Twelve Minutes to Midnight (9 page)

XIV

“Mr Montgomery Flinch and his niece Miss Penelope Tredwell, ma’am.”

The stiff-necked butler ushered them through a set of double doors into a cavernous drawing room. Penelope stifled a gasp as she entered the room. Outside, the wintry gloom was already darkening the windows, but the room itself was uncommonly bright. It was lit by an array of incandescent electric lamps which hung from the ceiling in glowing globes. Penny felt her feet sink into the velvet-pile carpet. Penny’s gaze darted around the room, quickly taking in her surroundings with an author’s eye.

In one corner of the room, a grand piano stood silent, its polished ebony-black veneer shining beneath the lamplight. Elsewhere, luxurious chairs and couches, tables and chiffoniers, were elegantly arranged around the room. Wealth dripped from every surface. The back wall was filled entirely by a vast bookcase which stretched 
from floor to ceiling, its shelves crammed with countless rows of leather-bound volumes. On the remaining walls, the shimmering black-
and-white
patterned threads of the wallpaper made Penelope feel as though she was trapped in a spider’s web.

Rising from her armchair, Lady Cambridge stepped forward to greet them. She was dressed in a flowing black gown, widow’s weeds that made mourning look distinctly fashionable. Dark waves of hair were artfully swept up to the top of her head and her pale face was illuminated by a pair of blue eyes, sparkling with a bewitching beauty. Standing immobile next to her, Penny heard Monty sharply draw his breath in awe, captivated by her youthful allure.

“Mr Flinch, what an unexpected delight to meet you.” Lady Cambridge took Monty’s hand in a delicate handshake. “My staff inform me that your stories are all the rage in literary London.”

“Why – thank you,” Monty replied, stumbling over his words like a nervous schoolboy. “I’m so honoured, My Lady, that you have even heard of my trifling serials.”

Her own outstretched hand ignored, Penelope tried to bite her lip but couldn’t stop herself asking the question.

“You’ve not read any of my uncle’s stories yourself then?”

Lady Cambridge turned to look down at 
Penny, a faint air of amusement playing across her features.

“I must admit I haven’t,” she confided, her lips curling in a gently mocking smile. “I prefer to deal in fact rather than fictions.”

She turned away, motioning for them both to take a seat as she returned to her own chair.

“Your telegram said that you wanted to consult me for my expertise, Mr Flinch. Pray tell me, how exactly can I help you?”

Monty stayed rooted to the spot, watching Lady Cambridge with a bedazzled expression on his face as she swished her way back to her chair.

“Telegram?” he replied distractedly.

Penny swiftly brought the heel of her boot down on to the actor’s foot to jolt him out of his enchantment.

“Ouch!”

Arranging herself in her chair, Lady Cambridge glanced up in surprise at Monty’s sudden exclamation.

Grimacing, he raised his hand in apology.

“I’m sorry – old war wound. It plays me up from time to time.”

Monty hobbled towards the pair of vacant armchairs, snatching an angry glance at Penelope as she sat down beside him.

Lady Cambridge stared coolly at the two of them, a flicker of suspicion in her gaze.

“So what little knowledge of mine do you 
wish to avail yourself of, Mr Flinch?” she asked pointedly.

“Ah yes,” said Monty, gathering himself together. “I wish to question you on your expert knowledge of all things arachnid.”

At these words, Penelope saw Lady Cambridge’s hands grasp the arms of her chair, her slender fingers whitening with the pressure of her grip. Unaware of this, Monty blithely carried on speaking. His words had a slightly over-rehearsed quality to them, as though this was a speech he had been practising.

“As you know, my dear Lady, in the past year I have built a towering reputation as the author of many bestselling serials. My stories are chilling tales of mystery, intricately plotted episodes for the reading public to puzzle over. Of late, I have had the beginnings of a new tale start to take shape in my mind – a diabolical mystery whose plot hinges on the perfect murder.” Monty paused, a conceited smirk playing across his lips. “Of course, I have disregarded all the conventional methods of murder: the revolver, the dagger, the rope, the lead piping. These are all too plain for my tale and my readers expect to be intrigued.”

“I really don’t see how I can—”

Monty cut off Lady Cambridge’s interruption with a reassuring wave of his hand.

“I was thinking of the bite of a deadly spider – a venomous poison undetectable by human hand, 
but that could polish off its victim in a matter of seconds. I wondered, Lady Cambridge, whether you would be able to suggest a suitable species of spider to ensure the essential truthfulness of my tale?”

Lady Cambridge’s lips tightened, the sudden hardening of her face marring its perfect beauty. She stared at Monty, an angry gleam in her
dark-blue
eyes.

“I don’t believe I can help you, Mr Flinch,” she replied coldly. “My studies of the spider have been to further mankind’s understanding of these remarkable creatures, not to make them the tool of some pantomime villain in a tawdry shilling shocker.”

Monty was taken aback by Lady Cambridge’s swift change of mood.

“I can assure you, my Lady,” he spluttered, “this tale would be no shilling shocker.
The Penny Dreadful
is a highly respected periodical read by doctors, lawyers, even ministers of state. The sales of our latest issue are nearing a million. Your assistance in this matter would be of immeasurable service to the cause of great literature.”

In spite of Monty’s flattery, Lady Cambridge sat impassive on her chair. The cold beauty of her face set firm against any persuasion.

“You have had my answer, Mr Flinch.” She reached down to the small rosewood table beside 
her and lifted the bell there. She rang it with an imperious wave of her hand. “I would thank you not to call again. Good day to you both.”

From a side door, the butler noiselessly entered the drawing room. With a respectful beckoning motion, he hurriedly ushered them from the room, Monty still indignantly protesting that his intentions had been misunderstood. As the double doors slowly closed behind them, Penny glanced back over her shoulder. For a moment, her eyes met Lady Cambridge’s and a chill ran down Penny’s spine as she saw the malice in her gaze. Then the doors shut with a noise like a pistol-crack.

The butler swept them down the long entrance hall, foisting their coats into their arms and then depositing Monty and Penny on the stone steps outside. The front door closed behind them with a slam.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Monty bitterly, pulling up the collar of his overcoat as an icy sleet began to fall from the fog-bound sky.

Penny stood in silence on the rain-splattered steps, her face clouded in suspicion. Behind her green eyes, her mind worked frantically to try to unravel what had just taken place. Monty’s cover story about the spiders had just been a bluff to get them through the door, but Lady Cambridge’s reaction to it had been so extreme. Was there something else at play here? Something 
that she was missing? Whatever it might be, not a trace of doubt remained in her mind that Lady Cambridge had something to hide.

She glanced up at Monty, her eyes shining with a fierce determination.

“I found out what I needed to know.”

Alone in the drawing room, Lady Cambridge slowly rose from her chair. Reaching for the light switch, she dimmed the lamps and then stepped towards the back wall and the towering bookcase which loomed there. Running a manicured hand along one of its shelves, she spoke softly to herself, her words almost lost in the cavernous hush.

“What a vulgar little man,” she murmured. “How on earth could he imagine that I would use you, my darlings, to help him to write his catchpenny potboiler?”

Her hand trailed past the leather-bound volumes and buffed ornaments set upon on the shelf, her finger catching against one of the curios with an audible click.

The bookshelves began to slide noiselessly back, gliding apart to reveal the darkness hidden behind. Lady Cambridge stepped out of the drawing room and into what looked like a jungle. Towering branches and ferns arched skywards behind a glass screen, lit from within by a strange blue-tinted glow. A skein of sticky webs hung 
from every surface; some were messy jumbles of gossamer threads hanging like hammocks between leaves and branches, others, delicately spun circles of silk strung across the ferns. It was a vast vivarium filled with countless scurrying spiders of every size and every colour.

From an overhanging branch, a snaking stream of tiny spiderlings spilled out from a bulbous cocoon, clambering up the mossy limb and out across the shrouding leaves. In the shadows beneath these, the corpse of a mummified mouse lay wrapped in a silken shroud as a giant tarantula crawled greedily towards it. Behind the glass, every inch of the spidertorium was crawling with arachnid life.

Lady Cambridge rested her head against the glass, staring into the pale blue mists that clung to the ferns and branches.

“You are destined for a much higher purpose,” she purred, as the spiders scurried to and fro before her eyes. “We’re almost there. Soon, all will be revealed.”

XV

The drawing room lay in darkness, the vast bookcase now back in position along the far wall. Through a crack in the curtains, a slender shaft of moonlight illuminated the door as it softly swung open. A slight black-coated figure crept into the room like a thief, pausing with every footstep as the tick of the grandfather clock standing in the corner kept time with her thumping heartbeat.

Penny glanced around the room, its furnishings now shrouded in shadows. As she moved forward, her leg brushed against a corner table and she quickly had to reach out to right a glass vase as it teetered precariously. She could barely see more than a few inches in front of her face, but she couldn’t risk turning the lights on. The danger of discovery was too great.

So far everything had gone to plan. The master key in her pocket had opened every locked door that Penelope had encountered. It had been a close run thing to acquire the key, her light fingers 
surreptitiously lifting it from the loop of keys on the butler’s belt as he had handed her back her coat earlier that day. As they had been bustled out of the front door, she had scanned the duty roster of servants lying on the hall table by the entrance and had carefully noted the number of servants on duty that night, registering the times when they changed over and the manner of their duties. From this information, it had just been a case of timing her return, sneaking in through the servants’ entrance as the clocks rang two.

Penny edged her way forwards, taking care not to trip over any of the furniture as she crept through the darkness. As she reached the far end of the room, the sheer cliff-face of the bookcase rose up in front of her, blocking her path completely. She shook her head in puzzlement. As well as the master key, Penny had the carefully folded plans to the house tucked into her pocket. She had obtained these from the Land Registry offices that very afternoon, bribing the clerk there with a signed copy of the latest
Penny Dreadful
. According to these plans there should be a set of steps to a whole other room here, a chambered vault spanning the width of the house.

She walked the length of the wall, her hand trailing along the bookshelves for guidance. Perplexed, Penny reached inside the pocket of her overcoat, drawing out the plans with one hand, whilst with her other she fumbled free a 
box of matches.

Spreading the plans out across a shelf, she sparked one of the matches into life, its phosphorescent glow casting an eerie light across the architect blueprints. Penelope could see the drawing room clearly marked on the plans and beyond this, steps leading down to a basement space. She glanced back along the bookcase as the flame guttered and died. There were no steps here.

Penelope frowned as she folded the plans, carefully returning them to her pocket as she puzzled over this enigma. Casting a nervous glance towards the door, she struck another match, its flickering flame warm against her face in the frigid air. She leaned in more closely to inspect the bookcase, its solid oak shelves giving every impression of having stood there forever and a day. The flame of the match illuminated the books lining the shelves, their titles spelled out in shining gold letters across their spines:
The Natural History of the Arachnid, The Spiders of South America, Journals of the British Empire Arachnological Society
. No trace of Montgomery Flinch’s fictions or the pages of
The Penny
Dreadful
anywhere on these shelves.

Penelope bristled at the recollection of Lady Cambridge’s dismissal of her stories as tawdry shilling shockers. The shadows cast by the flickering flame of the dying match danced across 
the bookcase. If this was some shilling shocker she mused, then there would be a secret entrance to the basement hidden somewhere behind this. As the flame died away, she quickly lit another match and then reaching out with her free hand, ran her fingers along the underside of the bookshelf, searching for some kind of hidden button or catch. She sighed in disappointment; there was nothing there.

Then Penelope heard the faint sound of a click, and from beneath the door to the drawing room a warm pool of light spilled out. The sound of footsteps and two female voices grew louder as electric lamps glowed in the hall outside. Panicking, Penny quickly turned to hide, her eyes frantically searching the room for a place of safety. She darted towards the window curtains, but as she turned, her foot snagged on the edge of a rug, pitching her forward with a startled gasp.

Flinging out an arm to save herself, Penny’s hand caught hold of an ornament on the bookcase. The figurine tipped as she fell, catching with a click as she sank to her knees in the shadow of the bookcase. Then, with a hushed whirr, the bookshelves slowly began to slide apart and Penny stared up in disbelief into a darkened jungle. She could see ferns and creepers twisting towards the ceiling as night-blooming flowers unfurled their petals behind the glass. Twining branches hung heavy with silken webs, every inch of their bark 
swarming with spiders.

Leaning closer in wonderment, Penny watched as a fly blundered into a loose spiral of spider’s web, captured in its shining strands of stickiness. At the heart of the web, a large black spider sat motionless, waiting patiently as the fly twitched and struggled, the captured insect only succeeding in binding itself more tightly in the spider’s trap. Despite the warmth of her coat, Penelope shivered. She watched as the spider skittered across the web, stealthily moving closer to the fly with every movement it made.

A sudden clatter of footsteps outside brought Penelope back to her senses. Quickly rising to her feet, she glimpsed a darkened set of steps to the left of the vast glass case. The plans had been right after all! Stepping to her left, she righted the figurine on the bookcase, the ornament snapping back into position with a click, and the shelves began to slide shut once more. Penny darted through the narrowing gap and down the steps into the darkness as they closed completely behind her.

As she stood there alone in the blackness, Penny heard the muffled sound of voices and footsteps. Her heart thudded in her chest, the noise of it almost drowning the soft murmur of voices on the other side of the bookcase. Penelope strained her ears to make out the words.

“—I don’t see why we should have to prepare 
rooms to entertain visitors at a time when all decent folk are in bed. It’s not proper.”

The muffled grumble of the woman’s voice was cut off by a sharp shushing sound.

“Hush,” a second voice warned. “Don’t let Her Ladyship catch you saying those things. Not unless you want to find yourself out on the street.”

The fear in the woman’s voice was obvious to Penny, even as the bookcase between them muffled the sound. Standing frozen in the darkness, Penny breathed with slow silent breaths, frightened that any movement would alert the servants to her presence. The blackness surrounded her, solid as a wall pressing against her face, but slowly her eyes began to get used to the darkness. She could make out a soft glow in the gloom, the twisted shape of a branch coated with a phosphorescent moss. And crawling across this, the silhouette shape of a black widow spider only inches from her face.

Penny stumbled backwards, her footsteps clattering down the steps as the bustling noise from the servants above slowly moved away. Breathing heavily, she froze, terrified that she had been overheard. She listened intently, but there was no answering sound from the room above. The servants had gone.

Glancing down, Penny saw a soft orange light spilling up from the bottom of the steps on 
which she was standing. Moving as noiselessly as she could, she left the spiders scurrying beneath the glass behind and retreated down the steps in search of the hidden room below. Reaching the bottom of the steps, Penny looked around to see a spacious chamber, dimly lit by a handful of yellow bulbs that hung down from the ceiling, each half-covered with a broad metal shade.

The basement seemed to extend endlessly back into the gloom. Penny saw several rows of tall wooden cabinets, arranged at regular intervals between the oak-panelled walls, with narrow aisles leading between them. In front of the cabinets were two plush easy chairs set beside a long, low table covered with scattered papers.

Penny walked over to the table and reached down to gather up one of the pages that lay abandoned there. The spidery scrawl of the handwriting told her what she had already suspected. This was where Bradburn had brought the Midnight Papers. She peered more closely at the sheet, trying to decipher the words scratched across it.

The same unsettling certainty she had seen in the other patients’ writings haunted these words, but the meaning of them was lost in the minds of the Bedlamites. Placing the paper back on the table, Penelope moved towards the nearest row of cabinets. Lady Cambridge had stolen these papers for a reason and she was determined to find out why.

Under the glare of the dim yellow bulb hanging overhead, the golden grain of the oak cabinet glowed slightly. The narrow filing cabinet was fronted by nine drawers, each with a brass handle with a name holder above it. Penny pulled out the drawer at the level of her waist, the printed label in the name holder reading “1903”. The drawer rolled open to reveal a stack of index cards, disappearing back into the depths of the cabinet. It looked like some kind of library catalogue. Penny drew out a card from the crowded drawer. Bringing it into the light, she saw clipped fragments of the patients’ writings, carefully pasted on to the card.

Beneath the patients’ scribbled handwriting, a neater, more controlled hand had printed the following comment:

Mystified, Penelope leafed through the other cards in the file. More fragments from the Midnight Papers were found on each one, the meaning behind the patients’ words still evading her understanding. But on each card, the same neat hand as before had printed an accompanying commentary.

Shaking her head in confusion, Penny placed the cards back into the stack and slid the drawer closed. She moved along the row of cabinets, pulling drawers open at random, each with a different number printed across the name holder. 1917. 1939. 1966. 1997. 2001. Penelope flicked through the cards, trying to piece the mystery together. On each and every one, the patients’ fantastical visions were translated into cold hard statements of fact.

As she reached the end of the row, Penny 
turned and stared back along the cabinets, her mind whirring with questions. She glanced down at the last card in her hand, an ominous prophecy that chilled her blood.

Standing there in the gloom, Penny realised for the first time that the numbers in the name holders had been rising with every step that she took. From 1900 to 2001, each of the labels matched a year from the twentieth century to come and beyond. With a sudden gasp of revelation, she understood what the patients’ writings were. Their visions were visions of the future, predictions of a time yet to come.

Lost in thought, Penelope didn’t hear the sound of footsteps until they had almost reached the bottom of the stairs. The caustic tones of Lady Cambridge’s voice echoed across the subterranean chamber.

“I do hope you have a good reason for disturbing me at this hour of the night.”