Peter Ackroyd - The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein

When eventually I came up to my door in Jermyn Street, Fred greeted me with a most perplexed expression. “You are all water, sir. You will rush into the gutter.”

“Take me inside, Fred. I can hardly stand.”

He helped me across the threshold, and at once began to take off my boots. “There is enough water here,” he said, “to fill the Fleet.” He began wringing out my coarse woollen socks. Then he went into my private closet, and brought me several towels; with these I retreated into my bedroom where I undressed myself and lay down upon the bed.

How many hours I slept, I do not know. I was awoken by the entrance of Fred, bearing a plate of chops and tomatoes. He placed it carefully beside me on the bed, and from a pocket withdrew a letter sealed with a wafer. “This has come from a gentleman,” he said. “You know who.”

It was a letter from Bysshe, entreating me to travel up to Marlow and join him in what he called my riparian paradise. I realised, in the instant of reflection upon this proposal, that I had contracted a most curious weakness. I had lost all of my energy of mind, my animation in the affairs of life. I had in effect lost all will and sense of volition. It was the most singular sensation in the world. Out of dread, and horror, had come meekness and submission. The fear had not left me. Far from it. But it had become my perpetual partner, my double, my shadow, without which I would not exist. So I was left singularly unable or unwilling to make any decision for myself, in any matter concerning my fate. I ate the chops and tomatoes that Fred had prepared for me, and told him to pack my valise for Marlow. He asked if he could accompany me on the journey-as my “jolly” as he put it in the language of the street-and I assented without giving the matter any thought.

WE LEFT JERMYN STREET SOON AFTER, and hired a post-chaise from Catherine Street to Marlow; Fred kept up a continuous line of chatter all the while, which pleased me greatly. It relieved me of any need to talk, or to think, as we made our way out of the capital into the fields and hedgerows of Buckinghamshire. He pointed out the milestones on the way, the number of gravel pits in Kensington, the geese in Chiswick, and the bad roads of Brentford. He told me that he and his brother used to bathe in the Thames, until the filth in the river became insupportable. He told me that twelve thousand people passed over London Bridge each day, and that there were elves in the Highgate woods. He reckoned Marlow to be a “comfortable” town, and explained to me in some detail how he had found Bysshe’s house by dint of earnest enquiries among the trades men. After a short silence he volunteered the information that he also had witnessed Daniel Westbrook’s execution.

“What?” I said. “You walked to Newgate after I had left the house?”

“Yes, sir. I hope I did no wrong in that. There was nothing to mind in the house, you see. It was all neat and perfect.”

“You rogue. You led me to believe that you stood guard perpetually.”

“Nobody can be perpetual, Mr. Frankenstein. I needed the air.”

“A foul air by Newgate.”

“This it is, sir. I had never been to a hanging before. I wished to see the thing.”

“And you did.” I leaned over to him. “So did I.”

Suddenly I began to weep. I bent forward in the carriage and sobbed, the tears unbidden and unexpected. Fred passed me a handkerchief, and looked steadfastly out of the window until I had composed myself. Eventually I sat back, and put my head against the leather rest. We were travelling along a stretch of road beside the Thames, and I noticed that the current of the river was turbid and irregular. There was something lying in the water, impeding its progress. “There is the boundary stone,” Fred said. “We will be there shortly.”

We arrived at dusk. The air by the river was chill and laden with moisture, but Fred led me briskly down the principal street of the town. It was wide enough for two carriages, and muddy after recent rain, but we crossed it without any difficulty. We turned left down a smaller thoroughfare, lined with superior shops and houses. “Here we are, sir. This is the house.”

It was a two-storey villa of recent construction with a plain lattice-work porch and large windows on the ground floor. “Will you knock, Fred?” I had not the slightest energy.

The door was opened by Bysshe himself, who seemed astonished to see me so soon after he had despatched his invitation. “My dear Frankenstein,” he said, “you are like an apparition. I was just speaking of you! And here is the boy, looking as fresh scrubbed as a Tenterden apple. Come in.” We entered a narrow hallway, where there was a plentiful supply of boots and umbrellas. I had forgotten that Bysshe had a strange partiality for umbrellas, of whatever description, and an equally strong propensity for losing them. He led us into the drawing room, a brilliantly lit room with long damask curtains and comfortable furniture of the provincial style. Sitting by the fireside were a gentleman of middle age and a young lady, evidently deep in talk.

“Here is the man,” Bysshe said, “whom I was describing. It is the oddest and most singular coincidence. This is Mr. Godwin, Victor, and his daughter Mary.”

The man rose from his chair, and greeted me with great cordiality; his daughter took my hand, and welcomed me to Albion House as if she were the mistress of it. “We have been considering the name of Albion, Mr. Frankenstein,” her father said. “Bysshe believes it is derived from Alba, the Celtic word for Britain. But I believe it to be more classical. I take it to spring from albus , meaning white. Thus from the white cliffs. What is your opinion?” He was wearing a pair of pebble spectacles that seemed to emphasise his pale and almost rimless eyes. His manner was cordial, as I have said, but somewhat too intense and magisterial; it seemed to be a forced cordiality.

“I have not the least idea, sir. I am sorry-”

Bysshe brought a chair for me, and offered me a glass of Madeira wine that I willingly accepted. “You are tired after your journey, Victor.” He had noticed my listlessness and weariness. “This will revive you.”

The father and daughter looked at me with placid interest, and waited for me to speak.

“It has been a hard time,” I said.

“Of course. William and Mary know all the sad facts of the matter. You can speak freely.”

“I do not know if I can speak at all.”

“You attended Harriet’s funeral?”

“Yes.”

“And were you present at Daniel’s execution?”

I looked round for Fred, but he had silently left the room, no doubt in search of the company of Bysshe’s servants.

“Yes. He died bravely. He was an innocent man.”

“How do you know that, sir?” Mr. Godwin put the question to me in a challenging manner.

“I know it. I know-I knew-Daniel Westbrook. I saw him in his prison cell. There was no gentler being on the earth. He had nothing to do with this crime. Nothing whatever.”

“No one else was suspected,” Mr. Godwin said. “We read the public prints, even in Marlow.”

“The murderer walks free.”

“Do you have private information, Mr. Frankenstein?” Miss Godwin asked me this with the faintest impression of a smile.

“No. I have no information on the subject except that which instinct and intuition give me. I am sure that, as a lady, you will grant me that right.”

She gave me a keen glance then. “Instinct is very right and just. My father adopts more rational principles, but I have always believed in the divining powers of the imagination.”

“She has read Coleridge,” her father said. “She is an enthusiast for the divine afflatus.”