Chapter 52: Child Thief |
March 1896.
This winter was unseasonably warm and dismal.
Foolish spring flowers, deceived by the mild weather, cautiously poked out their heads and opened their buds, only to freeze in the bitter cold that arrived the very next day. As this erratic weather persisted, the already depressing London streets took on an even more desolate atmosphere with their carpet of rotting flower buds.
The flowers weren’t the only victims of the capricious weather.
On the rare days it snowed, all of London seemed to fall ill. Snowflakes never reached the ground intact, always arriving half-melted, turning into damp clumps that mixed with mud and horse manure to form revolting brown masses.
It resembled filth falling from the sky rather than snow, and the young street sweepers, their workload doubled by this new nuisance, labored with glum faces from before dawn until nightfall.
The heavens, it seemed, were staunch Tories.
Little wonder, since they had imposed their own version of the Highway Act restrictions. Coachmen, terrified their horses might slip on the frozen ground and injure themselves, couldn’t pick up speed, while motorcars couldn’t advance because carriages clogged the roads ahead.
I was forced to leave home a full 30 minutes earlier than usual just to barely arrive on time for my lectures. The tip of my walking stick remained perpetually damp, souring my mood before the day had properly begun.
After a French satirical artist observed this phenomenon and published a scathing article claiming “Londoners don’t know how to wear coats, they carry them like bags and parade them about,” anti-French sentiment in London intensified considerably for a time.
Naturally, to retaliate against Paris, every newspaper in the city printed at least one article per issue mocking the Eiffel Tower.
It was on just such a winter day—when neither sky nor citizenry could claim to be anything but damp and disagreeable.
Tap.
I set down my fountain pen and carefully reread the sentence I had just written.
“The red ray is named the Maria ray, and the green ray is named the Pierre ray.”
With that final phrase, the translation of Marie Curie’s notes, which had consumed nearly a year of my time, was finally complete. Yet I felt no sense of accomplishment whatsoever.
“The red ray is the Maria ray, the green ray is the Pierre ray…”
I read the sentence again in a gloomy voice. Even spoken aloud, nothing changed. While the translation remained unfinished, I could cling to hope, but now there was no room for denial.
She had recorded nothing about her personal activities.
The notes were purely academic, devoid of emotion until the very end. Perhaps maintaining such clinical detachment was the only way she could preserve her sanity.
Perhaps because of this rigid self-control, Madame Curie ultimately revealed her humanity quite clearly in those final lines.
I couldn’t begin to guess what thoughts had passed through her mind when she divided the two rays between the Curie couple at the end. Only her husband, Pierre Curie, would understand the significance behind this gesture.
That was why I had decided to send these notes to Pierre Curie.
But before that, I resolved to complete a copy to place in the Frank Academy’s archives. Although I couldn’t comprehend her academic achievements in the slightest, I couldn’t treat carelessly the research materials she had risked her life to preserve.
At least there was one person at the academy who might continue her scientific legacy.
Dr. Victor Frankenstein.
A man who had pursued knowledge with such fervor he’d even turned his back on God would surely be capable of understanding Madame Curie’s notes. Of course, to accomplish this, I would first have to locate the man—and therein lay the greatest challenge.
Dr. Frankenstein had vanished.
The day after returning from Oxford, I hastened to Frank Mansion, only to learn that Dr. Frankenstein had mysteriously disappeared a week prior.
He had essentially taken up permanent residence at the mansion, living as an indefinite houseguest. For such a man to venture out without a word and then vanish—there was simply no trail to follow.
“Haah.”
I exhaled a heavy sigh.
A year ago, when Marie Curie sought me out, she had lamented that all academy members were such eccentrics that contacting them was nearly impossible. Little did I know I would come to share her frustration a year later.
Where could he have gone?
If he were merely absorbed in some obsession, as he had been when haunting the cemetery grounds, that would be tolerable. But I had glimpsed the secrets and sins lurking behind his eyes. That man possessed power enough to annihilate humanity and still have capacity for further destruction. His single-minded determination felt like an ill omen without end.
Tap-tap.
The sound of knocking at my window roused me from my grim reverie.
Glancing toward the source, I saw the familiar newspaper boy approaching, rapping at the glass. I rose from my chair and opened the window.
“Hello, sir,” the boy greeted, his voice barely audible. What had become of his usually spirited tone? He wheezed like one who might not see tomorrow.
“Your voice is faint.”
“HELLO, SIR!”
I had spoken out of concern, but the boy evidently took it as criticism—or perhaps genuinely believed I was hard of hearing—for he strained his throat to produce a parched shout.
“I’m not scolding you; you may speak normally. Good heavens, you’ve become quite a sight since I last saw you.”
Looking more closely, I realized that within just days, he had deteriorated to a state of abject poverty. He had never been particularly well-groomed, but to be so emaciated that his bones protruded beneath his skin was decidedly alarming.
“Are you ill?”
“No, sir. I’m healthy.”
He answered with such haste, as though admitting illness would result in immediate dismissal.
“What of your parents?”
“I live at the Fenchurch Boys’ Home, sir.”
“Ah, I see.”
I faltered at his response, hastily concluding my inquiry. A boys’ home—the common euphemism for an orphanage. Though I was well aware that most of London’s working children were orphans, I had never engaged one in direct conversation, rendering the situation excruciatingly uncomfortable.
The boy waited silently for my response. He seemed well-practiced in awaiting the actions of others—the characteristic expression of a child who had never known affection.
“Are you eating properly?”
“Yes, Master Young treats us very well.”
His prompt reply suggested that this Young person at least educated the children properly—whether he actually treated them well was another matter entirely.
I studied the child’s gaunt face and spoke.
“Wait here a moment. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
“How long should I wait, sir?”
“Just a very brief while.”
I closed the window and limped out of the room, my bad leg dragging slightly.
“Marie, where are you?”
At my call, Marie materialized at the corridor’s end. Her habit of suddenly emerging from shadowy corners where the lamplight failed to reach was something I could never grow accustomed to, no matter how many times I witnessed it.
While steadying my startled heart, I managed to speak.
“Do we have any bread left over from breakfast?”
“If you’re hungry, shall I prepare some tea instead?”
“No, just the bread, please.”
She disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a plate bearing a slice of stale bread. She had spread jam on it to make it more palatable.
“This constant snacking is precisely why your stomach troubles you so.”
Marie served this unappetizing remark alongside the bread. The injustice was palpable—this wasn’t even for my consumption!
I felt thoroughly wronged, but if she discovered I intended to give the bread to the boy, an even more severe lecture would surely follow. I retreated to my room without uttering a word.
Through the closed window, I could see the boy still standing respectfully. I raised the sash and extended the plate through the opening.
“Here, have something to fill your belly.”
I anticipated at least a word of gratitude, but the boy merely seized the bread with both hands and ravenously tore into it. The sight of his small fingers trembling as he attempted to cram the bread into his mouth with desperate haste was more pitiable than unseemly.
“Hack-cough! Kuh-“
Predictably, attempting to swallow such hard, dry bread so hastily led to choking. He coughed violently and expelled a sizable piece onto the pavement.
“Don’t.”
I spoke sharply as the boy’s gaze fixed upon the fallen morsel.
“Only beggars pick up and eat what’s fallen to the ground. Besides, it’s been in your mouth already.”
“But I am a beggar, sir.”
For a moment, words failed me completely. How carelessly I had spoken. I struggled to recover.
“Would you like to become a gentleman someday?”
The child nodded with innocent eyes brimming with longing.
“Then heed my advice.”
Though clearly torn, he mastered his impulse and returned his attention to the remaining bread. How desperate his hunger must be to devour such tasteless, stale fare with the fervor of a man possessed.
Something dropped from the boy’s mouth. This time, it wasn’t bread. My eyes widened in alarm.
“Was that a tooth?”
“Ah, yes, sir. My loose tooth finally came out.”
I suddenly realized the boy was young enough that his baby teeth had not yet all fallen out. I was struck anew by both his tender age and the telling fact that he showed more concern for a morsel of bread than for his dislodged tooth.
A moment later, after thoroughly licking his grimy fingers, he finally remembered his manners.
“Thank you, sir.”
I acknowledged his gratitude with a measured nod.
“Would you care to purchase a newspaper, sir?”
“I’ll take one copy of the Illustrated London.”
The boy rummaged through his satchel and produced the requested publication. I pressed several coins into his palm—considerably more than the asking price. I couldn’t say how much would ultimately find its way to his pocket, but I trusted a resourceful lad like him would manage his affairs accordingly.
After the boy departed, I quickly scanned the headlines.
“SMR Welles Debate Intensifies—Is the Era of High-Speed Trains Upon Us?”
“‘Amundsen Is a Swedish Dullard,’ Scott Breaks His Silence!”
The front page boasted numerous enticing stories, but one peculiar headline immediately seized my attention.
The phrasing was so bewilderingly ornate that I suspected some failed poet-turned-journalist had poured the last dregs of his artistic sensibilities into it as a final testament to his literary aspirations.
The headline read simply:
“The Child Thief Appears.”
…A week had since elapsed.
My daily routine remained largely unchanged during this period. Despite being ensnared in several troublesome affairs over the past year, my life had, paradoxically, achieved unprecedented stability.
Having completed my translation work, I had used my newfound time to compose and submit several academic papers I had long postponed. While I could never truly fill Professor Callas’s position, university matters progressed quite satisfactorily otherwise.
One vexing matter remained: my search for Dr. Frankenstein had yielded no progress whatsoever.
With his singular appearance, he should have attracted notice wherever he ventured—yet in this teeming metropolis, he had somehow vanished without trace. Person-hunting was hardly my forte, and I had nearly abandoned the pursuit entirely.
Thus, only one element of my daily routine had altered.
“You haven’t been reading the newspaper lately.”
At Marie’s observation, I instinctively glanced toward the window. Through the glass, I observed only the profiles of passing pedestrians—no one approached my dwelling directly.
“He no longer comes to sell his papers…” I murmured softly.
“That newspaper boy? A blessing, I should think. Perhaps now the master will learn to pay the proper price for his daily news.”
“There’s nothing amiss in offering a small premium for the convenience of delivery…”
“If you hadn’t been paying twice the asking price, I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.”
She fussed over mere pennies like a miserly accountant. After standing in silence for a moment, she ventured:
“Do you suppose the Child Thief might have taken him?”
It was a naively macabre suggestion, revealing her fanciful imagination.
“You know—the one mentioned in the newspaper.”
I required no elaboration. After all, I had been the one to pass that very newspaper into her hands.
The Child Thief had earned a place of honor in Marie’s scrapbook, lovingly preserved alongside her collection of morbid curiosities. Though I thoroughly disapproved of her amassing such grim articles after all she had endured, I lacked standing to object and dutifully surrendered each newspaper to her growing archive.
Instead, I directed my distaste toward the nameless perpetrator of these crimes.
“I find the nomenclature utterly distasteful.”
“Child Thief? Indeed, one wonders why they eschewed the term ‘kidnapping.'”
I responded to Marie’s query with a derisive snort.
“Because certain pedantic fools fixate on appearances while utterly missing the essence. They prattle on about ‘preserving the purity of the English language’ while scorning any term with American origins. When the so-called educated gentlemen at the top spout such rubbish, these dimwitted journalists merely parrot their nonsense and produce these abominable phrases. Even so, dozens of superior expressions might have been employed.”
The reason for their chosen terminology was so transparently obvious as to require no speculation.
“They’re reducing children to mere property.”
A heavy silence fell between us. Noting my foul mood, the perceptive Marie ceased her inquiries. As a woman of this era—particularly one from the lower classes—she harbored no illusions about society’s callous treatment of children.
Gazing out the window, I voiced a sudden thought.
“You haven’t… done anything to frighten him, have you?”
Marie turned toward me without a word.
“It’s simply that… well, to a child, your appearance might be somewhat intimidating. Perhaps after glimpsing you, he elected not to return. Can you recall any interaction that might have dissuaded him?”
“So now you imagine I’ve been impersonating some manner of monster?”
“No, that isn’t my meaning at all. I merely suggested that your countenance might have startled him…”
“Of course, it must be my peculiar appearance that’s to blame.”
“No, why must you persist in this manner? I intended no such thing… I shall mind my words more carefully.”
Marie had recently discovered how to leverage her unique circumstance to my considerable discomfort. Every utterance now required careful consideration—the most compelling reason to locate Dr. Frankenstein with all possible haste.
Fearing further conversation, I rose hastily from my seat.
“Are you venturing out, sir?”
“Yes, I intend to make a brief inquiry. I shall return by sunset.”
She helped me don my coat and accompanied me to the entrance.
“Do take care, sir.”
I wondered if she had divined my destination. If so, her parting words were remarkably apt, for I was bound for London’s most notorious slum.
The eastern extremity of London.
A lawless wasteland where society’s refuse—both material and human—accumulated like sediment.
The East End of London.