It was believed essential to start as you meant to go to on, and promptly, before any autonomous thoughts developed. The new recruits, confused and complaining, were chivvied into line and then marched off. No-nonsense sergeant-majors awaited them on the Hecatomb’s parade ground.
Whereas back in his private laboratory, itself a miniature version of the Hecatomb’s production line, a bottle of brandy awaited Julius Frankenstein, then supper, then his diary and then bed.
Barring a miracle, one-seventh of his remaining days was gone.
Chapter 3: A DAY IN THE DEATH OF LADY ADA LOVELACE
The day that she came, Frankenstein’s diary would have read:
‘Same. Breakfast. Pep talk. Doodling. Bed. Six days to live.’
save that just before bedtime he had another visitor.
Security at the Hecatomb was tight, but skewed towards preventing escape, not invasion. On the whole, the reputation of the place was its best defence against intruders: a bit like the Tower of London or Bedlam.
Even so, there were guards to counter the off-chance of French or Christian saboteurs. Great skill or wealth must have been required to shroud their eyes. Julius put his money on the latter.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the stranger, in a soft-spoken voice.
His uninvited guest seemed courtly but looked otherwise. A prize-fighter turned flunky was Frankenstein’s wager. Scrubbed-up and instructed in the non-spitting, non-swearing lifestyle when his pugilist prime was over. Most certainly not a Hecatomb staff member.
Frankenstein raised his glass.
‘Good evening to you, dear fellow.’
‘Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?’
Julius felt no great alarm: indeed, he felt no great anything at all lately. His sabre was within reach if need be.
‘You presume correctly, sir. How may I oblige?’
‘Permit me to first introduce myself, sir, and to apologise profusely for the interruption. I would not dream of intruding were not my purpose pressing. My name is Foxglove.’
‘Do you have a calling card?’
‘Not as such, sir, but I do have this.’
‘Foxglove’ drew a pistol from his coat and cocked it.
Frankenstein dismissively waved the aim aside.
‘Fire away and do the world—and I—a favour. My present life holds little savour. Alas, sir, you choose to toot upon a muted trumpet…’
Foxglove accepted it on trust and returned the threat to store.
‘Forgive me, Doctor, but I had strict instructions to start thus. Were it my place to do so, I would have pointed out such considerations hold little weight with true gentlemen. Unfortunately, whilst my employer is a worthy person they are also inclined to be impetuous, even wild, you might say—and especially so at present. ‘Tis in their blood you see, though do not mistake me to imply criticism by it. But I assure you, sir, they have good cause. In those circumstances, might I be permitted to begin again with sweet reason?’
Frankenstein smiled.
‘You may as well,’ he said, ‘since you are here. As a mere foreigner, kept nigh prisoner in this ghastly place since reaching these shores, almost any diversion is welcome.’
Foxglove raised one eyebrow (near the full extent of his permitted emotional range, Julius suspected) in sympathy.
‘I commiserate sir. Nevertheless, that same internationally acknowledged expertise in your field which binds you here is also the reason for our interview.’
Though not the scientist his late uncle hoped (and late father feared) he would become, Julius could extrapolate the present data into an elegant theory.
‘If it’s Lazarans you require, I cannot—indeed, will not—oblige. The black market attracts capital punishment and though, as I state, my current existence holds few charms, neither am I minded to quit life via what you English call the ‘Tyburn clog dance.’ Nor does my moral code permit cooperation. If—and I stress if, sir—I were minded to be helpful I should merely inform you there are alternative sources of supply. Certain depraved surgeons would comply, I’m sad to say. Find one made reckless by drink or debts and there’s your man. Or you could even attempt what I believe is termed a ‘home-bake’…’
Foxglove looked pained by such second-hand crudity.
‘There remains the need for serum, sir,’ he reminded, still courtly.
Frankenstein scoffed.
‘Serum? Bah! The very dogs in the street know that to be just an activated admix of formaldehyde, egg-yolk, alcohol and… ahem, vital seed…’
Still the visitor stuck to his guns.
‘Possibly so, sir. But those same well-informed canines cannot help with the matter of relative proportions. Nor with that ‘admixing’ you referred to. All highly rarefied tasks, I’m told; requiring specialist skills. Not to mention the ‘activation’…’
‘Well, yes,’ conceded Frankenstein, ‘there is that. You cannot afford to get any component wrong…’
So-called ‘half-bakes’ were justifiably the stuff of legend and nightmare. The fortunate among them soon exploded, but others had been known to ‘live’ for years, to the horror of all, including themselves.
Frankenstein recalled himself from reverie.
‘But you need not have penetrated this grim edifice to learn such commonplaces,’ he said. ‘And on that subject, how did you penetrate here?’
‘Sacks of sovereigns,’ said Foxglove succinctly, also conveying decent distaste.
‘Mankind…,’ mused Frankenstein, mostly to himself, ‘how can one fail to love it…?’
‘Indeed so, sir. But not all men are mercenary. I know I am not, for all my failings. Nor, I trust and pray, are you. Reflect, if you will, on what brings me here, at risk of life and limb, not to mention terror. For I am bound by ties of loyalty and gratitude. Were it not so I would be far away and in safety and comfort. As it is, I have lost alclass="underline" home, position, good name, everything but honour, to be here to speak to you. Concede then, that some men act unselfishly for the good…’
Frankenstein waggled his hand.
‘My Father believed thus,’ he said. ‘And his brother, the most famous or infamous of my family once believed thus. As for myself, I waver. However, pray continue…’
‘My instructions,’ said Foxglove, ‘prescribe pleas and promises of enrichment should threats fail. Monstrous enrichment…’
Again, Julius just waved the prospect away. Mention of monsters was not a happy choice of phrase, and nor was gold a starting motor in him. The visitor perceived both mistakes and quickly moved on, guided by the light of instinct.
‘However,’ he said, ‘I will dare to disobey and skip such sordidness to ask one thing, and one thing alone, of you: will you meet my patron? She waits on the Heath.’
Bedtime and a restart of the grey cycle was the only alternative. Frankenstein shrugged to signify ‘why not?’
Normally, Frankenstein needed written permission to visit the Heath, but the same sovereigns that got Foxglove in now let Julius out. They also hired him a cloak of invisibility and mini holiday from the Hecatomb. Outside, a carriage awaited with a passenger inside.
As greying twenty-something women went, Foxglove’s mistress was worth seeing: some might even say she was attractive. Necrophiliacs especially. That face, though pointy-nosed, might once have been thought piquant and pretty. However, Julius Frankenstein had met enough dead people for one day (and lifetime).