The Companion Series

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Despite very modern suspension, the cabriolet tilted back at a threatening angle as the stallion pulled it through the squelching mud of Avenue Rambert, past the Cimetiere de Clarens, and on toward Le Château du Châtelard on the crest of the hill. Mary had often admired the fortress from the windows of her own suite down in Montreux. Now she was quite excited to be attending an evening lecture on galvanism in the château’s grand salon. Her cab climbed further up the hill, past rustic farm buildings and terraced vineyards, all still glimmering with remnants of the late afternoon rainfall.

The livery came to an unexpected halt, and the whole carriage lurched sideways through the mud until it and the horse were turned askew across the laneway. Mary was thrown against the shoulder of the villa’s driver. He apologized profusely, but there was no time to be alarmed before a gendarme appeared, holding up his blue lantern to shine under the hood of the carriage.

“Excusez-moi, madame.” The gendarme’s light was before them only a moment before it bobbed off again into the darkness ahead.

“Driver?” Mary asked.

The driver pushed open the cabriolet’s hood and stood upon the apron. “There are several carriages in disarray ahead of us, Madame Shelley. There appears to have been an accident.”

Mary craned her neck to see the disruption as the valet jumped from the rear of the cabriolet. He said something to the driver in an indistinguishable Vaud accent and then ran past them and their horse toward those ahead. Mary watched as blue lanterns moved to and fro in the darkening twilight.

Above them, high on the hill, the lights of Châtelard blazed.

Several minutes passed before the valet came running back toward them. Again he spoke to the driver in his thick inflection before jumping up onto the board, between the large springs behind the cabriolet’s hood. The carriages ahead staggered and pitched back into motion.

The driver urged the hood over their heads and flicked the reins once, and the stallion trod slowly forward, pulling the carriage back into the well worn, but sludgy, ruts of the lane. Mary clenched her gloved hand around the side rail, intent on observing the gendarmes and their activities. As the cabriolet pulled alongside the blue transport of the authorities, her driver begged her not to look.

“Please, Madame Shelley, please look at the night sky. See how bright the stars are beginning to shine.”

But Mary’s gaze was held to the ditch on the edge of the road. A blanket covered what appeared to be a motionless body, but nearby, a forearm and hand with its index finger pointed toward her intended destination, lay dismembered and alone. A gendarme stepped between Mary and her view, but it was already burned into her mind. There was no evidence of carriage accident—indeed, there was no carriage—just the remnants of a poor soul who had been scattered irreverently along the gutter.

The cabriolet passed a grove of trees, effectively blocking all view of the scene behind them. Mary fell back into the cushions and could do little but ensure her breathing continued at a normal cadence and her mind did not descend into the depths of horror—horror she knew flowed just under the porcelain skin of her awareness.

There certainly was horror behind her, and also hidden in her deepest creative thoughts.

It appalled her, but it also . . .

The final sweeping curve of Sentier du Châtelard almost circumnavigated the impressive château on the top of the hill, passing copses of mature magnolias and along the gravel drive to the medieval gatehouse and portico. The cab pulled into the cobbled internal courtyard, where at least two dozen cabriolets, horses, and larger carriages were being attended to by the men and boys of the livery. Mary was assisted from her cab and walked quickly into the reception, as she knew she must surely be late. The manager took her mantle and escorted her into the salon. He located an empty chair and ensured it was to her satisfaction before giving a courteous bow and returning to his station.

For many minutes, Mary sat with little recognition of the lecture and people about her until she was able to push the scene on the roadside deep into her subconscious for later analysis—later dissection and critique on how it might affect her. Perhaps she might use the sadness of truth to infuse sentiment into her ghost story.

The high-pitched scrape of chalk on a board brought her attention to the man at the front of the salon.

She listened to the words of Monsieur Aldini, who conversed in both English and French, albeit with a heavy Italian accent. He spoke of the experiments of his uncle, Luigi Galvani, which documented the “animal electricity” that made muscles spasm and jerk, that allowed people to move their limbs. Mary looked down at her own hand and rotated it back and forth. She touched her thumb to each of her fingertips, imagining the course of current through it to make it do her will.

Monsieur Aldini continued on with the counter arguments of Volta and the eventual creation of the galvanic cell. The discourse continued, covering ideas and concepts Mary was already well versed in, punctuated by the further screech of chalk upon the drawing board. She could not see the speaker well from the rear of the salon, so she allowed her eyes to wander around the magnificent murals that covered almost every inch of the space. Brightly painted stone archways disguised one wall, framing mountainous green vistas with skies full of fat summer clouds. Another wall displayed a delicately drawn minstrel entertaining a refined lady. Mary imagined the tune being played on the minstrel’s mandolin, noting the quaint, old-fashioned couture of the woman as she admired the minstrel’s fingers strumming across his instrument.

“What a pity Galvani’s ‘animal electricity’ could not bring them to life.”

Mary tilted her head from side to side to reassure herself the minstrel and lady were indeed part of the mural. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a familiar debonair gentleman. He sat rigid in his chair, his hands in his lap, craning his neck to view the speaker on the platform at the front. Doctor Frankenstein appeared to be taking copious notes, hanging on every word that echoed about the salon. For a moment, Mary contemplated moving to sit closer to him, as he was situated in a row of otherwise empty seats, but then decided it would be unseemly and so stayed put.

The orator’s discourse turned to the Newgate Prison exhibition of 1803, and there was a sudden murmur of excitement throughout the room. Mary herself felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline at hearing the words from the very man who had performed the experiments. In between the beating of her own heart, the shocked whispers of the other audience members, and the magnetic distraction of the doctor taking his notes, Mary’s eye was once more caught by the perceptive gaze of the colorful immortals painted on the wall. The minstrel stared in Mary’s direction, his brow furrowed as if he were cross that a woman of her means should be involved in this address, that she could so easily relegate the horror she had witnessed to the back of her mind. Likewise, the refined lady, who Mary could have sworn had been admiring the minstrel’s mandolin, now looked at her in abject consternation. Mary held their gaze as their admonishment of her seemed to increase.

Mary felt suddenly flushed and in need of air. Thinking she might be ill, she rose from her seat and dashed from the salon out into the main reception, then toward the draped doors leading out to the Terrasse d’Honneur. A member of the château personnel was soon at her side, offering Mary her mantle, followed by a second who held a silver platter in white-gloved hands. Mary pulled the cloak about her shoulders and accepted a Bitter Sling from the waiter. She smiled at each of the staff as she sipped at the cognac, savoring the bitters and sugar that tempered its sharpness. It warmed her as she crossed the terrace and sat on a lounge to take in the air and nighttime view of Montreux twinkling far below. It was refreshing after the closeness of the salon—and after the shock of the body in the ditch.

She listened to the ambient noises of night and the distant neigh of animals in the château stables. She thought she could just distinguish a lantern halfway down the hillside, perhaps a night watchman doing his rounds through the headstones and tombs of Cimetiere de Clarens. Further up the hill she noted the blue lanterns of the gendarmerie still bobbing through the dark lanes, fields and, perhaps, stables. They were looking for something.

The remainder of the lecture’s congregation soon spilled out onto the flagstones for cocktails, scenery, and discussions of the evening. Monsieur Aldini was one of the last to step from the lobby out into the torchlit night. He turned up his collar against the fresh night air and positioned himself beneath a broad pergola set against the wall of the château, where ivy and berried vines crept over the ancient wooden beams and clung to the massive blocks of stone. As Mary rose and walked toward him to be a part of his group’s conversation, Doctor Frankenstein appeared from the main reception, accepted a cocktail, and stepped directly in front of her without recognition or courtesy. He walked to the farthest end of the terrace and stood alone under an enormous tree, one foot upon the stone balustrade separating them from the steep embankment that dropped to the vineyards below. He balanced his cognac and notebook on his knee, reviewing his notes and making adjustments.

“Did you enjoy my lecture, Madame Shelley?” Monsieur Aldini asked. He indicated with his hand for her to join his circle and recline on the chair he had just vacated.

“Oh, very much, sir; in particular your observations at Newgate. Unfortunately I was required to leave the salon before your finish. May I request you reiterate the last few minutes for my convenience and knowledge?” The surrounding gentlemen murmured in agreement. The wait staff recharged everyone’s glasses, and the Monsieur, after taking a sip from his cocktail, recounted the episode. Mary sat beside him, intrigued, his congenial and animated face no more than a whisper from her own. Yet she looked beyond him toward the lone figure of the doctor who now sat at the terrace edge, attentive to their conversation.

“Mr. George Foster had been executed not more than an hour previous to my experimentation. The medical staff of Newgate Prison had confirmed and reconfirmed he was indeed dead. His corpse had been drained of blood, hauled onto a trolley, and brought into the auditorium. He was a large man, Mr. Foster, heavily muscled but also with much fatty tissue that softened his appearance, especially in death. For the first part of the experimentation, I inserted into his mouth and ear metal rods that were connected to my machine by cables. I turned the control knob by less than a few degrees, and almost immediately Mr. Foster’s jaw began to quiver. There was a gasp from the doctors who had pronounced him dead, but I held up my hand for them to stay back as I turned the control further. The muscles adjoining Mr. Foster’s jaw became horribly contorted, as if he wished to sneer at those who had executed him. His eye opened, causing all in the room to scuttle back and the Warden of Newgate to call for his guards to subdue the criminal. I, too, had been quite shocked, but had the right of mind to remove the metal rods from Mr. Foster, causing the quivering to stop and the eye to close.

“Without hesitation, the prison doctors were upon the corpse, prodding and poking and testing to ensure he was still dead. In the end, they stepped back dumbfounded, proclaiming yet again that there was no evidence of life.”

Mary was intent on the dialogue, however she also studied the doctor who was now in deep conversation with a young man who was exceedingly large, perhaps two feet taller than the doctor himself and of a muscular disposition, cloaked in ill-fitting and ill-made couture. His features were hidden by shadow and an upturned collar, and he appeared somewhat hunched, his torso twisted. His hand—of a dull, yellow pallor—hung loose from the sleeve of his frock coat. Though Mary could not discern their words, their slight gestures seemed urgent—perhaps angry, perhaps afraid—flicking from one emotion to another, each movement seeming to bring the two closer in an intimate debate. The doctor looked momentarily toward the main group on the terrace, as if aware that his interaction was being monitored. He placed his arm around his companion’s waist and continued to converse as he urged him behind the trunk of a great tree that sprouted from the stones of the terrace.

“I continued my experimentation, inserting the metal rods into various parts of the body. After several attempts, I was able to make the right hand rise and clench at my command.” Monsieur Aldini demonstrated with his hand, and all stared at it in amazement. “Reapplication of the rods into the lower extremities caused the legs and thighs to come alive and thrash violently upon the gurney. The prison doctors felt comfortable enough that they approached the body even as the legs and thighs kept up their odd motion. It should be noted that four guards now stood around the room, their batons at the ready. Two interns held the legs down, subduing the corpse beneath them as one of the doctors pricked the skin to see if it would bleed, then deftly thrust his scalpel deep into the gluteus maximus to determine any reaction. There was none, however the interns were adamant they could feel the life within.”

The audience sat in silence. Some stared into their cocktail glasses, swirling the contents before taking thoughtful sips. Mary, too, thought about what the experiment proved, but she was distracted by the two at the far end of the terrace, almost entranced by their quiet and urgent solicitude.

Doctor Frankenstein looked after the young man as the latter walked from the tree to the darkened edge of the château terrace and down a metal balustraded stair that led to the gardens and vineyards below. Mary felt a tinge of sadness when she saw the man’s movements, for they were cumbersome, naïve, as if wreaked by pain and uncertainty. He passed down the stair and glanced toward the guests on the terrace. Torchlight illuminated his face for but a moment behind the bars of the balustrade, and Mary’s breath caught in her throat. She set down her cocktail and pressed her hands into her lap to stop them from shaking.

“Would you like me to introduce you to the good doctor?” Monsieur Aldini asked her.

Again Mary’s heart jumped and she felt quite breathless. “Perhaps another time, monsieur. Will you be in Montreux for any extended period?”

“I will not be leaving for Bologna until the beginning of next week. I will have my secretary contact your residence to establish a date for a dinner perhaps. Will Mr. Shelley and Lord Byron be joining us?”

Mary smiled at the mere mention of her husband’s name. “No, Percy and George are gallivanting around the countryside, as is their way. I don’t expect to see them for several weeks yet.”

“Very well, it would more than please me to chaperone you to the wonderful gastronomy I have discovered here. I will also enquire into the doctor’s schedule that he may join us.”