Shadows of the Silver Screen (9 page)

“Good afternoon, madam,” Alfie began, trying to hide the nervous tremor in his voice. “Could I possibly speak to the person who rents this room?”

“I’d like to speak to him too,” the woman spat in reply. “Find out where he’s got to with my twenty-six shillings – that’s the two weeks rent that he owes me. He just lit up and left in the dead of the night, stealing a set of my best bedding into the bargain as well. Damned Frenchies – you can’t trust them with anything.”

Peering past the landlady’s ample frame, Alfie could see that the room was even emptier than when he was last here; the mattress on the iron bedstead now bare. There was no sign of a camera or even a suitcase, the Frenchman’s few possessions now gone too.

“What do you want with him, anyway?” the woman enquired, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You’re not one of his
friends
, are you?”

Alfie swiftly shook his head.

“I just need to ask him a few questions. I don’t suppose you know where he might have gone?”

The landlady sniffed, the sound of this making a rattling noise.

“Probably back where he came from,” she replied. “Working on the fairground with the rest of those vagabonds who have sullied my door of late. They’re all smiles and promises at first, but then when the money runs out they sneak off back to the lowlife of the fair.” The woman stooped to pluck a tattered sheaf of handbills from where they were wedged to fill a crack in the doorframe. With a scandalised tut, she thrust these into Alfie’s hand. “I mean, look at what the man did – it’s hardly a respectable occupation, is it?”

Raising an eyebrow, Alfie glanced down at the paper in his hand and saw the ghostly portrait of a young woman staring back at him. She was dressed in an evening gown that looked like it belonged to the last century, her bare shoulders half turned away from the camera, with long dark curls cascading over them. On the faded handbill, her figure seemed almost translucent, as though worn through by time or neglect, but something in her shadowy gaze sent a chill down Alfie’s spine. Glancing away, he read the boldly lettered text that lay beneath the photograph.

 

“And if you find that thief Jacques Le Prince,” the landlady growled, “tell him that I want that money he owes me
and
my bleeding bedding back.”

With that she slammed the door in Alfie’s face, dust falling from its lintel on to his shoes as he stood there deep in thought. He hadn’t found the Frenchman, but at least he had a lead: a name, Jacques Le Prince, and an idea of where he could find him. Stuffing the tattered flyer into his pocket, Alfie turned to leave, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. It was time to go to the fair.

XIV

 

Standing at the far end of the study, Penelope watched as Gold prepared the scene. The filmmaker motioned for Vivienne to take a step forward, and stooped to fix his eye to the viewfinder, checking that the actress was captured in its frame. The blue silk of her evening gown shimmered beneath the gaslight, and a nervous blush coloured Miss Devey’s cheeks as she waited for the camera to roll. Facing her, Monty sat behind a broad oak desk, impatience marking his features as he fixed the Véritéscope with a glowering stare.

For a machine he claimed to have invented, Gold’s grasp of the camera’s mechanics seemed rather limited. This last shot of the day had taken an age to set up; Monty’s thoughts were already turning towards dinner and a stiff glass of port as the filmmaker prodded at the controls. Finally satisfied, Gold took hold of the camera’s winder.

“The camera is ready,” he declared, as he fixed his eye to the viewfinder again, then cranked the Véritéscope into life. “Action!”

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.”