The Frankenstein Murders

THE FRANKENSTEIN MURDERS

KATHLYN BRADSHAW

Copyright © 2008 Kathlyn Bradshaw

This edition copyright © 2008 Cormorant Books Inc.

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NATIONAL LIBRARY OF CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Bradshaw, Kathlyn

The Frankenstein Murders / Kathlyn Bradshaw.

ISBN 978-1-897151-16-7

I. Title.

PS8603.R3319F73 2008     C8I3'.6     C2007-906471-X

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THE JOURNAL LAY UNOPENED
on the table between the two men, its black leather cover as dark and uninviting as the grave. The men seemed to avoid casting their gaze anywhere near the unwelcome object. Since they had entered the room, each man had fought the urge to toss the journal and its hateful contents upon the open fire; but, instead, they sat as if immobile, each lost in his thoughts.

They had come together to discuss the journal and its fate. A strong argument for its destruction had been countered by a call to consider the importance of the words recorded in it, as well as in the letters and other documents stored between its pages. This had brought the men to a long and uncomfortable silence.

Slowly closing his eyes as his entire form sank deeply into the padded chair, the older of the two let out a low and mournful breath. Prompted by his companion's obvious signs of distress, the younger man made bold to restate his suggestion that the journal be sent to the author's sister, as she was most deserving of an explanation. It would then be she who would decide the fate of the journal.

You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.

I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who knew him, and who heard it from his own lips — with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day!

Dear Arthur,

Over the years our respective companies have done much business together, and throughout our acquaintance we have sought forms of assistance from each other. This time it is I who turn to you, yet not for matters of business. Rather, my concern is entirely personal. An incident, which to this day causes me pain and remains continually in my thoughts, has only recently been brought again to my attention by another. This, as you may have already guessed, has to do with the death of my eldest child, Henry. Although this most devastating event occurred two years past, I have recently been given new information that has made everything fresh in my mind.

Less than a fortnight ago, I received a packet sent to me by Captain Ernest Frankenstein, the younger brother of Henry's travelling companion and friend from childhood, Victor Frankenstein. The packet contains the writings of an English sea captain, Robert Walton, who rescued Victor Frankenstein in the distant north. During their time together, Robert Walton transcribed the words of Victor Frankenstein, who told his host the story of his life, including the episode in which Victor and Henry, for the sake of Victor's health, travelled to England and Scotland.

The murder of my son, as you well know, occurred during that lengthy stay in England in the company of Victor Frankenstein. After leaving London, they journeyed north to Scotland; Henry to visit with friends, while Victor journeyed farther north on business of his own. While travelling to reunite with Victor, Henry was brutally and inexplicably attacked in Ireland. At that time, both my own shock and the necessity for me to see to the rest of my family, as well as the many and constant demands of my business, did not allow me to consider the murder in its fullest context, nor did it receive my full and proper attention.

What little information I had been given about my son's death was provided in a letter to me from an Irish magistrate, Mr. Kirwin. In his letter, Mr. Kirwin recounted what details of Henry's unfortunate demise had been discovered. Soon after my son's body was found, Victor Frankenstein was arrested, the authorities convinced of his guilt in respect of the crime. Immediately after his incarceration, the young man fell into a swoon and was insensible for some time. Alphonse Frankenstein, his father, rushed to his son's side in Ireland, and he intervened on his son's behalf until it was proven that Victor Frankenstein was not in the vicinity when my son was murdered.

After father and son returned to Geneva from Ireland, very few details were given me by Alphonse and Victor Frankenstein. The latter collapsed in a fit of near hysterics as he spoke with me, until he had to be taken away by his father. The further inquiries I made were politely ignored. Months later, Victor Frankenstein married his father's ward, the lovely Elizabeth Lavenza, who also was murdered. To these two most unfortunate incidences, coincidence you may think, is to be added the murder of Victor Frankenstein's youngest brother, William. The murderer, or murderers, of my beloved son and Elizabeth Frankenstein have yet to be discovered or apprehended. A young woman, Justine Moritz, was charged, found guilty, and duly executed for the murder of young William.
In contradiction to this execution, and in explanation of the other deaths, Victor Frankenstein's tale to Captain Walton puts the blame for all of the murders on a monster — a monster Victor Frankenstein claims to have created from the dead.

What anguish this story has caused me! Not only has it rekindled the pain, sorrow, and loss of a dearly loved son, it has added a strange and inexplicable mystery to the fact of his murder. The very idea that a person Henry considered to be his very good friend — even, perhaps, his best, as they had been companions since childhood — could be the cause of Henry's death appalls me. It chills me to the bone. About Victor Frankenstein there was far too much untimely and unnecessary death for me to be easy in my mind.

Victor Frankenstein's tale does not provide the ring of truth I desire. His words to Robert Walton offer insufficient explanation. I am not still in my mind, and require further proof of this monster that is said to have murdered my son and that, if it did exist, the creature did indeed destroy itself in the frozen north. Now both Alphonse and his eldest son are dead; I can get no more details from them. Ernest Frankenstein, the only remaining member of the Frankenstein family, was little connected with the entire affair, and no longer resides in Geneva.

What answers I seek require more time and endeavour than I currently have to dedicate to this matter. My living family and my business continue to occupy the majority of my attention. Out of this deficit, I turn to you. I desire a full investigation into the circumstances of my son's death. Might someone in your employ or good opinion visit Scotland, Ireland, or the territories necessary to complete a full investigation? Every spot must be visited, every witness spoken to, and in this way the steps of my son and Victor Frankenstein must be retraced in England, Scotland, Geneva, and the north. Yes, if I could I would even command that the great fields of ice and snow be scoured for any trace of the murderer.
Whatever might be necessary to gain a more definite verification of the murderer and his demise I want done. Such a man will be empowered to act as our surrogate when interviewing witnesses so that I may have a complete understanding.

Victor Frankenstein was a young man of great intelligence, but that he used it as wisely as he should have is questionable. On occasion, he could be difficult, and I know it cost his father dearly to keep his son out of the papers, if not the prisons. It is because of this that I also wonder at Victor's associates, particularly once he was in Ingolstadt, away from the protections his father undertook on his behalf.

I will not tell you more, for you will read it all in great detail in the journal that accompanies this missive. In truth, I find the story wondrously strange; it fills me with disbelief. I know not what to make of it. More easily can I believe Captain Walton and Victor Frankenstein were employed in the telling of chilling ghost stories, or perhaps they had both suffered some malady of the brain that had yet to be set to right. It is impossible to understand the story as any instance of truth. At first I struggled to come to terms with the documents enclosed in this packet, and also I wondered what I should do. Thus it has come about that I send the packet to you and resolutely beg your assistance.

The secret of this investigation into Henry's murder I must carry alone, and beg you to share only among those you deem most trustworthy. I dare not involve my family, particularly my dear wife, for whom the wound of Henry's loss remains unhealed. Truly, the unsettling nature of Captain Walton's letters and journal only increase my desire for privacy. Discretion and tact in this matter I desire most, as I have no wish to bring any more unhappy attention upon my own bereaved family, nor what little remains of the Frankenstein family. At the same time, I request haste, for every day that this is delayed, more time is lost. I realize that my expectations are great. I am, however, more than willing to compensate for this.