Temple found four men gathered there. He recognized Michael Faraday, and had no doubt which of the four was Victor Frankenstein. Crosse, in his capacity as host, was the first to address him. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Temple,” he said, “and we’re very glad to have you here. With such a famous detective on hand, no one will be able to suspect us of any trickery. Welcome to the inaugural gathering of the Necromancers of London—for we hope to move our endeavors to a town house soon enough, where we shall find it much easier to obtain the equipment we need.”
Not to mention a much readier supply of corpses, Temple thought, as he bowed.
Crosse introduced his companions then; the man Temple did not know was identified as an old friend whom Crosse had not seen for some years, but whose presence was exceedingly welcome: George Singer.
“Singer’s passion for electrical science was even greater than mine at the outset,” Crosse explained. “It was he who first introduced me to Mr. Faraday, ten years ago, and Faraday, in his turn, who arranged for me to give a lecture in London in 1814, where I met Percy Shelley and his wife-to-be. It was through Shelley, of course, that I initially made the acquaintance of Dr. Frankenstein. We have been correspondents for some years, although I am not the avid traveler my father was—he frequented the court of Louis XVI for a while, where he made the acquaintance of Ben Franklin.”
Temple shook hands with all four men, gravely. Faraday, a young and slender man, seemed to be bubbling over with excitement and enthusiasm—so much so, in fact, that he barely devoted a second of his time to Temple before returning to his interrupted conversation with Crosse. Crosse was older—almost forty, to judge by appearances—but more aristocratic in his bearing, seemingly able to look down tolerantly upon his less well-born companion, even though he was a full inch shorter. Singer, who seemed a little older than Crosse, was more reserved and somehow less conspicuous; for the moment, he seemed to have been slightly edged out of the conversation, and his attempts to strike up a dialogue with Frankenstein appeared to have been inhibited by the latter’s morose anxiety.
“I believe that you have met an employee of mine,” Temple said to Frankenstein, for want of any more profitable subject. “Edward Knob.”
Frankenstein did not seem to recognize the name immediately, but it eventually struck a chord in his memory. “The young man who came to Shelley’s aid in San Terenzo,” he said, nodding glumly. “Shelley took quite a shine to him, as I remember—he recognized him as having attended at least one of Davy’s lectures, although Mr. Crosse’s performance must have been before his time. Was he a policeman, then?”
“Not exactly,” Temple replied, “but he has his uses. He is in Haiti now, with Germain Patou and Marie Laveau, but I am expecting him to return in the new year.”
“With exciting news, I hope,” Singer put in. “Rumor always exaggerates, I know, but if the tales regarding Mademoiselle Laveau have any truth in them at all, she must have access to a useful traditional wisdom of which we know nothing. Given that Patou has already obtained a measure of success comparable to Victor’s, there is reason to hope that he might be making further progress.”
“Indeed,” Temple agreed. “If you’ll forgive the impertinence, Dr. Frankenstein, might I ask whether you have had any contact since you were in Spezia with the product of your own success, who now goes by the name of Lazarus.”
“There has been some communication between us,” Frankenstein reported, warily. “Why do you ask?”
“Is he expected to arrive here in order to witness the demonstration?”
Frankenstein frowned. “He expressed a desire to be here in a letter,” he admitted. “I replied that I did not think it wise—but he has become so headstrong that I cannot imagine that he will pay much heed to my opinion.”
“To be perfectly frank,” Temple said, “I would not have been displeased to find him here. I have talked with him briefly, in Paris, and I believe that he would help to protect you if he could. There are, alas, other parties from whom you might need protection.”
“The mysterious Count Szandor?” Frankenstein asked, probably having obtained the name from Lazarus.
“Possibly,” Temple conceded, “but I am more anxious, for the present, about members of two secret societies: Civitas Solis and a Bavarian vehm. Both have agents in London as we speak, and almost certainly have spies here. My men and I will do our utmost to prevent them taking any hostile action, and they may well be here only to observe and report, but I must ask the four of you to be careful of your own security. Much might hang on the outcome of your demonstration. Are all the preparations well in hand?”
Crosse smiled at the delicacy of that question. “We have three dead bodies, obtained by legal means with the consent of the next of kin, which have been immersed in the baths,” he said. “The first should be ripe for revival tomorrow. As to what mental condition they might be in, if the resurrections are successful, I cannot tell—but if we are fortunate, one at least will be capable of speech.”
“Yes indeed,” Singer agreed, “but I fear that we cannot answer for what they might say, if one or more of them turns out to be loquacious.” Temple glanced at him briefly, trying to fathom the wry smile that played upon his lips, but immediately returned his attention to the Swiss scientist, who seemed to be eager to address another question to him.
“I believe, Mr. Temple,” Frankenstein said, “that you met some of Patou’s Grey Men before he fled Purfleet. Did they include the self-styled General Mortdieu?”
“Yes,” said Temple. “Ned Knob had more contact with him than I, as he had with his old friend Sawney Ross, sufficient to form a strong impression of the General’s ambitions, but not form any elaborate notion of his intended plan of action.”
“What else did he learn?” Faraday asked, curiously.
“He claims that he watched a demonstration very similar to the one you intend to mount, which was half-successful. The body returned to life, and was able to remember a name—but nothing more than that, alas.”
“I’d settle for that, if need be,” said Faraday. “Once the principle is firmly established, before a host of unimpeachable witnesses…”
Temple was not at all sure that the seven men he had escorted from London were “unimpeachable,” but he would not have dreamed of saying so. “Has there been any untoward or unusual occurrence in the vicinity of the house in the last few days, sir?” he asked, addressing Crosse.
“There have been poachers on the estate,” Crosse reported, “but that’s not unusual, considering that the cold weather has arrived. The village is abuzz with gossip, of course, much of it hostile—but I have not been confronted directly, and I don’t expect any trouble. There have been a number of burglaries in local country houses, but we have been spared. Ghosts have been seen, but that’s not unusual either, in view of the prevailing tension—servants are very amenable to hysteria.”
“Ghosts?” Temple queried—although he knew that the remark about burglaries was more likely to be symptomatic of the presence of hostile forces.
“Oh yes—all country houses of any antiquity have their contingent of ghosts, whether or not they’ve been modernized. The house was built in 1634, but all the descendants of Odo de Sante Croce, who came to England with William the Conqueror, are supposed by the superstitious to have taken up residence along with my nearer ancestors, including the Sante Croce who was killed at Agincourt. Ghosts of knightly ancestors are inherently more exciting, are they not, than those of 18th century scholars and travelers? I’ve never seen any ghost myself, of course, and nor has Cornelia, my wife—we have servants to do that for us. Even Caddick has never seen one, although Cook has, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a serving-maid who hasn’t.”
Temple frowned. “Sometimes,” he said, “living men can be mistaken for ghosts, especially if they pose as such. Please tell me if any further sightings are reported by your servants.”
“I will,” Crosse promised. “Shall we go
down to dinner now?” he was addressing his guests, not Temple, who was not dining with the commissioners in the main hall but with the servants in the kitchens.
The ex-detective recognized the question as a tacit dismissal and withdrew. He expected, at any rate, to pick up more in the way of interesting gossip in the servants’ quarters and he was not mistaken. Caddick was on duty upstairs, so there was no one to suppress the servants’ natural garrulousness; Temple sat quietly to one side, listening to as many overlapping voices as he could. The situation was further confused by the fact that servants were coming in and out all the while, having carried out missions upstairs, and were eager to report on events in the principal dining-room. Apparently, the Bishop as not on his best behavior, and had already undertaken to lock horns with the Devil, in the form of sententious speeches that Crosse and Faraday had greeted with more mockery than alarm. The rules of hospitality, however, forbade host and guests alike to go too far in the matter of giving offense, so the banter had apparently retained a surface of good humor.
As usual, the servants’ dinner lasted even longer than the one upstairs, because the servants on duty had to eat in shifts. Temple had to answer the call of duty three times himself, to check in with his men, who had been set to work shifts at various sentry posts. Every time he had to leave he made a brief tour of the surrounds himself but once dark had fallen the visibility outside became very poor.
As in London, there was a freezing mist, but this time there was a cloud layer above it, which maintained the humidity and opacity of the atmosphere. Beyond the area dimly illuminated by the light filtering out of the windows of the house, the gloom was impenetrable. That made Temple feel very uneasy, although he certainly did not envy the lot of any spy posted to watch the house in such inhospitable conditions.
On three occasions Temple bumped into servants in unlit corridors and vestibules inside the house. On the first two occasions, the individuals with whom he collided were maids, who were full of apologies as soon as they realized that he was not one of their customary colleagues, but on the third and last occasion, it was a man who bumped into him, who made no apology at all but made haste to be gone. He must have known the layout of the house, for he had vanished as if into thin air by the time that Temple reacted to the fact that a folded piece of paper had been thrust into his hand.
After two minutes of futile pursuit, the detective paused by a lantern in one of the principal corridors in order to unfold the note and read it. It was, inevitably, unsigned, but its contents were as disturbing as they were enigmatic.
The note read: SINGER DIED IN 1817.
Any other recipient of such a note might immediately have thought in terms of ghosts, but Temple had had experience of circumstances that he immediately likened to the present ones.
“Szandor!” he whispered, biting his lip anxiously. “Is he here already, and already as close to Frankenstein as can be? If so, no wonder his minion was at such pains to persuade me that he is not my enemy.”
Chapter Four
Interview with the Vampire
It did not take Temple long to find a pattern in the responses he received to his questions about George Singer. The older retainers remembered him well enough from the time when he and Crosse had been fast friends and collaborators in experimentation, but their memories became strangely vague when they were asked about the circumstances that had parted the two men, or what Singer had been doing since 1817.
When Temple explicitly suggested to Caddick that rumor had reached London of Singer’s death, Caddick immediately agreed that some such rumor had gone around the neighborhood, and had caused “the young master” some grief, but hastened to add that the sorrow had been more than counterbalanced by the universal joy at discovering the rumor to have been untrue.
“I will not liken his return to that of the prodigal son, sir,” said Caddick, sententiously, “for that would verge on blasphemy, but I can guarantee that if Cook had had a fatted calf to hand, its throat would have been cut without delay.”
“I see,” Temple said—but the hour was very late by then, and he thought it best to retire to the tiny attic room he had been given, in order to sleep before deciding what action to take. As was his habit, he placed a loaded pistol beneath his pillow before lying down.
He fell asleep as soon as his had hit the pillow, or so it seemed, and his sleep was deep enough for him to have not the slightest idea how long he had been unconscious when he was suddenly awakened by a cold touch.
His first instinct was to reach for the pistol, but he found it gone. There was an abrupt crack as a flint was struck, and a wisp of German tinder ignited, which was immediately touched by an expert hand to the wick of a wax candle.
The light was held in such a position as to illuminate George Singer’s face from below.
“Count Szandor,” Temple said, immediately, in an attempt to surprise the other. “Have you come to drink my blood, or merely to spill it?”
“You know perfectly well that I wish you no harm, my friend,” the so-called vampire said. “I removed the gun for my own protection, not because I have any intention of using it. Did you recognize me, or were you warned?”
“I was handed a note,” Temple admitted, reluctant to lie because the alternative claim would have been a facile boast. “I was not quick enough to identify the person who gave it to me.”
“Tom Brown’s man, I assume,” the other replied. “The others would take pride in leaving you completely in the dark—which is, I admit, one of the reasons why I would rather enlighten you. I give you my word that my only purpose here is to aid Frdankenstein’s demonstration as fully as I can. If it succeeds, then I intend to maintain the identity of George Singer, and to become a member of the company that Faraday is already calling the Necromancers of London. Crosse has been so delighted to have his old friend returned that it would be impossible to convince him, now, that I am not the man he believes me to be, while Faraday and Frankenstein are avid for all the support they can obtain. Your gaze, I knew, would be much harder to deceive in the long term.”
“You might count yourself fortunate, then,” Temple said, pensively, “that Jean-Pierre Sévérin is not here…nor Malo de Treguern.”
“I bear Sévérin no ill-will for what happened at Miremont,” Szandor-as-Singer said, “and might have cause to be grateful to him for the reminder of my limitations. Treguern will, I suppose, always be my enemy, but even he might be more amenable to reason than he thinks, when his faith finally begins to crumble under the unbearable stress of reality. The immediate point is, however, to convince you that you should let my plan proceed—and, indeed, that you do your best to support it if the clowns of Civitas Solis or the Prussian dolts take it into their heads to interfere.”
Temple did not challenge the vampire’s reference to the hirelings of the vehm as Prussians rather than Bavarians; he was aware of the intricacies of middle-European exploitation. All he said was: “I might take a deal of convincing.”
“A good deal more than Lord Byron, no doubt,” the other conceded, as he settled himself comfortably into the wooden chair set beside Temple’s meager dressing-table, having placed the pistol on the table-top. “Alas, His Lordship is out of reach at present, as is his loyal ally Shelley—who is still alive, by the way, not yet a Grey Man like his dear friend Keats. Even so, Mr. Temple, you are not without a hint of the Romantic about you—as befits the adversary of John Devil. The latter would be an easier recruit to my cause, I suppose, but my ambition now is to emerge from the Underworld to which I have been too long confined. I do not simply want to masquerade as George Singer for the duration of a festival—I want to become George Singer, in order to take up the cause of electrical science where he was forced to leave off by a stupid aneurism. I want to work with Faraday and Crosse, as well as with Frankenstein, for I believe that there is no quadrumvirate in all the world that could make faster and further progress in this revolution.”
“And you want m
y help to do that?” Temple said, skeptically.
“If possible, yes—or at least your agreement not to interfere. You represent His Majesty’s secret police, and I would far rather work within their protective cordon than without it. I have been a fugitive for far too long, regarded by the living as a deadly enemy and obtaining neither succor nor support from my own sad kind. In time, I fully intend to take Faraday, Frankenstein and Crosse into my confidence, in order that they might profit from my accumulated knowledge as I might profit from theirs, but I judged it better not to complicate this week’s demonstrations unnecessarily. The last thing I want, however, is to be unmasked in inconvenient circumstances—and that is why I am coming to you beforehand. I readily confess that I fear your skill and enterprise, and hence your opposition. Clearly, I was right to do so, even though you appear to have needed a nudge from your arch-enemy to put you on the track. I do not come empty-handed; not only have I information to offer in return for your co-operation, but the services of an agent with far greater expertise in espionage than anyone else in your employ.”
“The Countess,” Temple guessed.
“Exactly so. She has played the spy before, of course—she was as useful to Bonaparte, in her own way, as the legendary Fouché.”
“But she is merely you puppet, is she not?—an extension of yourself rather than an independent individual. Can she really work for me as a spy while you play Singer’s part at the heart of Faraday’s necromantic adventure?”
“She is certainly my apprentice,” Szandor replied, “more the creation of my mesmeric powers than her own will. Initially, I set out to shape her as a companion in my loneliness, and would have been more-or-less content had she remained a puppet or a slave, but she is more than that now. She is no mere extension of my own personality, and is capable of fully autonomous action. I am all the more proud of her, and myself, for that.”
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