Frankenstein in London

by Brian Stableford

  “We did,” Faraday confirmed. “And now, we have performed the same service for you—with even greater success.”

  The Bishop of Salisbury stood up, much more self-controlled now than before. “Might I ask a question, Mr. Faraday?” he asked, his voice only slightly tremulous.

  Faraday had no option but to agree.

  “Where have you been for the last three days, Doctor Frankenstein?” the Churchman asked.

  Frankenstein fixed the Bishop with a basilisk stare. “Do you want to know what Hell is like, Your Eminence?” he asked, evidently gaining swiftly in facility as he made further use of his tongue. “Can you not be patient for a little while longer?”

  That is not Frankenstein speaking! Temple thought. If it is not a demon, then it is someone or something which seems to be masquerading as a demon—but why? His gaze went reflexively to the vampire, who had only just moved away from Frankenstein slightly, perceiving that the Grey Man was no longer in need of support. Singer seemed as puzzled as Temple was himself, presumably for the same reason.

  The Bishop was trying hard to remain unintimidated. “Yes,” he said, bravely. “I would like to have testimony of what Hell is like, from the mouth of one of its denizens, recently emerged.”

  “Why,” said the Grey Men, “this is Hell, nor am I out of it.”

  Temple knew perfectly well, as more than half the audience members must have done, that the Grey Man was quoting Marlowe’s Mephistopheles—a mocking ploy surely calculated to increase the suspicion that this entire scene had been staged, and was all trickery. He wondered, momentarily, whether Frankenstein might possibly have been slain by a stage dagger, and whether the blood he had shed might have been fake.

  Something is wrong here, he thought, but what on Earth is the motivation behind it? This is not Szandor’s doing, for he wants the Commission to make a favorable report, in order that he might insinuate himself into the company of the duly-licensed Necromancers of London.

  He could not help remembering the possibility that Szandor had mentioned to him, that there might be vampires even older than he, who could deceive him as easily as he could deceive the living.

  The scientists seemed uneasy at this turn of events, and Thomas Young took it upon himself to intervene. “How does you present state of being differ, in terms of your sensory perceptions, from the one you knew before?” he asked, having first solicited permission by raising his hand.

  “I am still learning to use my faculties,” the Grey Man said, in a pensive tone, as if to imply that this was a question he permitted himself to take seriously. “It will take time, I think, to learn this new way of being and overcome my own bewilderment. I suspect that there is much to be learned, but I cannot tell, as yet, what it might be.”

  William Snow Harris stood up then, either to continue speaking on behalf of science, or to play a role on behalf of Civitas Solis. He did not bother to ask Faraday’s permission before asking: “How does it feel, Doctor Frankenstein, to have been resurrected from the dead? Are you glad to have been returned to life?”

  “Feel?” the Grey Man repeated. “Am I glad? How do I know? Do you think my feelings are comparable with yours? Can you imagine that I might be able to use the words my predecessor knew to describe an experience that your language has never had occasion to represent? We shall need a new language now, Mr. Harris.”

  “You know my name,” Snow Harris observed, dully.

  “You were formally introduced to my predecessor,” the Grey Man pointed out, “as were Mr. Hastings, Mr. Southborne, Mr. Medstead, Mr. Young, Mr. Barlow and, of course, His Eminence the Bishop. The memories are a trifle dim, at present, but they are intact, I think.” He seemed to be collecting himself, testing his muscles and his mind alike. His eyes had lingered on the Bishop after pronouncing his title, and he suddenly said: “May I ask you a question, Your Eminence?”

  The Bishop still had a grip on his courage. “Yes,” he said.

  “Was Lazarus possessed by a demon when he came forth from the tomb?” the Grey Man demanded.

  “Lazarus came forth in answer to Christ’s call,” the Bishop replied.

  “And how do you know,” Frankenstein countered, “that I did not?”

  The Bishop looked around, as if fearful of finding Christ lurking somewhere in the room.

  Would it be any greater surprise if he were? Temple wondered.

  Whether it was his courage or his ingenuity that failed him, the Bishop made no reply.

  “The Age of Miracles is over,” Hasting stated, flatly.

  “Nonsense,” the Grey Man retorted. “It has hardly begun. Unless you mean that the resurrection of the dead has henceforth been a matter of rare and random chance, without perceptible causation. If that is what you signify by miracle then yes, the Age of Miracles is over, and a new Age has begun, in which resurrection will be a matter of technique and artistry, and life after death will cease to be a mere flickering phantom, putting on flesh and purpose.”

  This is more than Szandor could have hoped for, Temple thought, realizing that the tide was turning, having only feigned an intention to ebb. What weight can the Commission’s verdict have, now that the dead-alive have an advocate of their own as compelling, in his own way, as General Mortdieu.

  No daggers were being thrown this time; even if Victor Frankenstein’s reputation had not gone before the Grey Man, he would have cut a far more imposing figure than the poor bewildered child.

  Put him in a suit and top hat instead of a shroud, Temple thought, and he might address the House of Commons, or the House of Lords, on his own account, challenging them both to assess him as a demon or a miracle of virtue…or a man of science still.

  “And what do you intend to do with your new life, Doctor Frankenstein?” Temple was momentarily surprised to find that he had asked the question aloud.

  The Grey Man turned to face him. “Gregory Temple,” he said, as if struggling to recall the name. “The guardian of the Commission…and public safety. You have met my…the person who calls himself Lazarus. You have heard his account of his intentions. Mine are, I fear, just as vague. How can I know what intentions I might ultimately have until I know what possibilities might lie before me? For the moment, what can I do but ally myself firmly with Mr. Faraday, Mr. Crosse and Mr. Singer, in order to investigate myself, and the possibility of saving others from oblivion, as I have been saved?”

  Temple had no alternative in mind, but others apparently did, for the door through which the grey girl had fled three days before was suddenly thrust open, and three men costumed as monks came in. They were carrying swords. Only one of the three pushed back his cowl, permitting Gregory Temple to recognize him as the man who called himself Giuseppe Balsamo.

  “Have no fear, my friends,” Balsamo said, addressing the audience. “The house is more secure by far now than it was when it only had Temple’s four men and your own servants to guard it against the Prussians. I can give the Necromancers of London safer conduct by far than His Majesty’s secret police, and with better motives. I must politely request the rest of you to pack your bags and leave within the hour. You are, I fear, in danger from more than one source, and I cannot guarantee the safety of such a large and ill-assorted company.”

  Temple’s men were looking at him for a lead. He signaled to them to stand and wait, taking no overt action for the time being. He was obliged to step forward himself, however, and confront the upstart monk. “You are on English soil, Signor Balsamo,” he said, “and I am the recognized authority here. I must ask you to withdraw, and take your men with you.”

  “This is no mere national concern, as you know very well, Mr. Temple,” Balsamo replied. “I belong to no nation, but to the Brotherhood of Humankind.”

  “You belong to a company of brigands and child-stealers,” Temple retorted. “Whatever delusions you have carried forward from the past, you are no better now than Tom Brown’s company of criminals or the Illuminati’s vehm. There is no legitimate autho
rity here but the Crown’s.” So saying, he drew his cudgel—and his four men drew theirs. He was not foolish enough to think he had the numerical advantage, though, and was not surprised to see at last a dozen members of the audience, masters and servants alike, lay bare an assortment of blades, Not all, he knew, would be affiliates of Civitas Solis—but Balsamo would not have made a move had he not thought the situation controllable in the short term.

  The wild cards were, however, the four men standing on the stage. Balsamo must have thought that he had a good chance of commanding their obedience—but he might not have been aware of George Singer’s imposture, and he certainly had no idea whatsoever of what the Grey Man might do. That was the heart of his gamble.

  What the Grey Man actually did was to turn around, pick up a heavy Leyden Jar, and hurl it, with amazing force, directly at Giuseppe Balsamo’s head.

  Balsamo ducked, but the damage had been done, in symbolic terms. Southborne’s valet was not the only man who immediately leapt forward to tackle the invading monks, and Temple’s men did not wait for a signal this time. Within half a second, the riot was in full swing.

  Chapter Seven

  Order out of Chaos

  Temple’s duty was explicit in the orders he had received from his political masters: to protect the members of the Parliamentary Commission from any harm. That was the purpose of the first orders he howled to his men, instructing them to gather the seven members of the Commission together and to deploy a phalanx around them, to the extent that it was possible for five men to do that.

  In practice, of course, it was by no means so simple. For one thing, the members of the Commission were concerned for their companions and servants, and wanted to keep them close, swelling the ranks of those potentially in need of protection considerably. For another, some of the members, and their servants too, were avid to defend themselves, and had weapons with which to do it. Temple had no hesitation in allowing the three members of parliament to join his protective cordon, although he immediately set out to assert his authority over them, in order to keep them in formation. He had only a second’s hesitation about allowing Southborne’s valet to do likewise; for the moment, it did not matter in the least that the man was in the play of John Devil. Snow Harris’s servant, on the other hand, Temple immediately disarmed, and found the time to whisper in the scientist’s ear that if he manifested the slightest gesture of support for the warrior monks, he would be knocked out and carried to safety as luggage, to be charged with treason at a later date.

  In fact, Snow Harris seemed to be as astonished by the turn of events as anyone else, and glad enough to cleave to his immediate fellows rather than his rumored associates. Without any sign of internal dissent, therefore, the company was formed up, and Temple then directed his attention to getting it safely to the main door of the room and through it. His intention was to make for the stables, if that were practicable, or to find a redoubt that could be suitably barricaded if escape from the grounds proved impossible.

  The first part of the operation proved easy enough, there being no organized resistance to it. There were a number of minor brawls taking place between the tumbled chairs and the door, but it proved easy enough for Temple and his fellow point-man to clear all obstructions from the way, without engaging in any earnest combat. Temple was not in the least surprised by that, for he did not suppose for a moment that Civitas Solis cared a fig for the members of the Commission; their target was, and had always been, the Necromancers of London—and, most particularly of all, the resurrected Victor Frankenstein.

  In different circumstances, Temple might well have taken a stand with Crosse and Faraday, to make certain of their escape, but he could not do that. Indeed, he was barely able to spare a couple of backward glances, as he shepherded his flock toward the door, to see what had become of Frankenstein and his companions. He was unsurprised to see, even at a glance, that it was George Singer who had taken charge of that party, nor that, once Singer had a blade in his hand, it would be direly difficult for anyone to get past him. Neither Crosse nor Faraday was armed, but the Grey Man had shown that he was capable of fighting, and several of Crosse’s household servants had immediately rallied to their master’s support, making the whole company a fighting-force to be reckoned with, especially on what was effectively home ground. As Temple ushered his own people out into the corridor, therefore, he was able to observe that Crosse’s party was making a similarly disciplined retreat through the door behind the stage.

  Balsamo had obviously not been bluffing when he claimed that the house was surrounded; there were more monks’ habits to be seen in the corridors and even more outside the house—but none of their wearers attempted to attack Temple’s company, being content to retreat from them and melt away, intent on discovering and seizing other prey.

  Temple brought his charges to the stable complex without anyone sustaining or dealing out any harm more dangerous than a bruise. He supervised the harnessing of the two largest carriages in the garage, and the saddling of a dozen extra horses, rudely pushing back other guests intent on making their own escape, demanding that they wait their turn. One of two protested that he was stealing their horses, to which he replied that he was requisitioning them in the name of the crown, and that they would be able to recover them from the constabulary in Taunton, that being his immediate objective as a place of refuge. When the carriages were loaded, however, and the majority of the horses mounted, he delegated authority for the convoy’s safe conduct to his second-in-command, intent on returning to the house.

  “That might be unwise, sir,” Tom Brown’s man said, leaning down from the horse on to which he had climbed. “I should be able to find help closer at hand than Taunton, and you might do better to return with half a dozen experienced brawlers at your back.”

  “Too late, in all probability,” Temple told him. “Go—and if you return with half a dozen would-be brawlers at your back, don’t expect to find me in sympathy with you.”

  He watched the convoy until it was safely through the gate, and then turned back, heading for Crosse’s laboratory. At first, the only people he met in the corridors of the house were other escapees intent on following the Commissioners with all possible haste, but he eventually found his way barred by two sword-bearing monks, who had been delegated to form a kind of rearguard while their fellows attempted to storm the laboratory. He knew that he was close to Crosse’s lair, but could not see the laboratory door as yet. The sound of raised voices informed him that the battle was not yet finished, however, and an overheard reference to a battering-ram suggested that Frankenstein’s followers had barricaded the door, ready to withstand a siege.

  Time was pressing, Temple knew. Help would arrive eventually, from Tom Brown’s men if not the constables from Taunton—and the agents of the vehm would also oppose their rivals fiercely, if they had not been taken out of the equation in advance. Some kinds of assistance, Temple knew, might create more problems than they solved, in the longer term, but the immediate objective was clear enough: to prevent Civitas Solis from kidnapping Victor Frankenstein and the Necromancers of London.

  It was with that thought in mind that Temple squared himself for a flight, holding out his truncheon in a threatening manner. “I am an officer of the Crown,” he informed the two men blocking his way, dutifully. “To cross swords with me is to advertise your eligibility for the gallows.”

  “You’d have to catch us first,” replied one of the monks, unmistakably an Englishman.

  “He’s just an old man,” the second monk observed, as if to bolster his companion’s confidence, before addressing Temple directly, saying: “Back away, old man—there’s no disgrace in a retreat from superior forces.” He too was speaking English like a native.

  “Don’t kill him,” said a voice that came from behind Temple, which certainly did not belong to an Englishman. “This one we should take alive.”

  Temple suspected that the sentiment behind the instruction was not respect
for English law, and was not entirely glad to hear this order—but he was quick to seize whatever slight advantage it might offer him. Satisfied that the two men ahead of him would at least hesitate before trying to run him through, he attacked them without warning, swinging his cudgel in a manner that was by no means as reckless or random as it must have seemed.

  The detective was conscious as he moved of the fact that he was an old man, but he remembered the fight that Jean-Pierre Sévérin had undertaken on his behalf in the grounds of a Paris hotel, and knew that old reflexes can sometimes make up in skill what they lack in promptness. He cracked one of his adversaries on the side of the knee, sending him sprawling on the floor, and smashed the other on the right elbow, disabling his sword-arm. With his free hand he shoved the second man back against the wall, and was past him in a trice, long before the man behind him could take any constructive action. There! he thought. I’m not ready for my dotage as yet!

  He did not even bother to look back to see what the third man was doing; he simply ran on, determined to attack the besiegers of the laboratory from behind even if he were being pursued. He would have undoubtedly have carried out this rough-hewn plan, had he not had occasion to pass an open door, through which a weighted rope was suddenly thrown to tangle his legs.

  On another occasion, he might have evaded the inexpert cast, but he was traveling at full tilt for fear of his presumed pursuer, and the slightest loss of balance was always likely to be fatal. He stumbled to his knees, and although he braced himself with his arms, ready to spring up again, he was not given the chance.

  Suddenly, there seemed to be monkish habits all around him, and hard blows descending on his back and shoulders. He sustained at least four impacts to the body before his skull was struck, causing him a great deal of pain. When the head was struck, however, he did not lose consciousness, being merely dazed and agonized. Once again, he was acutely aware of his age, and the diminution of is forces attendant upon it, but he also felt a near-supernatural stubbornness, an iron determination not to give way to the multitudinous pains clawing at his body and mind.