Frankenstein's Legions

by John Whitbourn

  Julius delivered.

  ‘The jewellery, of course,’ he semi-whispered, as if Ada sitting beside him could not hear. ‘Family heirlooms. She’s dripping with them.’

  ‘Ah...,’ said Senior Clerk. It did fit. He’d heard tales of the fate of illegal Lazarans. Pig food apparently. Certainly, respect for personal property didn’t feature highly in any likely scenario.

  Playing the game, Ada reached her even whiter hand to touch her string of pearls and jet necklet.

  ‘The Lovelace safe deposit box requires a combination,’ said Senior Clerk. ‘The Bank knows part, the client the rest. Will she co-operate?’

  It was the fate of the Revived, even if present and listening in, to be spoken of as though not there.

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ replied Frankenstein. ‘I’ve had a word with her.’ He mimicked use of a whip.

  Such lurid assurance clinched matters, in more ways than one. Plainly the man knew nothing outside of his service to Mammon. Those who’d ‘been around’ realised you could whip Lazarans until your arm ignited, without making much impression.

  The way to the relevant vault lay through a weariness of gates, corridors and sentinels. Senior Clerk wafted through them all like a magician. Finally, in a little-frequented room of church-like stillness, he lit a lantern.

  Locked boxes awaiting owners who might never come lined floor to ceiling. Both Ada and Senior Clerk knew which one to go to.

  Concealing his actions behind a hunched shoulder, Senior Clerk twirled the dial three times and ways. Then Lady Lovelace completed the process, acting out the role of good little Lazaran. The door swung open—and Julius swung at Senior Clerk.

  As a medical man Frankenstein knew there was a fine line between stunning and brain damage: but a pistol-butt is no precision instrument. He knelt and found the senseless Clerk’s neck pulse to check all was as well as could be expected in the circumstances. A gesture to himself mostly: it was too late to apologise if matters proved otherwise.

  Meanwhile, Ada, never slow on the uptake, was taking inventory of the deposit box.

  ‘Bearer-bonds, high denomination banknotes, cut diamonds, share certificates: all good liquid stuff.’

  Then Julius’ accomplice revealed herself to be in the very forefront of fashion. Lady Lovelace hitched up her skirts to show she wore those new-fangled ladies’ drawers. Into the spacious scarlet garment she stuffed stolen riches.

  Frankenstein politely turned his back. Having forgot to bring a sack he thoroughly approved of her initiative, yet such shamelessness also unsettled him in ways he preferred not to explore.

  ‘You’ll have to take the gold coin,’ Ada ordered. ‘Too bulky for me to store in my nether garments…’

  As soon as she was decent again, Julius went over and packed his pockets.

  Ada awaited at the door. If she weren’t dead she might have had a bloom to her cheek. Even so, she still looked radiant; her eyes shone with excitement.

  ‘You know,’ she said, crooking her arm for him to link with it, ‘I might have been mistaken about you. You may escort me home, sir.’

  Ever chivalrous, even to deceased ladies, Julius Frankenstein obliged.

  * * *

  Foxglove drove as though sedated, for on no account must they attract attention. Under the current ‘Total Security Government’ prowling police coaches were ten-a-penny but people who stole one needed to mimic their stately confidence. Doubtless, the word was out that a Black Maria was missing, but scrutiny would concentrate on those in a hurry. Therefore, Foxglove courteously gave way at junctions, whilst staring down those civilians who dared look.

  Meanwhile, within, Frankenstein and Ada had discovered a new rapport. They were as bad as one another.

  ‘I must confess,’ she said, ‘the violence did rather shock one...’

  Julius spread his hands.

  ‘Madam, if bridges are to be burnt, I see little point in being moderate with the matches.’

  ‘Perhaps so. I also lazily presumed you to be a stolid Switzer. Not to mention a mere scientist.’

  ‘‘Mere scientist’? queried Julius.

  Ada turned on him in fury.

  ‘Idiot! I said not to mention mere scientists!’

  Frankenstein had flinched away fearing a claw-attack before he realised she was joking. Lady Lovelace’s laugh had no pity.

  So, that was how things stood between them! After restoring her to life, after shedding blood to save her from the mincer, even after conducting a bank raid to oblige her he remained just a hired help and figure of fun. Julius seethed.

  ‘Most amusing, madam. Highly droll. Yet I am surprised to hear you talk so. One thought you a devotee of science.’

  ‘I see it as a means to an end, herr doctor. However, its practitioners do tend to the tedious.’

  ‘Likewise the Swiss, I heard you imply.’

  ‘If so, you seem the exception to the rule.’

  Julius smiled to himself.

  ‘Lady Lovelace, permit me to enlighten you: my countrymen may be likened to a well built bedlam. From the outside, all seems solid and safely gathered in; yet inside wild forces rage. It has been calculated that a million mercenary Swiss have served in the wars of Europe, and, I assure you, complaints are few. I myself have seen service with the army of the Holy Father, and the King of the Two Sicilies beside. War, revolution and rapine are normality to me. I have seen things that would make even your long locks stand aloft.’

  It was Ada’s turn to smile enigmatically. ‘That’s all you know...’ was implied.

  ‘Do you doubt me?’ Julius asked, affronted.

  Ada flicked her fan over a face which no longer felt heat or cold.

  ‘No, one does not. Doubtless you have stood up to your hocks in blood, on the battlefield and operating table alike. Though what you find to be proud of in that I do not for the... life of me know...’

  There was just the hint of a stumble there, over her unfortunate choice of words. Lazarans generally learnt to purge ‘life’-related words from their vocabulary for fear of mockery. Lady Lovelace plunged on regardless with barely a pause.

  ‘My thoughts were instead of your presumption, herr doctor. Do you think me a mere stay-at-home lady of leisure? A woman who has seen and done nothing? Do you not know of my lineage and illustrious father? Let me assure you, Dr Frankenstein, I contain surprises for you yet!’

  Julius stretched back in his seat, feeling fairly secure and shock-proof.

  ‘Surprise me then, madam...’

  Ada looked at him, gimlet-eyed, her grey lips compressed to a slit.

  ‘I will. Take for example, those gems and jewellery you stole today: don’t try to pawn them.’

  Contrary to his every wish and intention, Julius was startled. He sat upright. Those were a major part of their haul.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘Fake!’ replied Lady Lovelace triumphantly, like it was good news. ‘All fake!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Glass and paste, I promise you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me at the time?’

  ‘Surely, you should be asking, why did I? Have copies made, I mean.’

  Frankenstein gritted his teeth, not nearly as rich as he thought himself a minute ago. They wouldn’t get so far now, or have so much first-class fun en route.

  ‘Go on then, madam; enlighten me: why did you?’

  Ada was enjoying herself now. Just like her scandalous father she rather enjoyed shocking confessions.

  ‘Because the real ones are long gone—gone to pay my monstrous gambling debts!’

  For the rest of the ride, Frankenstein brooded in silence and there things stood, at an impasse, a chasm yawning between the two travellers.

  Not another word was said until Foxglove delivered them to Scotland Yard.

  Chapter 6: DUCK ISLAND DISCUSSIONS

  That too had been another of Frankenstein’s bright ideas. Where better to leave a purloined police vehicle than among a throng
of others? Word was out on the street but it might escape notice for ages buried amongst its brethren.

  Foxglove parked at the end of a line of Marias outside constabulary headquarters. When nothing untoward happened he tapped the roof to say the coast was clear.

  Still chagrined, not so much about the money but for being bested, Frankenstein didn’t even offer to hand Ada down. His first failure in etiquette to the fairer sex since youth.

  So Lady Lovelace sorted for herself. Whilst Foxglove tethered the horses as though they were his and always had been, she exited from the blind side, away from the station entrance. A shapely questing foot found the coach step and then the ground. Meanwhile, she smoothed down her dress—and rubbed Frankenstein up the wrong way.

  In other words, still crowing.

  ‘Am I such a disappointment to you, herr doctor? Dear me, I believe there is a word for young gentlemen who care only for a lady’s financial attributes! I would not have suspected you of being such. You have the dashing looks, I’ll grant, but persons of that... profession are usually far less starchy...’

  This was neither the time or place. He and she could both be convicted of capital charges, and Foxglove, as their accomplice, was hardly in any happier position. Instead, Frankenstein cut her dead (that word again) and looked around for safe avenues of escape.

  ‘This way, and give me your arm.’

  He didn’t really want the chill limb but Ada cheerfully complied. With bonnet lowered in maidenly modesty she might pass for a living, breathing, belle out for a promenade with her beaux.

  As Big Ben sounded ‘one’ they walked briskly towards St James’s Park, with Foxglove patrolling their perimeter, sniffing out pursuit.

  Their ruse called for a modicum of small-talk, granted, but Ada was relentless: a wildcat in defeat and insufferable in victory.

  ‘Silly man: why else do you think I was so interested in Mr Babbage’s calculating machine?’

  ‘My indifference knows no bounds,’ answered Frankenstein, speaking through a false smile.

  Ada expounded nevertheless.

  ‘People say Fortune or Fortuna is the goddess of gambling, but if so I am an atheist. No, I say that mathematics is the key that unlocks the treasury of gaming table or track! King Probability rules all. Now that sir, I believe with all my heart!’

  ‘Selling the family jewellery works too,’ Frankenstein added sourly. ‘I am told it greatly speeds one’s trajectory to debtors’ prison.’

  Ada took it on the chin.

  ‘That also, good doctor. My once dear husband, Lord Lovelace, would have shot or divorced me had he known, but my researches were simply ravenous in their consumption of cash. Taking on the roulette wheel or the vagaries of the turf are not for the financially faint-hearted, I can assure you. However, the great project had to continue at all costs and so I liquidated the capital contained in my finery. A Hebrew in Hatton Gardens had replicas made.’

  ‘In that case, madam, I wonder that you’ve bothered to burden your britches with them.’

  Julius blunted his barb by blushing again. Such tavern-talk was not his natural weaponry.

  ‘Do not let pique make you vulgar,’ Ada instructed. ‘You’ve been almost gentlemanly so far—for a foreigner and mercenary. Why spoil it? Also, have a care, for Foxglove does not take kindly to impudence in my presence.’

  Hearing his name mentioned, if nothing more, the servant looked over from his orbital patrol. To Julius’ horror, Lady Lovelace waved back in precisely the way fugitives shouldn’t. Then she resumed.

  ‘If I had spurned such valuables, alone amongst all the pillaged items, it would have aroused suspicions and my ruse might have been exposed. But not only that, I keep them for a better day. Had not death and Mr Babbage’s... misfortune not intervened it was my firm intention to make good the deception one day. No one need ever have known.’

  ‘Save yourself,’ said Julius, ‘when wearing them; deceiving all who those admired their beauty.’

  Lady Lovelace laughed, raising her white face dangerously high.

  ‘Oh, I know all manner of wicked secrets, Mr Swiss! You can hardly conceive... One more hardly makes any difference, does it. And are you still so very cross with me, mein herr? Can you not be just a little... mollified?’

  Happily, the play on words sailed over Frankenstein’s head. He was not to know that ‘mollie’ was the low-English term for bachelors who had not met the right girl yet (and never would).

  Even so, he quickened their pace and frowned.

  ‘Madam, I refer you to my earlier statement on indifference.’

  Ada squeezed his arm, a disconcertingly marital gesture.

  ‘I don’t believe you, gold-digger doctor. But comfort yourself: the jewellery and all manner of other things shall be restored to how they should be. In due course, just as soon as I have conquered the deities of chance...’

  They were passing by the lake and Duck Island, secure avian HQ in the centre of the metropolis. From it birds quested out to demand dinner from passers-by.

  Fortunately for Julius and Ada there were a lot of the latter. Both place and hour provided perfect concealment in tidal flows of Westminster government workers taking lunch or otherwise about their business. The generation-long War had greatly inflated both their numbers and busy-ness.

  Though excellent cover, Ada placed too much faith in it. She dilly-dallied and chit-chatted. The world was her oyster again and she was peckish.

  ‘Did you know,’ she enquired, indicating the tiny islet, ‘that on a whim and in his cups, King Charles II appointed a exiled French poet ‘military governor’ of Duck Island? Complete with handsome salary and title? I should have liked that post; and to confound the giver I would have taken it seriously, with tours of inspection and schemes of defence. That would have been most amusing, don’t you think?’

  Julius knew she hadn’t been drinking, for he’d been with her all the time. Therefore this must be the madness of the British aristocracy he’d heard about—doubtless a function of inbreeding and lack of mental exercise. It would make a fascinating medical study for a student who gave a damn.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t,’—and dragged her on.

  Once past the island of Ada’s obsession, Frankenstein headed for another concentration of cover. At the fringes of the park, where they wouldn’t be in the way of their betters, a crowd of Revived clerks and menials were gathered round a street-preacher on a soapbox. Since the established church barred Lazarans from its places of worship they had to meet their spiritual needs as and when they could. In practice, this meant during those rare occasions when anyone deigned to address them and their masters didn’t know where they were. Therefore the throng was avid, their yearning palpable.

  And the preacher was fit to meet it: his eyes were as wild as his hair; his voice powered with passion.

  ‘… Souls?’ he was shouting, all the time looking round for the Park Police who’d inevitably move him on. Or arrest him. Or truncheon him. ‘Of course you have souls! Let no man tell you otherwise: least of all the venal prelates of the lickspittle state church! ‘Archbishop of Canterbury’? ‘False shepherd of Babylon’ more like! What does he know? Can mere Man burgle the Afterlife? Can the created steal from its Creator? Rubbish! Purchased dogma! Bought-and-paid-for Blasphemy! No: I tell you most solemnly: you all—all—have souls. Somewhere... in some inexpressible form known only to God...’

  ‘Testify!’ the recalled dead cried out, inspired by their own version of joy and urging him on. ‘Testify!’

  A smattering of living supporters present, eccentrics and/or idealists, approved more measuredly. Some bore banners. Julius saw one that read:

  ‘ARE THEY NOT

  AS WE

  SHALL BE?’

  A sort-of truth which only prompted him to think ‘God forbid!,’ and stunned all sympathy.

  ‘Therefore,’ the preacher continued, waving his arms, ‘I assure you, dear brothers, dear sisters, that you are far
more than cannon-fodder! Better than mere meat machines! You are alive again—and thus basking in Divine love—for better reasons than accountancy!’

  That got a cheer. Some masters had no mercy and drafted their Lazarans into the drearier professions. Likewise the sad fields where their already cold hearts came in handy. Lawyers now employed more undead than living.

  ‘Wherefore, you deserve the dignity that comes with those Divine origins. Are ye latter-day Gibeonites: those whom Scripture says the Israelites enslaved to be forever ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water’? No, You are men: children of God and made in his image!’

  Here was a weak point in his thesis, for many of those images gathered round him didn’t look very god-like. Rhetoric demanded he either get louder or more daring.

  He did both. The Preacher looked about, even more haunted than before, and bellowed:

  ‘Nor are you beasts! Mere vermin to be hunted for perverse pleasure!’

  This was pushing his luck. Lazaran blood-sports were forbidden (a waste of war material for a start) but everyone knew it went on. It was a melancholy fact that hardcore hunters found former-humans so much more challenging, more mettlesome and miles-for-your-money than a fox or deer. However, those who (allegedly) indulged tended to be both addicted and aristocratic: that is to say committed, well-connected, people averse to the limelight. The ‘Earl of This’ or ‘Lord That’ didn’t care for loose talk which might spoil the fun. There was even rumours of a Parliamentary Pack. It most certainly ‘didn’t do’ to go public about it.

  And sure enough, soon afterwards someone must have ‘told’ on all the subversive talk. A constabulary whistle signalled suppression was on its way.

  Which meant Frankenstein and friends must be likewise. They left the preacher and his assistants hurriedly packing up their portable pulpit.

  ‘Do not despair, brothers!’ the preacher roared as he worked. ‘We shall overcome! God will chastise Pharaoh and permit ye into the Promised Land! God shall feed His flock!’

  ‘With crumbs of comfort...’ thought Frankenstein dismissively, once they’d fled far enough. ‘Stale crumbs.’ Then he realised with a far from delicious shock that his family stood responsible for the terrible hunger they’d just witnessed. Hunger so gnawing that sufferers were willing to feed off crumbs from the Christian banquet they were barred from.