the grand tour.”

  As Monty hurried to follow the filmmaker, Penelope gazed around the entrance hall. From floor to ceiling, the walls were wainscotted with solid oak, the dark shade of the wood giving the grand space a sombre air. A huge elk’s head stared dolefully back at Penny from its vantage point, its sprawling antlers casting ominous shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

  “I hope you’ll agree, Mr Flinch, that I have found the perfect place to set your tale,” Gold continued as he led Monty across the stone-tiled floor. His arm swept along the length of the hall, the sweeping gesture taking in every aspect of its gloomy grandeur. “I knew the first time I glimpsed it that The Daughter of Darkness had found her home.”

  Monty peered nervously into the shadows.

  “Very impressive,” he replied with a shiver, as though a sudden chill was creeping into his bones. “A little remote, perhaps…”

  A broad grin spread across the filmmaker’s face.

  “That’s why this film will be true to the authenticity of the tale,” he replied. “Here I can capture the wild beauty of the moors, the blighted shadows of the mine, and of course, the grand architecture of Eversholt Manor.”

  As Gold strode down the hall, Penelope fell into step beside Monty, listening intently as the filmmaker continued to speak.

  “Of course, there are other benefits to our splendid isolation. As you’ve seen, there’s not a town within two hours’ drive of here, nothing to distract us as we work to bring your story to the cinematograph screen. Without any interruptions, we should complete the filming within a week.”

  Monty paled at the thought of spending a whole week trapped in this place.

  “Is there not even a village nearby?” he ventured hopefully. “A country pub, perhaps?”

  Gold shook his head, the corners of his smile tightening almost imperceptibly.

  “Not since the mine closed down,” he replied, “more than a year ago. Only a few families remain, still living in the shadow of the pit.”

  Turning right at the end of the entrance hall, Gold led Monty and Penny into a grand dining room. But instead of seeing a table laden with supper beneath its dusty chandelier, they were greeted instead by a scene of industrious toil. Burly men dressed in shirt-sleeves were unloading boxes of cinematographic equipment, whilst on the opposite side of the room several women sat sewing costumes, their weather-beaten skin the same colour as the moor. A handful of children were scattered at their feet, babes in arms and sullen-faced striplings, most of the older ones busily sewing buttons too.

  “They were all so grateful when I offered them a chance to earn an honest wage again,” said Gold, turning back to Monty with an expression of almost fraternal pride. “Though when I first invited them up to the manor house, I think most of them believed they would turn to stone if they ventured inside. I’d almost forgotten how superstitious folk are around these parts. Well, you must know that, Mr Flinch, with the stories that you’ve set here.”

  Smiling nervously, Monty nodded his head as Penny glanced across at the filmmaker with a peevish frown. Gold had barely acknowledged her presence since she and Monty had arrived; hardly the manners she’d expect from a gentleman.

  As they walked along the length of the dining room, several of the children glanced up from their tasks. From faces that somehow seemed older than a handful of years, their stares followed Penelope’s progress. Opening a set of double doors, Gold ushered her and Monty into the adjoining drawing room, the doors closing behind them with a click and shielding them from further scrutiny.

  “May I ask how exactly you came to film here, Mr Gold?” asked Penny, as her eyes took in the finery of her new surroundings. The spacious drawing room was decorated with rich drapery and furnishings of the most elegant design. Suspended on the walls were yet more portraits in gilt frames, each one situated beneath a painted coat of arms. A magnificent marble chimneypiece dominated the centre of the room, its grate an ornate display of polished steel and burnished gold, whilst a large window looked out across the wilderness of the moor, its windswept trees now shrouded by the gathering darkness. “I wouldn’t have expected the owner of so fine a home to have flung open their doors to a filmmaker.”

  For a second, Gold’s eyes narrowed as if recognising the barb in Penelope’s question. Then stepping towards them both, he clapped Monty on the back.

  “I see your niece is as sharp as a tack, Mr Flinch,” Gold replied with a forced smile. “For hundreds of years, this manor house has been the ancestral home of the Eversholt family. Hundreds of acres of moorland, the village and copper mine too, came under their command. However, when the last Lord Eversholt died without an heir, the estate was put up for sale by the Crown.”

  Gold glanced up at one of the portraits hanging on the wall. The painting showed the late Lord Eversholt, his imposing figure dressed in voluminous ermine robes. Only his face was uncovered, and a touch of cruelty lingered in his painted smile.

  Fo
r a second, a flicker of hatred gleamed in the filmmaker’s gaze. Then, dropping his eyes from the portrait, he turned again towards Monty.

  “The estate has languished unsold for nearly a year now and when I heard that Eversholt Manor lay empty, I knew that I had found the perfect location.”

  The filmmaker turned his gaze towards the window. He looked out across the landscape to where the silhouette of the pithead rose above the trees, almost lost in the gloaming.

  “I persuaded the solicitor in charge of the sale to allow me to film here, convincing him that this would bring a horde of prospective purchasers to his door. After all, who would not wish to live in the house where the illustrious Montgomery Flinch had set his tale?”

  As Monty beamed, a frown creased Penelope’s forehead, the reason why Gold had changed the setting of her story suddenly becoming clear. But this still didn’t explain all the other changes he had made. The sound of a timid knock at the drawing-room door interrupted her thoughts. Turning towards the door with a twirl, Gold raised his voice to a showman’s bark.

  “Come in!”

  The door squeaked open and the face of Miss Mottram peered shyly around the frame. Seeing Montgomery Flinch and his niece standing alongside her employer, she half bowed in greeting as she entered the room.

  “Good evening, Mr Flinch, Miss Tredwell,” she began, her voice a little tremulous. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Edward – I mean, Mr Gold – asked me to bring him tomorrow’s script pages as soon as they were typed.” In her hand she held a loose sheaf of typeset pages. “I’ll just leave these here for you, sir.”

  Miss Mottram carefully set the sheaf of papers down on the reading desk that was stationed next to the fireplace. Penny’s gaze narrowed as she eyed the script. What fresh meddling had Gold inflicted upon her story?

  Clearing her throat, she turned towards the filmmaker. As he glanced across at her, Penelope cast her face in an expression of wide-eyed wonder, fluttering her eyelashes as she began to speak.

  “My uncle let me read your script on the journey down, Mr Gold,” she gushed, “and it was remarkable to see his story in the new light you have cast upon it. What a talent you have, taking his words from the pages of The Penny Dreadful and reimagining them for the silver screen.”

  Gold grinned immodestly.

  “There was just one thing that I wondered,” Penny continued, a puzzled frown creeping across her features. “Why have you made so many changes? The scenes on the moor, the argument in the drawing room, even the grisly ending. None of this is as it was described in my uncle’s story. Why even the daughter of darkness herself now answers to the name of Amelia Eversholt. Are these amendments really necessary?”

  At Penelope’s question, a dark cloud passed across the filmmaker’s face. He frowned, meeting her gaze with a glowering stare.

  “The most frightening tales, Miss Tredwell, are those that the audience believe to be real. The Daughter of Darkness may be my inspiration, but 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.” Beneath the lamplight, Gold’s dark eyes glistened, but before Penny could ask another question, he turned away to face Monty. “You have no objections, I trust, Mr Flinch?”

  “None at all,” Monty replied blithely. “I’ll leave the business of filmmaking to you, Mr Gold, and concentrate my energies instead on bringing the character of Lord Eversholt to life.”

  “Excellent!” Gold exclaimed, clapping Monty on the shoulder as Penelope silently seethed. “And tomorrow you will have the chance to meet the rest of the splendid cast I have assembled, including the actress I have chosen to play the part of Amelia Eversholt.”

  Standing by the door, Miss Mottram’s face paled as she heard these words, her lips suddenly blanching with apprehension. Penny’s thoughts slipped back to the gloom of the Flicker Alley screening room. She remembered the secretary’s face gazing out from the silver screen.

  “I thought that you had already cast that role,” Penny began, watching Miss Mottram’s fingers whiten as they gripped the door handle. The secretary’s trembling hand betrayed the emotions that her tight-lipped expression tried to hide. “In the scene that you showed us—”

  Gold cut her off with a peremptory wave of his hand.

  “Oh, that was merely a screen test, Miss Tredwell,” he replied dismissively. “A showreel to demonstrate the storytelling power of the Véritéscope. For the actual film of The Daughter of Darkness, I needed a new star – an actress who could capture the grace and poise of Amelia Eversholt.”

  With a stifled whimper, Miss Mottram fled from the room, the drawing-room door banging shut behind her. At this sound, Gold glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of irritation momentarily crossing his features. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he turned back to face Penelope, delivering the final words of his reply in a laudatory tone.

  “I will have the pleasure of introducing Miss Vivienne Devey to you tomorrow, when we film the opening scene at the mine.”

  X

  A pale face stared out from the carriage window, soft curls of raven hair framing her delicate features. The girl squinted nervously into the sunlight, lifting her hand to shade her gaze as she took in the scene before her.

  The carriage had come to a halt close to the shadow of the pithead, the horses whinnying impatiently as the nearby waterwheel creaked in the wind. A huddle of men and children were clustered around the carriage, their faces filthy and with ragged clothes hanging off their stooped frames. Some of the youngest children looked no more than seven or eight years old, the shackles around their wrists and ankles clanking as they dragged themselves forward.

  The tall figure of a man stepped down from the carriage, the collar of his shirt upstanding beneath his black frock coat, a dark red neck tie knotted in a cavalier fashion around his throat. Grabbing the riding crop from his driver’s hand, he snapped it with a whip crack to clear a path through the gathering throng.

  “What is the meaning of this insolence?” Monty barked, his dark-eyed gaze thunderous beneath bristling eyebrows. “Get back to work at once!”

  At the sight of the flashing whip, the workers closest to Monty’s path shrank back in fear, but one of the oldest children was pushed by the others to the front of the throng until he was standing directly before him. Monty stared down his nose at the boy’s upturned face. Beneath a mop of black hair its grimy countenance somehow had a healthier glow than the sallow, frightened faces around him.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” the actor snapped, flexing the riding crop in his grasp. “Why has the mine fallen silent? I want to see you all back down that pit, bringing up my copper.” He curled his lip into a snarl at the boy’s silent defiance. “Maybe I should make an example of you, boy, to show the others what happens to any workers that slacken.”

  “But please, Lord Eversholt,” the boy began, his quavering voice sounding strangely refined despite his threadbare clothes. “There’s been a flood in one of the tunnels. I was just pulled free in time, but my friend is still trapped down there. Nobody can work until the level is pumped dry.”

  A look of concern flashed across Monty’s face.

  “Which tunnel is flooded?” he demanded, as behind him in the carriage window the young girl pressed a handkerchief to her lips in horror.

  “The lower main level,” the boy replied. “One hundred fathoms deep. It’s the tunnel that was dug out last week to search for new deposits.”

  At this news, Monty blew out his cheeks in relief.

  “There’s no need to worry, then,” he said. “We leave the tunnel flooded and get back to the levels where there’s still copper to be dug.” He raised his voice to a pitch of stern command. “Now shut down those pumps and get back to work.”

  With this final order, Monty turned to return to the carriage, but before he could leave, the boy reached out and tugged at his sleeve.

  “But, sir, my friend is still down there—”
>
  Glancing down, Monty grimaced at the sight of the urchin’s grubby paw on the cuff of his coat.

  “How dare you!” he snarled. He drew back his arm in anger, the riding crop raised high in the air, ready to punish the boy’s impertinence. But before he could strike, an anguished cry rang out from the carriage window.

  “No!”

  For a split-second the action froze, Monty’s arm suspended in mid-air, then Gold’s voice rang out across the scene.

  “And cut!”

  From her vantage point, half a dozen paces to the filmmaker’s right, Penelope watched as Gold emerged from behind the Véritéscope, a broad smile breaking across his face. With one deft action, he cranked the camera’s winder a final half-turn, bringing the whirring film reel hidden inside to a halt. Then he stepped away from the tripod and began to stride towards his leading man as Monty finally let his arm fall, the riding crop swishing harmlessly by his side. Next to him, the grubby face of the boy turned to watch Gold’s approach too, his features anxious as he awaited the director’s verdict.

  “That was wonderful!” Gold declared as he reached the two of them. “Mr Flinch, your performance was simply sublime. Lord Eversholt himself came alive in your every action.”

  Beneath their bristling brows, Monty’s eyes twinkled at this praise, his haughty countenance relaxing into a grin.

  “Ah well, I must confide in you, Mr Gold, that I have played many a leading role before in amateur theatricals,” he replied. “As a schoolboy, my Sweeney Todd had my classmates cowering in their seats. This blue-blooded scoundrel isn’t too much of a stretch after bringing that butcher to life on the stage.” He waved his riding crop in the direction of the Véritéscope. “I just hope that your cinematographic device saw it all.”

  Monty glanced back over his shoulder at the raggedy band of men and children now standing idle, waiting for the filmmaker’s next command, and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone.