“What sort of bitterness?” Stoker asked.
“Her experiments have frequently been dismissed by male scientists as frivolous and unworthy. Her speciality is in the field of applied galvanics, and recently she has been attempting to discover how the uses of electricity may be employed in the domestic sphere.”
“You mean illumination for the home?”
Her mouth twisted, but the smile was not unkind. “Leave it to a man to think only of light! No, sir. I mean every manner of domestic labour. Eliza believes it is possible to harness the power of electricity to do most tasks currently carried out by the lowest drudge—the washing of clothes, the cleaning of carpets. She feels certain that devices may be invented which can liberate women from such chores.”
“My god,” I murmured. “What a change that would make!”
Stoker was gracious enough not to observe that my own activities in the domestic sphere were limited to the tidying, dusting, and polishing of specimens in the Belvedere which I trusted to no maid’s ministrations. The rest of the washing, cleaning, cooking, and sewing of my things was carried out by a regiment of Beauclerk maids as one of the perquisites of being in the earl’s employ. But I sympathised enough with the sisterhood of women to appreciate what a difference such inventions might bring to their lives. Their time could be freed for the pursuit of education or entertainment, their hours better spent in activities chosen to uplift their spirits and enrich their minds than the current dull repetitions of household drudgery.
Parthenope Fleet went on. “Naturally, male scientists see no purpose to her experiments. She has been oft-derided in professional journals, to the point she no longer submits papers or shares her research. She is resolved that whatever discoveries she makes, they can be published only after her death.”
“An extreme but thoroughly understandable position,” Stoker said.
“Wait a moment,” I said suddenly. “You referred to Julius Elyot’s laboratory. Surely as an artist he would have had a studio.”
“An artist! He was no such thing,” she repeated irritably.
“Forgive me, Miss Fleet, but he was listed as the artist commissioned to sculpt a death mask of a drowning victim some fifteen years ago,” I persisted.
She paused to think. “He was a gifted artist, but his art was always in service of science. He was foremost a student of galvanic applications. He was Eliza’s first tutor, in fact. He took her into his laboratory to serve as a sort of amanuensis. He was very protective of his work and wanted no breath of it to be discussed in the general way. Having Eliza on hand to keep records was the perfect solution. And as she showed an early aptitude for the field, he began to educate her so that she could, at times, carry out the simpler preparations for his experiments.”
This was exceedingly puzzling information and not a little disheartening. If a man was supposed to have been an artist, he ought to have actually been one, I thought in some annoyance. A tiny thorn of doubt that we were on the trail of the correct Julius Elyot pricked my consciousness as Stoker and Parthenope Fleet continued to talk.
“Would you like to see my laboratory?” she asked suddenly. He accepted with alacrity, and she rose to lead him to it. I followed behind, pointedly neither included nor excluded. I had been, in short, forgot, and I had half a mind to stay and see how long it took them to remember me.
But I am always curious about the methods of other scientists, so I trailed along, listening absently to their conversation. She explained something of her work as she led him back through the hall and unlocked a stout oaken door with a key she kept pinned to her pocket.
“I permit no one to visit without an invitation,” she told him.
“I shall consider myself honoured,” he replied, and she smiled at him over her shoulder as she opened the door and threw a switch to illuminate the gaslights. The flickering fixtures led the way down a flight of stone stairs which gave onto a narrow stone passage. This debouched into a room of tremendous proportions, running what seemed like theentire length of the house, but it was not the enormity of the place which gave me pause. The walls were lined with shelves, many holding a vast array of jars in which unspeakable things floated. Some were simple zoological specimens, but others were far more gruesome. Organs swollen with tumours, limbs twisted with unspeakable ailments, even a malformed infant bobbing gently in a large flask. Other shelves held a collection of volumes in English, Latin, German, and Italian, whilst one wall had been fitted with racks of tools and instruments. In the centre of the room stood a wide table, large enough to accommodate a grown man, and connected to this was the greatest assembly of electrical equipment I had ever seen.
“Voltaic piles,” Stoker said in a tone of hushed awe.
Parthenope busied herself retrieving one of the jars and carrying it to the table. “Everyone knows Volta and Galvani. The Italians were instrumental as pioneers in electrical studies,” she said. “But it was Giovanni Aldini who brought the practical applications to England.”
“I am not familiar with his work,” Stoker told her, watching with interest as she spread a tidy piece of linen towelling on the table.
“He was a Bolognese,” she said. “And quite accomplished in his studies. It was Aldini who theorised that it is the heart which is the engine of animation to the human body. He attempted to prove it in Italy, but he lacked a vital piece of equipment for his experiments.”
“What was that?” I inquired.
She looked up in apparent surprise. I think she had forgot my existence altogether, but she answered readily enough. “A fresh cadaver. Those available for study in Bologna were dried out by the time he got his hands on them. He needed something...” She paused, searching for the correct word. “Somethingjuicy,” she finished with a smack of the lips.
Parthenope opened the jar and gently removed a hand. It was not the appendage of a lady, lacking any sort of delicacy or grace.
Parthenope noticed my scrutiny. “What do you make of her?”
I paused, studying the hand from every angle. “Young,” I said finally.
“On what grounds?” she demanded. I noticed she did not catechise Stoker in the same manner, but I did not mind. I felt more than up to the task.
“On the grounds that the skin of the back of the hand is unlined and the knuckles are unswollen. It has neither the slackness of age nor the inflammation of rheumatism.”
“Good. Go on.” She looked coolly down the length of her nose at me. Stoker said nothing, but I could sense his amusement at her challenge.
“The broadness of the palm and bluntness of the fingers suggest the sort of exercise which comes from working with the hands. This is confirmed by the calluses on the finger and the shortness of the nails.”