There was more. There was also something wrong with the kidnapped image. It wasn’t in the viewing of it but some other aspect: a dog that didn’t bark…
Frankenstein shut his outer eyes and in his mind’s equivalent reached for the wrongness. That mind was sullen and uncooperative now, but as a bare minimum stayed still for its owner to frisk it.
Soon he understood. The picture was almost a silent one! Aside from the Guardsman’s gasp and his own ‘sorry’ there was no other soundtrack. But there should have been…
Lazarans lamented constantly; perhaps without knowing they did it. It was a feature of all but the best of the breed. Early on in people’s acquaintance with the Revived it could drive warm-bloods mad, until they managed to tune it out. Some folk never could manage that trick and vainly tried to whip the habit out of their Lazaran property, or else gave up ownership in despair. A common comparison was to the noise of a barking dog: one that never tired and could mimic mankind. It wore you down…
This lot didn’t do it. They were mute. Their mouths lolled open, as per standard, but nothing emerged save their tongues. Or not even that…
Frankenstein still had the picture vivid before him. He zoomed in and found explanation.
Those tongues were clipped—savagely so. And the throats he saw bore the marks of rough surgery. Someone had felt the need to silence these living lift-mechanisms; had gone to the great trouble of extracting tongues and voice-boxes. Frankenstein even spotted signs of total trachea-blocks: which meant they wouldn’t be able to ‘eat’ and wouldn’t last long.
Which meant… which meant their owners were not only cruel but desired utmost discretion in the duties they assigned to them.
Which in turn meant Frankenstein had stumbled onto something important—no, extra important—in an already supremely important place. What went on in Versailles was always secret to the world outside. Embarrassed by what he was and their need for him, the Convention kept Napoleon’s role as understated as they could. But this, this was a secret within a secret: Versailles’ own private secret that maybe even the Convention didn’t know about. Goodness knows where it might lead!
Inspired partly by the letter he had received—but mostly by his strong streak of madness—Frankenstein resolved to find out where.
Chapter 11: WHAT THE BUTLER SAW
‘I see him! I see him! I think…’
Foxglove went through the motions of believing her. So far during their surveillance of Versailles Lady Lovelace averaged a dozen sightings of Dr Frankenstein per day—and every one a false alarm. It was instructive that her confidence in each announcement never diminished. That in-bred belief that the world would do what she wanted it to explained why Ada was ruling class and Foxglove served her.
But such subversive thoughts were far from the loyal retainer, probably no more than one percent of his conscious faculties. The balance obliged him to oblige her.
‘Really, milady?’
‘Really! I think it is him! He’s in the low adjunct wing with few windows—just where you’d expect a covert laboratory…’
‘May I, milady?’
Though reluctant to lose sight of her quarry lest he vanish like some will o’ the wisp, Ada indicated Foxglove ‘may.’ He gently disengaged the telescope from her eye.
‘Hurry, don’t miss him!’ she said. ‘The third slit window along. He is side on to it, discoursing to some unseen party…’
Foxglove focused and then sighed.
‘Well, up to a point, milady. Although I recall Herr Frankenstein as a younger man, and taller, and slimmer. And if it is him then the sparse white hair is a fresh development. Perhaps some terrible experience at Versailles has transformed the man. And aged him. And shrunk him…’
Used to only hearing ‘yes’ or even ‘yes, three bags full,’ Lady Lovelace knew when she was being humoured to the point of insolence.
‘Give me that!’
She seized back the scope and looked again. The extra information provided by Foxglove enabled her brain to make better sense of the fuzzy shape at the window. It was as he’d said. Unless Frankenstein had been cut off at the ankles, force-fed like a foi-gras goose and then traumatised, she’d mistaken some fat little gnome of a man for him.
‘Well, perhaps not then…,’ Ada conceded. She’d admit that single mistake but not the greater fact that her eyesight had been impaired through excessive reading by candlelight.
‘Just so, madam.’ Foxglove resumed his repose beneath the tree. ‘But I don’t doubt your persistence will triumph in due course. Eventually…’
Suddenly, Ada couldn’t share that optimism or blind faith in her indomitable will. She raised the telescope again but neither heart or eye was in it.
‘He’s in there somewhere…,’ she said, mostly to herself, but Foxglove accepted delivery too.
‘Presumably, milady. So our best enquiries would suggest. If still alive…’
Ada flashed him one of her looks. He’d touched upon a possibility not to be countenanced. Frankenstein must be alive because she wanted it so, and she wanted it so because only he could lead to real serum: royal serum. And only that enhanced stuff, fit for Emperors, could give her back the sentience she desired above everything.
Longing for her old level of living burned like lust inside her. It stirred her up, it fired her dead veins till she felt like her heart pumped at pre-mortem rates again. But that was only a temporary fix: she had to have this all the time, always…
Frankenstein was the key—but a rusty key that refused to turn smoothly for her, even when she’d not mislaid it like now.
A fleeting extra surge of fire within, part fear, part frustration, inspired Ada to action. What profit had there been from all this subtlety; all this lurking in the undergrowth of Palace grounds, all the bribing of low grade Palace flunkies for snippets? False leads, dashed hopes, sore eyes, soiled clothes and empty purses, that’s what. She should never has listened to Foxglove who’d proposed such a policy. Or leastways, he’d not argued strongly enough against it…
Now that she reflected, Lady Lovelace saw clearer than she ever would down a telescope. That ‘key’ must be found, even if it meant turning the world upside down. Then it must be made to turn in the lock, even if it meant applying force. The way must be cleared!
Must: a good and vigorous word. What was she doing? Must had no place hiding in the hedgerows!
Ada snapped the telescope shut. Foxglove, who had the gift of prophecy as far as she was concerned, started to scramble to his feet and prepare a protest.
‘He’s in there somewhere,’ Ada repeated. ‘And therefore so must we be.…’
‘Therefore,’ said a fresh voice, who’d used the telescope’s closing click to mask the cocking of his pistol, ‘perhaps you’ll permit me to escort you in, madame…’
His English was good for a Frenchman, his position of advantage even better. Lady Lovelace found a gun lightly resting against her brow before she could move a muscle. Foxglove ditto, courtesy of the new arrival’s friends who now emerged from the greenery.
It was a tribute to their collective skills that so many could surround so few without the few knowing. How long, Ada wondered, had they been there, listening and watching them watch? Not that it mattered much now…
When all else is lost, poise can still remain: a fig-leaf of self-respect. Careful to move slowly and without the slightest threat, Ada curtsied her thanks for the offer.