“What do you mean?”
There was a sound behind them, and Victor’s head whipped around. It was only the two Bio-Mechanicals, back for another cadaver, but when Lizzie looked back at Victor, she saw he was holding the scalpel in his left hand now, as though it were a weapon.
“That’s it,” he said, untying her apron strings. “Come with me.”
“But we’ve just begun.”
“I must have been mad.” His eyes were fierce. “We have to leave. A guard might come any moment.”
“I have to hang up the apron!”
“Hurry.” He put his hand at the small of her back and propelled her out the back door. The Bio-Mechanicals ignored them, and Lizzie could not see the cause of all this panic.
“What is it? Victor, what’s wrong?”
He pulled her down the corridors after him, not pausing until they were back at the lab. Igor was gone, and they were alone, but Victor’s pale, set face did not invite thoughts of intimacy. “I don’t understand. Are you angry at me? What have I done?”
“Wash your hands.”
She went over to the cast-iron sink and ran the water. After a moment, he joined her, scrubbing at his nails so harshly she winced. She must have done something to set him off, but what? When he ran his hands under the tap, she felt his fingers brush hers and moved to get out of his way. He grabbed her wrist, then interlaced his fingers with hers, pressing her palm to his. The look on his face was anger, she realized, but not at her. At himself.
“What was I thinking? If someone had seen us...”
Her heart was pounding, and she couldn’t stop looking at her hand, so small and pale inside his. “So I might have gotten in a little trouble? I don’t mind. I knew I was taking a risk.”
“Not just a little trouble. Elizabeth, I think they killed me because I knew something. If they think I’ve talked to you...if they think you know what I know...”
“But I don’t know anything!”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Doesn’t matter.” His eyes were a little wild, and this was yet another Victor, one haunted and distressed. She tried to think of something she could say to soothe him.
“I don’t mind,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. His bicep was so hard her fingers barely made a dent. “I know if it came down to that, you’d do whatever you could to protect me.”
A shiver ran through him, and suddenly she was in his arms, held so tightly she could hardly catch her breath. The metal on his left arm dug into her back, but she didn’t care.
“I am so sorry,” he said, whether for endangering her or embracing her she could not tell.
“I’m not.” A dozen different thoughts and sensations raced through her. He was pressed against her. It was most inappropriate, she supposed. She wasn’t used to being touched at all, and this should feel odd and wrong, but instead, it felt incredibly, stirringly right. She felt as if she had discovered that she was ravenously hungry, but hungry for some food she hadn’t realized existed. “I’ll protect you, too, Victor.”
“Elizabeth.” He pressed his face into her hair as though he wanted to breathe her in and trembled, and then suddenly he pushed her back, making her stumble. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, voice hoarse and chest heaving as if he’d just finished a race. And then he pushed her out the door and bolted it after her, as though she were the one who had lost control of the situation.
She stood outside the laboratory, blinking in the sunshine as her eyes tried to adjust to the sudden change.
20
“Will, tell me more about your brother,” Lizzie said as she sat across from him in the dining hall, too keyed up to eat the baked beans on toast that constituted the evening’s supper.
Will, who had been drinking a cup of tea while checking his notes on cranial nerves, began spluttering and choking.
Byram glared at her as he pounded his friend between the shoulder blades. “What are you trying to do, kill him?”
She refused to be intimidated. “Oh, stop it. He had a brother who died. He knows it, you know it, everyone knows it. So why are we supposed to act as though it’s some unspeakable secret?”
Byram smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, of course, you’re going to give us a lesson in American etiquette. Care to tell me all about your dead mother and father, then?”
Lizzie stuck her chin out. “Certainly. And then you can tell me what’s wrong with your—”
Will coughed into his napkin, interrupting her. “Now stop it, Byram. I don’t mind discussing Victor. I just swallowed the wrong way. What do you want to know, Lizzie?”
She hesitated. There were so many questions tumbling through her mind. She wanted to ask: What was he like? Did he say anything about discovering something important shortly before he died? Had he kept a journal or a lesson planner? Yet behind these legitimate questions, there were others, slyly insinuating their way to the front of the line. Questions such as: What sort of girls did he like, and did he have one special girl, and if he did, where was she now?
“What was he like?” There. That covered both valid curiosity about the chain of events that had led to Victor’s transformation into a Bio-Mechanical, and the less honorable desire to know whether or not he just embraced girls as a matter of course.
“I’ve already told you. Top of the class. Perfect test scores. Captain of the rugby team. He was three years older than me, but before he went off to school I tagged along with him everywhere. He was patient with me, for the most part.” Will crumbled a bit of toast between his fingers, then looked down at what he was doing. “Sorry. What else do you want to know?”
“You make him sound perfect.”
“I don’t!”
“You do, you know.” Byram was uncharacteristically serious. “You talk about him as though he were some sort of godlike youth, beloved by all, while you’re the weakling runt that crawled around after him.”
“Do I? Well, let’s see, then. Victor’s shortcomings. He was a passable rider, but he didn’t like horses much. And he had a bit of tunnel vision.”
Lizzie leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. Talking about Victor was nearly as good as being near him. “What do you mean?”
“Things came easily to him, so he never understood how difficult it could be for other people. When I got to Eton, I found out that some of the chaps at school resented him a bit, but they never said so to his face and Victor never twigged to it.”
“What about here? Did he have any enemies here?”
Will looked puzzled. “Enemies? I wouldn’t say that Victor had enemies anywhere.”
Byram shook his head. “Of course he had enemies, Will. He was top of his class. People in power always have enemies.” He poured himself some more tea, then frowned as he picked up his cup. “Cold. Of course.”
“I suppose he might have had enemies,” said Will. “But I never knew about it. In his letters, he always sounded very happy, and if he complained, it was in a joking sort of way.” He looked pensive. “I think that’s what made the news of his death easier to take—we knew he’d been happy, right up to the end.”
Laying her hand on his Will’s arm, she asked the question she realized she should have asked all along. “How did Victor die? You never said.”
“Septicemia. He had a putrid inflammation of the vermiform appendix, which ruptured.”
“But didn’t they operate? I have heard there was a successful operation in London a few years back.”
“They might have tried. I didn’t inquire. We were all too distraught at the time.” Will looked pale, and Lizzie knew she should leave him alone.
“You could ask now, though,” she said softly. “Is there anyone who might be able to tell you more, besides the professors? A friend, or roommate?”
“I suppose,” said Will. “Henry Clerval was his best friend and roommate. I could speak with hi
m.”
“Henry Clerval? The supercilious toad-face who helps grade our papers in Materia Medica?” Lizzie couldn’t imagine him being Victor’s friend.
“I know, he’s an odd sort of chap—arrogant to the first years, unctuous to the professors. But he and Victor were friends ever since they were small, like Byram and me.”
“Bite your tongue,” Byram said, but Will was lost in thought.
“I could talk to him, I suppose.” Will raked his hands through his hair, and for a moment, Lizzie could see the resemblance to Victor. “Yes, why not learn more about what happened?”
“Because some things are better off left alone,” said Byram. He cleared his plates and stalked off, apparently more upset than Will by the conversation.
“What’s wrong with him?” Byram was usually broody, but Lizzie had never seen him like this.
“He has these black moods. Strangest things set him off. Don’t worry about it, Lizzie.” Will’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
They knew each other so well, better than she had ever known anyone. Sometimes it surprised her that she had even been admitted into the tight circle of their friendship. Though perhaps that was enough to explain why they included her: they were all black sheep, clinging together because they were separate from the rest of the herd.
“So,” she said, “when do you want to approach Henry Clerval? I don’t see him in the dining hall at the moment, but why don’t we look for him tomorrow after class?”
Will swallowed, then nodded. “Certainly,” he said. “If you think we should, then...certainly.”
As he walked away, she wondered if she was a bad friend for pressing him to speak with Henry about his brother when clearly the memories were still fresh and painful. Then another thought intruded, darker than the first: perhaps she shouldn’t be poking around, openly asking questions about Victor’s death.
Elizabeth, I think they killed me because I knew something. If they think I’ve talked to you...if they think you know what I know...
Would Victor approve of her talking to Henry Clerval? Probably not. But then, it wasn’t as though she were talking to the faculty. Whatever the big secret was, it wasn’t as though Clerval could be a part of it, or he would have been changed into a Bio-Mechanical, as well.
Besides, ignorance was its own kind of hazard. In medicine as in life, what you didn’t know could most certainly hurt you. Any man of science, any person of science, would know it was always better to bring things out of the shadows and into the light.
* * *
The next day, Will sat next to Lizzie in Materia Medica while Byram sat closer to the front row, near Temple and some other boys. She wondered if Will and Byram had argued about something, but she couldn’t exactly ask during class.
After the lecture, she was about to say something, but before she could get the words out, Will stood up and said, “You ready?”
Lizzie nodded and followed her friend to the front of the lecture hall as the other students, including Byram, filed out.
“Clerval,” said Will. “Do you have a moment?”
Henry looked up from the papers he was grading. “A moment, yes, but that amount of time has already passed.” He smiled smugly at his own joke.
What an utter toad. Lizzie had no idea how Victor could have been friends with the man, unless he was less of an ass around people of the same gender. Or perhaps the loss of his friend and roommate had changed Henry.
She decided to try again. “Mr. Clerval,” she said, clutching her books to her chest, “I know you are busy, but if you could just spare me a few minutes, I would be very grateful.”
“You would, eh? Just how grateful?” Putting down the test papers he had been grading, Henry leered at her. She exchanged a quick look with Will, who seemed as uncomfortable with the situation as she was. Too bad Byram had already filed out of the classroom with the other students.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “What I mean to say is, I have a few questions.”
“Oh, I see.” Henry went back to grading papers, revealing a bald patch at the top of his ginger hair. “Sorry, old girl, but I’m a bit snowed under at the moment.”
Will started to head toward the door, but she stopped him with a look.
“I understand, but I think you may feel differently when I tell you it’s about Victor Frankenstein.”
“Victor’s dead.” There was no hint of smugness or humor in Henry’s manner now.
Lizzie forced herself to plow through her embarrassment. “This is Will, Victor’s younger brother.”
Henry’s eyes flickered over to Will, then back. “I am well aware of that fact.”
“Then you should also understand why we...why he might have a few questions to ask you.”
Henry looked coldly furious. “So who has the questions? You, or Miss Lavenza?”
Will took a deep breath. “I do.”
“I see. And do you always let a woman do your talking for you?”
“No, sir. I do not.” Will squared his shoulders. “But talking about Victor is difficult for me, as I’m sure it is for you. Miss Lavenza never knew my brother. She is here as a friend, to encourage me.”
Henry’s lips thinned. “All right, then. Seeing as how you’ve been encouraged...what is it I can help you with, Frankenstein?”
“I wanted to know more about my brother’s final days. What he was doing, how he was feeling...” Will glanced at Lizzie, and she motioned for him to go on. “If there were any signs that might have been caught earlier...”
Henry pushed his chair back hard, as though readying himself for a fight. “Are you suggesting that the school is in some way to blame for your brother’s death?”
“I... I...no, not at all. I just...”
Lizzie took a step forward. “Just out of curiosity, why did no one suggest operating to drain the vermiform appendix? Ingold is meant to be at the cutting edge of medical care, after all.”
Henry’s eyes darted from Will to Lizzie and back again. Standing this close to him, she caught a whiff of acrid sweat.
“What is this?” Henry slammed down his pencil. “Some sort of interrogation? You think I didn’t care for Victor? You think perhaps I ignored signs that he was unwell?”
“Not at all,” Will said quickly.
“I don’t know,” said Lizzie. “I wasn’t there. Do you think that, Mr. Clerval? Do you believe that you could, or should, have done more?”
Will stared at her as though she had lost her mind, and it occurred to Lizzie that he might not be wrong. Henry Clerval might not have as much power as a professor, but he was still an upperclassman and a teaching assistant. He could certainly influence Moulsdale against her, not that the head of medicine required much of a push, as he was already inclined to disapprove of her.
“I do think that, at times,” said Henry, surprising her. “I look back and wonder what I might have done differently.”
“Did he complain of abdominal pain?” Will spoke without hesitation this time.
“Abdominal pain?” For a moment, Henry seemed utterly confused, as if he had forgotten that they were talking about Victor’s appendicitis. “No. No, he never complained. He seemed fine at the time. No one had any idea he was so unwell until it was too late to save him.”
“Of course not,” said Will. “He wasn’t the sort to make a fuss.”
“But isn’t an inflamed appendix meant to be terribly painful?” Both men turned to look at Lizzie. “Not to cast aspersions on Victor’s manly ability to withstand discomfort,” she said with a touch of sarcasm, “but if the appendix was inflamed, he would at least have winced or lost his appetite or groaned a little when he sat down or stood up.”
Will took a moment to think that over; clearly, the heroic image he had of his brother did not include groa
ning, even when in acute physical distress. “That’s true, I suppose.” He sounded unconvinced.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Mr. Clerval, tell him! Nobody with an appendix about to rupture just walks around as though everything’s fine!” Henry Clerval had the strangest look on his face: fear, but with a touch of something else that seemed almost like longing. It’s as though part of him wants to be blamed, she thought. “Has it occurred to you that Victor Frankenstein might not have had a ruptured appendix at all?”
“I don’t understand,” said Will. “You think he was misdiagnosed?”
Taking a deep breath, Lizzie forced herself to look at Will, because it made her too nervous to address Henry. “Misdiagnosis is one possibility.”
“Are you suggesting that someone deliberately harmed Victor?” Henry’s voice rose in indignation, as though she had insulted him personally.
“I’m saying,” she said with deliberate calm, “that we should investigate the circumstances surrounding his death.”
“But why?” Will’s voice was as plaintive as a child’s. “Why on God’s green earth do you think anyone would want to hurt my brother?”
“Yes, Miss Lavenza,” said Henry, steepling his fingers in a gesture copied from Moulsdale. “Why do you think someone would want to murder Ingold’s most promising medical student?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling the burn of indigestion low in her chest. Even to her own ears, her suspicions sounded unfounded and more than a little preposterous. Unfortunately, she couldn’t just come out and say that it was Victor himself who had planted the seeds of doubt in her mind. “It’s just a hunch, really.”
“Woman’s intuition?” Henry laced both words with equal amounts of contempt. “I think, Miss Lavenza,” he said slowly, “that this disordered thinking may be attributable to anemia. You young women are frequently anemic, are you not?” He raised an eyebrow.
It took her a moment, and then, when she saw how Will looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him up, she understood. He means I’m irrational because I’m menstruating. She could feel the shaming rush of blood to her face. No gentleman ever mentioned a woman’s monthly courses in mixed company. It was more than crude—it was demeaning.
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