Cadaver & Queen

by Alisa Kwitney

  “Your Majesty, I am only a student.”

  She beckoned him closer with her swollen and arthritic hand, and he saw that her fingers were so bloated that if she wanted to remove any of her diamond, sapphire and ruby rings, the gold would have to be carefully cut.

  “Come closer,” she said impatiently. “I won’t bite.” Obediently, he took a step forward, and was greeted by a low growl from the vicinity of the monarch’s lap. With a start, Victor realized that she held a small white dog, its lip curled back in a snarl. “Turi, please,” said the queen, giving the Pomeranian an indulgent smile. “We did promise him not to bite. Let us see what this young man has to say before we drive him off.” Her voice had a phlegmy rattle in it. “Now, young man. Speak to me. How long do we have to live?”

  Startled, Victor tried to think of what to say. “Your Majesty, surely it would be wiser to consult with my professors.”

  “So you presume to teach us wisdom.” The shrewd old queen gave a short laugh. The munshi stepped forward, ready to assist, but the queen waved him away. “Your professors think highly of you, young man, and you think highly of yourself as well.”

  “Your M-Majesty, I...”

  “Do not interrupt. We have already spoken with Doctors Moulsdale and Grimbald. They have given us their wise diagnosis, but now we want yours. Wisdom is for politicians, you see, and you are young and clever and arrogant enough to tell us the truth.”

  “Majesty, I will do my best.” He bowed his head, feeling anything but clever in front of this intimidating woman.

  “None of that false modesty. By all reports, you are not a modest person, Mr. Frankenstein. Not that you are vain—you act like a man who does not know how good-looking he is. Your flat stomach tells us that unlike our eldest son, you do not indulge yourself with food and drink, and your stiff manner tells us that you do not rely on charm to get your way. He is a great disappointment to us, you know, with his cavorting and carousing and loose women.”

  Dear Lord, that’s the crown prince she is disparaging. Victor schooled his face into impassivity, knowing that to agree with the queen was to insult the heir to the throne. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew what he was thinking; nevertheless, there was something more than a little witchy about the Widow of Windsor, with her black clothes and all-seeing, cataract-opaque eyes and her little dog sitting like a familiar in her lap.

  “We came to the throne at a dangerous time. All over Europe, the old order is giving way to anarchy. But Prince Albert and I steered England away from those treacherous shoals. We are the world’s great power now, a shining beacon to other nations.”

  She beckoned him closer, and underneath the cloying tea rose perfume she wore, he caught the sour odor of her skin.

  “Prince Albert and I wanted to create a new Camelot here at Windsor, but our son is like Mordred.” Mordred, Victor recalled, had murdered his father, King Arthur. It was common knowledge that Prince Albert had gone off to Cambridge to speak to his eldest son about a romantic indiscretion, and had become ill after walking with Bertie and getting caught in a cold rain. Albert had died three weeks later, plunging Victoria into mourning.

  “When we die, Bertie will become king. But the people have no patience with monarchs who indulge their senses and squander their wealth. They will not respect a king who sins with other men’s wives and pays for his lust with jewels from the country’s coffers. And our enemies will see us growing weak and make their move.” Queen Victoria leaned forward and the wicker wheelchair creaked under her shifting weight. “Do you understand what we are saying, young man? We cannot leave the throne at this time, do you understand? All of England’s fate lies in the balance. Now tell us, and tell us true—how long do we have to live?”

  Victor had not been prepared for this. “Your Majesty, without an examination of your person, I cannot make a diagnosis.”

  “You may take our pulse.” She held out one plump, trembling, beringed hand, the fingers twisted by rheumatism.

  “Your Majesty, I will need to do more than that.”

  She stared at him out of those milky eyes and then nodded. “You have our permission to touch our person.”

  Over her head, Victor found himself meeting the steady brown gaze of the munshi. Whatever I’m about to find out, thought Victor, he already knows. He had no stethoscope, so he hesitated a moment before requesting that the queen loosen the front of her gown. He was sure he would be executed for pressing his ear to the plump royal bosom, but she made no comment as he listened to her heart, then moved around to her back, tapping her to check the lung sounds. Finally, moving back to her front and kneeling, he carefully lifted the hem of the queen’s heavy black skirt and examined her swollen feet and ankles. She made a small sound when he prodded the underside of her left foot, and the little Pomeranian growled, but the queen shushed him.

  “Well? Have you poked at us enough?”

  He straightened and began to awkwardly attempt to refasten the queen’s bodice. “Yes, thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “Leave that alone and tell us how long we have to live!”

  It came to him in a flash; Mousdale and Grimbald must have told her something about the state of her health, and for some reason, she was using him to give her a second opinion. Am I wrong? Did I miss something? “Your Majesty, I am afraid that in a few months, your vision will begin to fail. Additionally, I am sorry to report the detection of preternatural pulsation in the epigastric area.”

  “It does us no good to hear our health reported in some foreign language, you know. Tell us what you must.” She paused, then added, “We can see by your face that it is not good.”

  “Your heart is under some strain, ma’am, and its rhythm is erratic.”

  “How long do we have?”

  “There are medications, like digitalis, extracted from the foxglove. If it proved efficacious, and if you were to receive some gentle exercise, in a bathing pool, you could perhaps expect to rule for years to come.”

  “If, if, and perhaps. What might we expect if the medication were not efficacious?” Those filmy, bulging eyes held his, unblinking.

  “I cannot say. If your condition were to worsen, though...”

  “And does this condition tend to worsen?”

  How did one tell the monarch of most of the Western world that her heart was likely to become her executioner? He remembered Moulsdale’s words as they walked here: Do not forget that in the end, you must make Her Majesty trust us to serve her as loyal and capable servants of the throne.

  “Your Majesty, if left untreated, you will die before the year is out.”

  There was a short, sharp intake of breath—hers, he thought—and suddenly he was flying again, out of the queen’s dark sitting room, down the long hallway with its gold ceiling and bloodred carpet, around a corner and into a small room where a trapdoor flew open. He was plunging down an ancient stone staircase now, the smell of earth and damp rock in his nostrils, darkness rising up to swallow him.

  He woke up in his cot in the back of the laboratory, soaked in sweat and breathing hard. When his heart rate slowed, he turned his head and saw a corpse lying on the gurney beside him, covered by a white sheet. He sat up, gripping the edge of his cot for support. He didn’t really need to pull back the cover to know who it was, because his dreaming mind had already pieced together the clues. He did it anyway, slowly uncovering the queen’s plump and waxen face, her gray hair frizzing at the temples and the telltale bolts at the side of her neck.

  She blinked one eye like a parrot. “Cockcrow victual?”

  Here it was—the secret that had died with him. The secret that had been reborn as their creature.

  There was a sound and before Victor could compose his features to blankness, Makepiece walked in, carrying the helmet of the Galvanic Reanimator.

  “Ah,” he said, “good. You’re awake at last.”<
br />
  26

  The common room was crowded, and the noise level seemed to rise and fall in waves. Besides the background conversation and bursts of laughter, there was a group of medical students gathered around the upright piano in the corner, singing to impress Aggie and Sabina and a couple of other probationary nurses.

  “‘Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde,’” they sang, “‘and the band played on! He’d glide cross the floor with the girl he adored, and the band played aaaahhhhnnn!’” They finished with an attempt at harmony.

  To a casual observer, Aggie looked completely at her ease as she laughed and flirted with the young men, but Lizzie, who knew her better, could see the hint of steel in her gaze and the shadows under her eyes.

  In another corner of the room, a boisterous study group was testing its members on the muscles of the larynx, loudly cheering and jeering right and wrong answers.

  “I should be over there, studying,” said Will.

  “Relax, old man. Too much revision dulls the brain. Look what it’s done to Outhwaite—he’s chatting up a girl who doesn’t appear to be in possession of a chin.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, that might not be a bad thing,” said Lizzie. “Between the two of them, they might have a chance at a child with a normal jawline.” She glanced over at their nemesis again, and noticed that Mothersole was sitting lumpishly on the couch beside Outhwaite, methodically eating his way through a tin of shortbread biscuits. He wasn’t the only one feeling unlucky in love. She had gone to the laboratory after classes to try to speak to Victor, but Makepiece had opened the door a crack and explained that he was asleep.

  “Isn’t it awfully early for that?” she’d asked.

  “Afraid we’ve all been exposed to scarlatina. Best to stay away for a day or two, just to be safe.” He had shut the door in her face before she could ask another question.

  At that point, she’d decided enough was enough. Makepiece hadn’t sounded ill. He had sounded ready to jump out of his skin with anxiety. Something strange was going on, and it no longer just involved Victor. She had gone back to her room and, looking for advice, told Aggie a slightly censored version of the truth, starting with the night over two months ago when she had first discovered Victor.

  Aggie’s initial reaction had not been encouraging.

  “Are you serious? You heard them talk about the queen and needing cadavers and you just thought you’d keep it to yourself?”

  “Not exactly. Byram explained why the idea didn’t make any sense.”

  Aggie planted her hands on her hips. “And why ever not?”

  “Because somebody would notice, and because the queen doesn’t actually have all that much power. It’s the prime minister who really rules the country.”

  “So maybe he’s in on it. Or maybe he’s next. Look, Lizzie, I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, but in my experience, people do perfectly horrible things if they think it’ll get them something they want.”

  At first, Aggie had wanted to investigate on their own, but Lizzie had convinced her to include Byram and Will. If something did go wrong, it would be safer to have a little insurance, and Byram’s father was in the House of Lords.

  “As long as he doesn’t start talking like Sherlock Holmes,” had been Aggie’s grudging concession.

  Byram, of course, had instantly started talking like the master detective, sending Aggie over to sing at the piano—“so you don’t look preoccupied”—and insisting that Will play him in chess.

  “White or black?”

  “White,” said Will, looking miserable. He moved a pawn as if he already knew the game was lost.

  Aggie said something to the medical students at the piano and walked across the room to where Lizzie sat. “All right,” she said. “I’ve done my little performance for Shiercliffe.” She nodded at the tall, thin matron who was sitting in the corner, knitting something long and gray. “You ready?”

  “Of course,” said Lizzie, getting to her feet. “I think we can go together, since everyone will assume we’re just heading back to our room. Will, Byram, you’ll probably want to wait a few moments before following us to the laboratory.”

  Will stared at her. “I’m sorry, but this insane. What do you expect to find? A jar with Billy’s head in it? You can’t really think that the faculty would murder people for spare parts.”

  “Not murder, no,” said Aggie. “But they might decide not to return a body to the family if they thought they could put it to better use.”

  Byron took one of Will’s pawns. “What’s really the matter? You afraid your head might wind up in a jar, too?”

  Will picked up his rook and then hesitated, as if unsure of his next move. “I’m thinking of more garden variety dangers, such as disciplinary action or expulsion. Not to mention the fact that if I don’t spend tonight working on the bones and muscles of the face and cranium, I’m likely to fail tomorrow’s test. Some of us actually need to do the work to survive here, you know.”

  “Sorry, but that dog won’t hunt,” said Lizzie. “You’ve already studied for at least two days straight.”

  “We can’t just stand here for much longer,” Aggie cut in, “so tell me now if you’re going to join us.”

  “We’ll join you,” said Byram, taking Will’s white rook with his black knight.

  She looked at Will, who shrugged. “Oh, fine. Why do I let myself be talked into these things?”

  Byram grinned at him from across the table. “Because you revere me, old chap. And because you know how dull life would be if you went your own way.”

  Will smiled and shook his head, but of course, Lizzie knew, Byram was right. Will went along with Byram because he loved his friend, and in the end, love was the reason why all sensible people did reckless things.

  * * *

  Old buildings are never quiet at night. They sigh and creak and rustle back down like restless sleepers. Lizzie was convinced that the four of them would never make it down the corridor and into the main foyer without being detected, and the sense of impending capture reminded her of some high-stakes game of tag. In the end, though, no one stopped them before they opened the heavy portal and stepped out onto the path that led to the laboratory.

  There was only a crescent moon tonight, and none of them had thought to bring a lamp, making it almost impossible to see.

  Byram struggled to catch up to Aggie. “Need an arm?”

  “Not necessary, thanks.”

  “You’re very brave, you know. To be doing this.”

  “You joking? I’m terrified. To think they might’ve used Billy to make one of those...creatures.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Will. “They’re bad enough when you don’t know what they were like before.”

  “But what if a Bio-Mechanical still retained all its old memories and intelligence,” said Lizzie, the knot in her stomach drawing tighter. It was only occurring to her now that bringing Will into the laboratory meant that he would finally meet Victor. No, that was a lie. She hadn’t let herself think about it because, deep down, she really wanted the two to meet. Will deserved to know that his brother was alive. If I were really brave, she thought, I would just tell Will about Victor instead of engineering this chance encounter.

  “But they don’t retain their memories,” said Will as they reached the laboratory. “They’re corpse walkers.”

  She didn’t try to argue. He would feel differently when he saw Victor and had a chance to talk to him.

  “All right,” Byram was saying. “Let me take a look in the window first to scout out the situation.” He craned his neck. “Can’t see anyone...in—” He ducked down, grim-faced. “Blast it. Makepiece is there...and so are Moulsdale and Grimbald. You may be right about something going on.”

  “That settles it,” said Will. “Let’s go back before someone finds
us missing from our rooms.”

  Aggie folded her arms. “You can go back. Billy and his mum are my people. I’m staying.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Will sounded uncharacteristically snide. “Stand around and wait till they come out?”

  Aggie took a step toward him; she was taller, and broader about the shoulders, as well. “Do you have a better one?”

  “The tunnels,” said Lizzie.

  Will shook his head. “Right. You get lost walking to the dining hall in broad daylight. Do you even know where the nearest entrance is?”

  “Actually, I do.” At least, she thought she did. Victor had shown her where one of the tunnels exited, some distance from the building. “Do you see a pile of leaves, right around where the roof slopes down? It’s there.”

  “This is absurd,” said Will.

  Byram made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t be so wet.”

  Aggie was already brushing away leaves. “Over here, Lizzie. There’s a trapdoor.”

  “I’ve got it.” Byram moved closer, then lifted the door by a metal handle. The creak of the hinges seemed unnaturally loud.

  “I’ll go first,” said Lizzie. “No talking once we’re down there. Voices echo.” She stepped gingerly onto the old stairs, feeling her way down. It was so dark that being shortsighted made no difference; they were all as blind as moles. Then she saw the gleam of greenish light from above: the laboratory.

  There was a slight scuffle as Byram bumped into her. “Sorry!”

  “Shh,” the other three said in unison, and Lizzie fought back a nervous giggle. She inched up the stairs until she was standing by the trapdoor that opened into the laboratory floor. Holding her breath, she opened it a crack, peered up at the room...and lost all desire to laugh.

  27

  Peering through the partially opened trapdoor, Lizzie could just make out Moulsdale and Grimbald as they contemplated something in the corner of the laboratory.