The Black Crow Conspiracy (2 page)

MONTGOMERY FLINCH IS BACK!

The Penny Dreadful
is proud to announce the long-awaited return of the Master of the Macabre with news of a thrilling competition. The once-in-a-lifetime chance to see your idea for a story turned into the plot of Montgomery Flinch’s newest tale. Could you dream up a mystery fit for the pages of
The Penny Dreadful
? Send your entries to the offices of
The Penny Dreadful
, 38 Bedford Street, London.

All entries must be received by the 21st of May 1902, and the winning entrant will have the chance to meet Montgomery Flinch and see their suggestion transformed into the lead story of the July edition of
The Penny Dreadful
.

Wigram raised a sceptical eyebrow as Alfie finished reading the announcement aloud.

“A competition.” He sniffed. “Are you sure this is wise, Penelope?”

Pursing her lips in a stubborn line, Penny nodded her head in reply.

“If what Alfie says is true, we will be deluged with entries –
The Penny Dreadful
’s readers won’t be able to resist the chance to see their ideas turned into a story by the illustrious Montgomery Flinch.” Her pale-green eyes shimmered with a renewed sense of purpose. “And I only need the right spark of inspiration to fire my imagination into life once more.”

III

Beneath a cloudless sky, an expectant hush fell over the red-brick pavilion, its crisp white balconies affording the spectators seated there the finest view of the field of play. Out in the centre of the velvet-green oval, a batsman stood guard at his wicket, the cricketing whites of the opposing team clustering closer as the bowler marked out his run-up.

As the sun beat down on his candy-striped cap, Arthur Conan Doyle tapped his bat against the crease in anticipation of the delivery to come. With a walrus moustache perched atop his upper lip and his broad shoulders set in a resolute stance, the distinguished figure of Doyle looked like an immovable object positioned in front of his stumps. On the scoreboard, his batting tally was recorded in double figures, only three runs shy of his century.

Beginning his run-up, the bowler hurried across the turf, his galloping stride picking up pace as he thundered to his mark. With a flick of his wrist he bowled his delivery, the ball pitching in the dust before rising towards the wicket in a curling flight. Keeping his eyes fixed on the ball, Doyle swung his bat, connecting with a thwack that sent the delivery high in the sky to the delighted gasps of the crowd of onlookers. The ball soared towards the grandstand, clearing silly mid-off as the fielding team turned to watch its flight.

“It’s a six,” Alfie exclaimed. “It has to be.”

From her seat in the pavilion next to him, Penelope glanced up from the pile of papers perched on her lap. Her hair was pinned up beneath a cap, whilst her boyish attire echoed Alfie’s own. This was the price she had to pay for their complimentary seats, all thanks to the Marylebone Cricket Club’s ridiculous prohibition on ladies entering the pavilion during play. Penny watched as the ball arced through the sky towards them, the crowd holding its breath, hands poised ready to unleash a thunderous ovation to acclaim the centurion.

But then the ball began to fall, the laws of
physics finally defying Doyle as it dropped, agonisingly short of the boundary rope. The fielder positioned there raised his arm high, brandishing the ball in triumph as his teammates rushed to congratulate him.

With a scowl, Doyle hefted his bat beneath his arm, departing the crease in high dudgeon: the celebrated creator of Sherlock Holmes dismissed just three runs short of his century. As the crowd’s applause accompanied Doyle on his long walk back to the pavilion, Alfie glanced across to see the next batsman already descending the steps from the dressing room. A cream-white sweater strained to contain the batter’s portly frame, his pads flapping as he clacked his way down the steps.

“It looks like Monty’s in next.”

Penny looked up to see the man the world knew as Montgomery Flinch nearing the bottom of the steps. Giving his bat a practise swing, Monty almost brained a young boy who was standing waiting by the boundary gate.

“Ouch!”

With a blush colouring his cheeks, Monty quickly tucked his cricket bat underneath his arm.

“Watch out, my boy,” he declared. “You don’t want to get in the way of one of Montgomery Flinch’s thunderous cover drives, do you?”

Turning, the boy glanced up at Monty with a
scowl, his autograph book and pen still clutched in his hand.

“Here,” Monty said in a mollifying tone, holding out his hand for the book. “Let me give you my signature for your collection. You’ll be able to tell all your pals that you were there when Montgomery Flinch scored his century.”

With a swift shake of his head, the boy hung on to his book.

“No thank you, sir,” he replied. “I’m after the autograph of the man who created Sherlock Holmes.” The boy turned back towards the gate as it was swung open by the figure of the returning batsman. “Excuse me, Mr Doyle – would you please sign my book for me, sir?”

A thunderous expression still lining his brow, Doyle stooped to take the autograph book with a grunt, scrawling his signature across the open page before returning it to the boy’s hands.

“Thank you, sir!” the boy exclaimed, staring down in awe at the signature, before hurrying back to his seat in the stands.

Shaking off his embarrassment at the young boy’s snub, Monty stepped forward to greet Doyle.

“Bad luck there, Arthur,” he exclaimed. “I think Swinstead must have baffled you with his slower ball. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure that the Authors have a centurion on the scoreboard before the end of the innings.”

Doyle scowled at this reminder that his own wicket had fallen three runs short of this mark.

“Slower ball, I’ll be blown,” he replied gruffly, his prodigious moustache bristling at Monty’s impertinent suggestion. Brushing past him, Doyle stomped up the steps back to the dressing room. Then the crowd’s fading applause redoubled again as Monty swung the gate open and stepped out on to the field of play. With a few practice swings of his bat, he strode across the pitch, greeting the opposing team with a nod of his head as he took his position at the crease.

“Come on, Monty,” Alfie breathed.

Prodding his bat against the turf, Monty took guard in front of his wicket. His rosy cheeks shone in the sunlight, a testament to the early drinks break he had taken in the dressing room to calm his nerves. Monty’s appearance at this match between the Authors and Artists cricket clubs had seemed like the perfect opportunity to reintroduce Montgomery Flinch to the world after his long absence from the public stage. However, as Penny watched the actor fumble his grip on the bat, she couldn’t help wonder if she had made a terrible mistake. She sighed, her gaze returning to the pile of papers perched on her lap. At the moment Monty’s cricketing prowess was the least of her concerns. Without a story to write, Montgomery Flinch’s return was going to be over before it even began.

It wasn’t that Alfie’s prediction hadn’t come true. Indeed, if she had a penny for every story idea that had dropped through the letterbox since the competition had been announced, she would be wealthy enough to merit an invitation to the King’s coronation. Her carefully planned advertising campaign in the pages of
The Times, The Sketch
and
The Illustrated London News
had done the trick. The office was awash with entries: reams of paper scattered across every desk and piled high atop cabinets. From primly inked letters on lavender notepaper to scrawled submissions on tattered scraps of paper, the competition had captured the readers’ imaginations. But Penelope’s initial sense of triumph had been short-lived as she began to leaf through the entries. Instead of the sparks of inspiration she hoped to discover, she found instead ridiculous plots filled with wandering ghosts, grotesque beasts and barely credible characters:
The Purple Terror; The Man Who Meddled with Eternity; The Last Days of London…

Most of the stories had been plucked wholesale from the pages of
The Penny Dreadful
’s rivals, their readers seemingly having little care for the conventions of copyright law. Some hadn’t even bothered to try to think up their own plots and instead just clipped out preposterous newspaper stories, stuffing these reports into envelopes
addressed to
The Penny Dreadful
.

Penelope frowned as she recalled some of the more outlandish reports: tales of the sightings of strange wraiths and radiant boys haunting the streets of London. How had she ever imagined she would find the plot for Montgomery Flinch’s latest story amid this mound of slush?

So when this chance of a trip to Lord’s had presented itself, Penelope had jumped at the chance. It had been a blessed relief to escape from the confines of the office, leaving her guardian, Mr Wigram, behind to glare at the stacks of paper edging across his desk. Now as Monty tapped his bat against the crease, Alfie leaned forward in his seat next to Penny, the crowd’s expectant hush suddenly broken by his shout of encouragement.

“Come on, Monty – hit the feller for six!”

The blazers seated around them tutted their disapproval at this outbreak of loutish behaviour, more suited to the football terraces than the hallowed home of cricket. Ignoring them, Alfie watched as the lanky bowler set off on a cantering run towards the stumps. The crowd waited, eagerly anticipating the opening strike of Montgomery Flinch’s first innings.

As the ball flew through the air towards him, Monty took a stumbling stride down the pitch, hoiking his bat high with a club-handed flourish. Somehow he connected, willow meeting leather and sending the ball soaring skywards towards
the pavilion. A ripple of applause accompanied its flight, Monty watching from the crease with a dazed smile on his face.

This smile faded as swiftly as the ball fell, dropping into the grateful hands of the fielder waiting at deep extra cover. The crowd’s applause, which had sounded in anticipation of a six, now greeted a wicket instead. At the crease, a crestfallen Monty tucked his bat under his arm and began the long walk back to the pavilion.

“A duck,” Alfie muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “A golden duck. Oh, Monty…”

As he reached into his pocket to extract his scorecard and pencil, Penelope turned her attention back to her papers, thankful at least that Monty had escaped his innings without causing any serious injuries.

“Oh, I forgot to say,” Alfie piped up, peeling an envelope from the back of the scorecard where it had become stuck in the confines of his pocket. “This arrived at the office today, although I’m impressed that it even found its way there at all.”

Taking the envelope from him, Penny swiftly saw for herself the reason why. Scrawled across the front where the address should be was a single name, written in a trembling hand.

Penelope’s heart sank. This must be yet another competition entry, this time from someone who
could barely even write from the look of it. She unfastened her purse and was just about to place the envelope inside when something on the reverse caught her eye.

It was a sketch of a bird – what looked like a black crow – poised as if it were about to take flight. The cruel curve of its beak was captured in a series of confident lines, while the plumage of its black feathers was picked out with exquisite penmanship. In the pages of
The Penny Dreadful
, Penny had commissioned some of the finest illustrators in London, and this sketch of the black crow was easily their equal.

Intrigued, she slid her fingernail beneath the envelope’s seal, careful not to tear the illustration as she drew out the letter that lay inside. Unfolding it, Penelope began to read.

Mr Flinch,

You are the only man in London I can trust with this confession. The newspapers stay silent, but I know The Penny Dreadful will not fear to reveal the truth of this conspiracy.

You must believe me when I say I do not wish to do these things that they ask of me, but when that terrible fire races through my veins I am powerless to refuse. I am a living man, but these experiments are turning me into a ghost. No prison can hold me; no fortress can keep me out. I have even
walked through the walls of the Tower to steal for them the King’s crown. I dread to think what they will ask of me next.

Please, Mr Flinch, I beg you to help bring my nightmare to an end.