The Frankenstein Murders (32 page)

Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage.

It is most likely that Victor read Walton's journal, and seeing himself described with the words
madness and duplicity,
he took control of the situation and dictated the story to Walton, to ensure only what he wanted was recorded. Victor was behind large portions of Walton's journal.

Only Robert Walton confirmed that the lifeless body of Victor Frankenstein was wrapped, weighted, and dumped overboard into the seas of the north. The sailors told Mutt that a coffin was built, but they saw no body wrapped in sailcloth. Just the coffin.

Robert Walton was the perfect partner for Victor's plan. Did Walton not admit his longing for a friend, and would not Frankenstein, an educated and romantic figure, fill this role admirably. Victor spun Walton a story, the fable that most of it is, and Walton happily believed it all — even the bucolic passage wherein the monster runs off into the woods, where he educates himself and learns to speak and read while living with impoverished gentry.

Allegedly, there were two people in two boats in Ireland, and two people in two sleds in the north. But the witnesses in Ireland, as well as Robert Walton and his crew, saw only one figure: the figure of Victor Frankenstein, travelling in circles, without a compass, under heavy clouds, with no sun, moon, or stars to guide the way. Perhaps some trick of the northern light made it first appear that the figure on
the sled was different, larger, more menacing. But this, too, could be linked to Walton's overly romantic imaginings when combined later with the influence of Victor Frankenstein's story.

The first time Victor saw the monster, he was in his bedroom at the university; there was a cheval mirror on the wall he faced. The following time, he saw the monster when looking past his friend Henry to the wall of the room, against which was a dresser and therefore a mirror. What Victor faced and what horrified him was his own reflection. After months spent dissecting cadavers, eating improperly, pale from lack of exposure to natural light, hair in need of trimming, and the rest of him, including his clothes, of questionable cleanliness, he must have been a sickening sight. He saw himself in the mirror without recognition, but did recognize the monster within that he, with his father's help, strove so hard to hide.

Henry, Elizabeth, and his mother did not know the true nature of Victor Frankenstein, although I suspect that Ernest may have had more an inkling, for it appears that Victor had no compunction against turning his darker self upon his younger brother. Was it a case of being too close to something to know it truly, or of turning a blind eye and seeing only what one wished to see? They were not aware of Victor's behaviour at its worst, but both Elizabeth and William, too, came to know it.

Henry Clerval would have arrived in Ingolstadt full of good news of the family and friends that Victor Frankenstein had left behind in Geneva. No doubt Henry spoke much of William, if for no other reason than to acquaint the oldest of the Frankenstein brothers to the youngest. What were Victor's feelings as he listened to these happy stories of his family, the ones he held most dear? How content was he that in his absence his place in his family's home and heart had been occupied by a child he considered the cause of his mother's death. What love would Victor have had for William then?

The distance from Ingolstadt to Geneva could have been covered in short order with a fast and steady horse. Once Victor had ridden to
Geneva, William would have trusted in his eldest brother. The younger sibling would have been lured and strangled with ease. In Victor's mind, he murdered not his brother, but the child whose birth was the cause of his mother's death.

It would be quite another thing to take the life of a lifelong friend.

By the time of Henry's murder, the monster became more than just a ruse Victor used to divert suspicion from himself. The monster became a need in Victor's own mind to place the blame of Henry's most violent death on someone, anyone, other than himself. Far better was it for Victor to live with the belief that the creation of his genius had murdered Henry.

This kind of self-deception was necessary, and needed to be maintained for Victor to function. He grew expert at it, to the degree that he convinced himself to marry Elizabeth — that he would be able to protect her. But he was wrong, very wrong; by marrying her, Victor placed Elizabeth in the most dangerous position she could find herself.

Did she know, left alone in their bridal chamber, what fate awaited her? Did she have some understanding of what the man she had married was capable? Did she sense fear or danger? When the monster arrived and placed his hands about her throat, was she caught completely unawares? As she struggled for breath, for her life, did she wonder how the man who professed his love for her so much could cause her such harm?

Victor's father had more than a small understanding of that which his son was capable. Alphonse Frankenstein had been covering up his son's aberrant behaviour for years. He should have placed Victor in the care of Dr. Bosch. But he chose to ignore and, worse, to hide his eldest son's detestable character under the guise of genius and scientific brilliance; no fear of facing public disgrace and family dishonour. Alphonse Frankenstein knew the true nature of his son, and the truth killed him. Alphonse, too, must be counted among the number of his son's victims.

Considered mad, with suspicions rising, and having lost his father and so the powerful connections that had protected him, Victor had no choice but to flee Geneva. Ingolstadt was not safe, nor was England, so he fled north, to where he was known by no one.

Victor might have been led to a full confession of his guilt, having found a sympathetic listener in Robert Walton, but Walton's transcripts of their conversations held him back. He still held hope of leaving behind a better memory of himself than he deserved and his monster side kept him from confessing. He used Robert Walton's romantic preconceptions to his own ends.

Each time the monster was blamed for the murders, Victor resolved to kill his monster; but, to do this, he knew that he must kill himself. He took up the chase of his monster and separated himself as far as possible from his home and what little remained of his family. He was completely mad and yet sane at the same time; unable to face what he had done, he continued to build up the illusion of his creation and blamed the murders on the monster he had created; he blamed something of himself, yet something that lived outside him. Thus, Victor was able to take some blame for the murders, yet remained innocent of the crimes.

Frankenstein did indeed create a monster, but not with corrupted flesh and blood brought to life through electricity and chemistry; the monster he created was made of undisciplined genius, jealously, and great psychic insecurity, all supported by an adoring father who went to the extreme to mask his cherished son's evildoings. From the moment Victor Frankenstein stood by and watched as Justine Moritz was executed for the unforgivable crime he himself had committed, Victor's actions can only be judged as purely evil.

Now I go to face this monster, to bring him back to justice; he will have to admit the evil he has wrought, no longer to hide behind the mask of the monster but to be unveiled as the murderer.

Captain Frankenstein,

I believe that you, too, search for your brother; you also believe him to be alive. Your trips to France and the fact of your being stationed in St. Petersburg are no coincidence. I have left this package for you that you may know what I know. I believe that when you were in France, you searched for the DeLacey family that you might discover as true that which your brother told Robert Walton. Part of your sorrow when I met you was due to the same discovery as that made by my employer's agents in Paris: there was no family named DeLacey as described by Victor's monster.

I believe your brother lives and, along with him, the threat of danger. I have hired a ship and will sail in the morning. To hire the ship, I had to pay twice the normal rate of the insurance for the owner. I ask of you one favour. In order that Mr. Clerval know what I now know to be the truth, I have left my journal and all my documents that you might send them on to him, as you once did with Robert Walton's journal.

Along with the journal, I have packaged up all pertinent documents for Mr. Clerval that he might know, after such a lengthy period of doubt and wonder, what events led to the death
of his eldest child; too long has the truth been hidden from him. With my journal, I have collected all letters, transcripts of conversations, and reports in order to give Mr. Clerval insight to my plans and procedures, as well as my own thought processes as I investigated the murders. These documents, combined with the various letters and reports already sent by me to Mr. Clerval, provide the details needed to understand what propels me towards my current conclusions.

When I left St. Petersburg so abruptly, I fully expected that you and Mutt would follow quickly, but this has not proven to be the case. The delay likely could not be helped, but I can wait no longer. Only imagine my dismay when I discovered that Captain Walton's ship had left by the time I returned to Archangel. I fully expected to arrive before he sailed. Walton must have hastened his own preparations and taken the vessel as it was, although it needed more work. There is no time to be lost.

Edward Freame

I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.

All but two of the crew of the
Herpein
have been lost. There were two ships involved in this tragedy: the
Herpein,
captained by an English captain, Robert Walton, and the
Fenya,
commissioned by a Mr. Edward Freame, also of England. It is rumoured that the latter was in pursuit of the former. The exact cause and nature of Mr. Freame's pursuit has not yet been discovered.

Both ships were headed north out of Archangel, across the White Sea in the general direction of the Barents Sea. The captain of the
Fenya
had little hope of catching up with the larger ship, even though it was a heavy-bowed and broad-beamed craft. Cold winds from the north set in and the
Herpein
became locked in the uncompromising grip of ice. The crew of the
Fenya
could not bring their longboat alongside the
Herpein,
but Mr. Freame insisted upon being rowed to the edge of the ice, whereupon he walked to the other ship. There, he hailed those on board who quickly helped him up. The captain of the
Fenya
and her crew monitored the
Herpein
the rest of the day and into the night.

A sudden warm breeze conjured a strange mist in which the ships became invisible from each other. Then came a pattering of rain that froze the moment it hit the decks. The wind came up again and with it a storm. The first blast came from the southeast, causing a great uneasiness in the
Herpein,
as it was still locked by ice. All hands fought to lower the sails to avoid being crushed on the ice, but the sails would not be lowered for their ropes had frozen.

Once again, the wind shifted until it came directly from the south, which in turn brought warmer weather and broke up the ice, freeing the
Herpein.
The captain of the
Fenya
attempted to approach the other ship and discover the whereabouts of Edward Freame, who had not appeared above the deck of the
Herpein
for some time. The broken ice, however, still presented a great danger for both ships. With the unusually warmer temperature came an electrical storm, and the sea began to toss.

The first mate of the
Fenya
spotted the crew of the
Herpein
running wildly about above deck. It soon became apparent that the
Herpein
had been struck by lightning and subsequently was on fire. The crew fought the flames, but when the fire only increased, they began to jump overboard onto the chunks of ice in an attempt to escape. Some crew were hurt in the jump, others fell right through the ice into the frigid waters. The
Fenya
's crew could do little as they were busy keeping their own ship safe, and they could but watch the burning
Herpein
in the sporadic bursts of lightning. Most of the crew of the
Herpein
was trapped on board and perished in the fire. But six souls were rescued from the ship, including the cabin boy; they had made it to the edge of the ice, where the longboat from the
Fenya
was able to reach them. The few bodies retrieved from the frozen water were badly cut, bruised, and burned; the men had fought hard to survive but had lost.

One man, found near death and clinging to the ice, claimed to see the singular figure of a man of gigantic stature leaping across the broken ice, but no evidence of any other survivor was discovered. Neither Captain Robert Walton nor Mr. Edward Freame numbered among the men whose souls were saved.