The Frankenstein Murders (15 page)

Just as Victor Frankenstein had described, suspended over the mantelpiece was a painting of his mother, Caroline Beaufort, as she had been before she married her father's friend and her own guardian, Alphonse Frankenstein. The artist, who had depicted his
subject kneeling at the side of her father's coffin, had skilfully captured a young woman's despair and agony at the death of a beloved parent. The rest of the painting was simple: she wore her dark hair pulled back off her face, and her plain dress was meant more for a servant than for a lady soon to be the wife of one of the most influential men in the city. There was an elegance to her bearing, but always the viewer's gaze was drawn back to her haunted eyes, pale cheeks, and the mask of misery she wore. I had difficulty looking away until my gaze fell upon a picture of a young woman who could only have been Elizabeth Lavenza, so different were her looks from the others I had studied. I stood several minutes before the picture in earnest contemplation.

Mr. Clerval, seeing where my eyes had settled, assisted me by confirming my identification of the persons in the portraits that hung on the high walls. Even though I recounted this story completely from my own readings of Victor Frankenstein's story, I listened attentively to Mr. Clerval's rendition of how Elizabeth Lavenza had joined the Frankenstein family.

“While on tour in Italy,” he told me, “the Frankenstein family, Alphonse, Caroline, and Victor, their only child at the time, passed a week on the shores of Lake Como. It was the Frankenstein's benevolent habit to visit the poor, particularly as Caroline herself had come from such straightened circumstances at one time in her life. She liked to pass on such kindness to others as she could. In one of the cottages, they found a poor farmer and his wife and children, as well as an orphan they had taken in. The Frankensteins adopted that child.

“Rescued from her poor orphan life in Italy, Alphonse and Caroline taking her as their ward, Elizabeth was raised in the Frankenstein home and given the title cousin. Victor and Elizabeth shared childhood together, and eventually more. That Victor and Elizabeth should marry had always been Caroline's greatest wish. It was best that she did not know the tragedy that followed the
fulfillment of her wish, and far better it may have been for both Alphonse and Caroline Frankenstein that they died before their eldest and most favoured child perished under such strange circumstances in the north.”

As Mr. Clerval spoke, I recalled the way Victor had first described Elizabeth and the peasant children with whom she had lived,
dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants,
but that even as a child Elizabeth was quite different — a
child fairer than pictured cherub — a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills.
As Alphonse Frankenstein had rescued his own wife Caroline from a life of poverty and degradation, he had rescued young Elizabeth Lavenza from a similar fate. Ironically, the family that had sought to save her from a life of penury and misery would also be the family that led to her sudden and tragic death.

Elizabeth, in her portrait still more child than woman, was even more fair than imagined. Victor's descriptions of her were not merely the flattering remarks of a lover. Her hair was indeed
the brightest living gold, her brow clear and ample, and her blue eyes cloudless.
She was in every way
fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.
I had often found myself confounded by this enigmatic statement by Victor Frankenstein. Both the Italian family with whom Elizabeth had been left and the Frankenstein family had been dark haired; perhaps this was Victor's meaning. He also knew of other darknesses that surrounded Elizabeth that did far more than catch and scratch as brambles.

As I moved to look at those pictures suspended on the farthest wall, I at last came upon a picture I suspected should exist. It was a picture of Caroline Frankenstein with her youngest son William. Aged three or four, he appeared tall, with the laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, curling fair hair, and dimples in his cheeks, rosy with health just as Elizabeth described him in her letter to Victor.
William's arms were wrapped lovingly around his mother's neck, and his trusting gaze peered out from her neck where his head was nestled. Caroline appeared much younger than I had imagined, and she had not the appearance of a woman with grown sons, one ready for university. I might not have lingered longer in my observation of that portrait had not Mr. Clerval once again joined me.

“A lovely painting, is it not?” he commented, breaking the silence that had surrounded us in the large room.

I concurred that it was quite lovely. Turning away from the wall to look at Mr. Clerval, I noted how well the artist had captured the intimate feelings between mother and child.

Mr. Clerval returned my gaze with his own, which had grown quizzical. He remained silent for a moment, and then a look as if a question had been answered came over his face and he shook his head sadly.

“Mother and child, yes, indeed they could have been mother and child, but this is not a portrait of Caroline Frankenstein and her child. Caroline died when William was but an infant. This is a portrait of Elizabeth and William,” he told me looking back to the painting upon the wall.

Startled, I inspected the painting more closely and realized my mistake. The woman in the painting was indeed Elizabeth and not Caroline. Recalling the earlier picture of Elizabeth, I could discern the same sensibility and sweetness for which she was prized, particularly demonstrated in the charming and loving embrace in which she held little William. With time, her hair had become darker, more honey coloured, and she wore it pulled severely back instead of with loose tendrils as in the earlier portrait of her. I felt I could see some clouds that had appeared in her eyes since childhood, no doubt the product of the sorrow that comes with maturity and understanding and loss. The closeness between the little boy and the woman they called his cousin was evident, for
surely she was all he knew of a mother, his own having died while he was so young. Caroline Frankenstein had not lived to see her youngest child's first birthday.

What I had taken to be a picture of her with her youngest child was in fact a portrait of Elizabeth with William. Nowhere in that room was there a picture of Caroline after she had married Alphonse Frankenstein. No painting appeared to be missing, no blank empty spaces on the gallery walls. The only other curiosity was that the portrait of Ernest Frankenstein had been placed in a spot strangely apart from the rest of the family. A quick assessment of the portrait showed that he too was fit and tall like his brother Victor, and also with dark hair like their mother, yet more tanned from being out of doors. So captivated was I by these portraits that I could easily have remained in that room for some time. Instead, my consideration of the Frankensteins was circumvented by the arrival of Captain Ernest Frankenstein's agent. Mr. Witte was an elderly man, yet moved briskly. We followed him into the drawing room, a handsome, well-proportioned, if somewhat chilly room.

Mr. Witte was a man with a quiet and attentive demeanour often found in someone in his position. His presence in any room could easily be overlooked so still and silent he kept; he maintained a respectful distance. With Mr. Clerval, Witte was neither overly familiar, nor did he project an image of abject servitude. Witte had a constant watchfulness that monitored everything that went on about him. With just such attributes, such a member of a household might easily be witness to words or actions that were meant to be secret.

“Good afternoon Mr. Clerval, sir. Please accept my sincere apologies for having kept you both waiting so long. I assure you it could not be helped,” Mr. Witte said by way of greeting.

Mr. Clerval acknowledged the apology by a dismissive motion of the hand before he introduced us, and then we all seated ourselves. For the first few moments, Mr. Witte's gaze was fixed on me as if he were studying me or attempting to memorize my shape so that he might later render my features in perfect detail in yet another portrait. Mr. Witte had already been informed of the general nature of my visit to the Frankenstein home, and so I wasted no time in providing explanation.

I said I understood that his current employer, Captain Ernest Frankenstein, had vacated his familial home and let many of the
servants go so that much of the work of maintaining the castle had fallen to him.

“That is in part correct, sir. After Mr. Alphonse Frankenstein's death, Captain Frankenstein was no longer restrained by his family's resistance to his joining the Swiss Foreign Legion, and so he left Geneva almost immediately. Alone, Victor Frankenstein took the entire responsibility for the running of the Frankenstein home and made a number of significant changes, particularly in the staff he kept. It was in fact he, and not his brother Captain Frankenstein, who let many of the household servants go.”

I asked him if he had long been a trusted staff member.

“The answer to that is both yes and no, sir,” he corrected, and for the first and only time I saw a small crack in the perfect politeness of his demeanour. “Although I had served his father well for more than twenty years, when Mr. Victor Frankenstein chose to take all business matters in his own hands, he felt my services were no longer necessary. When Victor Frankenstein died, Captain Edward Frankenstein requested my services once again, as I was completely familiar with the running of the Frankenstein estate. This was entirely convenient for him, as his intention was to stay outside Geneva.

“After his elder brother's death, Captain Frankenstein did not remain in Geneva, but rather placed the management of what remained of the Frankenstein estate in my control, including the sale of the house at Belrive, as well as preparations of this one should he decide to sell it also.”

I told him that, along with meeting anyone who knew Victor Frankenstein, I was interested in any correspondence, particularly any family letters written after Victor Frankenstein went to Ingolstadt.

“As I mentioned, after the death of his father, Victor Frankenstein took charge of all his father's business and did much to reorganize all the family documents. At that time, many documents were
heaped upon the fireplace in the great hall and burned,” Mr. Witte told me solemnly, and with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“But why would Victor destroy family papers?” Caught off guard by this disappointing news, my tone was far more demanding than I had intended.

“Perhaps he found them too painful and got rid of them. Perhaps they brought up unhappy memories of better times. I am afraid that only Mr. Victor Frankenstein could tell you for certain.”

I asked what he could tell me about the family after the murder of young William Frankenstein.

“The family had only just recovered from the death of Mrs. Caroline Frankenstein. Mourning clothes became the common attire of every person in the household. Mr. Alphonse Frankenstein, already devastated both physically and mentally by the death of his wife, had only began to regain some of his vitality during the time he shared with his youngest child.

“After the death of his wife and after his eldest son had left for Ingolstadt, Mr. Alphonse Frankenstein became weary of life. Not even his official duties interested him, but little Master William became his joy and the two became all but inseparable. Master William's death was a terrible blow to his father, from which he never fully recovered, although his eldest son's marriage did afford him some delight, but that too was short-lived and ended most sorrowfully. Master William's murder and the trial of Justine Moritz — both were felt deeply by the entire household.”

I inquired of Mr. Witte as to his connection to Justine Moritz, and as to his communication with her both before and after her arrest.

“Of course I knew all the staff, but I spoke with her infrequently, and not at all after her arrest. What I knew of her is that she was generally liked and found an amiable young woman. It was my understanding that poor Justine's adoration of Master William was second only to Miss Elizabeth's, and so I found it quite hard to believe her guilty of such a monstrous crime. Mr. Alphonse
Frankenstein was greatly disturbed by her arrest as he had begun to spend more time in the company of his youngest son, and Justine usually accompanied them. You would need to speak to Captain Frankenstein as he might be able to tell you more about her. I am able to furnish you with his current address. Only recently has he moved from his station in France, and so you might otherwise have had difficulty reaching him. Would there be anything further that I might do for you today?”

Admittedly, I was eager to see the state in which Victor Frankenstein had last left his chambers, which Mr. Witte was more than obliging to show me.

“Of course, I shall show you the way myself but then shall leave you as I have pressing business outside of the city. Mr. Ernest Frankenstein has requested that a number of improvements be made to the Belrive house in order that it be more attractive for a new owner. The original porch has been extended and opened up to allow for more light and a greater view, but recently many of the windows were damaged, and I am to see to the repairs and must hire a new groundskeeper.”

I asked of Mr. Witte one final question, if at the time of William's murder he or anyone in the household noticed any strange figures lurking about here in Geneva or at the house in Belrive. A person with black hair, unusually white teeth, eyes of a yellowish tint, and straight dark lips; a man of unusually large stature.

“During the investigation that followed William Frankenstein's murder, such a question was asked of the entire staff, but no one saw anything unusual. The only person who was ever known to roam about the house was Captain Ernest Frankenstein. He had a great love of the outdoors from the time he was a small boy. At times, his brother Master Victor also had the habit of roaming about very late at night whilst everyone else slept, but this was not in any way a common occurrence.”