Free Shadows of the Silver Screen by Christopher Edge Page B

his threadbare clothes. “There’s been a flood in one of the tunnels. I was just pulled free in time, but my friend is still trapped down there. Nobody can work until the level is pumped dry.”
    A look of concern flashed across Monty’s face.
    “Which tunnel is flooded?” he demanded, as behind him in the carriage window the young girl pressed a handkerchief to her lips in horror.
    “The lower main level,” the boy replied. “One hundred fathoms deep. It’s the tunnel that was dug out last week to search for new deposits.”
    At this news, Monty blew out his cheeks in relief.
    “There’s no need to worry, then,” he said. “We leave the tunnel flooded and get back to the levels where there’s still copper to be dug.” He raised his voice to a pitch of stern command. “Now shut down those pumps and get back to work.”
    With this final order, Monty turned to return to the carriage, but before he could leave, the boy reached out and tugged at his sleeve.
    “But, sir, my friend is still down there—”
    Glancing down, Monty grimaced at the sight of the urchin’s grubby paw on the cuff of his coat.
    “How dare you!” he snarled. He drew back his arm in anger, the riding crop raised high in the air, ready to punish the boy’s impertinence. But before he could strike, an anguished cry rang out from the carriage window.
    “No!”
    For a split-second the action froze, Monty’s arm suspended in mid-air, then Gold’s voice rang out across the scene.
    “And cut!”
    From her vantage point, half a dozen paces to the filmmaker’s right, Penelope watched as Gold emerged from behind the Véritéscope, a broad smile breaking across his face. With one deft action, he cranked the camera’s winder a final half-turn, bringing the whirring film reel hidden inside to a halt. Then he stepped away from the tripod and began to stride towards his leading man as Monty finally let his arm fall, the riding crop swishing harmlessly by his side. Next to him, the grubby face of the boy turned to watch Gold’s approach too, his features anxious as he awaited the director’s verdict.
    “That was wonderful!” Gold declared as he reached the two of them. “Mr Flinch, your performance was simply sublime. Lord Eversholt himself came alive in your every action.”
    Beneath their bristling brows, Monty’s eyes twinkled at this praise, his haughty countenance relaxing into a grin.
    “Ah well, I must confide in you, Mr Gold, that I have played many a leading role before in amateur theatricals,” he replied. “As a schoolboy, my Sweeney Todd had my classmates cowering in their seats. This blue-blooded scoundrel isn’t too much of a stretch after bringing that butcher to life on the stage.” He waved his riding crop in the direction of the Véritéscope. “I just hope that your cinematographic device saw it all.”
    Monty glanced back over his shoulder at the raggedy band of men and children now standing idle, waiting for the filmmaker’s next command, and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone.
    “I’m sure that some of these fellows were blocking its view of my grand entrance when they swarmed around the carriage. Any chance we could film the scene again?”
    Gold glanced down at the fob watch that hung from his waistcoat pocket. It was nearly midday. High in a cloudless sky, the sun beat down, bathing the mine in a golden light. The conditions for filming were perfect. With a nod of his head, he agreed to his star’s request.
    “If one more take will make you happy, Mr Flinch,” he replied magnanimously, “then one more take you shall have.”
    Gold turned his gaze towards the boy standing by Monty’s side.
    “And this time, James, let me hear the fear in your voice,” he snapped. “You sounded as though you were asking Lord Eversholt for the time of day, not begging him to save your friend’s life.”
    Beneath his artfully mussed hair, the young actor’s face fell, the gleam of his blue eyes amidst the