Twelve Minutes to Midnight (The Penelope Tredwell Mysteries)

Twelve Minutes to Midnight (The Penelope Tredwell Mysteries)

Christopher Edge

Language: English

Pages: 256

ISBN: 0807581399

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Penelope Tredwell is the feisty thirteen-year-old orphan heiress of Victorian Britain's bestselling magazine, the Penny Dreadful. Her spine-chilling tales--concealed under the pen name Montgomery Finch--are gripping the public. One day she receives a letter from the governor of the Bedlam madhouse requesting Finch's help to investigate the asylum's strange goings-on. Every night at precisely twelve minutes to midnight, the inmates all begin feverishly writing-incoherent ramblings that Penelope quickly realizes are frightening visions of the century to come. But what is causing this phenomenon? In the first book of this smart new series, Penelope is drawn into a thrilling mystery more terrifying than anything she could ever imagine!

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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

delight. As Bradburn turned away, slamming the door of the cell shut behind him, the spiders’ frenzied spinning began to draw Penny inexorably towards the edge of the precipice. Beneath this, the shimmering darkness of a vast silken web shivered in anticipation, waiting for her to fall. Monty muttered fearfully beneath his breath, the dark corridors of his dreams swiftly turning into a labyrinth. He ran without thought, blundering into the shadows as, all around him, a bedlam of voices

madness is spreading? This is an asylum, isn’t it? I would have thought that was an occupational hazard?” The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed, but if he recognised the barb in Monty’s question he didn’t show it. “The Royal Bethlem Hospital understands and can treat the many forms of conventional madness,” Dr Morris replied, the words rolling from his downturned mouth. “The catatonics, the paranoiacs, the depressives and the manics – all find a restorative regime in place for them here at the

journalist,” Alfie asked. “He still can’t remember a thing?” “You saw for yourself,” Penny replied. “Mr Barrett didn’t know what on earth he was doing there in the museum. He couldn’t remember a thing from the moment he clocked off from the Gazette on New Year’s Eve.” She let out a deep sigh of relief. “He couldn’t even remember my name – let alone believe that I was Montgomery Flinch.” At this news, Monty let out his own low moan of relief. “So my job is safe then?” Penny glanced up at

here? A hospital filled with dreamers? But Kemp was insane. His delusions of literary grandeur proved that beyond doubt. His claims that his stories were destined for the pages of The Penny Dreadful – that he was Montgomery Flinch himself. “Penelope!” Penny shivered as she glanced up at Monty, the snap of his voice jolting her out of her reverie. Montgomery Flinch didn’t exist. “Did you hear what I said?” Monty asked, a flushed glow slowly returning to his cheeks. “We need to leave right

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