The Frankenstein Murders (8 page)

“As I mentioned in my letter to you, Henry's murder came as a most sudden and awful shock to me. I was forced to remain indoors with the blinds down. All visitors were turned away. I was far too overwhelmed to entertain. Henry's presence in Perth had been such a delight to all who met him. His time here had been entirely pleasant. We had indulged in fairly usual walks, dinner parties, and other social events; nothing out of the ordinary in the two months of his stay. The murder has not sat well with me, particularly as the guilty party has yet to be apprehended. When you wrote to me, announcing your intention to investigate poor Henry's death, I cannot but say that I felt a sort of rightness to your actions.”

I allowed a brief moment to pass before asking Lyall to describe Henry Clerval's behaviour in the time leading up to his departure for the Orkneys.

While my host paused to consider his answer, I took my first small sip, and found the brandy as rich and smooth to the tongue
as it was to the eye. I was not unhappy to discover that my host's good taste extended beyond his choice of decor and apparel.

“As the weeks passed, Henry appeared to become more and more restless, although he remained entirely personable. I was aware he had posted a letter to his friend, Victor Frankenstein, in which Henry expressed the desire to move on. Henry would have been grieved to know how I had discerned his strong wish to leave me, so great was his desire to please. When Henry was made anxious because he heard no word in return from Victor Frankenstein, I tried to convince him that perhaps the letter had been slightly delayed in its delivery, but my words did little to ease Henry's agitation. Before he had gained a response from Victor Frankenstein, Henry had made up his mind to join his friend in the Orkneys.”

I could not but wonder of the monster and questioned if at any time during Henry Clerval's visit he had noticed anyone unusual lurking about his home or in the vicinity while he and Henry were out walking.

“No, never,” Lyall assured me. “When we walked, I always took my dogs, and they would have alerted us to any intruder. Until his departure, Henry was safe among friends, and nothing unusual occurred.”

Lyall Peacock had not been in Perth when Henry was murdered. I questioned him about this.

“I had no wish to remain in my home. As you have seen, I lead a lonely bachelor's life, and during the month of his stay had come to depend on Henry's companionship. On the very same day of Henry's departure, I chose to leave Perth and visit my uncle in Edinburgh. I have often considered that perhaps if I had remained in Perth, or even accompanied Henry to the Orkneys, that he would be with us still.”

Here, Lyall Peacock paused to wipe his eyes, which had grown moist. I sought to console him in what manner I could.

I explained that I could not tell him many details as I had a requirement of discretion, and also that it was far too early in my investigation for any definite conclusions, but assured him that there was nothing he could have done to prevent the murder of his friend. In all likelihood, the murder was no random act of violence, but rather very much planned. Henry's murderer had a clear purpose and waited only for an opportunity. Had Henry made it to the Orkneys alive, the murderer would most definitely have sought out his friend elsewhere.

“My shock at Henry's murder only increased when it was stated in the newspaper that his friend Victor Frankenstein was arrested for the crime. Some time after, I read another short notice that Victor Frankenstein had been acquitted of the crime, but the true identity of the murderer remained unknown.”

I requested copies of these newspaper articles, should he have retained them.

“Yes, I'm certain I kept them. I will look for them first thing in the morning and send them on to you at your inn.”

Once the business of discussing Henry Clerval's murder had passed, we sat in a companionable silence for a few moments, reflectively sipping our drinks. Coming out of his reverie, Lyall Peacock pressed me to tell him more about my investigation, admitting a true curiosity about my profession. The intimately personal nature of most of the cases in which I have been involved make it impossible to discuss the details. Both Sir Arthur Gray and the clients expect complete discretion, much as is the arrangement with the Clerval case, and so details must be kept in the strictest secrecy. Those who have charged me with an investigation generally have no wish for any publicity of the matter. To avoid disappointing my host, yet not breaking the confidence placed in me by Sir Arthur Gray, I felt I could indulge Peacock by telling him of a case I had investigated many years earlier. The client had since passed away, and her family was not likely to be indisposed by the
telling of the tale. He gave me his most solemn word that he would speak to no one of the matter, and I could see in his face that he craved to know more.

My employer had as a client a certain wealthy widow who lived alone on an estate outside of London. The widow led a quiet life and had no great pleasure except her vast collection of jewellery. Every year she would add a few more carefully chosen pieces to her collection. The jewels were never worn outside her house, and were for her personal enjoyment alone. She had a large ornate jewellery cabinet of sturdy oak made, with a multitude of flowers carved on the doors, and each small drawer lined in the finest velvet to cushion the jewels. The cabinet was built sturdily with a large lock, and its only key the widow wore at all times on a strong chain about her neck. The jewels were removed from the cabinet only when she had locked herself in her room, whereupon she would open the drawers one at a time in order to admire her sparkling pieces.

One day, she discovered one of the jewels missing, and, not long after that, another and another. The widow questioned her staff thoroughly, but neither they nor she could discover by whom or even how the jewels had been stolen. The widow wanted neither her collection nor the thefts made public, and so she appealed to Sir Arthur Gray, who in turn asked me to investigate the thefts. I went to the widow's home and studied the jewellery cabinet, her room, as well as the rest of the house and gardens for evidence of burglary. She had a large staff of loyal servants who had been with her husband's family for many years, and the grounds of the manor were patrolled nightly by the groundskeeper and his dogs. No intruders had been spotted, none of the doors or windows had been left open, and none had been broken. The widow had begun to believe that the spirit of her dead husband, possibly outraged at her frivolous waste of his fortune, was taking her jewels.

For three nights, I posted myself outside the door to the widow's bedroom while my assistant stayed outside the house, just below her window. No one could enter or exit the room without our knowledge. Nothing untoward happened on the first two nights, except that the widow woke repeatedly in the night, due, most understandably, to her apprehension for her jewels. On the third night, yet another jewel went missing. The widow was convinced that a ghost was the culprit and wanted to have the house and her room exorcised to remove the thieving spirit, or to dispose of what remained of her priceless collection.

I persuaded her to allow me to stay in her room, that I might observe the ghost thief in action. Predominantly as a matter of propriety, the widow was reluctant at first, but then acquiesced. I sat myself down in a shadowy corner of the room and prepared to wait for the apparition. I must have dozed slightly, for I was wakened by a movement across the room. The night skies had become clouded, obscuring the moonlight. I had difficultly seeing more than a white shape moving slowly across the floor. Then the moon broke through the clouds and I saw no ghost, but the widow in her nightdress and cap walking towards her jewellery cabinet. I called her name, but she paid me no heed. She took the key that hung about her neck and unlocked the cabinet. She then pulled open one of the drawers and took out an exquisite diamond and sapphire necklace. She shut the drawer, closed the cabinet door, and locked it securely. The widow then walked across to the fireplace and removed the lid from a large decorative urn upon the mantle. She dropped the necklace inside, replaced the lid, and returned to her bed.

“How extraordinary!” Lyall Peacock exclaimed. “She was stealing her own jewels. But why would she take them with you there in the room to witness her actions. Had she so easily forgotten your presence?”

The problem did not lie in simple forgetfulness, I explained. The widow had not forgotten; instead, she was completely unaware. The widow was afflicted by nocturnal perambulations — that is to say, she walked in her sleep. As her collection of jewels had grown, so had her apprehension. Not even the sturdy jewel case, locked doors, and guard dogs gave her the security she wanted. Each night in her sleep, her mind tormented by the thought that her prized and priceless jewel collection might be stolen, she took them one at a time and hid them in the urn on the mantelpiece. The following morning, I handed over the diamond and sapphire necklace and the rest of the missing jewels and made known to the much-relieved widow what had happened to them. She then undertook to control her nightly activities and the case was solved to everyone's satisfaction.

“A happy and good end!” Lyall stated approvingly as he refilled my glass. “Is this much the way that you handle all of your cases? You never considered that the culprit might indeed have been a ghost?”

Before I answered my host, I took another sip of his amber liquid. Many of the investigations in which I have been involved have contained a supposed supernatural element. Nevertheless, in each case, the supernatural has always been explained away, and with facts and figures, rather than superstitious fears, a more rational solution discovered. In every case, there has been a mortal solution, and most often one so simple it has entirely been overlooked.

My host and I indulged in a few more minutes of pleasant conversation before I took my leave of him. During the carriage ride back to the inn, I reflected on the pleasant evening we had passed, and that if assured of a tolerable cook, it would be an unreasonable man who could not put in an enjoyable month at the home of Lyall Peacock. That having been said, except for the promised newspaper articles, the visit did not contribute
significantly to my investigation. Lyall saw no one suspicious and could in no way be considered a suspect himself, having no cause to murder anyone and having demonstrated a most sincere attachment to Henry Clerval. The Perth friends that Lyall and Henry might have visited would have little, if anything, further to contribute, and so I have determined the greater need is to press on to the Orkneys.

Looking upon a map, the Orkneys lie immediately north of the northeast corner of Scotland, from which they are separated by the Pentland Firth. To my eye, they appeared as a group of islands bunched loosely together within a rectangle of sea, perhaps no more than fifty miles from north to south and thirty miles east to west. The principal island, aptly named Mainland, consisted of a series of low hills surrounded by broad, cultivated lowlands. The lowlands were dotted with farms that have been inhabited for many generations. I estimated it might take a man on horseback no more than a half hour to travel from one side of Mainland to the other. Farmhouses were distributed more or less evenly over the lowlands. There was a general absence of anything resembling a village, a weary treaveller must make do with small clusterings of stone houses at crossroads, with a shop, public house, and blacksmith. On Mainland, in the village called Kirkwall, I took a room at one of the larger cottages on a single street leading to the houses along the harbour.

With so few families living on the island, I was able to speak with a number of people who were there when Victor Frankenstein passed through on his way farther north. There was, however, little information to be gained. I was directed to travel to
one of the remotest of the Orkneys,
and once there speak with Auld Liam
Connelly, the patriarch of the family who lived on the island upon which Victor Frankenstein had chosen to stay.

As promised, the next morning my Kirkwall innkeeper secured for me a boatman who was well acquainted with the many shoals and other dangers that lay on our route to Victor Frankenstein's Orkney island. Unlike many of the rest of the Orkneys, where there are mostly farmers, this island's industry derived its living from fishing. After witnessing the well-maintained yet clearly worn condition of boats I had seen on Mainland, the new one on this island stood out clearly — freshly painted, with all the rig and trim in fine condition. With some skill, my boatman pulled up on the rocky shore. He did not wait for me on the shore, but preferred to visit with relations nearby. I was left to do my work on my own on a remote Scottish island. As I watched man and boat sail away on grey water, I imagined I felt something akin to what Victor Frankenstein must have felt when delivered to his chosen spot for self-exile, where he planned to create yet another monster as mate for the first.

My arrival on the island had not gone unnoticed; two of the inhabitants emerged from their cottages and stared openly at me. The boatman had supported the suggestion that I speak with Auld Liam Connelly, as he would know of any happenings on the island. Not yet prepared to speak with anyone, I decided first to explore, and so, hailing the older of the two men, I called out my intention to look in what had been Victor Frankenstein's cottage. The only response I received was a sharp nod before they retreated. Their aloofness did little to discompose me as I preferred to examine alone what had been Victor Frankenstein's home for many weeks. The dwellings were all of the same basic construction, nothing more than low stone buildings with thatched roofs and stone chimneys set at one end of the peak. There were but three dwellings on the island, and it was easy to know which had been Frankenstein's, for not only was it the empty one, it stood at some distance from the other two.