The boat would have been pulled up on the shore so that victim and murderer could disembark. The latter came from behind and, using brute strength, wrapped his hands around Henry's neck to choke the life out of him. Or perhaps Henry had been strangled elsewhere and brought to the spot by boat. This would have to have happened quickly, and in a location not far off, for Henry's body was yet warm when Nugent and company found it. It might have been possible that the strangulation took place on the boat in the open sea; this seems unlikely. Strangling a man while on firm ground is a great enough feat, on a small boat at sea would be significantly more challenging.
Nugent confirmed Mrs. Magee's cottage as one I had spotted earlier, where Henry Clerval's body was first taken, and where they attempted to revive him. Nugent also explained that Mrs. Magee has since died and her grandson now lived in the cottage, which also looked as if it had received some improvements, at least to the condition of the exterior of the building. Mrs. Magee would have made a better witness, but as this was impossible, I questioned Nugent on the state of the victim's body. Had his clothes been torn? What were the state of his hands and feet, as well as the rest of his body? Nugent replied that there had been black marks on Henry's neck. This I already knew. Nugent did not notice any markings elsewhere on the body to indicate that Henry had been bound in any way. It appeared he had come to the shore willingly, after which he was strangled on the beach.
I asked him to describe Victor Frankenstein's appearance when he was found.
“We saw little of Victor Frankenstein, or his father, Mr. Alphonse Frankenstein, a fine gentleman as ever there was.” Nugent said this, not bothering to disguise a perceptible frown.
Not expecting a response to that question, which to that point
in my investigation had failed to garner me information, I nevertheless asked if they had seen any stranger in the area. Specifically, I gave them Victor Frankenstein's description of the monster: lustrous black hair, skin barely covering the arteries, pearly white teeth, yellow eyes, straight black lips, and eight feet tall. Nugent reminded me that the only strangers they had seen were Henry Clerval, and he was dead, and Victor Frankenstein and his father.
Before leaving Daniel Nugent to return to his work on his cottage roof, I asked if he knew where I could find Sarah Murtagh's cottage. Once again, Nugent's face took on the closed look it held when he first spoke, and once again his arms crossed his chest.
“Follow that road,” he said with only the slightest of movements of his head, “until it curves round the hill. Hers will be the first on the right.”
Dearest Edward,
How disappointed we all were to realize that you had travelled so close, and yet were not able to visit with us. I know a little boy who would have been glad to see his papa. You absolutely must visit soon. Nearly a twelvemonth has passed since your last visit. You really must make every effort to see us before you travel to the continent, for who knows how long you will be gone. Will it be six months' absence this time, or will it be more?
Supplied with what little you will tell, we have followed your activities and can only guess the dangers your profession puts you in. Often, I have wondered if the life you now lead is of a direct result of your great loss, or if it derives from your solitary nature; you were so as a boy. I wish you would soon come home. Country life would restore you, as it has your little son. He has an appetite like a horse, is full of life, and sleeps ever so well. The older children all dote on him, and they indulge him in such walks, drives, and fishing trips together that I am certain they love him more than ever. Edward dear, can you guess why I tell you all this? After the death of our mother, it was not only my duty, but also my special privilege to be more than your sister, to be your friend and guide, to prepare you for all that you should encounter in your life.
It is not only you who is dear to me, but your little son has also a special place in my heart.
I confess, I did perceive there was a disparity between you and Sophie Blair. You know I do not speak simply of station, but of the mind. I always regarded Sophie as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, who was not deficient in understanding. But you were, and are, something more. Knowing your family so well as you do, could it truly have been a surprise to you that we considered your marriage to her with regret? I continue to admire your constancy to poor Sophie, even when existence is gone. I know a man, particularly one such as you, does not recover quickly from such a devotion of the heart to a woman who has come to mean so much to him. If kept confined and quiet at home, you fear your feelings might prey upon you, and so you have chosen a profession where you are forced to focus outward. No doubt you have sought this continual occupation and change of scenery to assuage your feelings of loss.
More than two years have gone since the sorrowful story of Sophie reached its close. Time must have removed at least the initial sting, but you have been too dependant on your occupation alone to keep you distracted. Your life lacks an enlargement of society. Indeed, I do not count those that you encounter in your work as society. You need to move beyond the unnatural and sometime dangerous company you find in your profession, for it cannot be natural to keep such strange company. You need seriously consider a second attachment. This is the only thoroughly natural and sufficient cure for your melancholy. What has become of that man who delighted in the splendid and the wonderful; who could gaze at a mountain or the night sky in amazement and awe, or thrill at the power and magnificence of a lightning storm? You have become too removed, purposefully distancing yourself from all around you in order to hide from your sorrows. You are yet a young man, but often I have an anxiety that borders on hopelessness for your being tempted to enter into another marriage.
It is not in your nature to be inconstant and to forget those whom you love and have loved, but your current course of action is too extreme. You have difficulties and privations and dangers enough with which to struggle here in England. You labour and toil, allowing yourself to be exposed to every risk and hardship. Now your home and friends you plan to quit. Comprehend how we, your family, suffer when we take a last look at you and wonder when we shall meet again. Already I have begun to calculate how soon you might be here, and am ever hopeful of your quick return.
Ever your loving sister,
Susannah
There was much to observe as Mutt and I walked, and I began by studying the transportation of those not on foot as we were. The day was quiet and the traffic minimal to the degree that we were passed by only a two-wheeled wagon filled with hay and pulled by a small, thick-legged horse, one rider on horseback, and the smallest handful of pedestrians like ourselves. The road to nurse Sarah Murtagh's cottage led us past a good-sized and well-maintained graveyard of Celtic crosses standing austerely in the field. Near the unpainted wooden fence that surrounded the graveyard, there was a fresh grave, where a man with a small child in his arms stood to one side of the new mound, on which lay a posy of wildflowers. As I contemplated the sorrowing father and child, I wondered if this was also the last resting place of Henry Clerval.
Sarah Murtagh's dwelling was another cottage like the many I had seen in the area, but unlike the cottages of the Orkney Islanders, Daniel Nugent, and Mrs. Magee, hers was decidedly in need of repair and would have benefited greatly from a coat of fresh paint, as well as a good cleaning. She, an aged woman made old from a hard life rather than a long one, answered our knock. Dark eyes set deep in her head studied us for many moments. She
looked at Mutt, nodding approval, but regarded me with narrowed eyes and a downturned mouth. She maintained this guarded look, one that indicated to me in no uncertain terms her general mistrust of me. After brief introductions, I told her of our business and requested to speak with her for a few moments.
“Another relative of the murderer Frankenstein!” Sarah Murtagh pronounced. It seemed that although Victor Frankenstein had been found not guilty by the authorities, the nurse had never absolved him of the crime.
I informed her that I was not connected in any way to the Frankenstein family.
“Then you are a relative of the poor young man that died?” she asked.
I explained that I had been hired by the poor young man's father, Mr. George Clerval, to investigate the murder. As no murderer had been found, I was charged with locating him.
To this news, she made a low huffing noise in her throat and disappeared into the smoky darkness of her cottage. With little other choice, I took this as a sign that we were to follow her. Except for a table, two short benches, one three-legged stool, and a bed built into the wall, the room was almost bereft of furniture, and yet was by no means empty. The dirt floor, walls and shelves, table top, and even the bed were covered with all manner of items stacked and piled. The broken handle of an axe had the jawbone of a dog or sheep where the axe head should be. A battered and rusted kettle full of holes held an assortment of seashells. A rag doll pieced together from many different bits of cloth lay across the table as if recently put down by some unseen child. All bits of discarded and unwanted items she had collected and brought home. Signalling that we were to seat ourselves, she turned her back to us to work away over the smoking fire. I removed my hat, setting it upon the rough wooden table, took a seat. Mutt settled onto the stool in a corner of the room.
After a few moments, Sarah Murtagh handed us each a chipped mug of strong, sweet black tea. To all appearances, this was the only luxury in which Sarah Murtagh indulged, for her cottage furnishings were sparse and showed evident age and much use, as did her homespun clothing. I sipped the brew tentatively, while Mutt enjoyed it in great gulps, oblivious to the scalding temperature. Our presence in her house and acceptance of her hospitality appeared to set Nurse Murtagh more at ease, for without any questions asked of her, she began to speak. The reticence of Nugent and his fellow fishermen was not a fault I would find with Nurse Murtagh.
“I told him it would be better for him if he were dead, and I fancied it would go hard on him, but that were none of my business. I had been sent to nurse him and that I did. I did, as I always do, my duty with a safe conscience. It would be best if everybody did the same,” as she spoke she looked at me as if she doubted whether I was doing mine.
“And him with his high and mighty ways, ordering everyone around as if he were the lord of all he saw.”
I guessed this to be her description of Alphonse Frankenstein.
“Complained that I wasn't taking proper care of his son and threatened to have me dismissed. I had no very good opinion of the way the magistrate followed him around like a dog.”
I asked what she could tell me about Victor Frankenstein's behaviour while she nursed him.
“He were mighty sick, that's for certain,” she said with a sharp nod of the head. “In his fever he cried out often, but in a strange language, so I had no idea of what he said. The magistrate understood him, and tried speaking in the same language, but the young man was in no condition to respond.”
I asked Nurse Murtagh if there was anything else she could tell me that she thought might help in my investigation, but when she said nothing, I repeated the question.
“Aye, I heard you the first time,” she muttered, leaning forward across the table, her eyes squinting as she stared intently at my face. “Victor Frankenstein's clothes were dirty and torn. I washed them and repaired most of the holes, and that were good enough for him until his father showed up, and then he was to have only the best that could be found.”
Suddenly, her thin arms shot out and she grasped both my wrists, pulling them towards her with considerable strength. I was too astonished to pull away, and so let her take my hands. Twisting my wrist until both palms faced the ceiling, she studied first one hand, the left, and then the other. As quickly as she had taken my hands, she surrendered them. Truly, I was startled by the suddenness of her actions, and wondered if the red marks would turn to bruises so strong had been her hold on me.
“The answers you seek you will find in ice and water, fire and air, but you seek what you already have, and will find what was never lost.” She said the words slowly and carefully as if she feared I should not understand her. “You have your luck with you now, but beware of a time when this luck is no longer with you. Nothing good can come of that.” Then, turning her back to us once again, she returned to her work over the fire.
Evidently, the interview had come to an end. Mutt remained unmolested in his corner and appeared to be considering her words carefully, although she had done little to add to our investigation except confirm what Victor Frankenstein had recounted and provide mystical pronouncements. The heat in that confining space had become oppressive and fatigued me excessively, and so I took my leave. Mutt, at ease upon the ridiculously small three-legged stool in the corner, and having been given yet another cup of her brew, seemed more inclined to linger on longer, but followed me out of the cottage nevertheless. Nurse Murtagh acknowledged our exit with another of her strange huffing noises, but did not turn from her fire.
Dear Mr. Edward Freame,
Many are the times I have spoken about your kind visit and your great interest in my brother Robert's activities. A traveller and adventurer such as you can best appreciate the passions and urges that move him. It is because of this great interest of yours that I feel Robert should not mind that I keep my promise to you and send you this copy of a letter he has sent me. You lose nothing by having a copy of the original as poor Robert's handwriting has deteriorated at an astonishing rate. Truly, his letter to me was nearly indecipherable in places, and I am certain you would not have understood most of the sentences in the original.