The Frankenstein Murders (5 page)

I have accepted Sir Arthur Gray's offer and will take up Mr. Clerval's case, but to solve it requires that many questions be
answered. The most key of these being the exact nature of Victor Frankenstein's experiments with human bodies and electricity: can life indeed be brought to the dead? I will start in London with my research and continue my studies as I travel. As soon as I lay my hands upon the very texts Victor Frankenstein studied, I will know those ideas that gave him his insight to creating the quick from the dead; I will augment my understanding of the natural sciences. I foresee many weeks of research, travel, interviews, inspections of the sites, evidence gathering, and more. At all times I will strive to get to know the people involved in order that I may ascertain what happened.

The gathering of information for this case shall begin with an interview with Captain Robert Walton, who resides in a village north of London. From Captain Walton I hope to get a better sense not only of Frankenstein, but also of Walton himself, the man who documented the fantastic story of Frankenstein. Victor Frankenstein is dead, so all that can be learned of him must come from the examination of his life and from those who witnessed and recorded his activities. As Victor Frankenstein was closest to the murderer, I believe knowing Victor Frankenstein will bring me closer to knowing the murderer. In the same way that I will learn of Victor Frankenstein, I will learn of his creature. By knowing the people behind the story I will strive to gain from it more than just a tall tale devised to frighten the ignorant. By speaking with Robert Walton, I hope to get more details of the murderer and a first-hand account of Victor Frankenstein, rather than what may be a carefully scripted story intended to conceal as much as it reveals. I would hear more of Victor Frankenstein's actions and manner when not engaged in telling his story and of those items that Captain Walton can remember that were not written down. I will need from him more detail on the exact fate of the monster.

Although I have had some time to reread Walton's journal and the letters therein contained, I will need to consider still at every
moment what best my actions should be. Mr. Clerval's primary interest is in the latter part of Robert Walton's story. After Victor Frankenstein's death, the monster visited Robert Walton's ship, then left, having done harm to no one, promising to take its own life by throwing itself upon a fire. I have determined that the most efficient route for me to undertake in this journey of discovery will be to follow Victor Frankenstein's voyage in reverse, but, like Frankenstein, I will leave the north until the end when I have examined everything else to my satisfaction. To search, however, the great expanse of the north in any attempt to find the murderer would be to no end.

The victims are easy enough to identify. Henry Clerval is the one his father is most interested in, but the murders of Elizabeth Frankenstein, William Frankenstein, and the execution of Justine Moritz are linked to this case. Investigation of these murders may reveal clues and related incidents that will aid in my efforts to discover Henry Clerval's murderer.

Through the recollections of others, I must first identify my quarry, then I will be better able to capture him. All of this of course requires that in chasing the monster I chase a living, breathing entity created by a man and not some hallucinatory phantom brought about by disappointment and grief.

Dear Mr. Edward Freame,

Your letter came as no small surprise. You are most welcome to visit me in my little cottage, but I am sorry to say you will not find my brother at home at this time — just me and my little dogs. We lead a quiet life here in our little village, and not since I first began to receive dear Robert's letters has there been much activity in my life, although the Rileys have a new carriage, and the youngest of the Smiths who live in the cottage across from mine is to be married next spring.

The story of poor, poor Mr. Frankenstein gave me nightmares. To imagine, making such a creature as he did and all the destruction it caused. It must have been very trying for his family. I was almost relieved when my brother Robert entreated me to send his letters and journal on to Mr. Ernest Frankenstein. To be sure, I was glad to have them out of the house. How distressing a story! Do you not agree? So unpleasant for the Frankenstein family, I am sure. And what a curious name. I wonder if it is common over there, for certain I have never heard such a name before.

Should you remain desirous of a visit, I will of course do what I am able to provide you with what little information I might have, although I am not sure I can tell you more than you already know.
You will find me at home every afternoon, except Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the occasional Monday. You might do best to visit on Wednesday when I am most likely to be at home, as long as I am not somewhere else.

Mrs. Margaret Saville

Huntsdown Cottage

To reach the village where I would find Mrs. Saville's cottage, the coach was obliged to leave the highway and to follow so narrow a lane that it could easily have been missed.

Mrs. Saville lives in a modest home amidst a grouping of similar cottages. The neighbourhood was quiet and, I suspect, generally uneventful, for clearly the entire village had heard of my arrival, as a number were in their front gardens, or peering through the window coverings as I made my way to her front door. Either they saw enough to satisfy their curiosity or saw little of what they hoped, for soon the seeking eyes withdrew. The front garden of the Saville cottage was completely overgrown. The border flowers had been neglected and weeds were rapidly gaining control of the space.

As I waited in the hall while a servant went to fetch her mistress, I noted a letter lying under the hall table. What caught my eye was that across the front was my own London address. Boldly, I took up the unsealed envelope and read the contents quickly; it contained only a short note. Too late I realized the fruitlessness of my journey to Mrs. Saville's home, even as the good lady herself bore down the hall in my direction. Mrs. Saville was a large, fat woman in a flowered silk gown and a cap. In one quick movement, I folded the letter and slipped it into my pocket.
My intention was to stay only long enough to ask her a few questions and then excuse myself.

“Mr. Freame! How pleased I am that you have come to visit. It is too bad that Robert has set off yet again on his favourite dream and has gone away to seek financing for yet another voyage north. I have my reservations, as I did the first time he set out, on the wisdom and safety of his voyage. Maybe the wonders of the world do need discovering, but why it has to be by my poor boy I don't know. But dear Robert does have his heart set, and was almost more driven this time to return north than he had been the first. His failure seems not to have taken away any of his enthusiasm. How fortuitous that our little village is not so very out-of-the-way of London.” As she spoke, Mrs. Saville led me into her sitting room.

The disorder encountered in the garden proved to be but a hint of the chaos to be found inside Mrs. Saville's cottage. Most available space was taken up with furniture too large and too numerous for the small rooms. I wondered if she had recently moved from a larger home, but was informed that she had occupied the cottage for all her married life, some twenty-five years. In addition to the furniture, there was an astonishing accumulation of small decorative figurines. Mrs. Saville was also the owner of a prodigious number of small and mid-sized dogs of no discernable breed. I was introduced to each dog in turn, and it was explained to me that they were all the offspring of the venerable Muffin, a very plump dog that did not move from its basket the duration of my visit.

Our conversation began with general pleasantries and comments about the village, which I would gladly have avoided. Mrs. Saville, however, was entirely the gracious hostess and made certain that I should miss nothing of her hospitality.

“How do you like our village? I declare I do not know a lovelier place in England. Mr. Saville will contradict me on this belief, but it is true, for look at the many fine families who have settled here.”

I nodded my assent, but before I could say anything to direct the conversation towards the reason for my visit, she began to speak again.

“For my part, I have never seen the advantages of city life over life in the country. Yes indeed, there is quite as much going on in the country as in town, but the country is a vast deal pleasanter. When I am in the country I never want to leave it. Oh for sure, London has many fine shops, and I do so love to see all the fashionable people that I often find myself quite depressed when I must leave.”

I admitted that my primary desire had been to speak with her brother, Captain Walton, but requested that she would permit me to interview her. Specifically, I asked her to tell me something of him and the letters and journal he wrote to her while he voyaged in the far north.

“Yes, of course. Robert. Where shall I begin?” as she spoke these words a certain breathlessness came to her voice and she placed one hand upon her heart. For a moment, I wondered if I had been too blunt and if she would be unwilling or unable to provide me any information about her brother. The verbosity Mrs. Saville had displayed from the moment we first met proved undaunted; she had been merely catching her breath.

“Our mother died young, bless her soul, and I raised my younger brother from when he was just a lad,” she told me. “He had few friends, preferring to spend his time with books of great adventure, particularly those at sea. He was always wild for the sea and ships, and stories of adventure. At times, he was often depressed, particularly when he was thwarted in his dream to go to sea. He took to writing poetry for some time, and though I am no judge of poetry, I found it quite agreeable, particularly the shorter pieces. But once he had his inheritance, it was for the sea that all his energy was spent.

“As a young boy, Robert read with ardour the accounts of the
various voyages that have been made at the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through seas that surround the pole. I am certain he read all the books in our Uncle Thomas's library that contained a history of the voyages made for the purpose of discovery of the Northwest Passage.

“He has involved himself in so much. For a year, he sailed with whale-fishers, and he studied mathematics, theory of medicine, and physical science. I am not sure where he found his proficiency in these areas, for it was not from my influence.”

I asked if she had a portrait of her brother, having noted among the numerous other items a large collection of miniatures in the room.

“Oh my, yes. There is one on the wall, by the bookcase. Yes there, the one on the left. He was much younger then, but I can assure you he is still a fine-looking young man.”

The portrait was of a young man leaning against a large outcropping of rock along the shore of a lake surrounded by large hills. Bushes and shrubs filled the space behind him, and in the foreground a fishing basket and the prized catch of the day lying resplendent on the stones, a shaft of sunlight glinting off its scales. Robert Walton, in the centre, held his fishing rod in one hand, while his other hand rested lightly at his waist. In his face I saw some resemblance to his sister. They shared the same long face, with full cheeks, although he was nowhere as round as his sister. He and his sister also shared small feet and hands, dainty on her perhaps, but on him out of proportion with the rest of his figure. His hair, blown by the wind, added a youthful, almost childish look to a grown man. He was dressed in light colours except for his jacket, which was a rich brown, almost maroon. His appearance was calm, and he had a face that showed little evidence of strife or struggle. His face was pale, as it had not yet been roughened by the sun and wind from life on the sea.

“We were quite delighted with the man who painted it, for I assure you it is a very good likeness, although Robert does not care for fishing. Goodness, I do not believe he has ever caught a fish in his life.”

As she spoke, I heard for the first time movement in other areas of the cottage, which I took to be a servant. My guess turned out to be correct when a tea tray soon arrived. The appearance of the refreshment, although not unwelcome, had the unfortunate effect of causing Mrs. Saville to be distracted from her description of her brother. She began to tell me of the rest of her family.

“Mr. Saville is out hunting with his son-in-law. Our daughter, Patience, is currently confined, waiting on the arrival of her fourth child,” she informed me. “We have been keeping our other three lovely grandchildren here until Patience is strong enough to have them back.”

As if on cue, Margaret Saville's lovely grandchildren arrived. Had she not just identified them, I would have mistaken them for screaming whirling dervishes, so disruptive was their entrance into the room. Until that moment, they must have been contained in some distant part of the house, or out-of-doors, for their presence could not go undetected. Their boisterous arrival also set the many dogs yapping. Only the venerable Muffin was unmoved by the noisy disruption, and I began to worry for the dog's well-being, wondering if in fact it lived at all. Mrs. Saville's lovely grandchildren paused briefly in their frenzy to look me up and down for a moment before rushing to the tea tray and the sweet delights upon it.

“Not too many sweets or you will make yourselves sick,” their grandmother admonished gently, but Mrs. Saville's words seemed only to encourage them to demolish with greater rapidity the cakes set out on the tray.