Happily, inbred stoicism kept the Englishmen’s protests pretty minimal, but it was still distressing to see them taken away.
Julius should have intervened, he realised. These men’s seamanship had saved his life. However, the Royal Navy was not popular hereabouts (the coastal blockade and bombardments, press-ganging, being organised Reaction personified etc. etc.) and so he shamefully heeded Ada’s whispered ‘forget them!’
‘That’ll teach the swines!’ he agreed with the official, meaning the Cathedral’s former owners, not Third-lieutenant and company. He said it with false relish, re-routeing the self-disgust he felt in order to ingratiate himself.
‘No it won’t,’ chuckled the Belgian. ‘You can’t teach dead men!’ He mimicked a noose around his neck and gently swayed side to side.
Then, it struck home that his remark had double value in the context of this Lazaran academy. The man laughed all the heartier and all his bellies with him.
‘Well, maybe you can with this lot,’ he conceded when he’d done, indicating the heaving mass in the fenced-off Chancel. ‘But let me tell you, monsieur, it’s not easy.’
‘Do please tell,’ Frankenstein prompted. ‘I’m interested…’
‘Really?’
‘Certainly.’
The official started on his luncheon of bread and sausage and spring onions, unwrapped from what was surely a wife or mother-packed hamper. From time to time he wiped his hands on his orange sash of office.
For some reason it didn’t occur to him to offer any to his company. Julius and Ada and Foxglove remained standing, supplicants before his desk, whilst their host in this new country lolled back in his seat and noisily enjoyed.
‘Why is that?’ he finally asked through a mouthful. ‘Are you in the trade?’
‘I was. Monsieur, allow me…’
Frankenstein uncorked the hamper’s wine flask and poured. The official saluted him with it and sipped with surprising delicacy.
‘Well, you Swiss invented the whole business, didn’t you?’
Seeing the way things were going, Julius wouldn’t accept all the credit.
‘We did But it took the Convention to take up the baton and run, eh? As with so many things, the Revolution is the vanguard of human progress, n’est pas?’
The official almost purred. He even set down his baguette.
‘Absolutely, monsieur. I discern that you are a man after my own heart…’
It was not for want of trying. Julius was progressively adjusting his Swiss French into an imitation of purest Gallic tones, the better to stroke his new friend’s cultural cringe. It definitely appeared to be unlocking doors, and might even save them from shooting or life imprisonment, or whatever it was the Belgic Republic did with unwanted foreigners.
Though only half fed the official felt expansive, willing to make minor concessions to show he had a generous soul.
‘Well, our training procedures lag behind the more refined methods of other nations,’ he admitted, ‘but we’re catching up, you mark my words. My chef-régional thought of this…,’ he waved one languid hand to encompass the ex-cathedral, ‘and I think you’ll agree it’s a good idea. Bring ‘em back to life and straightaway cage them up in this big space which had become available. Then—and here is the genius, monsieur—let their own struggles weed out the weaker specimens, whilst at the same time allowing them to see humans come and go, to acclimatise them. That is why we use the rest of the building as an government office. Which is why you’re here. Which reminds me…’
The form he’d been filling in, now stained by spilt spring onions, had been quite forgotten in the course of conversation. Frankenstein was quite happy for it to remain so.
‘It’s brilliant,’ Julius exclaimed as diversion. ‘A cheap culling and training process rolled into one. What novelty! What economy of effort! You are to be congratulated, monsieur!’
The official modestly accepted only some of the praise.
‘It wasn’t my notion, not entirely: I only run the place…’
‘Any one can have ideas, sir,’ Julius greased on, ‘the trick is make them real. I think we shall hear more of you and this place! The English may have their Heathrow Hecatomb, the French their Mausoleum de Compeigne, yet I warrant this institution boasts the same success rate at one tenth the trouble!’
That almost overdid it. Both supposedly secret places Frankenstein had named were common knowledge but, even so, excess specifics awoke suspicion.
Or would have but for the second glass of wine Julius obligingly poured. The potential poison in their conversation was then purged by an inspired answer to a pointed question.
‘You seem to know a great deal about Revivalism, monsieur…,’ said the official. He was guarded again.
Frankenstein looked soulful.
‘Alas, not through choice…’ He indicated Ada. ‘My sister… a sad case…’
The official had seen too many to regard any Lazaran, no matter how pretty, as anything but meat; yet he did Julius the honour of giving Ada a quick scan up and down.
‘No good for the army,’ was his judgement. ‘But I suppose you had your reasons…’
‘A mother’s dying wish, sir. They are as divine commands to dutiful sons. Otherwise, as you so correctly discern, I would never have bothered…’
If looks could kill Julius would have been eligible for the circus in the Chancel. Fortunately, by then the official’s glance had moved on and so missed seeing Ada’s death stare.
‘Well, you’ve got her well trained, I’ll give you that much, monsieur. Nicely silent. Maybe you could teach us a thing or two!’
He didn’t mean it. It was a joke between two men on the same wavelength.
‘Now, where were we?’ He was fussing with the paper storm on his desk again.
‘I believe,’ Julius prompted, ‘it was just a few more details and then we were off…’
Actually, that wasn’t quite so, but the official didn’t care to spoil this pleasant chat over (his) lunch by contradicting.
‘More or less, Mr…’ He consulted some paper. ‘Mr Tell. A few extra formalities…’
Julius’ mad mood had persisted beyond the beach debacle, drawing sighs from Lady Lovelace and reproachful looks from Foxglove. In the absence of any identification—all lost at sea, of course—he’d seen fit to test the official’s education by assuming the name of Switzerland’s best (perhaps only) known hero.
Happily, the man’s schooling and reading proved deficient. ‘William Tell’ duly went down on the carte de sejour being drawn up, reckless of all the problems it might bring later on.
‘And where do you intend heading?’
‘Home, I suppose,’ said Julius, sounding resigned. ‘The estate calls, and my dear sister, Miss Tell, is due back at her asylum.’
When the official looked on her again Ada constructed a rictus smile. She even bobbed a curtsey.
‘Most commendable,’ said the Belgian. ‘Most progressive. No other country I know of has institutions catering for family Lazarans. Everywhere else it is either field work or concealment in attics…’
The gaze had lingered and so Ada tried to look grateful.
‘Yes,’ Julius said to her, loud and slow as though to an idiot. ‘I said, yes: back to your sweet little room and cot, my dear. And the embroidery that keeps you busy. I said embroidery, yes…’
Frankenstein was getting a touch too embroiled in this farrago he’d created. The bare bones of his tale about a disastrous sailing holiday might pass muster before this uninspired bureaucrat, but surplus detail could break the spell. Foxglove applied the tip of his boot to Julius’ ankle.