Edge Twelve Minutes to Midnight

eBook
ISBN: 978-0-85763-051-3
Verlag: Nosy Crow Ltd
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 256 Seiten

Reihe: Twelve Minutes to Midnight trilogy

Step into the past in this spine-tingling historical adventure from award-winning author Christopher Edge. 'A writer of genuine originality' - Guardian Penelope Tredwell is the feisty thirteen-year-old orphan heiress of the bestselling magazine, The Penny Dreadful. Her masterly tales of the macabre are gripping Victorian Britain, even if no one knows she's the author. One day, a letter she receives from the governor of the notorious Bedlam madhouse plunges her into an adventure more terrifying than anything she has ever imagined. Why are the patients of Bedlam waking every night at twelve minutes to midnight? What is the meaning of the strange messages they write? Who is the Spider Lady of South Kensington? Penelope is always seeking mysteries to fill the pages of her magazine. But this isn't any ordinary story, it's the future. And the future looks deadly... A suspenseful historical adventure series with a supernatural twist 'The feisty and courageous Penelope makes the perfect heroine for an adventure packed with exciting twists and turns' - BookTrust Check out these other brilliant books from Christopher Edge: - Black Hole Cinema Club - Escape Room - The Many Worlds of Albie Bright - The Jamie Drake Equation

Christopher Edge is an award-winning children's author whose books have been translated into more than twenty languages. His novel The Infinite Lives of Maisie Day won the STEAM Children's Book Prize and his last four novels were all nominated for the prestigious CILIP Carnegie Medal. Before becoming a writer, he worked as an English teacher, editor and publisher - any job that let him keep a book close to hand - and he now lives in Gloucestershire with his wife and family, close to his local library. Find out more about Christopher at christopheredge.co.uk and find him on Twitter @edgechristopher

Autoren/Hrsg.

Edge, Christopher

Leseproben

I
Montgomery Flinch gripped the sides of the reading lectern, his knuckles whitening as he stared out into the darkness of the auditorium. His bristling eyebrows arched and the gleam of his dark eyes seemed to dart across the faces of each audience member in turn. A mesmerised silence hung over the stage; it was as if the theatre itself was holding its breath as it waited for the conclusion to his latest spine-chilling tale. The expectant hush seemed to deepen as Flinch finally began to speak. “And when he turned and looked into the mirror, his trembling visage a cracked alabaster in the moonlight, he saw the dread face of Dr Cameron staring back at him, the man that he had murdered some seven years before.” The dimmed gaslights lining the walls of the theatre flickered faintly as a shocked gasp rippled through the audience. Flinch’s face twisted into a grotesque grimace, his voice now a guttural rasp that echoed around the auditorium. “‘I’m back,’ the face in the mirror snarled. The man shrank in fear as Cameron’s gnarled fingers reached through the glass. Stumbling backwards, he dashed the lamp from the table, darkness shrouding the violent scene as the two men struggled, until only one figure was left standing.” Montgomery Flinch paused, his dark hooded eyes looking up from the last page of the manuscript stacked on the lectern in front of him. A low whimper was audible from the back of the stalls as the audience shivered in their seats. Flinch began to read again, his voice trembling slightly as though fearful of what it was about to reveal. “Reaching out, a wizened hand righted the lamp and, as its warm pool of light spilled across the room, the hunched form of Dr Cameron stepped towards the ornate mirror. Imprisoned there behind the glass, his murderer raised his hands in a desperate plea of pity. “‘I’m sorry,’ he cried, the ghosts of his words whispering behind the glass. ‘Please, I beg of you—’ “With a hiss of satisfaction, Dr Cameron raised his stout walking stick high, its brass-tipped ferrule glinting in the lamplight, and with an unnatural strength far beyond the capabilities of his frail form, he brought the cane crashing down with a whip crack.” Flinch brought his palm down on the lectern with a thunderous report. “The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, and, for a moment, in every single shard, the face of the last Earl of Pomeroy could be glimpsed, his mouth stretched in an endless scream as his dark and murderous deeds were finally avenged.” In the front row, three young women fainted dead away, their consorts frantically ransacking the previously unexplored hinterlands of beaded purses in search of smelling salts to revive their swooning spouses. Further back in the stalls, an elderly gentleman in a navy-blue frock coat clutched at his chest, his drink-mottled cheeks wheezing as a paroxysm of fear overwhelmed him. But around them, the audience rose to its feet as one, thunderous applause filling the auditorium as Montgomery Flinch bowed deeply. The evening was a resounding success. This rare appearance by the reclusive Master of the Macabre and sneak preview of his latest story would have hordes of eager readers queuing in the streets tomorrow for its exclusive appearance in the pages of The Penny Dreadful. And to think, nobody had even heard of the name Montgomery Flinch a mere twelve months ago when The Penny Dreadful was a fourth-rate magazine scraping by with a readership counted in the dozens. Now, ever since the appearance of Montgomery Flinch’s fictions in its pages, The Penny Dreadful had a circulation close to half a million, the magazine flying off the bookstands every month as the readers devoured Flinch’s dread tales. In the fading days of the nineteenth century, the fame of the man himself even threatened to eclipse that of Dickens, Kipling and Doyle – the literary world astounded by his meteoric rise to stardom. As Montgomery Flinch stood there in the spotlight, his hands raised in false modesty as he soaked up the applause, the pinched face of the theatre manager nervously peered around the crimson drapes at the side of the stage. With a shuffling gait, the black-suited impresario inched his way across the stage as the house lights were raised until finally he was standing by the author’s side, the ovation still ringing out across the theatre. He nodded towards Flinch with an obsequious bow and then, turning back to the audience, held out his hands to gesture for silence. Reluctantly, the applause slowly faded away into a smattering of handclaps, the theatregoers returning to their seats as the manager began to speak. “May I once again extend the heartfelt thanks of the Lyceum Theatre to the illustrious Montgomery Flinch for finally breaking his silence and sharing this exclusive performance of his Christmas tale of terror with us,” he fawned. “This story will be published tomorrow in the December issue of The Penny Dreadful, available from all good booksellers.” Another round of applause broke over the stage again, the audience sharing their thanks in the only way they knew how. Reaching inside his frock coat, the theatre manager pulled out his fob watch and glanced down at its face, nervously twisting its chain with his other hand. “And as the performance appears to have finished slightly ahead of schedule,” he continued, “I’d like to throw open the stage to any questions from the audience. I’m sure Mr Flinch would welcome this unique opportunity to talk directly with the devotees of his most remarkable fictions.” The impresario turned back towards Montgomery Flinch, whose face had cracked in horror. Flinch drew back from the lectern, his dark eyes flashing with fear. “I really don’t know if I can—” A forest of hands reached up from every corner of the theatre. Questions fired towards the stage in an excited hubbub of voices. “Mr Flinch! Why are your stories so scary?” “Where do you get your ideas from?” “Monty! What’s your next story going to be about?”  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the theatre manager struggled to make his voice heard above the sudden din, “one at a time, please.” From the middle of the front row, a man’s booming voice hushed the crowd as his question rang out as clear as a bell. “What’s the big secret, Flinch?” There was a sharp intake of breath as the audience craned to see the face of the questioner. The voice belonged to a tall, thin man in a pinstriped suit who leaned forward in his seat towards the light spilling off the stage. His neatly trimmed moustache gave his lean, pockmarked face the appearance of someone trying to look older than their meagre years. In his hand, he held an open notebook, pen poised above the paper as he waited for Montgomery Flinch’s reply. The author’s broad shoulders sagged as he reached forward and grasped hold of the lectern’s edge. “Wh-wh-what do you mean?” he stuttered, his face suddenly pale beneath the spotlight. A single bead of sweat slicked down his forehead and poised suspended from the end of his long nose before falling silently on to the manuscript pages below. “You’re the most celebrated author in Britain, but nobody knows the first thing about you,” the young journalist continued, his voice echoing around the now hushed theatre. “Other authors toil for years in obscurity, but here you are, an overnight star.” His eyes glittered mischievously. “I’ll ask you again, what exactly is your secret?” “There’s no secret,” Flinch blustered, waving his hands dismissively at the question. “I’m just lucky I suppose…” The journalist frowned, his eyes narrowing as he opened his mouth to speak again, but before the words could escape his lips, a shrill cry echoed across the theatre. “That’s not true!” The eyes of the audience swivelled to the far end of the front row. There, a young girl in a fashionable red dress had risen to her feet, her outstretched finger pointing straight at the stage. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and her pretty green eyes sparkled with indignation. “I’ve read every single one of your stories, Mr Flinch,” she said, her voice rising in protest. “It isn’t luck that has made your name, but sheer dazzling talent. Nobody else could have dreamed up such nightmarish visions, created such mesmerising characters or crafted your spine-chilling tales. We don’t need to know your secret – just give thanks that you are willing to share your stories with us.” Still standing in the spotlight, Montgomery Flinch’s face flushed with relief. Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, he dabbed at his brow as yet another peal of applause rang out from the audience to acclaim the young girl’s words. In the front row, the journalist was still struggling to make himself heard. He glared at the girl, a gleam of recognition in his gaze, but his voice was lost in the tumultuous ovation. “That’s very kind of you to say,”...