Alfie didn’t stop running until they reached the Charing Cross Road.
Panting, Alfie turned towards Penny, a wry smile curling the corners of his lips.
“I think you’ve found out all you needed to know about the person who sent that letter,” he told her through halting breaths. “The man’s a maniac.”
Still trying to catch her own breath, Penelope nodded her head. She couldn’t shake the image of the razor blade glinting in the Frenchman’s hand. Despite the warmth of the day, Penny shivered. They’d been lucky to get out of there alive.
She glanced at her watch, the time nearing a quarter to two. This was a mystery that would have to wait for another day.
“Let’s get back to
The Penny Dreadful,
” she said decisively, sweeping back her dishevelled hair into a semblance of style. “We’ve got a magazine to publish.”
VIII
Penelope stared at the cover proof laid out on her desk, the artwork for the August edition finally in place. Beneath the familiar masthead of
The Penny Dreadful
, its gothic letters emblazoned in red, the figure of a man blundered through the heart of a forest. He was dressed in his nightclothes, the unfastened belt from his checked dressing gown trailing in the leaves whilst he raised his arm to ward off the flailing branches that scratched at his face. Across the bottom of the cover, the contents line proclaimed:
Featuring
“A GREEN DREAM OF DEATH”
by Montgomery Flinch
and thirteen more tales of terror
Penny leaned closer to inspect the illustration. With his dark whiskers and close-clipped beard, the man in the picture reminded her of the mysterious Frenchman. It had been over a week now since she and Alfie had fled from the boarding house on New Lisle Street, his angry curses echoing in their ears. Any thoughts of returning there had been stymied by her memory of the glinting razor blade.
But this hadn’t stopped Penny from investigating the mystery further. The letter had spoken of a stolen invention, so her first port of call had been to the elegant buildings of the Patent Office, just off Chancery Lane. Here she had searched in vain for any patent application for the Véritéscope, but the clerks could find no record of this. It had been the same story when she had checked the lists of registered companies, with no records filed for the fledgling Alchemical Moving Picture Company. And of Mr Gold himself, they had heard no word apart from a counter-signed copy of the contract returned by post a few days ago.
Penny tapped her fingers against the desk. So far everywhere that she had looked to try to find out more about Gold and his curious invention she had only turned up blank pages. There was something that she was missing here…
Her musings were interrupted by the rattle of the door handle. Penny looked up from the cover proof to see the front door of the office flung open with a theatrical flourish. With the sunlight streaming in behind him, Monty bounded into the office, his voice booming out in greeting.
“What a glorious day it is today!” he proclaimed, a broad smile lighting up his face. “The London streets look almost elegant in the sunshine. It is a pity I have to bid them goodbye.”
Monty was dressed in a striped flannel blazer with smartly pressed trousers cut from the same cloth. Beneath this blazer, Monty’s shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his summertime ensemble completed by a straw boater set at a jaunty angle. He looked as though he was dressed for a seafront promenade rather than the streets of the city.
“Are you off on your holidays, Monty?” Alfie asked, looking up from the layouts Mr Wigram had just placed on his desk. Next to him, the lawyer’s frown deepened as his stern gaze took in Monty’s garb.
“I don’t think we’ve agreed any period of leave for you, Mr Maples,” Wigram began. “If you remember, you need to be available at a moment’s notice for when the Alchemical Moving Picture Company begin their
Panting, Alfie turned towards Penny, a wry smile curling the corners of his lips.
“I think you’ve found out all you needed to know about the person who sent that letter,” he told her through halting breaths. “The man’s a maniac.”
Still trying to catch her own breath, Penelope nodded her head. She couldn’t shake the image of the razor blade glinting in the Frenchman’s hand. Despite the warmth of the day, Penny shivered. They’d been lucky to get out of there alive.
She glanced at her watch, the time nearing a quarter to two. This was a mystery that would have to wait for another day.
“Let’s get back to
The Penny Dreadful,
” she said decisively, sweeping back her dishevelled hair into a semblance of style. “We’ve got a magazine to publish.”
VIII
Penelope stared at the cover proof laid out on her desk, the artwork for the August edition finally in place. Beneath the familiar masthead of
The Penny Dreadful
, its gothic letters emblazoned in red, the figure of a man blundered through the heart of a forest. He was dressed in his nightclothes, the unfastened belt from his checked dressing gown trailing in the leaves whilst he raised his arm to ward off the flailing branches that scratched at his face. Across the bottom of the cover, the contents line proclaimed:
Featuring
“A GREEN DREAM OF DEATH”
by Montgomery Flinch
and thirteen more tales of terror
Penny leaned closer to inspect the illustration. With his dark whiskers and close-clipped beard, the man in the picture reminded her of the mysterious Frenchman. It had been over a week now since she and Alfie had fled from the boarding house on New Lisle Street, his angry curses echoing in their ears. Any thoughts of returning there had been stymied by her memory of the glinting razor blade.
But this hadn’t stopped Penny from investigating the mystery further. The letter had spoken of a stolen invention, so her first port of call had been to the elegant buildings of the Patent Office, just off Chancery Lane. Here she had searched in vain for any patent application for the Véritéscope, but the clerks could find no record of this. It had been the same story when she had checked the lists of registered companies, with no records filed for the fledgling Alchemical Moving Picture Company. And of Mr Gold himself, they had heard no word apart from a counter-signed copy of the contract returned by post a few days ago.
Penny tapped her fingers against the desk. So far everywhere that she had looked to try to find out more about Gold and his curious invention she had only turned up blank pages. There was something that she was missing here…
Her musings were interrupted by the rattle of the door handle. Penny looked up from the cover proof to see the front door of the office flung open with a theatrical flourish. With the sunlight streaming in behind him, Monty bounded into the office, his voice booming out in greeting.
“What a glorious day it is today!” he proclaimed, a broad smile lighting up his face. “The London streets look almost elegant in the sunshine. It is a pity I have to bid them goodbye.”
Monty was dressed in a striped flannel blazer with smartly pressed trousers cut from the same cloth. Beneath this blazer, Monty’s shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his summertime ensemble completed by a straw boater set at a jaunty angle. He looked as though he was dressed for a seafront promenade rather than the streets of the city.
“Are you off on your holidays, Monty?” Alfie asked, looking up from the layouts Mr Wigram had just placed on his desk. Next to him, the lawyer’s frown deepened as his stern gaze took in Monty’s garb.
“I don’t think we’ve agreed any period of leave for you, Mr Maples,” Wigram began. “If you remember, you need to be available at a moment’s notice for when the Alchemical Moving Picture Company begin their
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