Dr. Frankenstein's Daughters (12 page)

FROM THE JOURNAL OF
INGRID VDW FRANKENSTEIN

July 3, 1815

A most remarkable yet disturbing day. I am overwhelmed with emotion. Frightened … yet exhilarated beyond my wildest imaginings. Bold plans whirl in my head. Dread fear enfolds me.

First let me tell you that I have come across a tunnel behind the root cellar. Poor brave Giselle is so troubled by the dark that I had to leave her behind before entering.

I told myself she would be all right there with the lantern. And so I made my way into the tunnel, feeling along the cold stone walls. Slowly my eyes must have dilated to their full potential
because I began to discern where the wall and floor met. It’s strange to think how much light exists even in the densest blackness. I am thankful for this small measure of vision, otherwise I would surely have plummeted down the wide stairway that opened before me.

It was with a pounding heart that I proceeded onto the spiral steps. I hugged the wall, terrified that I might fall over the outer edge of the steps or slip down them. I seemed to descend for a very long time. After a while, I became disoriented, starting to fear that this was some sort of bottomless stairwell that would never end.

I thought of turning back, but this worsened my condition. Above me I could see nothing, nor anything below. I seemed to hang in a lightless void. All sense of dimension was lost.

For a long while I existed within the most profound stillness I have ever experienced. For the first time ever I realized how accustomed one becomes to the ambient noises all about — the sounds of birds and insects, of the passing air and the rustle of leaves, of all sorts of background hum. But now I was overcome with a terrifying silence. Was I deep underwater? I had to be.

Continuing on in the dark and quiet, I became unnerved. I was thankful to have my hand on the cold, wet wall. It was my only anchor to the tangible world.

After a while I became aware of a pounding, a roaring. Was it machinery? No. I had heard it before, but couldn’t place what was causing the sound.

Then it came to me. It was the surf crashing all around.

Oddly, this steady noise helped me to reorient, and mitigated the sensation of floating in nothingness. I was at the bottom of the incline now, and in a new, long tunnel. I inched along as a soft glimmer of light from below began to peel back the darkness. Its glow increased steadily until I could see what was at the end of the tunnel.

At first I could scarcely believe what my eyes were reporting. So unbelievable was the sight before me that I began to suspect I was asleep, dreaming.

The cavernous room at the bottom of the stairs was equipped with scientific materials of every description. Two surgical beds with leather constraints dangling from the sides sat side by side. A long table was jammed with glass beakers, curling tubes, burners, plates, cups, mortar and pestle sets, and other items I couldn’t even name. Four large drums were coiled in copper wire that reached all the way up to the towering ceiling, from which the light was fighting its way in.

A gasp of realization shook me.

I knew what I had come upon.

This was my father’s laboratory!

Hurrying into the center of it, I examined everything I could find in the dim light. There were surgical scalpels of every description, razor sharp and gleaming. Gauze wrapping and stitching string were in good supply. Labeled jars sat on shelves and in them were specimens of human body organs. Everything was there from a jarred pituitary gland to a full toenail floating in some preserving fluid.

As I surveyed this morbid and sometimes grisly collection with fascination, I came upon a bottom shelf holding three thick, wide albums, much like a portfolio of work an artist might keep. Each was tied closed with string and heavily dust covered. Clearing them caused me to cough and sneeze.

Avidly, I opened the first to an anatomical sketch of sorts. The man it portrayed was pulled apart as though some powerful magnet had yanked his limbs away from one another. Under the drawing, words were scrawled in a handwriting that had become familiar to me over the course of the last weeks. My father’s hand.

A body may be assembled as easily as it is disassembled. But what is the animating force?

Alchemy?

Voltage?

Divinity?

Had Victor Frankenstein’s great experiment — the one that drove him mad — been the creation of a living human being? What audacity! What vision!

In sketch after sketch, notation upon notation, he detailed how he’d done it. With the help of men like the unsavory Gallagher, he’d assembled all the human parts he needed and had sewn them together like a tailor assembling an elaborate garment of several layers.

He wrote of how it laid there, a lifeless corpse, as experiment after experiment failed to animate it. He soaked his creature in electrolytic metal-infused baths, hoping in vain that it would stir. He wrapped metal wire around its arms and legs and fed current through it until its nails blackened and its hair fried. He was increasingly anguished by it all.

Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever and I became nervous to a most painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow-creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime.

My father was conflicted about his creation. He described him as having yellow skin, lustrous black and flowing hair, and teeth of a pearly whiteness. He tells that the creature had
watery eyes, that seemed almost the same color as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and black lips
.

But he carried on relentlessly with his efforts to bring the creature to life.

And then at last he struck upon the idea of elevating his creation in the middle of a lightning storm.

All the elements came together that night.

The creature trembled to life.

With a deep intake of breath, I absorbed the impact of what I had just read. My father had brought to life a man of his own creation. Astonishing!

I was confused, though. All his notes indicated that this had taken place at a laboratory in Ingolstadt. What, then, was
this
laboratory?

Gazing upward, I saw the light filtering through a sort of hatch-way. The wires from the copper-wrapped drums also extended up through the sides of the hatch. Where did they lead? Were they conductors of electricity?

It was suddenly clear to me. This was an attempt to re-create the laboratory at Ingolstadt. I remembered the tales the Orkneyans told of lights flashing and strange sounds emanating from the castle. Victor Frankenstein had come here six years after his original experiment to …

Do what?

Make more people?

A race of new people?

A very high ladder led to the ceiling, and so I began to climb it. At the top, I was able to knock back the hatch with one hand while
clinging to the ladder with the other. Sunlight attacked my eyes so fiercely that I turned away as my ears filled with the crash of surf. I made my way onto a simple platform that jutted from the wall. From there I could climb upward.

I emerged into a small one-room cottage. The windows were without glass. Rocks, seaweed, and even small animal skeletons littered the splintered planks of the rough wood on the floor. The thatch of the roof was nearly gone. Pieces of it were strewn on the floor. The copper wires from below extended to the opened roof of this hut, ending in two coils wrapped around an exposed supporting roof beam.

The moment I stepped outside and surveyed my surroundings, I knew exactly where I was. This was the hut on the small stone island out in the sea, the one with the abandoned hovel. Who would ever have imagined that the shed was really the roof of an elaborate and sophisticated underground laboratory?

Tumultuous waves crashed onto the rocks, spraying the bottom of my billowing dress. I yanked loose the ribbons that held my braid to let the wind rip the weave apart until my curls were tangling on the currents of air. Exhilarated as never before in my life, I was transformed. Seventeen years have passed since my father attempted his first experiments. Tremendous strides have been made in science. With his notes and drawings to guide me, I can take his work further than he ever dreamed.

Soon, though, my elation gave way to guilty shame. I had left Giselle awaiting me in the dark tunnel!

And then I spied her, standing up on the edge of the cliff. Her clothing was torn.

I waved to her but she didn’t seem to notice me.

“Giselle!” I shouted, waving broadly. The wind carried my voice out to sea.

A warped and rickety rowboat had been pulled ashore by the back of the wrecked hut, its paddles stowed. What luck! It would bring me home without having to find my way back through the frightening tunnel.

It took all my strength to shove the rowboat from the rocks. It bobbed against the sea, threatening to float off with each crash of a passing current. Unable to swim, I hesitated. What if I was thrown back into the swirling sea? It would be the certain end of me. Which was worse, my terror of the ocean or the endless silent tunnel?

Glancing up, I watched the torn strips of Giselle’s ripped clothing flapping in the wind. Her disheveled hair whirled around her head.

Taking the rowboat would bring me to her much more quickly than groping blindly through the tunnel.

Steeling my nerves, I threw myself into the rocking boat. I fumbled with the splintered oars and rowed over the chopping
waves. Water crashed over the sides, soaking me again and again. It burned my eyes and left the taste of salt on my tongue.

When finally — with immeasurable relief — I made it within a yard of the shore, I slid out onto the craggy bottom and dragged the boat in. Sitting a moment, I wrung out my sodden skirt.

I sat only a moment, knowing I must reach Giselle. I rose but could see no way up the steep cliff.

The clatter of hooves made me turn. Walter was riding toward me.

“Are you all right?” he asked, coming to a halt alongside me.

“Yes! Quite all right!” I said. “But can you tell me how to get up the cliff? I must get to my sister, who is above us and in some distress.”

He extended a hand, which I clasped with both of my own. In an instant he’d drawn me up and I sat in front of him in his saddle. Before I could say a word, we were riding through the surf and up a winding path that led back toward the castle. When we reached Giselle, he stayed mounted while guiding me down to the ground.

Giselle ran to me, throwing herself into my arms, sobbing. “You’re safe! Thank heavens!”

“What happened, Giselle?” I cried.

“There’s something in that tunnel! It attacked me!”

“Did you see it?”

“No!”

“Was it human or animal?”

“I don’t know. Human, I think.”

“How did you escape?”

“I fought! I fought for my life! It was horrible, Ingrid! I was so scared. But I fought and I got away.”

She laid her head on my shoulder and sobbed, her body trembling. Glancing at Walter, I tried to ascertain his reaction to all this.

He didn’t even notice me. He was transfixed by Giselle, staring at her as though she were the loveliest woman he had ever seen.

FROM THE DIARY OF
BARONESS GISELLE FRANKENSTEIN

July 4, 1815

Ingrid has told me that the tunnel she traveled down comes up at the hovel out on Sweyn Holm, the tiny, rugged island off the shore beneath our castle. I believe her but have no desire to see it for myself, as the idea of the dark and narrowness of a tunnel fills me with terror. She has sworn me to secrecy. She claims she will keep all the inner doors locked so that no one may enter the castle from the island. It will be her own refuge.

But where is my refuge?

I don’t want to think about what happened, or write about what
happened. I must put it out of my mind, if I am to go on. It was so terrifying that I can’t bear to remember it.

“You should not be in that tunnel,” I warned her this evening. “Something is there.”

“You must not say anything — if you do, everyone will know about the passage. If we must talk to police, say you were attacked in the pantry or the root cellar,” she begged.

I don’t want scandal surrounding the castle. Nothing must soil this event that I’m working so assiduously to make the social event that all of Europe will be talking about. It will be our introduction to high society and the exciting world of the most fashionable and interesting friends.

I will not jeopardize that.

July 6, 1815

A young man came to the door of the castle this afternoon claiming to be from the Edinburgh constabulary. Baron Frankenstein invited him in and asked Mrs. Flett to serve us some tea in the far room facing the ocean. I found him rather good-looking, of medium build with sandy blond hair.

“I have come to inquire if you know of the whereabouts of one Johann Gottlieb. He seems to have quite disappeared. His father
is searching for him and gave us your name as one who might know,” he said.

At the sound of Johann’s name I grabbed my wrist with the opposite hand to suppress the hard shudder that ran through my body. Johann had disappeared? How could that be?

“You are American?” Ingrid noted, no doubt judging from his speech.

“My mother is a Scot, my father American,” he replied. “Do you know Johann Gottlieb?”

“Johann returned home with his father, didn’t he, Giselle?” Ingrid said, turning to me.

“I presumed that was his plan,” I confirmed, “although it’s only an assumption, not anything he actually told me.”

“Did he speak of going anywhere else?” Investigator Cairo asked.

“He spoke of wanting to travel all over Europe,” I revealed, and then laughed bitterly at the memory. “He was hoping to use my money to fund his travels and so asked me to marry him. I declined.”

This caused the investigator to raise a quizzical eyebrow. I told him of my suspicion that Johann was a fortune hunter.

“I see,” he said, writing something on a notebook he took from his coat pocket. “Did you two quarrel about this?”

I admitted that we had, though I didn’t tell him how Johann had attacked me, since Ingrid and I had agreed not to let Baron
Frankenstein know of this. He was giving us a very free rein, and we did not want him to feel he needed to be overprotective, thus limiting our considerable freedom.

“And Mr. Gottlieb has not contacted you since?” Investigator Cairo asked.

“I did not expect to hear from him after that, and so didn’t think it strange when no letter arrived,” I said. “Why? You say he has disappeared?”

“Yes. We were hoping you might have some insight into his whereabouts. In fact, his father was hoping that he had actually come here, with you.”

“I can assure you, he did not,” I said.

“I see that is no doubt true.”

He grew pensive and asked questions regarding our staff and then about our neighbor, Lieutenant Hammersmith.

“Why are you asking about him?” Ingrid inquired.

“No reason in particular. I just wanted to know how well you know him.”

“He’s a distinguished military man, and he is recovering from wounds incurred while fighting Napoleon’s troops as well as a nerve disease,” Ingrid said. “I am sure he is most reputable, and there is no reason to suspect him.”

“I see,” the investigator said, and made a note. He turned to our uncle. “Do you have a gun in the house, Baron Frankenstein?”
My uncle said he did not, and Investigator Cairo advised him to get one. “I’ve talked to the local constables here. It seems there have been some strange things going on in this area of late, so it doesn’t hurt to have protection.”

A curious gleam in the investigator’s eye signaled to me that he knew more things he wasn’t telling us. I imagined he had talked to our local police before seeing us, and had heard all the latest gossip. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of passing the gossip on further, but Ingrid wasn’t as reluctant.

“What sorts of things?” she asked, looking alarmed at what he was telling us.

“Surely locals talk, don’t they?” he replied. Then, staring at me, he said, “Or maybe they don’t talk to you.”

“What have you heard?” Baron Frankenstein asked, also intrigued.

“You must know that a sea captain, a Captain Ramsay, who runs his boat back and forth from Kirkwall to Gairsay was found floating in the bay a couple of weeks ago? It’s possible he got tangled in the lines of his sailboat or the mast came around and took him unawares, but some people believe he was strangled.”

“Strangled!?” Ingrid cried.

Investigator Cairo nodded solemnly as he consulted his notepad. I waited for Ingrid or my uncle to mention that I had been with him just before he died, but neither did. Since I did not like
the investigator’s demeanor, I did not volunteer this information either.

Cairo continued, “Do you know an Arthur Flett? I have been told he is employed here.”

“Many men named Flett work here,” I said. “They are a large family on the island. I don’t know all of their first names.”

“I will ask Mrs. Flett,” Baron Frankenstein offered. He got up and left the room.

“Why are you inquiring about Arthur Flett?” Ingrid asked, sitting forward in her chair.

“His family says he has been missing for almost two days, and he was last seen here.”

Ingrid and I looked at each other, puzzled, as Baron Frankenstein returned. “Arthur Flett is that fellow called Riff,” he announced. “I had him dismissed last Monday,” he added, turning to the detective. “I didn’t care for his presumptuous manner.”

“How did he react to being fired?” Investigator Cairo asked.

“He was not pleased, naturally.”

I said, “He attempted to have us intervene on his behalf, and I agreed, just to be rid of him. But I didn’t say anything to my uncle.” A quick glance of understanding ran between Ingrid and me, reinforcing a tacit agreement not to speak of the key involved, since I had promised not to reveal the tunnel. Perhaps it was not
as discreet as we’d hoped because Investigator Cairo paused to scribble a note in his book.

“I imagine that he’s gone off somewhere to spend the last of his pay, cheering himself up in the taverns over in Kirkwall,” Baron Frankenstein proposed. “His aunt tells me he is quite the ladies’ man. I’d wager he’ll come staggering back onto the island sometime when he’s good and ready.”

Investigator Cairo stood, indicating that he was finished questioning us, and handed a card to Baron Frankenstein. “Thank you for your time. Please be in touch with me at this address over in Kirkwall. It’s where I’ll be staying until we get to the bottom of this. I am helping the local constables with their investigations while I am here.”

“Certainly,” our uncle agreed.

“Ladies, good day.” With a nod to Ingrid and me, Investigator Cairo left, escorted to the door by Baron Frankenstein.

As soon as they were gone from the room, Ingrid gripped my arm. “What do you think of all this?”

I didn’t know what to think, but it was surely frightening and upsetting. “The captain must have gotten tangled in his lines. Awful as he was, I never should have left him there,” I said.

“You couldn’t have known he was tangled,” Ingrid assured me.

Our uncle returned, scowling fretfully, and sat heavily in a chair. “I was going to tell you girls that I would be leaving soon,
now that you are settled, but I think perhaps I should stay for a while longer.”

“Should we have told him I was with Captain Ramsay? It may have been shortly before he died.”

“Why involve yourself with the police?” Baron Frankenstein replied.

I suddenly felt very guilty about not divulging this piece of information, and knew it would bother me if I didn’t say something. I hurried to the door, bolting out to run after the investigator as he made his way down the hill.

“Investigator!” I shouted. He turned, waiting for me to reach him.

I told him how the boat had capsized because I stood up and that I felt badly now that I hadn’t stayed to see if he was all right. “It’s understandable,” he said. “You had no obligation to stay. The water was not deep. Besides, someone might have come along later, while he was struggling with the sailing lines, and strangled him. If indeed there was any strangulation. It was best that you weren’t still there.”

“Do you think some dangerous person has come to the island?” I asked.

“It’s possible,” he allowed. “You should be careful.”

“That isn’t why you’re really here, is it?”

He looked at me curiously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean — you say Johann has disappeared. Do you think he may have come here? As some kind of … revenge?”

“That is not why I’m here. But certainly, if you see him, you should alert me immediately.”

There was something strange about him as he said this. Was there more that he wasn’t telling me? A chill suddenly ran up my back as a frightening idea appeared. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “How do I know that
you
are not the dangerous person who has come to the island? How do I know Johann hasn’t sent you? I only have your word that he’s disappeared.”

He dug in the pocket of his coat and showed me some official papers, but they meant nothing to me. “I am from the police. Are you always so suspicious of people?” he asked.

“One can never tell,” I replied, backing away from him.

“Do as I say and be careful,” he repeated. “For your own safety, don’t wander around by yourself.”

With a nod, I turned and hurried back to the castle.

Baron Frankenstein was waiting outside the front door. “There you are!” he cried when he saw me. “Why did you run off like that?” he asked with an anger obviously born of worry. I told him I had wanted to tell Investigator Cairo what I knew of Captain Ramsay.

“Don’t go off like that anymore,” he scolded, and then sighed deeply. “I don’t like this one bit. I’m afraid it’s all starting again.”

“What is?” I asked.

“All of it: the mysterious deaths, the missing persons, the feeling of being stalked by some malevolent force. I will go to Edinburgh tomorrow to purchase a weapon.”

“No, please don’t leave,” I urged him, suddenly frightened. “Lieutenant Hammersmith was in the military; perhaps he has a gun he could loan you.”

“Mmm,” my uncle murmured, sounding unconvinced. “Perhaps. I wonder if we can trust him, though.”

This idea was alarming, since Ingrid was spending so much time with the man. But it was true; we did not know one other person who could verify that he was who he said he was.

I suddenly looked at Baron Frankenstein and realized that the same was true of him. It occurred to me that he didn’t look at all like the man in the portrait over the fireplace — if that was, indeed, my father, Victor Frankenstein. How could I be sure that was even really a picture of him?

Stop!
I commanded myself.
You’re exhausted and scared, so control your imagination
.

Just the same, I am going to bed tonight feeling frightened and out of sorts. I do not like this turn of events one bit.