In response, Monty’s dark eyes blazed with fury beneath his bristling eyebrows. He glared up at Vivienne.
“How dare you defy me in this way?”
In the guise of Lord Eversholt, Monty’s face had taken on a beastly aspect, his whiskers encroaching wolfishly over his cheeks whilst his mouth twisted into a snarl.
“I shall expect nothing but insubordination from those wretches now that my own daughter has set such an example,” he continued. “This is my house, these are my lands and that is my copper mine to run as I see fit – without any interference from the likes of you, my girl!”
Spittle flecked his lips as Monty banged his fist down on the desk, the ring on his finger scratching its oak veneer. Watching on, Penny felt a strange prickling sensation crawl across her skin. Dark shadows fell across Monty’s features, a trace of real malice in his gaze as he worked himself to new heights of anger.
“I will be obeyed!” he roared.
Standing firm in the face of this tirade, Vivienne held her head high. Dark tresses of hair framed her porcelain features, and there was a frightened look in her emerald eyes, but a glimmer of defiance lurked there too.
“But, Father,” she protested, “it was my Christian duty to speak. That poor boy could have drowned in the depths of your mine.”
“And his family would’ve been grateful,” Monty snapped. “One less mouth around the table for them to feed.”
He rose from behind his desk, his imposing frame towering above Vivienne as he stepped towards her.
“And your duty, my girl, is to obey your father’s every command. The money I have spent on your education – nursemaids, governesses, visiting masters – and all they have managed to raise for me is an insolent whelp. I am only glad that your mother never lived to see your temerity.”
Vivienne clenched her slender fingers into fists, playing the part of Amelia to perfection as she addressed Monty in a tremulous tone.
“If Mother could have seen the way you treat those poor children down at the pit, she would have died of shame anyway.”
In reply, Monty’s face turned puce with fury. As the gas lamps flickered, he raised his hand high, the shadow thrown across the wall quivering with an uncontrolled rage. As her own face filled with fear, Vivienne froze, waiting for Gold to call out and bring the scene to a close. But the cry of “Cut!” never came and the shadow swooped down with a venomous strike.
CRACK!
The sound of the slap reverberated around the room. At the far end of the study, Penelope gasped in shock, almost feeling the sting of the blow herself. Standing next to her, Miss Mottram paled. Only moments before, she had been silently mouthing Vivienne’s words, but now the script pages shook in her hands.
Silence fell over the study like a shroud; the only sound that could be heard was the faint whirr of the Véritéscope. Gold was still hunched over the camera, his eye pressed to the viewfinder as he remorselessly turned the winder.
With tears pricking her eyes, Miss Devey stared up at Monty in shock. Dark shadows still haunted the actor’s gaze as Vivienne raised a trembling hand to her cheek, the crimson mark there branding her deathly pale features.
“You hit me!” she wailed.
Her cry seemed to rouse Monty from the spell that he was under. He stared down at Vivienne as if seeing her for the first time.
The porcelain beauty of the young actress’s face was now a tear-stained mask of misery, her shoulders heaving with every sob. Monty glanced down at his open palm, the skin stung red by the force of the blow. He slowly shook his head, confusion clouding his features.
“I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. “I don’t quite know what came over me.”
Vivienne turned to face the camera. Dark rivers of mascara streaked her blotchy features, the crimson welt on her cheek already starting to shine as she sniffed back a snivelling wail.
“He hit me!” she shrieked, the shock in her voice now transformed into a shrill pitch of outrage. Blubbering sobs punctuated her every word. “That wasn’t in the script!”
As Monty looked on dumbfounded, the whirring noise of the Véritéscope came to a halt with a click. Straightening up, Gold emerged from behind the camera lens, his face grim. Stepping towards his leading lady, he drew a handkerchief out from his pocket and offered it to her with a consoling hand. Still trembling, Vivienne pressed it to her eyes, staring up at Gold through her tears.
“He hit me,” she repeated, her voice now as small as a child’s.
Gold nodded in reply, the dark shadows beneath his eyes giving his face a haunted expression.
“I know what he did,” he said, his low voice laced with certainty. “I remember it all like it was yesterday. I’m afraid that your suffering is the price we have to pay to bring the truth into the light. The shadows of the past must walk again.”
Vivienne stared at him in horror.
“Now if you would kindly attend to your make-up,” Gold continued, turning back towards the Véritéscope. “The picture show must go on.”
For a moment, Vivienne stood there frozen. A giddying whirl of emotions flashed across her face – shock, confusion and fear – before her features finally settled into an expression of ungovernable fury.
“No!”
With a stamp of her foot, Vivienne flung the handkerchief at the retreating figure of the filmmaker.
“I refuse to be a part of this horror show,” she cried. “You said you were going to make me a star, but you’ve let him treat me like some common serving girl. The man’s a monster! I will not stay for another minute in this beastly place.”
Flinging back her hair, Vivienne gathered up the skirts of her gown, sweeping them before her as she flounced across the room.
“I’m going back to London,” she declared. “There are a host of West End shows where my talents will shine more brightly than in this tawdry production.”
Standing by the Véritéscope, his hand resting protectively on its casing, Gold watched her leave. His gaze followed Vivienne as she swept past Penelope, still speechless at what she had seen. As the young actress reached the door to the study, only the mouse-like figure of Miss Mottram stood in her path. With a rather unladylike shove, Vivienne pushed past the secretary, causing the pages of her script to fall to the floor. Miss Mottram quickly stooped, scrabbling to pick these up as Miss Devey disappeared through the open door. The Daughter of Darkness had lost its star.
Gold frowned, his fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm against the side of the camera. Monty turned to address the director, his head hung low in shame.
“Perhaps if I went after her,” he began in a faltering voice. “If I could just explain how the emotion of the scene overcame me. Apologise for my brutish behaviour…”
Gold held up a hand to bring Monty’s remorseful confession to a close.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” he replied, in a tone that brooked no quarrel. “Your performance could not be faulted. Staring through the viewfinder, I could see Lord Eversholt himself where you now stand.”
Gold’s dark eyes glittered with an unshakeable conviction.
“This moving picture show must make the audience believe,” he continued. “The truth must be told.”
Lifting his eyes, Monty stared back at the filmmaker, a puzzled expression creeping across his already troubled face.
“But surely without Miss Devey there can be no film?”
In answer, Gold turned towards the rear of the study. There, Penny and Miss Mottram still waited. He stepped towards them, his dark-eyed stare flicking across each face in turn.
“We already have the perfect replacement for Miss Devey,” Gold explained. “A young lady who is blessed with the same graceful demeanour as Amelia Eversholt herself. Somebody who knows the story of The Daughter of Darkness better than any of us here. Except, of course, for yourself, Mr Flinch.”
Clutching the script, Miss Mottram blushed with delight, a hopeful smile straying across her lips. The pages
of the script fluttered nervously in her grasp, dreams of stardom shining in her eyes once again. Almost holding her breath, she watched as Gold stepped towards her, ready at last to make good on his promise.
But the filmmaker came to a halt five steps too soon. He stood directly in front of Penelope, his eyes roving over her figure like a sculptor sizing up a raw piece of clay. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze, whilst Miss Mottram looked on perplexed, her smile starting to curdle at the corners of her mouth.
“This is our new daughter of darkness,” Gold pronounced. He reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from Penelope’s face, the icy touch of his fingers instantly transporting her mind back to the shadows of the night. “Amelia…”
A shiver ran down Penny’s spine. But before she had the chance to reply, a shrill scream rent the air.
“How dare you!” Miss Mottram shrieked, flinging the pages of her script in the filmmaker’s direction. “I will not stay here to be so insulted twice!”
As Penny looked on aghast, the expression on Gold’s face remained unmoved. He turned towards his secretary, Miss Mottram’s features now contorted with anger.
“Please arrange for Amelia’s costumes to be taken to Miss Tredwell’s room,” he instructed her. “We shall begin filming again tomorrow.”
With a final shriek of rage, Miss Mottram turned on her heel, following the path taken by Miss Devey. Storming from the room, she slammed the study door behind her, the sound echoing through the manor house.
Seemingly unperturbed, Gold turned back to face Penelope. There was mystery in his shadowy features and, leaning forward, he dropped his voice to a whisper meant for her alone.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said with a chilling smile upon his lips. “Your story will be told.”
XV
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Penny inspected herself with a critical eye. She smoothed the silken material over her shoulders, the collar of her evening gown, half a size too small, rubbing at her skin. The dress she was wearing had been cut for the frame of Miss Devey, but with the actress returning to London in the morning, her costumes had now been delivered to Penelope’s room. She glanced down at the array of clothes left in a heap on her bed, a riot of colours illuminated by candlelight. Skirts and ball gowns, blouses and shawls: the clothes that would help her bring Amelia to life when she stepped in front of the camera tomorrow.
Penny shook her head, the thought of this filling her with dread. The fact that she was now the star of this moving picture show still seemed beyond belief, but when Gold had fixed her with his piercing stare she had felt unable to refuse. Your story will be told, the filmmaker had said. She shuddered.
Her thoughts returned again to the strange events that had unfolded that evening. After Vivienne and Miss Mottram’s dramatic exits, Monty had retired early, too ashamed by his behaviour to even stay for dinner. It had been left to Penny and the young actor, James Denham, to join Edward Gold in the dining room. There, they had listened respectfully as the filmmaker outlined his plans for the next day’s filming, the atmosphere as frigid as the plates of cold meat they were served. But as the meal dragged on, Gold became more garrulous with each glass of wine that he drank, his conversation taking a slightly sinister turn.
“With this film, I will take my revenge,” he had slurred, waving his wine glass at the portrait of Lord Eversholt. “The wrong that was done can finally be put right.” James and Penny had exchanged puzzled glances, both of them confused by the director’s cryptic comments. Eventually, to their relief, the last course was served and, finishing it, they had hurried from the dining room, leaving Gold grumbling into the bottom of his wine glass.
Penelope frowned. What on earth had Gold meant? With a sigh, she picked up the script from her bedside table, resigned to rehearsing her first scene before she slept that night. Staring into the mirror, she addressed her own reflection:
“My name is Amelia Eversholt and this is my story – a tragic tale of murder, betrayal and revenge.”
As she spoke the words aloud, Penelope caught a glimpse of a second face in the mirror, the shadowy features of a girl hovering at her shoulder. With a sudden gasp, she spun round in alarm. But in the shadows that lurked behind her, nobody could be seen.
A strange unearthly sensation gripped Penny as she peered around the room. The candle’s flame flickered and the shadows thickened, as though some unseen presence was trying to make itself known. At the very edge of her hearing she could just make out a soft murmuring sound, the whisper of a heartbeat next to her own.
With a mounting sense of dread, Penelope turned back to face the mirror; her heart thumping in her chest as she stared at her own reflection. She watched in disbelief as a second face emerged from the shadows again. It was the face of a girl, not much older than Penelope herself. But where Penny’s features were blanched with fear, the girl’s face was wreathed in shadows; soft curls of hair framing her ethereal features like pale wisps of mist. She was dressed in a grey evening gown, a black velvet ribbon tied high around her neck.
As she stared at the girl in the looking glass, it appeared to Penny that she could almost see through her body; the image of her evening gown shifting to reveal the door beyond. An icy prickle crept across Penny’s skin as, with eyes that glittered like diamonds in the gloom, the girl fixed her with a beseeching stare. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came and then with a sigh that rustled the curtains, she turned to leave.
As Penelope stood there transfixed, the shadowy figure of the girl stepped towards the door. She moved with a curious gliding motion, as if her footsteps almost skimmed the floor. Glancing back over her shoulder, the girl beckoned for Penny to follow her and then disappeared through the solid oak door.
With her heart thumping in her chest, Penelope turned to obey; the pages of her script fluttering to the floor as she stepped towards the door, almost unable to believe what she had seen. As she turned the handle, the heavy door opened with a creak. Outside, the corridor lay in darkness, but as she stepped from her room, Penny could just make out the shadowy form of the girl ahead of her in the gloom, gliding down the passageway as though the floor was made out of water.
Penelope hurried to keep up, the sound of her own footsteps painfully loud. At the end of the long corridor stood the outline of another door, almost lost in the darkness. The wraithlike figure of the girl paused in front of this and with an agitated gesture, signalled for Penny to hurry. Then, turning back towards the door, she melted through the frame as though it wasn’t even there.
Penelope gasped. She tried turning the handle, only to hear the rattle of the lock hold firm. Standing there in the darkness, a flurry of thoughts rushed through her brain as she tried to make sense of what she had just seen. As a shiver crept down her spine, Penny couldn’t discount the thought that some supernatural hand was at work here. Then, on the other side of the door, she heard an ominous creaking sound.
Ghost or not, she had to find out what lay inside. Pulling out her hairpin, Penny bent to the keyhole. There was more than one way to unlock a door. Using the trick that Alfie had shown her when he’d locked the keys inside the office, she straightened the hairpin and then slid it inside the lock. Carefully turning the hairpin, she felt it catch against the pins of the lock in turn, each one clicking into place as the hairpin rotated. With a final twist, she felt the lock spring open and, turning the handle, Penelope opened the door.
The room was shrouded in darkness; a blackness more complete than even the corridor’s crepuscular gloom. Penny cursed her impulsiveness, wishing now that she had picked up the lighted candle from her table. She took a faltering step forward, straining her eyes against the shadows that crowded the room.
Heavy curtains were drawn across the window, but faint glimmers of moonlight crept around their edges. Steeling her nerves, Penny stepped across the darkened room, the half-glimpsed shapes of shadows looming out at her. Reaching the curtains, she drew them back
with a flourish, the full moon hanging in the sky casting a spectral light across the scene.
Penelope took in her surroundings with an inquisitive eye. A stout chest of drawers stood in one corner, a simple brass bedstead in another, whilst a washstand, wardrobe and dressing table made up the rest of the furniture in the room. The bedstead was covered with a plain white counterpane, pulled tight over the pillows and sheets; no sign that anyone had slept there that night. The room was empty, but as a cold sweat crept across her skin, Penny knew that she wasn’t alone.
As if to prove her right, a creaking sound came from the corner of the room. Turning towards it, Penelope saw the top drawer of the oak chest slowly slide open as if of its own accord. As she watched, mesmerised by the impossibility of what she was seeing, a framed photograph set atop the cabinet teetered at its edge. As the drawer juddered to a halt, the photograph tipped forward and fell, Penny rushing forward to grab it before it hit the floor.
With an anxious glance around her, she placed the picture frame back on top of the dresser. Near to it lay a copper candlestick with matches in its broad tray and, reaching for these with a trembling hand, Penelope struck a light. As the candle’s flame shimmered, she caught sight of the photograph in the frame and let out a low gasp.
The faded picture showed the face of a girl, dark curls of brunette hair framing her sad-eyed stare. It was the girl she had glimpsed in the shadows – the ghostly presence who had brought her to this place. As Penny stared at the photograph, its sepia tones glowing gold in the candlelit glow, the chest of drawers shuddered and, glancing down, she saw the drawer pulled out again by an invisible hand.
Without thinking, she reached down to push the drawer back before its contents spilled out over the floor. But even as she pressed hard against it, bringing all her weight to bear, some supernatural force seemed to hold the drawer open. Staring down in disbelief, Penelope saw this same invisible hand begin to peel back the layers of folded sheets and pillowcases arranged there. It was as though it was searching for something, peeling back the bedclothes until the bottom of the drawer lay almost bare. Then Penny saw it, a brownish bundle of papers tied together with a tattered piece of ribbon, half-hidden beneath a folded pillowcase.
Shadows of the Silver Screen Page 9