The Frankenstein Murders (27 page)

My thoughts must be entirely focused on Archangel and the north. Robert Walton must be spoken with, and although St. Petersburg, where Ernest Frankenstein is now stationed, is on the way to Archangel, I will not stop but will wait to interview Ernest Frankenstein after I have spoken with Captain Walton. I have not yet heard from Captain Ernest Frankenstein, so all the more reason to push on from St. Petersburg to Archangel. It is most imperative that I do not miss speaking with Captain Walton. Truthfully, I did not expect to remain so long in Ingolstadt, but my visit to Dr. Bosch's lunatic asylum and other activities in Ingolstadt have caused me some delay. I have more questions for Dr. Bosch and would like to try to speak with Dippel again, but fear I have not the time. I will write the doctor a letter and address my questions to him there and hope this will suffice.

Named for the Monastery of the Archangel Michael, the city of Archangel is a northern port on the White Sea. It is also an inlet of the Arctic Ocean that is icebound much of the year. This is by far the greatest distance from home I have ever been, and certainly is much farther than I had ever expected to be. It will remain to be seen if my efforts are for nothing.

The coach rattled into town and a gaggle of street urchin, inadequately dressed for the cold, ran in pursuit as we trundled along to the inn. The only lodging we could secure was by far the most wretched accommodation yet experienced, and my only recourse was to ignore the unclean linen and mice scampering below the worn floorboards. Far north of London, the cold northern breeze causes a chill that wreaks havoc with my nerves and fills me with dread and weariness. I felt an almost overwhelming restlessness, and yet was loathe to walk the frigid streets of Archangel.

Dispirited by the ill wind, my thoughts and aspirations turned dull and lifeless. I was not blessed with Robert Walton's illusion that the north will bring the promise I so desire. To even hope for some semblance of what truly befell Henry Clerval and the others had become too much to expect. The futility of my effort threatened to overwhelm me at every moment and all that moved me forward was the will to see things through in the manner in which I had prescribed
so many weeks ago in my letter to Mr. Clerval. This was truly the lowest point of my career, and my greatest regret was in not having paid greater mind to my initial and very great misgivings regarding this case.

With great trepidation, I embarked on the final part of my journey. In the north, Victor Frankenstein found his answer. Would I now find mine? I have spoken to many and seen and learned much. The north was not only the end of Victor Frankenstein's journey, but also the end of the monster, yet he died without knowing the fate of his creation. I intended to rectify this and find the exact fate of the creature. My primary concern while in Archangel would be to interview Captain Robert Walton, the last person to have seen and spoken with Victor Frankenstein, and most importantly one of the few to have actually seen and spoken with the monster.

Robert Walton's description of the monster appeared to match almost identically that of Victor Frankenstein. Walton also uses unflattering terms for the creature, indeed, he called it wretch, and also described the long locks of ragged hair, the skin in colour and texture like a mummy — a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness.

Walton was unquestionably influenced by Victor Frankenstein, a man Walton described as generous and self-devoted. In many ways, the portrait of Victor presents a figure of almost perfect opposition to the monster. Interestingly, according to Walton, the monster wished to beg forgiveness from its creator, even though, as creator, Victor Frankenstein had done so little good for his creation. Victor had left the monster abandoned, rejected, unloved, and friendless. To wish to beg for forgiveness from one who has been so unfeeling seems an act of great generosity. And do the monster and Victor Frankenstein not share the guilt of the monster's action? At the very least, for each murder Victor would be guilty of inaction, secrecy, and subterfuge, which only led to further death.

Meeting with Captain Walton has yet again proven to be difficult. Although I attempted to visit with him almost immediately upon my
arrival in Archangel, I was informed that he was not in, and also not expected to be in for two days' time. Mutt will locate the first mate and any of the sailors from the Captain's first voyage. A letter shall be sent to Captain Ernest Frankenstein to confirm my arrival in a few days hence in St. Petersburg. It has occurred to me that much of my success in this investigation may depend on these two captains and the information they impart.

In Archangel, Mutt accompanied me at all times, and though more than accustomed to his presence, I could not help but notice that he appeared more cautious and wary than could be considered usual, even for him. The waterfront and dark underworld of a city has always been something akin to a natural habitat for him, and yet in Archangel not once did Mutt appear comfortable in the least. At the inn, Mutt had even taken a room not much larger than an airing cupboard for the sole reason that it was directly across from my own. Judging from the hang of his coat, I also suspected that he was well and constantly armed, yet I said nothing as we were to move amongst sailors who could indeed be a rough crowd.

The Three Wayfarers was a tavern of a dropsical appearance. The building in which it was housed had long previous settled down into a state of decrepit infirmity. In truth, the building was little more than a tall, narrow, lopsided wooden jumble of mismatched pieces heaped unceremoniously upon one another. A perilous wooden veranda impended over the water, and indeed the whole structure threatened to follow its imminent descent into the cold, dark, uninviting waters. The main entrance to the building was found at the back, a part so narrow it rendered the entire configuration of the building to a wedge and required that we first
climb a set of narrow, treacherous steps worn slippery smooth and greasy with the damp and cold. The main door had either to be hauled on strongly in order to enter, or pushed forcibly to close it fully. Nowhere was there a straight passage of floor, nor even a straight line of construction, yet nevertheless the rapidly decaying establishment had somehow outlasted buildings that had once stood on either side, where there remained only empty lots filled with refuse.

Men so drunk that they did not notice or care stood shoulder to shoulder in draughty passages with other equally drunk customers. The air was filled with the babble of tongues characteristic of such public houses, as well as the mingled stench of stale ales and spirits, greasy unwashed humanity, and tobacco. A motley assortment of casks and bottles contained the various ales and spirits the patrons demanded constantly. The tavern was filled with whale fishers and other seamen, most of whom had been made almost incoherent by the vile liquid they drank as eagerly as one lost in a desert would water. Mutt led me to a snug table in the corner, where sat a seaman with a squinting leer who held the rapt attention of the other men seated with him as he spoke in a voice made harsh from excessive drink and smoke.

“The ship roams the seas, haunted by a demon, a nameless, shapeless abomination that no words could describe, brought on board in a wooden crate and stowed with the rest of the cargo. For generations, the ship and its demon terrorized the seas, a hideous terror that seized its innocent victims after the fall of darkness, usually to carry them off, no doubt to gnaw at their dismembered bodies. Any ship that had the bad luck to meet the demon ship was wrecked and all the lives aboard her lost.”

Listening to his words, not only was I glad that I had not been made to suffer through the entire telling of the tale, but also I was made aware of the often superstitious nature found particularly among seamen, who are known to return from their voyages with
wondrous tales of beautiful mermaids who entice unwary men to their doom, or of leviathan sea monsters who crush ships, or of ghost ships which roam the seas crewed by dead men. I placed the squinting leer's tale among those improbable, yet astonishingly numerous tales that somehow live on, even though the demon or monster involved is often guilty of having left no survivors. This would mean that either the demons themselves have spread the story of their wrath, or that the stories were entirely of human making. The fear engendered by these tales had less to do with mysterious demons, but rather the ever-constant fear of the unknown. Most every human fears the dark. What can be seen can be dealt with in one way or another, but the dark frightens. In my experience, this irrational fear of ghosts, monsters, demons, and the like has often proven to be evidence of nothing more than a discomfort caused by lack of light.

Nevertheless, to avoid incurring the telling of yet more stories, I deemed it best not to mention Victor Frankenstein's monster to the group of sailors assembled. What I needed from them was simply information of the whereabouts of anyone who had sailed with Captain Robert Walton. Once that had been accomplished, my greatest wish would be to escape the stinking tavern before having to listen to yet another tale told by the ancient mariner. I moved marginally closer to the table and greeted the group assembled.

“I've come to speak with Hek the cook, who once sailed with Captain Robert Walton,” I told them by way of answer to their questioning gaze.

“And what might you want with Hek?” the man with the squinting leer demanded of me.

“I have a few questions to ask him about his voyage,” I told them, not wanting to give away more than was absolutely necessary.

“You will find him, such as he is, in the house across from here,” the squinting leer told me. Then, turning back to the group
assembled about him, he said “That Captain Walton's back men, and I heard he carries with him prize money, the bounty from a captured ship.”

“I heard he killed an albatross!” piped up the shortest of the sailors assembled, but the group ignored him.

“Captain Walton, I know of him! He is set to sail again soon, if I am not mistaken,” another countered. “And it is said that he pays handsomely!”

“Aye, my wife's brother has signed with him, but you will not catch me on board another such a voyage! The man's bad luck, if you ask me,” his companion said loudly.

“They seek a northern paradise, where no man has ever walked and where they will find the power that attracts the compass needle,” the little one said earnestly. “They will come back the richest men in the world!”

“They will come back dead, if they return at all,” scoffed the man with the leer.

Rather than wait to hear further useless fabrications, conjectures, and myths from the group of men, I wished them a good day, and with a curt nod to Mutt, made my way out of the overcrowded tavern.

Mutt followed me closely as we left the Three Wayfarers and crossed the street to the house where I had been told I would find Hek, Captain Walton's one-time ship's cook. The house was old and had at one time been kept in good repair, but had in recent years become too neglected for it to be possible to imagine it as ever having been a cheerful place. Much like the tavern, the pieces of the house mismatched, built from the scavenged pieces of other buildings. Certainly, the kitchen at the back was the cabin from some sort of large boat. The front door was ajar, and so we let ourselves in, after calling and knocking for many minutes with no response. Inside, we could see a wooden chimney piece that threatened to crumble if not seen to properly, the beams and partitions were all too quickly becoming insect-ridden, and the floor had become gnarled and fraught with cracks so that with every step they moaned as if in mortal pain.

Hek was as motley and decrepit as the building in which he made his home. He lay unmoving on the filthiest bed I had ever witnessed. There was a stench of stale spirits, and empty bottles lay strewn everywhere. At first, I feared he was dead, but then he snorted and shifted in his fevered sleep. What lay before us was a man prematurely aged. His whole body shook beneath the tattered rags that had once been blankets, but there was more wrong with
the old man than just the cold. Hek the cook was in a stupor from which we could not fully wake him.

“Drink, I need a drink,” he rasped, half rising from the bed.

Mutt fetched him a ladle filled with water, but the man spat it out after only one sip. He fell back in a supine position, once again motionless.

“A proper drink, not that weak stuff!” he admonished, yet so weakly that I feared it was the last breath in him, so frail and insubstantial was his appearance. With a nod from me, Mutt left to return to the tavern to fetch the unhappy cook a bottle. Mutt returned speedily and waved the uncorked vessel beneath the cook's nose. Almost instantly, the other man rose enough to both take the bottle from Mutt, and also to drink noisily from it. Nearly the whole bottle was empty before the man began to speak. I had begun to fear that he would drink himself into another sort of stupor before we would get a word from him.

“What do you want of me,” he said, eyeing us suspiciously and cradling the bottle close as if he feared we would take it from him.

I decided there was little time or need to prevaricate, and so I would be direct with my reason for being there, and asked him about his time aboard ship with Captain Robert Walton, particularly about the passenger they took on board while caught in the ice in the waters of the north.

“Walton! Walton! He is not here, is he? Tell him to go away and leave me alone. I'll not sail again with him, that's for certain!” The man floundered about on the bed until he found what it was he had been looking for.