The Hammer Horror Omnibus (22 page)

I suggested that he continue his work at the prison for a few months at least. It would not do for him to disappear suddenly. When I was ready I would send lor him.

He disliked the idea of being left behind. But there was no point in his travelling with me. So far from there being any advantage in it, there was a positive danger: he cut a conspicuous figure, and might draw unwelcome attention to the two of us. He would have to trust me.

He did, in fact, trust me. His faith was so strong that I found myself talking to him as freely as though he had been an equal. After the mistrust and then the growing hatred through which I had floundered these last few months, his frank reliance on me was a great comfort.

I had finished the wine, but suggested that he should fetch more from the tavern and at the same time bring another goblet. He was flattered to be put upon such a footing, and hurried to carry out the errand.

When he returned he was fidgeting with worry.

“My lord Baron—”

“No!” I cut him short. “Never address me in that way again.”

He quickly nodded his understanding of this; but now he was at a loss. I had observed in the prison that he was a creature of formalities and he had scrupulously used my correct title even though I was, in the eyes of my gaolers, a condemned criminal. Now I had to provide him with a substitute form of address. It had better be one with which we could both become speedily familiar.

“Call me Doctor,” I said.

“Doctor Stein,” he said eagerly.

I laughed. He was delighted. And really, Doctor Stein was a suitable non-committal name. There must be many such. I intended, though, that this one should be more famous than any other.

“Now,” I said, “what’s troubling you?”

“My l—, Doctor, they are talking downstairs. About your body.”

“There is always a lot of talk in taverns after an execution,” I said. “I’d have thought you knew this better than anyone.”

“There are two of them,” said Werner agitatedly, “who are being paid ten marks to provide a fresh corpse for the Medical School. There is not a very plentiful supply of corpses—but the supply of students is plentiful enough.”

I had done a certain amount of grave robbing in my time, as every scientist must. I was neither shocked nor surprised to learn that ten marks would buy a recently buried corpse. But then the significance of what Werner had said sank in.

“My
body!” I exclaimed.

His head wagged. “It’s a fresh one. The freshest there is. And they’ve taken a fancy to the notion of digging up a real live Baron—I mean a real dead Baron.”

There had been times in prison when I had welcomed his grim jocularity. At this moment I would have been happier without it. I am not a squeamish man, but the thought of my corpse—my “fresh” corpse—being dug up so soon after its interment and being giggled over as that of a real Baron was an unsettling one. Of course it was not really my body, but it so easily might have been.

I said: “To a medical student I imagine one body will be much the same as another.”

“But when they open the coffin they may raise the alarm.”

“Why should they? A corpse is a corpse, no more.”

“We had to work fast, Doctor. We had no time to disrobe the priest.”

I was aghast. “You mean—”

“We had to bundle him in just as he was.”

Now I saw why he had been so perturbed. I shared his distress. Once it was known that Baron Frankenstein had escaped there would be an immediate inquiry, and heads would roll. I had no wish that mine should be one of them.

“We must go at once.” I got up, reaching for my cloak.

“Not yet, Doctor. They won’t go until the town is quiet. And one of them is still nervous. One called Kurt. He’ll need a lot more drink inside him before he’ll start digging.”

At this the dwarf glanced at the flagon of wine he had brought, and at the empty glass standing beside mine.

“Very well,” I agreed; “but let us be there in good time.”

Werner did not fail me. He had phenomenally sharp hearing, and did not stir as one group and another staggered from the tavern into the street. But when two distinctive voices rang out under the window, he was on his feet at once.

“There they go!”

We were swiftly downstairs and out on the cobbles, reeking with the smell of spilt wine and vomit. A couple of drunkards slithered over the mess towards a wall and leaned there trying to sing. A more lamentable sound I have rarely heard.

Werner knew a short cut to the graveyard, and we arrived at the new mound of earth before there was any sign of the two robbers. I indicated that the dwarf should remain behind a tree while I took shelter in the heavy shadow of a tilted headstone.

It was an uncanny sensation to stare at the new rectangle of dark earth and know that it was meant to be heaped upon me. I gagged, seeming to feel earth in my throat and nostrils as the lid of the coffin pressed down, cracked, and collapsed.

Footsteps rustled along the path. I tensed. A lantern bobbed between the tombstones like a questing spirit. It came closer, and two crouched figures stooped at last over the mound.

“See?” mumbled one. “There you are, Kurt. A proper Baron under there.”

“Think we could ask a bit more for him?”

They had brought a spade, and took it in turns to dig. In spite of the looseness of the earth they made a slow job of it. The one called Kurt was a bundle of nerves and kept stopping to peer over his shoulder or whisper to his friend Fritz.

At last they scraped away the loam from the coffin. Kurt lowered himself into the hole which Fritz had just cleared, and bent over the coffin. Then he looked up appealingly at his friend. He lacked the courage to rip the lid off. With an oath Fritz sprang down beside him, got the blade of the shovel under the lid, and forced it open with a screech of nails.

They both gasped.

“A priest!” quavered Kurt. “What’s he doing there? What . . . ?”

It was too much for him. Without waiting for his partner he scrambled out of the open grave and dashed across the cemetery. He tripped over the edges of graves, blundered against tombstones, and then crashed into a hedge. Cursing, Fritz hauled himself out and looked as though he might follow. Then avarice got the better of him. He turned to look down at the corpse of the priest. After all, a corpse was a corpse—still worth ten marks to him. And now there would be no need to divide it with the cowardly Kurt.

He was about to venture back into the hole when I stepped out from concealment. He heard the movement and looked fearfully towards me.

I drew my cloak about me and said in the most sepulchral tone I could muster: “Good evening. I am Baron Frankenstein.”

He let out a moan and swayed on the edge of the grave. Before he could decide whether to run or pray, Werner skipped out and stood on his other side. Fritz let out one last moan and fainted. He pitched backwards into the grave. I took an involuntary step forward to try to save him—I had intended no more than a macabre joke which would drive him away and keep him quiet—but it was too late. Fritz landed on his back on one edge of the coffin. There was a sickening thud.

I stepped down into the grave and moved him so that I could feel for a heartbeat. There was none. Fritz had been most effectively silenced.

Werner lowered himself down beside me and we tipped the second body right into the coffin and squeezed the lid down. I left the dwarf to refill the hole while I stood guard.

A crude wooden board had been kicked to one side. When I picked it up I found that my name had been scrawled on it. I set it up once again, thrust into the soft earth, and there we left it—the final words on the subject of Baron Victor Frankenstein.

Or so the gullible authorities and public thought.

2

A
fter the most careful survey of its potentialities I decided to settle in Carlsbruck. Without means or influence, I found the first two years extremely arduous. When I attempted to set up in practice I was met by firm resistance from the Medical Council, which apparently existed purely to eliminate competition. Nevertheless I persevered. I had confidence in my destiny, and after those early trials I began to see this confidence justified. Of my medical skill there could be little question; and unlike so many members of the profession I had the added advantage of good breeding, which was particularly effective when dealing with the impressionable ladies of the community. Among my patients I actually numbered the wife and daughter of one of my most powerful rivals, a committee member of the Medical Council of Carlsbruck. At first he could afford to treat this as a joke and attribute it to the passing whim of silly, susceptible women. As time went on, however, the august members of the Council could hardly fail to notice that my patients remained devoted to me and that they themselves were losing more than a few to me.

Sooner or later I knew there would be an approach from the council, conciliatory or aggressive. I had made no application for a place on the Council and did not intend to do so. Let them make the first move—and they would discover what reception I had in store for them!

Gradually I was consolidating my position. I started in a shabby quarter of the city, but then was able to move to a more fashionable area. At the same time I volunteered my services to the Workhouse Hospital. When they heard of it, this made some of my more delicate lady patients unhappy. They knew of the squalor in that dismal place—by hearsay, of course, since nothing would have tempted them to venture within its chill grey walls—and feared that I might bring contamination from it. It was admirable of me to give my services to the poor and needy; but were my responsibilities to the rich and fragile not greater? I tried to calm their agitation. Nothing must interfere with my work at the Hospital: it provided me with so many things that I needed, though I was not in a position to explain this in detail to those good ladies who equally provided me with necessities—in their case, wealth.

If I had wished to settle down to a prosperous bourgeois life in Carlsbruck it would not have been difficult. Having established myself on my own merits I could have applied to the Medical Council for official recognition, and they would have been relieved to welcome me into the fold. I could have married, and married well. I need lack nothing.

But I had work to do. It was work which had to be carried out in complete secrecy. I had learned my lesson. I would put my trust in no one. Friends were unreliable; a wife in my household would be a danger and an encumbrance.

This, again, was something which could not be explained to the ladies. The shameless ardor of some of them had to be avoided by various stratagems or by a sternly professional concentration on their supposed symptoms. A widowed Countess who had clearly decided upon my eventual conquest proved especially persistent: when she could no longer find excuses for visiting me on her own account—perhaps fearing that too long a list of imaginary ailments would detract from her charm in my view—she brought her attractive but somewhat pallid daughter to my consulting rooms day after day. Vera was subject to fainting fits. Vera could hardly walk across a room. Vera needed constant medical attention. And in the end, when the Countess realized that I was not going to fall into her arms, she amazed me by trying to turn my affections upon Vera. Better, she seemed to feel, that I should be in the family as her son-in-law rather than not at all.

The mysteries of creation were my constant study, but even I marvelled at the subtleties and crudities of women. I might create a man in my laboratory; but would I ever dare to create a woman?

“Everything I have goes to Vera when she comes of age,” said the Countess Barscynska one day while I waited for the girl to prepare herself for yet another futile examination. “It was her father’s last wish.” She gave this time to sink in, then went on briskly: “I am having a musical evening soon, Doctor Stein. If you were free . . .”

“Much as I like music, I have very little time.”

“You poor man. A life dedicated to the needs of others. No time for a life of your own. But you must
make
time, Doctor.”

I refrained from saying that I made time for really important things when I chose to do so. She might have felt that her musical evenings came into this category.

At that moment Vera emerged demurely from behind the screen. She had not merely undressed for the examination: she had come provided with an alluring négligée. Her mother smiled proudly at her and invitingly at me, as though wanting me to inspect the property which I was being offered.

I used my stethoscope and made the girl jump.

“It’s so cold.”

I said: “Breathe deeply.”

“Last time,” she sighed, “you used your ear.”

I made a perfunctory examination. There was nothing wrong with the girl. She was in excellent health. Indeed, I cannot deny that she was a most attractive young woman with a complexion which was the envy of her friends and a taut, slim figure which no man other than myself had so far had the privilege of studying at leisure.

I advised a judicious mixture of rest, food, and long walks. The Countess asked meaningly if I ever went riding. I said that I did not. She asked if I would be free on certain occasions to accompany Vera on one of these prescribed walks so that I could observe the effect which this physical exertion had on her. I regretted that other duties compelled me to refuse.

“That dreadful place!” said the Countess as her daughter dressed. “Such demands on your valuable time!”

That dreadful place . . .

My office at the Workhouse Hospital was certainly a contrast. Sparsely furnished with the bare necessities of a consulting room, it was only cursorily cleaned by one or other of the shabby inmates, and I knew that if any of my wealthier patients were to see it I would lose them at once. The flotsam and jetsam of human life drifted through here or piled up and stayed here to rot. I did what I could for them; and did what I could for my own purposes. Some of the inmates swore by me; others swore at me. My name was sometimes reviled, sometimes worshipped.