Twelve Minutes to Midnight Page 7

  She caught a glimpse of a black gown behind a glass case filled with stuffed birds. The long gallery was lined with exhibits – ancient fossils and pickled crocodiles, human skulls and dinosaur bones – Lady Cambridge flitting through the shadows thrown like some silent predator.

  But as Penelope stepped on to the stone staircase in pursuit, the sound of a man’s voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “Miss Tredwell!”

  Penny turned around to see the lean figure of the Pall Mall Gazette’s Arts and Entertainments Correspondent, Mr Robert Barrett. An intrigued half-smile played across the reporter’s lips as he stepped towards them, his fountain pen hovering above the open notebook in his hand.

  “What an unexpected surprise to see you here this evening.”

  XI

  “I wouldn’t have thought that a young lady of your refinement would be interested in a lecture about creepy-crawlies from the wilds of Africa.” As he spoke, Barrett’s eyes flicked past Penny and Alfie, his gaze wandering up the staircase as if in search of someone else. “Has your uncle brought you here tonight? I must admit, I hadn’t spotted the famous Montgomery Flinch in the audience. Was he keeping watch from the gallery whilst he researched his next tale of terror?”

  Penny returned the young journalist’s smile, trying to hide her irritation at this unexpected obstacle in their path.

  “Good evening, Mr Barrett,” she replied. “No, I’m afraid my uncle isn’t here this evening. He’s still ensconced at his house in the country working on a new story. The British Empire Africa Expedition is of no interest to him.”

  “That’s a pity,” Barrett sniffed. “I thought I might have an exclusive about how Montgomery Flinch’s next fiction serial will be an African adventure to rival the stories of H. Rider Haggard.”

  Penelope shook her head.

  “You’ll have to wait until the new century and the next edition of The Penny Dreadful to find that out.” She glanced up at the gallery above, catching a glimpse of Lady Cambridge’s silhouetted figure as she swept past the top of the staircase. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone that I have to speak to.”

  Barrett followed Penelope’s gaze as Lady Cambridge disappeared behind the first of the pillars that lined the facing gallery.

  “Ah, the reclusive Lady Cambridge,” he sighed. “The only person in London society who makes your uncle look like an extrovert. Good luck in getting to speak to her.”

  As Alfie shuffled his feet impatiently, Penny glanced back at Barrett in surprise.

  “You know Lady Cambridge?” she asked.

  Barrett grinned.

  “Not personally,” he replied. “But as a journalist on the Gazette, I’ve chronicled her many triumphs. The first woman to jointly lead a scientific expedition into the heart of Africa, the discoverer of dozens of new species of insects and spiders that have transformed man’s understanding of the natural world, and now, of course, she’s the first female trustee in the history of the museum. Her father would be so proud.”

  “Her father?”

  “Sir William Ross. He was the Director of this museum for more than two decades. It’s such a shame that he never got to see any of his daughter’s achievements. Sir William died on the eve of her wedding to Lord Cambridge.”

  Penelope felt a fleeting pang of sympathy; the death of Lady Cambridge’s father suddenly reminding her of her own loss.

  “Some say it was the shock of his passing that sent Lady Cambridge’s mother into the arms of madness,” Barrett continued. “But of course, Lady Cambridge has had her own tragedy to bear since then. The death of her husband, Lord Cambridge, on expedition in Africa – poisoned by the very spiders they had both gone there to study. On her return to England, Lady Cambridge retreated into her widow’s weeds and she hasn’t been seen in public for more than a year. Until tonight…”

  Barrett left this revelation hanging in the silence of the great hall. He glanced back towards the stage where Professor Stebbing was showing the portly Sir Edwin one of his many specimens, the two men deep in conversation as the professor held the insect to the light.

  “And my report of tonight’s lecture won’t be complete without a quote from Professor Stebbing and maybe even Sir Edwin Lancaster himself. I’ll bid you both goodnight now.” With a nod of farewell, Barrett turned as if to leave. He took a couple of steps towards the stage, but then glanced back as if suddenly remembering something.

  “Please don’t forget to ask your uncle to contact me at the Gazette on his return to the city,” he told Penelope. “The story I’m writing about Montgomery Flinch’s remarkable rise to fame is throwing up a few mysteries of its own. An exclusive interview with the man himself might help to clear these up for our readers.”

  With that, Barrett turned away again, hurrying towards the stage where the professor and museum director were still deep in conversation.

  For a moment, Penelope stood there silently fuming. The last thing she needed was some meddling journalist poking around in the dark corners of Montgomery Flinch’s invented life. How would the readers of The Penny Dreadful react if they discovered that Flinch didn’t really exist? Penelope frowned. There had to be a way out of this predicament, but first she had her own mystery to solve.

  “Come on,” she said, tugging at Alfie’s arm. “We can still find her.”

  Penny raced up the staircase with Alfie close behind, their footsteps clattering up the stone steps. Under the disapproving gaze of Charles Darwin’s statue, the two of them turned right to climb the final flight of stairs. There, blocking their path, stood a thin, sharp-featured man. He was wearing the drab uniform of a museum attendant and his beady stare flicked from Penny to Alfie in turn.

  “The museum is closed,” he said coldly. “Please make your way back to the exit.”

  Her heart sinking, Penelope glanced past him into the shadows of the gallery above. Lady Cambridge might only be yards away – she couldn’t let this jumped-up bone-watcher stand in her way. As the guard fixed them with a frosty stare, Penny racked her brain for a way to get past him. The only thing she could think to try was a barefaced lie.

  She turned towards Alfie, tipping him a sly wink before she let rip with an almighty howl.

  “But Daddy said we could see the dinosaurs!”

  The museum guard’s stony features cracked in the face of her brattish whine. With a long-suffering sigh, he tried to quieten her.

  “Now, young lady, there’s really no need for such a hullaballoo. The museum opens again at ten tomorrow and I’m sure you’ll be able to see the dinosaurs then.”

  Penny glared up at him, her reddening face screwed up like a spoilt child’s.

  “If you don’t let me see the dinosaurs right away, then I’m going to tell my daddy how perfectly beastly you are.”

  The attendant stared back at her in disbelief.

  “And who exactly might your father be?” he sniffed dismissively.

  With a haughty toss of her hair, Penelope glanced back down to the lecture stage below. There, the Director of the Museum was still quizzing Professor Stebbing, whilst Barrett waited at a respectful distance for his chance to speak to them. She turned back to fix the museum guard with her sternest stare.

  “Sir Edwin Lancaster,” she answered coolly.

  The museum guard blanched at her reply, the colour draining from his face. His gaze switched from Penny to Sir Edwin and then back again. His brow furrowed, and then, with an apologetic expression etched on his face, he stepped to one side and waved Penny and Alfie through.

  “I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, Miss Lancaster,” he grovelled. “You’ll find the iguanodon bones halfway down the gallery in the second bay on the right. Please take as long as you need.”

  With a harrumph of displeasure, Penny hurried past the attendant with Alfie following close behind, fighting to keep a smile from his face. Racing up the final flight of stairs, they reached the long gallery which ran along the length of
the great hall.

  Staring into the shadows, Penny headed for the place where she had last seen Lady Cambridge. Beneath terracotta arches intertwined with climbing snakes, the two of them walked in silence, their footsteps echoing in the empty exhibition space. The skeleton of a sabre-toothed tiger lurked menacingly in the shade, its claws extended as if to swipe at them as they passed. Penny peered past the glass-fronted cases, each of them filled with innumerable insects, spiders, crustaceans and centipedes. A stuffed polar bear loomed in the gloom, but no living soul could be seen. Lady Cambridge was gone.

  As Penny and Alfie passed by the fossilised bones of the iguanodon, they heard the pointed sound of a cough behind them. Turning, they saw the museum attendant standing at the top of the gallery landing. Next to him, his arms folded sternly across his barrel chest, stood Sir Edwin Lancaster. The look of fury on both their faces told Penny that visiting time was over.

  “We’re going to have to leave,” said Alfie, raising his hand in apology.

  Penelope sighed. She had come here to find out more about Lady Cambridge, but the woman herself seemed to have vanished into thin air. The mysteries were piling up and she was no closer to finding any answers.

  As Penny turned to leave, her gaze fell on a large display case. Underneath the glass, several rows of spiders were pinned and mounted, each hairy-legged beast staring out at her with an octad of black, beady eyes: a mocking reminder of the elusive Spider Lady of South Kensington.

  “Penny,” Alfie tugged at her arm, “we have to go now.”

  Lost in thought, Penelope tried to trace the tangled web that had led her to Lady Cambridge: the strange malady afflicting every patient in Bedlam, the missing Midnight Papers, Bradburn’s mysterious visit to her grand house in South Kensington. She remembered seeing the black-veiled widow glide through the corridors of the asylum and something that Barrett had said snagged in her mind.

  Her father … Sir William Ross … Some say it was the shock of his passing that sent Lady Cambridge’s mother into the arms of madness.

  As Alfie tugged on her arm again, a sudden gleam appeared in Penny’s eye – the same gleam that shone whenever she came up with an audacious plot twist. There was one person who could tell her more about Lady Cambridge, someone who knew her better than anyone else – her own mother. And Penelope now knew where she would find her.

  XII

  His pimply brow knitted in a frown, the young orderly stared at Penelope. The key in his hand hovered in front of the keyhole, but for the moment, the door to the cell remained locked. With his free hand, the orderly nervously scratched at his cheek.

  “I don’t know if I can let you see her, Miss,” he said finally. “Dr Morris’s instructions were quite clear. He said that I was to let you and your uncle visit any patient you liked, but now you tell me that Mr Flinch isn’t even coming. It’s not right for you to be here alone – you’re just a girl.”

  The prim smile Penelope had kept fixed to her face from the moment she had arrived at Bedlam again tightened in reply. The telegram she had sent in the name of Montgomery Flinch from the offices of The Penny Dreadful had got her this far, but with Monty still holed up in his club, and this orderly, who was only a handful of years older than she was, standing in her way, it looked as if she might not get any further. There was only one card she had left to play.

  “I’m so grateful for your concern,” Penny simpered, clasping her hands to her purse. “But my uncle was quite adamant that his absence today shouldn’t delay the work that Dr Morris has tasked him to do. I’m fully aware of the questions he wanted to ask this patient and will report back to him straightaway. My uncle said that if there was any kind of problem, I should give you this envelope.”

  Penelope drew out a plain white envelope from the depths of her purse and handed this to the orderly. As he opened it, she kept her face composed into an expression of the upmost innocence as she watched the orderly’s eyes widen in surprise.

  Beneath the flap of the envelope, was a five-pound note – nearly half a year’s wages to him. As a blush rose in his cheeks, the orderly quickly closed up the envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers.

  Avoiding Penelope’s eye, he fumbled for his keys again, fitting one to the lock and then placing his hand on the handle.

  “Ten minutes, that’s all you can have,” he muttered. “And you need to be careful of this one. Most of the time she’s meek as kittens, but if she’s upset, you’ll hear her snarl.”

  He turned the handle and the door to the cell slowly swung open.

  “I’ll be waiting right outside. If she starts to give you any trouble, you just call.”

  Penny nodded in reply. As her heartbeat started to quicken, she stepped forward into the cell.

  From a high barred window, faint rays of sunlight fell into the dismal room, its dusty furnishings laid out like a servant’s bedroom. A wooden bedstead covered in a faded counterpane, a chest of drawers, a washstand and a dressing table. Next to this table, turned half away from her, was an armchair, and in this sat a black-veiled figure. A shiver ran down Penny’s spine as the door closed behind her.

  For a moment, Penelope thought that it was Lady Isabella Cambridge herself. Then, with a rustle of black crêpe, the veil was pulled back and, as the figure turned towards her, Penny found herself staring into the face of an old woman. Her wrinkled skin was as pale as parchment and the woman’s blue eyes gleamed like faded sapphires as they slowly focused on Penelope.

  From the snatched glance at Lady Cambridge Penny had caught at the museum, the family resemblance was unmistakeable. This was her mother – the Right Honourable Lady Marie Charlotte Ross.

  She was wearing a lustreless dress, the black linen faded to charcoal in places and its crêpe cuffs and collars crumpled with age. The grief that had brought her here to Bedlam showed in every stitch that she wore. As Lady Ross leaned forward in her chair to peer at Penelope, a single strand of white hair escaped from beneath her widow’s cap.

  “Who is it?” she asked in a quavering voice. “Is that you, Izzy?”

  Her heart still thumping in her chest, Penny stepped out of the shadows.

  “No, My Lady,” she replied. “My name is Penelope Tredwell.”

  She walked towards Lady Ross, her eyes taking in the widow’s possessions hoarded on the dressing table beside her: a lacquered hairbrush, a looking glass and a framed photograph which showed a distinguished-looking gentleman and a young girl. Behind his whiskers, the man’s face was set in a stern frown as he stared into the camera lens, whilst the girl gazed up adoringly at him.

  “You must be one of Izzy’s friends then,” said Lady Ross, shaking her head in confusion. “Well, I can’t have you girls under my feet now – your father will be home from the museum soon.”

  Penny stared at the frail lady in sympathy as the realisation dawned. In the disorder of her mind, Lady Ross thought that her daughter was still a young girl and her husband still alive. She lifted her palsied fingers from the chair, her hand shaking as she shooed Penny away.

  “Run along now.”

  Penelope stood her ground, her thoughts racing as she tried to decide what to do. She’d spent most of The Penny Dreadful’s petty cash to get in here today; she had to try and make her visit worthwhile. Maybe somewhere in Lady Ross’s mind there was a fragment of information that could help her, something that might explain what Lady Cambridge’s connection to these strange events actually was.

  “Your daughter is the reason I’m here,” Penelope began. “I want to talk to you about Lady Cambridge.”

  At the mention of this name, the old woman sank back in her chair, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

  “Don’t hurt me, Isabella,” she whimpered. “I did what you asked. Don’t make me take the medicine again.”

  Aghast, Penny watched as the old woman shook in her chair, her withered hands gripping the armrests as the floodgates of her madness opened in a babbling flow.

 
“Just take me away from this place,” Lady Ross moaned. “Every night they torture me in my sleep. I’ve seen you, Izzy, my own flesh and blood in the cell next to mine.”

  In the midst of her raving, the woman’s quavering voice changed, a harsh new tone entering her words as if somebody else was speaking them.

  “I’ll never be like you, Mother,” she snarled. Lady Ross turned towards the dressing-room table and pointed an accusing finger at her own reflection in the looking glass. “We may both have lost our husbands, but only you have lost your mind.”

  She raised her hand in anger, and then reeled as if struck by the same blow.

  “Lady Ross,” Penelope cried, reaching out a hand to calm her agitation.

  “Don’t touch me,” the old woman shrieked. She grabbed hold of Penelope’s wrist, her bony grip unnaturally strong. “You’re trying to poison me – just like all the rest.”

  As Penny struggled to free herself, the old woman spat in her face.

  “I can hear them,” she hissed as the door to the cell slammed open, the orderly racing to Penny’s aid, “the spiders crawling inside my mind.”

  The orderly wrenched the old woman’s fingers from Penny’s wrist, and threw Lady Ross back into the depths of her chair from where she let fly a volley of curses. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small brown bottle and uncorking this, pressed it to the old woman’s lips. Lady Ross struggled, but the orderly held the bottle firmly in place until it was drained; only a fraction of the brownish liquid dribbling from her lips and staining her chin.

  As he straightened, the orderly glanced back at Penelope, who had retreated, horrified, to the door.

  “You need to go now, Miss,” he said as Lady Ross slumped in her chair, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Visiting time is over now.”

  A low moan escaped from Lady Ross’s lips, her ravings now reduced to an insensible mumble.