“How did you find us?” Lane asked me.
“He smelled you out,” Boothroyd replied.
“I will pay you twice as much as any hospital.”
“What about smalls?”
“Forgive me?”
“Babes and young ’uns.”
“No. No children. I can use only adults. Only males. That is the nature of my work. And they must be good specimens. I want no growths. No deformities. Payment on delivery.”
“He wants them handsome so he can fuck them,” Miller said.
Boothroyd silenced him with a glance. “You are asking a lot.”
“I am paying a lot.”
“No questions asked?”
“No answers required. Bring the subjects to me, and you will have your money.” I told them how they could find me; as it happened they were used to working by boat, since they had a steady trade with the convict hulks on the estuary where they could pick up three or four items at a time. They told me that they had to drag the bodies through the river in order to cleanse them of the filth that had accrued to them in the holds of the ships. So I described in detail the location of my workshop, and of the small wharf in front of it; they knew the neighbourhood well. I promised I would be ready for them on the Friday night, giving them two nights for their work. They each spat in their hand before shaking mine, a custom that I did not wholly appreciate.
FRED WAS WAITING UP FOR ME. “There is a funny smell in the room,” he said as soon as I entered.
“Smell?”
“Of drink, and tobacco, and something else, and something else, all mixed.”
“I have been in a tavern,” I said. I took off my coat and jacket, and put them on a chair in the hallway.
“Mr. Frankenstein in a tavern. Whatever next?”
“Mr. Frankenstein in bed.”
“I was warned against taverns,” he said, “when I was a boy. They are too low. You were not robbed, sir, were you?”
“No, Fred, I was not robbed. I was cheated. Porter is threepence a pint. But I was not robbed.”
“Porter was the ruin of my father, sir. It was not the donkey that killed him. It was the drink. He never was sober after the dustcart came by.”
“What had the dustcart to do with it?”
“He shared a drink with the dustman. He was a regular toper, he was. Never knew which side of the street he was on.”
“I have come to the conclusion, Fred, that all Londoners drink.”
“They can be very cheerful, sir.” He sighed. “They like the flowing bowl.”
“You are a poet, Fred.”
He laughed and was about to leave the room, when he spun around and very deftly kicked himself. “I almost forgot, sir. There is a letter for you. It came on the northern coach, so I gave the messenger sixpence.”
“He did not carry it all the way, Fred. Never mind. Pass it to me, if you please.”
He retreated into the hall and came back with a packet that, as I saw, had been franked by an official in Lancaster. It was from Daniel Westbrook. I hoped that it might have come from Bysshe who, despite my anger at his behaviour, was still often in my thoughts. But the clumsy writing of the address told me otherwise. The letter itself was superscribed Chestnut Cottage, Keswick.
My dear Frankenstein,
Forgive me for not writing to you sooner but I have had a deal of business to sort. Neither Mr. Shelley (or, should I say, my brother-in-law) nor Harriet have any head for such matters, so I was obliged to negotiate their lease of the cottage from a Cumberland farmer who was more hard-headed than a London stock jobber. He insisted on counting the flowers in the garden, in the event that we might uproot one of them! Harriet seems very happy, and sparkles with delight whenever we go for one of our walks by the lake or by the mountainside. She is obviously suited to married life, and looks after her husband with the utmost delicacy and attention: she makes sure that he is always neat and clean in his appearance (sometimes to his annoyance, I must admit) and tries to bargain with the villagers for our simple necessities. Mr. Shelley shuts himself away for some of the day, in the upstairs bedroom, where Harriet says that he is composing; I can sometimes hear him reciting verses, which I imagine to be his own. Then he goes on long rambles through the local country, when he prefers to be alone. I am sure that he loves and cherishes Harriet, but the ways of aristocrats are new to me! We sit together in the evenings, and he reads to us from the volume that has most lately taken his fancy. He has been studying Mr. Godwin’s treatise on Necessity, and yesterday evening he recited to us the philosopher’s belief that in the life of every being there is a chain of events which began in the distant ages that preceded his birth and continued in regular procession through the whole period of his existence. It is called necessitarianism, a long word for a difficult matter. I am sure I have not spelled it properly. In consequence of which, according to Mr. Godwin, it is impossible for us to act in any instance otherwise than we have acted. That is too fatalistic for my taste, but Mr. Shelley believes it to be the case. Harriet agrees with him.
Last week we visited Mr. Southey, who has a grand house in the neighbourhood known as Greta Hall. You must know of Mr. Southey through his connection with the Intelligencer. Quite by chance one of the Lake poets, whom Mr. Shelley reveres, was also there. Mr. Wordsworth’s name was known even to me-who am, as you know, no great judge of poetry-and he received a proper amount of veneration and respect from us all. I believe that he relished the opportunity of conversing with his young admirer. Mr. Shelley recited some of his own verses and Mr. Wordsworth deemed them to be, as he put it, “very acceptable.” They talked on the subject of poetry and morality, as Harriet and I listened enthralled. Never have I seen such a large measure of genius crammed into one room! Mr. Wordsworth begged to differ when Mr. Shelley grew warm on the subject of kings and oppression, in which I would very willingly have joined, but the older man preserved his demeanour. I believe that he is a native of this area, but he seems a good deal more cultivated than anyone else I have encountered here. His accent is not at all rough. He has a long sloping nose, and a delicate firmness of expression about the mouth; his eyes are luminous in the extreme, and he evinced a great gentility of manner towards Harriet and Mrs. Southey.
I believe that even Mr. Wordsworth was impressed by Mr. Shelley’s ardour, and saw in his excitement some reflection of his own younger self. He confessed to us that the years had buried him in a “mound of cares,” as he put it, but that as a young man he had dreamed dreams and seen visions. “I wish you well,” he said to Mr. Shelley as he took his leave. “I am not insensible to the cravings of youthful ambition.”
So ended our meeting with the Lake poet. There is much more to tell you, but it will be best delivered to you on my return to London. Harriet sends her greetings to you. Mr. Shelley has just shouted down the stairs and asked if you remember the Ancient Druids of Poland Street? I confess I have no idea what he means. I must sign my name now, or I will write on indefinitely.
Faithfully yours, Daniel Westbrook.
I folded the letter and placed it on the side-table beside my chair. For some reason I felt close to tears. Perhaps it was a reminder to me of the life I used to lead, before my immersion in dangerous experiment; perhaps it represented to me the pleasures of married life and of human intercourse. I realised, too, that I still missed the presence of Bysshe. His was the one true companionship I had ever formed-my one friend and ally in this world, where there is so much harm and darkness.
Fred came into the room, bearing a smoking dish. “I have a cure for the porter,” he said.
“I am not to be cured.”
“Saloop, sir. The steam would wake a corpse.”
“High praise.” I took the bowl of liquid from him; it was milky grey in colour, and had a rough texture. “Is this one of your London dishes?”