Bile was mountaineering up his throat. He had to gag and try to think of other things. It proved impossible.
All manner of loose ends now meshed and locked into place. Disparate parts became an understandable whole. A sickening picture. Or perhaps a puppet show, starring Dr. Julius Frankenstein, singing and dancing without dignity to someone else’s tune.
For a second, if he’d had that hypothetical gun, he would have used it on the distant coach. Or maybe hurtled down the drive with it to get right up close and make sure of the job.
Of course, teeming soldiery would have stopped him long before he was within sniffing distance of escape or vengeance, but it would still be cathartic. The visible working out of his inmost thoughts.
Yet if that wasn’t on, it was always possible to take remote revenge. He could have the pleasure of denouncing Ada as she had him. One word, one raising of the alarm, was all it would take to have Mausoleum security all over that coach like rampant pox.
They’d find an Englishwoman—and an aristocrat to boot. An illegal. Someone who’d barged into a society where all things not compulsory were forbidden. Probably an expendable Lazaran spy they’d conclude, one of the rare sentient sort. The secret police would have a field day! Fouché’s men had their own ‘interrogation facilities’ in the Mausoleum, as they did in every state building. Julius sometimes heard the screams from them at night.
The chilling remembrance of which turned Frankenstein to another option. A wholly irresponsible and therefore highly tempting alternative.
It remained open to him to answer the impudent message. To re-engage with mad Ada. To replay their relationship a second time—and this time to play it better…
Her coach still awaited. The Mausoleum messenger could be summoned back to deliver a reply
Which would say… what?
How am I? Answer: a prisoner, as before. In a Gallic mirror image of the Heathrow Hecatomb.
How goes my researches? They do not. They cannot. Which my captors must soon perceive.
And any news? No, no, no, no!
Or possibly… yes.
Julius suddenly recalled that the messenger had delivered two letters. The second lay in still virgin state whilst shock and outrage and multiple beckoning ways distracted him.
And betrayed him almost. The road of life forked. If Frankenstein had acted in haste and gone to her he might never have known there was a counter offer. A offer that blew Ada’s clean out of the water.
It was short but, when interpreted, sweet.
‘Mon Chère Frankenstein’
it read, in careless, V.I.P.’s hand. Then:
‘?’
Then:
‘N’
You could legitimately have commissioned a conference of scholars to decipher it, timidly exploring the multiple pathways of possible meaning till they were all set out, ready for rational conclusions to be made. Alternatively, you could, as Frankenstein did, shoulder aside all those imaginary academics and make an intuitive leap of faith over their gleaming heads. The end result was probably the same but with the added attraction of being stylish—and a lot quicker.
Since Frankenstein was a man in a hurry he happily took the short route. He also took up paper and pen and he wrote:
‘Mon Chère General
!
JF’
Chapter 3: MOUSTACIOED ELOPEMENT
In doing so Frankenstein sensed he’d passed a test. If he’d identified his correspondent correctly they were looking for someone who, when travelling from A to Z, wasn’t scared to skip B—Y. His cryptic response should be spot on. Granted, it was a lie, but that was only an issue for someone not already far from God’s favour.
His way out was made easy for him. On the envelope there was, in another, more clerkish, hand, a return address: one of the myriad numbered postal ‘caches’ serving every Government purpose from the sublime to the sinister. To interfere with anything so sanctioned was a capital offence (like almost everything else in Conventionary France). Dumped in the Messengers’ office ‘out’ sack for tomorrow, alongside many others, a missive thus addressed would not invite notice or scrutiny.
Julius rejoiced and reached for another glass of wine—even the sour stuff they served at the Mausoleum. He’d found a conduit to the outside world through which news of his continued existence might crawl! Would he take it? He most certainly would!
By contrast, any reply to Ada’s plea needed subtle gymnastics (surely a contradiction in terms…) to reach her. He’d missed the chance to put a message in Foxglove’s hands and there was no way of knowing when or if another would arrive. All outbound letters to conventional addresses such as Lady Lovelace’s lodgings (wherever they might be) would be opened, poured over and censored to the point of death, if not beyond. And never more so than in the case of their intrinsically untrustworthy foreign ‘volunteer.’ That sure knowledge (plus absence of anyone to write to) was what had ‘inspired’ Julius to writer’s block so far.
Today he let it deter him again. Answering Ada would only bring a hornets’ nest of trouble down around her pale pretty head, and whilst that had a certain appeal, Julius didn’t doubt a matching nest would be found for him too. Far better then to inflict on her the lesser torment of silence and unknowing. For a while, perhaps a long while, let her seethe in rented accommodation waiting for a word from him. It would do her spiritual good and also serve her right!
Having absorbed what both letters had to say, Frankenstein tore them into digestible strips and proceeded to eat his words. They weren’t noticeably worse than the rest of breakfast…
The inwardly digested letters hadn’t even passed through Frankenstein’s system before his reply was replied to.
It took the unconventional form of a tap upon his window soon after midnight. Which was surprising in itself, since he resided on the first floor.
Even so, Frankenstein ignored it. He was turned on his side away from the window, just getting comfortable, half-asleep, and half-tipsy. And besides, odd night noises were the norm in the Mausoleum and none of them rewarded investigation.
Except that this one was insistent and unwilling to be snubbed. The rap upon his windowpane was repeated, but with more force. Then again, harder. Extrapolate the series but a few steps forward and the glass would shatter.
Not that Frankenstein cared greatly about that. One of the few pluses about his present abode was no requirement to pay for breakages. On the other hand, getting it repaired would take ages and much begging of surly artisans. Meanwhile, a draught would whistle through. On balance, Julius decided to turn over in bed.
His first bleary thought was that there was a new Man in the Moon. Then returning consciousness clarified that. Handily silhouetted against the full moon was a man’s face, masked and urgent. He raised his fist, clearly threatening to put it through the window.