The Frankenstein Murders (17 page)

“Only a monster could have done such a thing!”

Much has passed during my relatively short stay in Geneva. Not insignificant are my observations made as a result of my visit to the Frankenstein home. Although the circumstances of the interview made the agent, Mr. Witte, more circumspect than the housekeeper, Magda Zeigler, they both presented an image of Victor Frankenstein as a troubled young man long before the advent of his monster. Neither Mr. Witte nor Mrs. Zeigler demonstrated any great loss in regards to the late Victor Frankenstein, although they appeared loyal to the memory of the former glory of the Frankenstein family. Victor Frankenstein's description of himself does not seem to be in accord with others. The housekeeper saw him as a man of selfish nature: coddled, cosseted, spoiled, and ultimately unmanageable. Could their unflattering descriptions of Victor be blamed on resentment?

There was nothing in Victor's portrait to give any concern. Anything in his character might easily be answered by the characteristics found in any young man of rank and fortune. I saw little to warrant the resemblance that many seem to note between myself and Victor Frankenstein. Although I have been deemed a fetch and a doppelganger, I noted only a similarity of height and something to the figure of the other man that might warrant some remark on our similarity. Beyond that, we are completely different men. On our first meeting, Mr. Clerval found my appearance quite unremarkable.

The most grisly drawings done by Victor Frankenstein's hand are not, however, so unremarkable. In truth, I know not what to make of them. Death and the construct of the human form were logically of great interest to Victor, but what provoked him to render his family in such a macabre fashion? Could the drawings simply be explained away as some bizarre manifestation of his grief?

Magda Zeigler voiced her belief that a monster was responsible for the murders, but whether that monster is a man or creation of a man has yet to be entirely confirmed. Confirming the existence of Frankenstein's monster requires finding the monster itself or, at the very least, those who have seen the monster. Mutt is now in Germany in search of anyone who might have seen the monster. Victor Frankenstein spoke of at least two instances in Germany where others saw and were frightened by the monster's appearance. Unfortunately, Victor's information is incomplete as to the exact location, and only a few names are provided.

After having been abandoned in Ingolstadt by Victor Frankenstein, the monster wandered about until he came across a genteel family fallen upon hard times and living in reduced circumstances in a cottage in the woods. Although the monster spent some time watching and secretly aiding them, there is little information provided about them that would help in the discovery of these “friends” of the monster, or the monster himself. This time in the woods would seem to be the only time of some happiness that the monster experienced, while at the same time he learned something of the world. Indeed, the country is often the best place for such learning — certainly the city is no place to raise a small child. In the country, a child has room to run and to play, to move beyond inarticulate gurgles to learn to speak, to become capable of more fully formed language. But the monster frightened away his new friends. How difficult will this make locating them?

The following evening, Mr. and Mrs. Clerval entertained several guests at dinner. Mr. Louis Manoir and his pretty French wife, the former Madame Tavernier, were very lively and obviously favourites within the Clerval household, and no doubt elsewhere as well. The husband of this couple had been friends of both Henry Clerval and Victor Frankenstein; I surmised that the couple's presence at dinner had been specifically arranged by Mr. Clerval. The dinner was exceedingly handsome; Mrs. Clerval, feeling somewhat stronger, remained with the guests almost the entire evening. Every dish was commendable, although Mr. Clerval watched how little his wife ate and pressed her gently to try some other dishes; he feared she was more greatly indisposed than she would admit.

Throughout the evening, Mr. Clerval strove to keep the conversation light and far removed from any mention of our business that day. We continued to observe the unwritten rule that there was no discussion of anything which might discompose Mrs. Clerval. The topics were primarily of books, poetry, art, and other subjects deemed safe, and the guests seemed happy to accommodate their host, participating in the conversation agreeably. As the dinner progressed, I found Louis Manoir eyeing me carefully. This seemed to cause Mr. Clerval some anxiety. He
jumped almost visibly when either Mr. Manoir or I spoke. It was only when the meal had ended, and the ladies were leaving the room, that he relaxed to any degree.

Sitting over a glass of port and an after-dinner cigar with the two gentlemen, I resolved to quiz Mr. Manoir regarding both Henry Clerval and Victor Frankenstein. My intention was to do this in a subtle manner, as I had become uncertain that Louis Manoir was indeed aware of the true reason for my presence in Geneva. Mr. Clerval had introduced me as a man of business from London, in Geneva only for the purposes of seeing the city. The cigars had barely been lighted when a servant came into the room and went directly to Mr. Clerval with an urgent message, the nature of which I was unaware as both men spoke in low and hushed tones. After consulting with the servant, Mr. Clerval explained that he must see to some pressing business and begged our forgiveness for this interruption. Both Mr. Manoir and I assured our host that we were not in the least inconvenienced, and that we would be most comfortable where we were until his return. Nevertheless, Mr. Clerval seemed unwilling to leave us alone, and the servant stood many minutes waiting at the door.

“Monsieur Freame, I feel that I have known you before,” Louis Manoir said, leaning familiarly towards me the moment the door had shut behind our host. “And yet I am completely certain we have never before met. That is singular, is it not?”

I replied that he had known the Clervals for some time, not taken by surprise at his comments regarding my appearance. Louis Manoir evidently noted the resemblance I shared with Victor Frankenstein; but, as my desire was to discuss other matters in the short time that had been afforded us, I chose not to edify him.

“But of course, since I was a boy. My dear Audette and I have dined here most every week. Our home, Monsieur Freame, is outside of the city. If I may be so frank, Constance, Madame
Clerval, is not at all well, and so it suits her better that we join them here,” he explained with a warm smile, yet his eyes remained distant, never for an instant leaving my face.

Pretending I knew less than I did, and yet posing questions intended to provide me with answers I required, I asked if he had known Henry Clerval and his friend Victor Frankenstein.

“Henry Clerval was a hearty and clever fellow, full of spirit and energy; the very opposite of Victor Frankenstein in many respects. Anyone penetrating Henry's surface calm and good nature was likely to find a fine nature beneath, resting on a steady foundation of honour and truth,” he told me as he poured himself another generous glass of Mr. Clerval's fine port. “Victor could be brilliant and charming one moment, and vindictive and cold-hearted the next. Victor's emotions could be read like the weather, sun meant happiness, but rain meant depression. Monsieur Freame, let me assure you who knew him not, when Victor was happy, it was exhilarating, but when morose, he was dark and horrid. We who had known him for some time would recognize and often evade these shifts, although Henry and Elizabeth were best at it.

“Never before had I met someone with such a volatile temperament as Victor. He would disappear for days, until his parents were wild with worry, only to return with no explanation of his whereabouts. But even Henry, the most mild and patient person I have ever had the honour to know, was known to feel the wrath of Victor's passion and violent temper. Only Victor's mother could truly soothe him, although Elizabeth had some measure of success after Caroline Frankenstein died.

“Victor usually referred to Mr. Clerval as a narrow-minded trader, but his observation was that of someone raised in a family with a long line of noble ancestors who look down upon those engaged in the tawdry world of commerce. Admittedly, Mr. Clerval saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambitions of his son and undoubtedly blamed Victor for it. In turn, and at all times,
Victor resisted any attempt by anyone to tell him or Henry what to do. Poor Henry, caught between his family and his friend.

“It was my observation that Victor believed Henry agreed with everything Victor said, but Henry was not such a little lamb to be led about unthinkingly. I doubt Victor ever fully appreciated all of Henry's ability. But of course, Henry was quite different from Victor. Physically, Henry was somewhat shorter and also fairer, and had the appearance of one more careful and cautious in manner, except perhaps when something particular aroused him.”

Louis Manoir, tongue made freer by glasses of wine, did not require much prompting to respond to my inquiries. He was not at all averse to discussing his late friends, and as long as his glass remained filled, he was amenable to talk. Although quite familiar with Victor's life in Geneva, Manoir could supply no knowledge of any alliances Victor Frankenstein made while in Ingolstadt.

“Victor always knew what he wanted and how to get it. This often put him at odds with his own father. Alphonse Frankenstein was a strict and forceful man, not one easily to be persuaded. Reverential silence was maintained in the Frankenstein home at all times, and everyone, servants and children alike, were punished severely for any undue noise. Dinner parties were rare, small, and short. Victor was constantly pressed by his father to excel at all he undertook, and at all times to behave with calm and rational behaviour. Emotion was to be avoided; if possible, omitted entirely. The expectation was that Victor would carry on in the same brilliant and successful manner that his father, and his father's father had done.”

The sound of footsteps in the hall caused Louis Manoir to pause momentarily, but he continued when it was clear that they were passing the door to the room in which we sat.

“Ernest would occasionally come under his father's eye, but Ernest's main occupation was with sports and the outdoors, anything that kept him outside the house. Victor was not so
fortunate. Honestly, he had all his father's adoration, yet also the greatest of his father's wrath.

“Alphonse was left with Ernest and Elizabeth for adult companionship while Victor was away, although Ernest was gone for some time also, as I recall, visiting friends in Amsterdam. And I believe he may also have gone to England, but then perhaps I am confusing him with Victor.”

As Manoir spoke, I said little, only enough to encourage him to continue speaking. I would have liked to question him further, however, it was at that point that our host returned. Almost immediately, Mr. Clerval made some comment regarding one of the topics covered during dinner. For the remainder of the evening there was no further mention of either Henry Clerval or Victor Frankenstein.

My walk the next morning was no idle ramble, but had a clear purpose as I made my way along the streets of Geneva. First, I required solitude so that I might reflect on the information I had acquired the previous day, and also to visit the final resting place of the Frankenstein family. A gatekeeper provided directions, so I located with some ease the graves of William, Elizabeth, and Victor Frankenstein's parents. Someone, likely Ernest, had erected a memorial plaque for Victor, although the body had been buried at sea. Victor had mentioned having visited the graves of William, Elizabeth, and his father, but he failed to mention his mother Caroline, whose name had been etched alongside that of her husband's.

As I gazed about at the vaults, monuments, and other tributes to the dearly departed, I could not help but wonder where the remains of Justine Moritz had been laid to rest. What kind of man had Victor Frankenstein been that he would stand by and watch as a young woman taken in by his mother, and also valued by the rest of his family, was executed for a crime she did not commit. He had visited Justine in her prison cell, and no doubt she thanked him for this benevolence. All the while, her greatest concern had been that he would think her guilty, when he alone knew the awful truth of her innocence and said nothing. Instead, Victor allowed everyone to
believe that the murder was caused by the attraction of the very valuable miniature Elizabeth had allowed William to wear.

In Victor Frankenstein, I was beginning to see increasingly a case of the self-divided: a case of intellect versus emotion, particularly as his desperation and despair escalated with each murder. Although he experienced a most loving and ideal childhood, enormous expectations were placed upon him. The sudden appearance of another person in the cemetery pulled me from my thoughts. For a moment, the stranger seemed as if to turn in a direction away from where I stood, but then, after looking purposefully in my direction, came to stand before me. As he approached, I made a quick note of his person. He was an elderly man, alarmingly thin but with an erect posture. His coat was of good quality, but seemed to have been purchased for someone much greater in stature. Otherwise, there was nothing remarkable about him.

“I am not certain at the wisdom of speaking with you, but it has come that we are here together now, and so I shall speak,” he said by way of greeting. He kept his voice low, flat, and without emotion. “I was the magistrate in Evian to whom Victor Frankenstein applied when his wife Elizabeth was murdered.”