At dawn, when the gates of the city were opened, Victor entered, according to Walton's publication, and made straight for his grieving family: this included, at the time, his father Alphonse, his surviving brother Ernest, then about seventeen years of age, and his fiancie (there is some debate about whether she was also his cousin) Elizabeth. Until this moment, be it noted, he had seen none of them for six years. (I remark in passing that Ingolstadt is about three hundred miles, as the crow flies, from Geneva, no more; and that the journey, though doubtless arduous in some seasons, particularly as it must skirt the Alps, is not always so.)
As soon as they met, Victor's family informed him that, in the interval since his father had written him the sad news of William's death, the murderer had been discovered. Victor, still firm in his instantaneous conviction that his creature was responsible, was astonished.
"The murderer discovered! Good God! How can that be? Who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds or confine a mountain stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night."
"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother in accents of wonder…
Nor did he ever, it seems, make any effort to find out.
"… but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who could credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable and fond of all the family, could suddenly become capable of so frightful, so appalling, a crime?"
Who indeed? And yet a conviction was somehow obtained. It is said that the judges here are honest men. But that is sometimes said of judges everywhere.
Earlier on in the Walton relation, there is quoted a letter supposedly written by Elizabeth to Victor, her more-or-less betrothed, in which she takes the trouble to describe Justine Moritz.
Madam Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third… her mother could not endure her, and after the death of M. Moritz treated her very ill. My aunt observed this, and when Justine was twelve years of age prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house…
I was about to write, Sir, that I do not like this supposed letter in the least. But I shall go further. I do not like the entire Walton manuscript; almost everything in it smacks of fraud. For example, all of the events relating to Justine that are detailed in this supposed letter must have taken place while Victor himself was still living at home. Why, then, in the name of Beelzebub, must his adopted-cousin-fiancie rehearse them to him in writing?
No, Sir, much of the Walton account must be fabrication. It is meant to lead someone astray. Whom, and to what purpose, are questions I cannot yet attempt to fathom. But I do think that we make progress.
Later_I have now been allowed to see the official records of the trial. Justine had been taken ill on the morning when the murder was discovered, and for several days she was confined to her bed.
One of the servants, happening to examine the dress Justine had worn on the night of the murder, claimed to discover in its pocket the valuable miniature that was taken from William when he was killed. It is on the strength of this evidence alone that Justine was charged—and convicted.
She continually protested her innocence, and her ignorance of any way by which the miniature might have come into her possession. Elizabeth Lavenza made more than one impassioned speech in favor of the accused, and Victor Frankenstein publicly proclaimed his certainty that his old friend Justine must be innocent—it is not recorded, however, that he made any mention during the trial of having knowledge of who the real murderer must be. Why not? In the book he explains his reticence thus:
My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did anyone exist except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the world?
The trial of Justine began very shortly after Victor's return to Geneva.
My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture.
But his sufferings, however intense, were evidently not great enough to induce him to come forward with his version of the truth.
In the eyes of the judges, the case against Justine was very black.
… several strange facts combined against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been perceived by a market woman not far from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o'clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into hysterics.
Justine claimed to have passed the early evening of the night on which the murder was committed at the house of an aunt in Chene, a village about a league from Geneva. This was confirmed. As she was returning to Geneva at about nine in the evening, she met a man who asked her if she had seen anything of the child that was lost. Evidently some details of this man's statement persuaded Justine that the missing child was William, and she began her own search for him, without first seeking to confirm the object of her search in any way. (To my mind, Sir, this is the weakest of several improbabilities in her statement.) When the gates of the city were closed for the night, at ten, she could not get back in, and therefore took shelter in a barn, where she passed the remainder of the night restlessly, falling asleep only briefly and toward morning.
… some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavor to find my brother. (We are told that this is Victor speaking.) If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the market woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.
She continued to deny any knowledge of how the picture could have come into the pocket of her dress.
"Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; and… why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?"
And, if Justine herself were indeed the thief and killer, why should she have sent her prize, so hardly won, off to the laundry in a pocket, rather than taking the most careful steps for its concealment? I would give a great deal, Sir, to be able to cross-question the servant who supposedly found the picture in Justine's dress. But I am told that is impossible, as the woman has since moved out of town. I have heard conflicting reports as to where she has gone. To track her down would undoubtedly be very difficult, but it is a task that I may yet undertake.
As the trial drew to a close, various other witnesses came forward to speak of the good character of the accused, and to express their disbelief that she could ever be capable of such a deed.