The Frankenstein Testament
Chapter 9

Emily Brunty opened her eyes.

A rush of blinding pain stabbed into her brain and shequickly closed them again. If nothing else, at least she could be sure that shewas still alive.

Memories of the night before came flooding back and a chillof panic gripped her. She opened her eyes once more and looked around wildly.With relief she saw the familiar surroundings of her room in her uncle, theReverend Wilson's house. It was a small, sparse room with one bed, a washstandand an uncomfortable wooden chair. The only decoration was a faded piece ofneedlework hung on the wall that preached that "the Devil replaces work foridle hands". It may not have been much, but it was infinitely better thanthat damnable, fog-haunted lane with its horrors lurking in the dark. She casta glance at the stack of books sitting on the chair-The Monk by Mathew Lewis,The Vampyr by John Polidori, Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe and TheSkeleton Count by Elizabeth Grey-and realised with a pang of regret that afterthe reality of the previous night’s experience their narratives would neverquite inspire the same thrill of terror for her again.

Sunlight streamed in through the window and Emily got out ofbed. The pain in her head faded rapidly as she was overcome by a strange,woozy, thick-headedness, that engulfed her like a warm wave. This, shereasoned, was probably the last comfort from the laudanum they had given herthe night before. She touched her face and though it felt numb she knew it wasbruised on one cheek and her forehead was grazed.

The night before, a policeman had woken her from her swoonby waving a bottle of smelling salts under her nose. Mercifully for her, thecorpse of the poor murdered policeman had already been removed from the scene.There seemed to be policemen everywhere and thankfully there was no sign of thebeast who had attacked them. Her uncle reassured her that while the murdererhad vanished in the dark, he was gravely wounded and would not-could not-getvery far. This had the opposite to its intended effect as the thought that themadman was lurking somewhere nearby in the dark terrified her once again.

Disorientated and frightened, she had been carried up thelane by two policemen until they arrived at her uncle's manse. The policemenassured them that there would be a guard of four constables outside the doorall night and she and her uncle had retired inside.

Her uncle's dour, rather severe housekeeper had undressedEmily and put her in her night clothes, then insisted on her drinking a draftof laudanum to make her sleep. Almost as soon as the contrasting bitterness ofthe opium mixed with the cloying sweetness of the syrup in her mouth she wasslipping away into unconsciousness again.

She got out of bed. Standing up, her head swam a little asshe crossed to the room’s single twelve-paned sash window. Looking out Emilynoted with a certain degree of relief that two policemen still stood outsidethe doorway below. It was past midday and the street outside was busy withhorses, carts, drovers and a few cyclists.

For Emily, the sight of so much traffic was still a noveltyand not an annoyance. She had not yet been in Belfast long enough for theexciting freshness of city life to be dulled to the habitual cynicism of theurban dweller. It was only a matter of weeks since she had left her job asteacher in a small country school outside Rathfriland and moved to stay at heruncle’s house in Belfast, ostensibly seeking employment as a governess. Belfasthad plenty of newly-rich linen magnates building mansions on the fashionableOrmeau Road and they all needed someone to look after and tutor their children.

Emily’s real motive was very different. She thought of hersober, elderly uncle and felt a thrill of trepidation. The Reverend Wilsonwould probably have a fit if he knew her actual intentions. He might even throwher out of his house which would be a disaster. That would force her to returnto the limited, closely controlled confines of her parents’ house back in thecountry. Whatever happened, she had to keep her plans secret from him at leastuntil she found herself a job.

At twenty five years old and still unmarried, her despairingparents had given up on her. To them she was now an old maid left on the shelfand grandchildren were out of the question. Their one consolation was that shehad a good, steady job as a school teacher and now the she also had theprospect of advancement in the respectable employment as a governess.

Emily had other ideas. She wanted to be a writer and inBelfast there was the potential for making a career in Journalism. Since therecent reduction in their cover tax the newspapers of the town were flourishing.Thousands of readers eagerly devoured their editions daily. Emily, tired of thestultifying life of a county school teacher dreamed of the excitement of acareer as a reporter.

Her uncle, the Reverend James Wilson, was not an unkind man,but he was somewhat old fashioned in his ideas. It was bad enough for a man towork in Journalism, but a woman? There would be no way he would allow his nieceto fall into such disreputable, even scandalous employment. Her mother andfather, she knew, shared his convictions.

Unfortunately, Emily had found that the newspaper editorsshe had visited also found that the idea of a woman working in journalismunpalatable, even ridiculous. In a depressing series of interviews over thelast few days, she had visited the offices of the Belfast News Letter, TheNorthern Star, The Belfast Guardian and the Northern Herald. Her reception hadranged from downright dismissive (“I don’t think so, love”) to condescending(“we do need a tea lady”).

The afternoon before, in the office of the Editor of theNorthern Whig, she had finally cracked.

The Editor was a relatively young man in his thirties whodressed in the height of European-style fashion with a linen shirt and cravat,double breasted waistcoat and a padded shouldered frock coat. He was sitting,Emily’s folio of example work unopened on the desk before him and a patronisingexpression on his face.

“The thing is, Miss Brunty,” he began without even raisinghis eyes to meet hers, “reporting isn’t a job for the fainted hearted. Manyfolk in this town are openly hostile to journalists. It doesn’t stop thembuying my paper thank God, but journalism is not a job for a respectable personsuch as yourself. Most of the juicy details on the stories we publish are to befound in the taverns and bars of this town and from acquaintance with the lessreputable members of society. Its just not really a job for…for-” he waved hishand in her general direction.

“For a woman?” Emily finished for him.

With this last rejection, coming on the back of all theother from the previous days, Emily Brunty felt her dreams crumbling before hervery eyes. Tears welled in her eyes and she bowed her head. It was so unfair.Suddenly her eyes dried as a new emotion-anger-arose within her, shoulderingaside the feelings of despair.

“If you trouble yourself to look through my portfolio ofwriting on the desk in front of you,” Emily said, rising to her feet, “Ibelieve you will see that my talents are the match of any man who currentlyworks on this paper and as a qualified school teacher, my spelling and grammaris a damn sight better!”

The Editor noticeably flinched at her use of the “D” word.

“Really Sir,” Emily continued, her eyes alight with anintense glare, “I thought the Northern Whig was supposed to be a progressivenewspaper. Not like the other conservative rags in Belfast. There is now aQueen on the throne if you haven’t noticed. The times are changing. Women won’talways be content to make tea and look after children. We have fought toabolish slavery and thank God we have won that battle-though our Americancousins have yet to catch up with the rest of the civilised world in thatparticular respect-and the next great battle will be to establish the rights ofwomen. Women are no longer content with their lot. We are every bit the equalof men and we will fight for our rights. You will not hold us down.”

For several seconds, the Editor sat in stunned silence,suddenly feeling sorry for any of the naughty children in Miss Brunty’s school.

Emily began to put her coat on.

“Wait,” the Editor said. “I suppose times are changing afterall. I’ll tell you what: I’ll give you a chance.”

Emily stopped putting her coat on.

“Convince me that you can do this job, Miss Brunty.Reporting is a rough profession but if you think you can hack it with the restof us, then prove it to me. Get me a great story. Find something that will havemy papers flying off the shelves like hot cakes.”

“Is there anything in particular you have in mind?”

The Editor smiled and spread his arms. “There’s no shortageof stories in this city, my dear. Sectarian riots, political corruption, crime.It’s up to you. Crime’s a good one actually. A nice juicy murder sells paperslike nobody’s business. The Belfast Butcher is the big story right now. If you canreplace something about him I’ll print it. A good reporter replaces the storiespeople want to read about.”

Emily had left the Editor’s office excited and eager to getwriting. Her problem was replaceing material for the story that would secure forher this dream job. She had hoped her uncle’s connections among the upperlevels of Belfast society would prove a wealthy source for news stories. Theprevious evening she had accompanied him to an extremely boring dinner party atthe fashionable townhouse of Sir William Patterson, the fabulously wealthylinen magnate and leading member of the town Corporation. With so many of thetown dignitaries in the same room surely she would have picked up some juicytidbits of news?

Things began to take an interesting turn when after thedinner had finished the men had started to discuss the murder in the town butto Emily’s dismay Mrs Patterson had scolded her husband for talking about sucha frightening topic. The conversation had then shifted to the upcomingelections and the rumours of planned electoral fraud that were going around thetown. Emily’s hopes had risen again but Mrs Patterson had then ushered all thewomen out of the dining room to leave the men to their cigars and port. To herfrustration, Emily was stuck in the drawing room playing cards with the ladieswhose entire conversation had been little more than gossip about who was havingan affair with whom, who was rumoured to have a drink problem and who was saidto have financial problems. There were no potential stories for her. Who wouldwant to read about that in the newspapers?

In the street outside a newspaper boy of about ten with aridiculously large flat cap on his head struggled along the footpath, a bigsatchel of papers slung over one shoulder. Its weight made him lurch like acripple rather than walk. In one hand he held up a copy of the BelfastNewsletter, its headline screaming ‘Policeman murdered’. Every couple of stepssomeone stopped him to buy a paper from him. The previous night's events wereclearly big news already.

Emily rubbed her eyes and a shudder of terror ran throughher at the thought of the horrific death the young policeman had suffered. Hershock dissipated to a slight bitterness at how the ending of a human life hadso quickly become cheap titillation for the general public who gathered likevultures to read the grisly events in the paper.

Then she felt another another, slightly strange emotion. Agrowing excitement kindled in her breast. She felt a thrill that almost madeher feel guilty. She now had something that those men who ran the newspaperscould not ignore. Not only that, they would be falling over each other to getit from her.

She had a story.