Twelve Minutes to Midnight by Christopher Edge Read Free Book Online Page A

woman opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak, the thunder of footsteps reached a crescendo and the large figure of a white-coated man loomed behind her. With one hand, the man grabbed hold of a handful of hair, dragging the woman from Penelope’s side with an anguished squeal.
    “Leave her alone,” Penelope cried.
    Still holding the struggling woman by her hair, the burly orderly clamped his other free hand around Penelope’s wrist. His fingers tightened and Penelope looked up to see the snarling features of the scar-faced guard.
    “It seems you’ve got the unfortunate knack of upsetting the patients around here,” he growled. “I think you’d better leave – for good.”
    He gave her wrist a vicious twist that made Penelope’s eyes sting with tears. As a second orderly reached the hysterical patient and began to bundle her into a stiff side-arm dress, the brutish guard released his grip on Penelope. He turned to help the second guard, the two of them forcing the madwoman into the restraining dress, her arms held captive in its padded pockets.
    “Take her to the basement cells, Mr Bradburn,” Dr Morris ordered, the medic wheezing as he hurried down the corridor towards them with Monty close behind. With a swift nod of his head, the burly guard dragged the woman backwards by the collar on her dress, her legs thrashing against the polished floorboards as she let out a banshee wail.
    “Are you all right?”
    As he reached her side, Monty placed a protective arm around Penny’s shoulder, blocking her view of the terrible scene.
    She slowly nodded her head. The woman’s screams echoed down the corridor, but Penelope could still hear the guard’s words of warning ringing in her ears. Someone didn’t want them here. Closing her eyes, she could see the woman brandishing a shaking arm in front of her face, the strange letters scratched across her skin.
    E=MC 2
    Penny opened her eyes once again and stared up into Monty’s concerned face.
    “I’m fine,” she replied, “but we’re not finished here. We’ll be back.”

VII
    “I’m afraid that Montgomery Flinch isn’t here, Mr Barrett,” Penelope replied as she held the door ajar, her face fixed in an apologetic smile. “He is currently secluded in his country manor working on his next fiction serial. I don’t think that he will be able to give an interview to your newspaper or indeed any newspaper – exclusive or otherwise.”
    On the doorstep, the young journalist peered suspiciously past Penelope’s shoulder, his gaze trying to penetrate the gloom of The Penny Dreadful’s office. Inside, two dying gas lamps hung from the ceiling, their fading glow illuminating stacks of magazines and paper proofs piled across desks as the scant December sunlight slowly began to creep in through the office’s high windows. At the far desk, the silvery thatch of Penelope’s guardian, William Wigram, was bent over a ledger of accounts. The elderly lawyer looked up, raising his eyebrows questioningly as Penelope stepped in front of the journalist, blocking his inquisitive stare.
    “And I don’t suppose you could tell me where Mr Flinch’s country manor can be found?” the journalist asked, scratching doubtfully at his moustache.
    Penelope shook her head.
    “Mr Flinch is a very private individual,” she replied, her cheeks colouring at the thought of revealing such a confidence. “I’m really not at liberty to share his address with passing journalists. He likes to keep the location of his home a secret.”
    “Seems a lot of things about Montgomery Flinch are secret,” the journalist sniffed. “Where he lives, where he was born, where he came from – his readers have a right to know.” He peered at Penelope intently. “Anyone would think he had something to hide.”
    Penny shifted uncomfortably under the journalist’s gaze.
    “Is that all, Mr Barrett?”
    Blowing out his cheeks, the journalist slowly nodded his head.
    “For now, but when