The Medea Complex (17 page)

Edgar

March 2
^nd
, 1886

Local Gaol

My hands are shaking, and I don’t know if it’s because of
the lack of whiskey in this place, or out of fear. I wish that I was still
drunk, and that this week has been nothing but a figment of my imagination, but
these walls seem very real, as do the steel bars that prevent me from leaving
this cell. The bruises on my arms are very real too.

“Mr Stanbury?” A policeman approaches my cell, coming to a
stand-still mere inches from the bars.

“Sir! Please, can I have some water?” I jump up from the
bed, and hold out a long-since empty cup.

He tuts and takes it. I follow his back down the corridor
until he disappears from sight. My throat hitches, but thankfully after a few
seconds, he reappears.

"Here." He pushes the cup towards me with such
force that half of it sloshes onto the floor. It's all I can do to not fall to
my knees and lick up the precious, wasted liquid. It is tepid, but I don’t
care.

I gulp it, and wipe my mouth. "Thank you, I-"

He interrupts me with a low, aggressive utterance.

“Murderer.”

I can't help it; a laugh explodes out of me, just as it did
when James, the footman, suggested that my wife was missing. Just as it did
during the indictment, when the charges were read against me. “You are all mad.
She’s no doubt taken off for a walk.”

“And a week later, there's still no sign of her? That’s a
long bloody walk, mate.”

“Well, perhaps she went to visit some friends, and neglected
to inform anyone. She is, after all, a lunatic.” I correct myself quickly.
“Was, a lunatic. Was.”

“I don’t think so Mr Stanbury, and neither does anyone else.
Is that why you killed her? Because she is a ‘lunatic’, as you say?”

“No, I-“

“Because she murdered your baby, right? You decided to get
your revenge. You waited for her to be discharged, all the while plotting, and
then as soon as she was released you-“

“No!” I throw myself upon the bars. “No, no, no! You have it
all wrong, you have everything wrong! I didn’t kill her, how could I? She’s my
wife for god’s sake.”

He looks down at me and sneers.

“Was your wife, you mean? She’s dead.”

How, what? Did they find her body? Can it really be true?

“Did you…is she…I mean…” I stumble backwards, dropping the
cup on the floor. “Is she-”

“Dead?” The policeman crosses his arms. “Is that what you
were going to ask me? Is that what you are trying to verbalise, you drunken
fool?”

“I…I…”

“You left enough blood of hers on the ground for any jury in
the land to convict you. There’s no way she ‘walked’ anywhere. Corpses don’t
generally move. Which meant that you put her somewhere afterward. So where did
you put her, huh?”

“I…” I fall to the ground. Where is that smelly, stinking
blanket? I want to cover myself in it; I never want to move, ever again. My
life is over.

“Get off your hands and knees, you piece of scum.”

No, no. I shall not. Nobody listens to me. Nobody knows me.
I just want to be away from here, anywhere but in this cell. I don’t deserve to
be here, I haven’t done anything wrong…

“Here.” He throws something into the cell, a tinkling sound
which lands, glinting in the corner. “Lord Damsbridge sends his regards.” I
pick up the object, and open my hand.

My ring. I lost it a week ago; sure I'd put it in my desk
drawer. This explains why I was unable to find it.

They took it.

All I have done and all that I am has been discovered.

I have lost everything.

“I have been set up,” I say, picking up the ring. I cross
over to the bars and hold it out to him. “This is proof, irrefutable proof,
that whatever they tell you is a lie. I no more murdered my wife than I
murdered my son.” I sit on the floor, my arm held aloft.

The ring is whipped out of my hand and pocketed, before he
squats and brings his face close to mine. An inch of air is all that separates
us, yet it is as insurmountable as walking through metal.

“Have you looked in the mirror, Mr Stanbury? A fine shiner
you’ve got there. Fought you, did she? You know, I'm actually wondering now,
given the value of hindsight and all, whether you had something to do with your
son's death, too. But no matter. If we can't get you on that, we can certainly
get you for the murder of your wife.” His nose wrinkles as he sniffs.”In the
meantime, I suggest you try to get some sleep, or, at the very least, a wash.”

He knows.

His stance, his sneer, his utter dismissiveness of my very
valid argument is wrong. Very wrong. Unless, of course, Lord Damsbridge is
paying him.

“How much is he paying you?” I wipe my face, so weary now,
so tired. Tired of living a lie. Something happens inside of me, a snapping of
something essential to life. I'm tired of the plotting and planning and living
on the edge of a knife. Tired of life and death and love and insanity and drink
and everything. But mostly I am tired of being me, the son of my father, the
one who started this whole thing. I was never anything to him but an
instrument: one that he sent out into the world to do the dirty work of his own
father.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he says,
unperturbed, brushing invisible dirt from his trousers as he stands up. He is
so close to me that I hear his knees crack. The perfectly ironed trousers taunt
me.

“You do! Your eyes betray you! Lord Damsbridge! How much is
he paying you to set me up?”

His face twists into something approaching a sneer, part
disdain, and part disgust, as if I were nothing but something rotten on the
bottom of his perfectly shined shoes.

I realise that he will never admit it, and try a different
approach.

“Look. I know that you know what I'm talking about. I know
it. But if you won’t admit that to me then I understand that too; no doubt he
is paying you far more than you could ever earn on your salary, and I, more
than anyone, understand the pull and the attraction of money.” He continues to
stare at me. “But can you at least take me somewhere so I can have a wash, Sir?
You even said yourself that I smell offensive.”

His jaw works, and for a moment, I imagine with relief that
my words have registered with him.“Wash in your own piss, murderer.”

“Jones! Inspector Jones!” A new voice echoes down the long,
gray corridor. “Jones!”

“Ah, that's my signal to leave. I want to leave you with
just one thing, Mr Stanbury.” He throws the ring into the air, catches it, and
smiles. “Crime just doesn't pay in the end, does it?”

Dr Savage

March 2
^nd
, 1886

Local Gaol

The police regard me with suspicion as I enter their domain.
They manifest their collective impatience with the insult of an alienist's
intrusion by twitching awkwardly or outright ignoring my presence. Some
officers move away whilst the more curious amongst them remain, gossiping
quietly. Hostility crackles in the air, amplified by the usual shouts and howls
echoing from the cells beyond. One particular officer leans against a wall,
idly tapping his truncheon against his upper thigh, eyeing me from underneath
his hat as if I were the criminal. No doubt he is new and restless, eager to
arrest someone.

“Gentlemen,” I say politely, dropping my bag onto a small
chair in the entrance hall. My purposefully deferential tone hits the right
nerve, a few chests puff out, truncheons withdrawn. For the moment at least, they
feel their rightful authority over me has been exerted. I am reminded of birds
twisting in the wind as the flock's prejudicial enmity melts away.

“Alright boys, quieten down.” A dissenting murmur ascends
through the group as an incredibly tall gentleman steps to the forefront and
nods at me. He is almost military in his manner, and I wonder if he was in the
force.

“Good evening, Doctor. I'm Superintendent Blake from the
Criminal Investigation Department, in charge of this lot for my sins. I'm
afraid that the more immature amongst us are rather morbidly excited by this
most unusual case. However, these two gentlemen behind me; Inspector Drum and
Inspector Jones, are slightly more professional in their approach and that's
why the rest of this raggle are still Sergeants.” A collective snigger rises
through the crowd, and the Superintendent apparently notices for the first time
that one of the alluded to 'professionals' appears to absent. “Where is
Inspector Jones?” He turns to the other Inspector, a prematurely white-haired
man. “Inspector Drum?”

“I think he went to take a piss, Guv,” calls someone from
the crowd.

Inspector Drum shrugs his shoulders.

Superintendent Blake puffs out his cheeks.

“Are we all assembled here for a reason, you bunch of
conkers? Stop your gawking, and attend to your duties! We're up to our ears in
criminals as it is! Go, all of you, now.” The men start to disperse. “Blight!” 
The Superintendent yanks the collar of a man walking innocently behind him,
practically decapitating the poor fellow. “Go and find Inspector Jones. Tell
him to meet us in the kitchen.” He pushes him away and he quickly disappears
through a side door.

“You've caused quite a hubbub amongst my men, Doctor. Now,
let’s have a nice pot of tea whilst we wait for Inspector Jones. I think he has
a bladder problem; he's forever disappearing of late. Inspector Drum, run ahead
will you and put the water on, there's a good fellow.” I pick up my bag, and
together the two of us start walking through the station.

“Now, Doctor, I can’t say I’m happy to be seeing you again
so soon. Doesn’t reflect well upon us as a force I'm afraid, when people go
around killing each other and going missing; and here we are supposed to be
preventing crime. Half our station is out already; I won't lie to you, the
whole damned town is inhabited by lawless buffoons. But most of the crimes are
relatively petty and victimless: larceny, prostitution, drunkenness, vagrancy,
and of course, the occasional domestic dispute. None of which ever end up in
court, even if someone dies.” We come to a door, and he rummages in his
pockets, eventually pulling out a set of keys. He struggles with the lock for a
moment, before noticing my silence. Turning to me, he raises his eyebrows. “Ah,
you’re probably thinking I’m a heartless bastard, aren’t you? Sorry Doc. But
the truth is that most murder victims don’t get much attention. I mean, who
cares if another prostitute is found dead?” He tries the door again, kicking it
until it pops open, and we descend a long, gloomy staircase. “But an infamous,
aristocratic woman, well, that’s different.”

“It should not matter what part of society one comes from,
Superintendent,” I say, trying not to look too closely at the inhabitants of
the cells on either side of me. “Every victim deserves justice. After all,
ranking is merely an accident of birth.”

“Is it? Can’t say I’ve ever thought of it like that. Look,
no matter. Fifty of my men are out now, continuing the search for Lady
Stanbury.” He scratches his chin. “I must say though, I'm rather shocked by
this turn of events within such an eminent family. I mean, what are the chances
of a husband and wife both committing separate murders? There's got to be more
than this than meets the eye, Doctor. My detectable detective nose is twitching.”
Entering the kitchen, Inspector Drum and four steaming mugs of tea await us;
the former wobbling precariously on the back two legs of a chair. We settle
down. The drink is bitter, but comforting on such a cold night.

Inspector Drum tells us that Inspector Jones is on his way.

“Where was he?”

“Blight came running in, red as a prawn, Boss. Told me he
was on the pot.”

The Superintendent raises his eyebrows at me. “I don’t
suppose you'd look at the man’s water-works for him, would you?”

“No damned alienist is coming near my private parts, “says
the errant Inspector, entering the room and looking at the drinks. “No offence
doc, but I'd rather see a proper doctor.” He pushes his tea away from him as he
sits down. “No tea for me, thanks,” he says, an expression of dislike upon his
face. I can't decide whether his countenance is born of the conversation, or if
he is just naturally predisposed to rudeness.

Inspector Drum starts laughing. “He can't even have a drink
without running for a piss, Doctor.”

“I can recommend a different doctor for you, Inspector
Jones.” I say.

“Are we here to discuss my cock, or are we here to solve a
missing person’s case?”

Anger. Negativity. Presumptuous.

“I think it’s a murder case, actually,” Inspector Drum says,
slurping his tea.

The Superintendent leans over and swats him on his ear.

“Doctor, you're here because Lord Damsbridge specifically
requested that you join us on this case. We're not likely to refuse him much:
not when he contributes so generously to our funding. Anything he asks, we’ll
try our very best to accommodate, you understand?” He pauses, and takes a long
sip of his tea. “Anyway, what kind of men would be if we didn't do it out of
the goodness of our hearts? The man’s only grandson is dead, and now his only
daughter is missing. The bugger might be rich, but he's lost everything that
matters.”

I nod.

“I'd say thousands of pounds in the bank matters,” says
Inspector Drum. “We should be paid more in all. Working seven days a week just
ain't natural, Sir.”

The Superintendent pulls a face, and ignores him.

 “Anyway Doctor, he says that you know Mr Stanbury
reasonably well from your contact with him whilst looking after his wife.” He
turns to Inspector Drum. “The one who is missing, lad.” He drains the rest of
his tea slowly, before adding thoughtfully, “So far, there's no body.”

“I reckon we'll find one soon enough though, Boss. Probably
she’s been dumped in the river, and it'll take a week for her body to bloat and
rise. All that blood in the garden?” He shudders. “Nobody can bleed that much
and survive. Hey, maybe this mad-doctor would like to have a guess where the
body is.” He leans over the table towards me, his eyes shining. “I’ll bet you a
shilling to a shit it’s in the river.”

I cross my arms, and lean away from him. Superintendent
Blake looks uncomfortable.

“Inspector Drum, kindly desist with your unwarranted,
unfounded allegations and imaginings. Why did I ever make you an Inspector?”

“'Cos I'm good, Boss.” Inspector Drum sits back in his
chair. “I see you’re not a gambling man, Doctor.”

“No, I’m not. Leads to degeneration of the mind.”

“Really? Bloody hell. Perhaps I should stop then. Anyway,
I’ll find the woman, bet or no bet.  Got a nose like a hound, I have.”

“You have in all, always sticking it into other peoples businesses,”
says Inspector Jones. “Sir, if I were you I'd let me do the investigating on
this one.” He looks pointedly at Inspector Drum. “Alone.” 

“Need two of you, lad.”

“Well, what about teaming me up with someone else then?”

“Oi, what’s wrong with me?”Inspector Drum says.

“You're presumptuous, careless, idiotic, stupid, and your
tea tastes like piss,” Inspector Jones replies, his face stony.

“How would you know? You haven't even tasted it! And if it
does, then it tastes like your piss, most probably, seen as you have a problem
with your-”

“That’s enough, lads. Why, you are quite an embarrassment!
Look Doctor, the broad and the short of it is that it's not just Lord
Damsbridge who wants you here. I also have a duty to enquire as to whether the
prisoner is of sound mind. We can't send him to trial if he's not and again,
that's something you can help us with. I know there needs to be two reports so
I've already contacted another doctor. He should be arriving in the next few
days to give an impartial assessment of Mr Stanbury.”

Inspector Jones mumbles something about getting Inspector
Drum's head tested, too. 

“So, Doctor, there you have it. A few of my lads are already
convinced that he's gone ahead and murdered this poor lass, as you can see.” He
frowns at Inspector Drum. “I'm sure I taught you to detect, Inspector: not to
jump to conclusions.”

“Aye, you did Boss, and that is my detected conclusion.”

“Idiot,” says Inspector Jones.

“Where is Mr Stanbury now?” I ask, keeping my opinions and
thoughts of this whole set-up to myself.

“In a cell, of course,” says the Inspector, draining the
last of his tea. “He's not too happy about it, but then, none of them ever are.
It's not exactly The Langham Hotel here.”

“I'd like to speak with him.”

“Yes, obviously, but first let me tell you what we've found.
One of the young maids in the employ of Lord Damsbridge took it upon herself to
get on a horse and come down to the station. It took a while to garner that her
mistress had gone missing under suspicious circumstances during the night, but
when we eventually learned of the lady in question's name, we moved quickly. We
all knew we were potentially looking at a revenge killing right from the off.
Some of my officers said that they wouldn't blame the man for doing what he did
to the woman who killed his child, but they were the ones who found the
dismembered baby in the family's kitchen last year. I immediately took these
men off the case, as their emotions would stop their ability to be objective
and contribute effectively to the investigation.

“We arrived at the house, and I sent some of my men to
conduct a search of the area surrounding the Manor.

“I decided to examine the boudoir first. On entering Lady
Stanbury's chamber, I immediately found what appeared to be a small amount of
blood in the middle of the bed. On checking her windows, which incidentally
were free of any obstruction, I found them locked and indeed bolted from the
inside. I tried to unlock them and though it took me quite some time I managed
to do so. Looking out, I saw the room was high and on the second level of the
house, with a good thirty or forty foot drop to the ground. So whomever entered
her room, if, indeed, anybody did, they must have come through the inside of
the house.

“Nothing seemed overtly amiss in the room, no obvious signs
of a struggle. The Lady’s entire toilet was lined up neatly atop a vanity
table, the mirror was intact.

“I wondered if any of the furniture had been moved from its
original position; though of course a struggle could have ensued without
anything being displaced.  Or the perpetrator could simply tidy up after
himself. But, detecting being what it is, we summoned one of the house-maids
from the garden. She tearfully clarified that everything was in its proper
place.

“Underneath the bed was a chamber pot, which was empty of
any bodily fluids. This indicated that whatever happened to Lady Stanbury, did
so before the light of the morning, when she most likely would have made use of
it. Of course, if a crime had indeed been committed, the cover of night is a
tool of even the most idiotic. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that you're
less likely to be seen under a blanket of darkness whilst everyone is sleeping.

“It wasn't until I found a long trestle of hair, hidden at
the edge of a rug with its roots still attached, that I realized a crime had
indeed been committed. This wasn’t something as simple as an unhappy woman
running away. One of my men bagged it. It takes considerable force to remove
ones hair by the very roots on that which they grow, Doctor.

“I didn't find anything else in the room, nor in any of the
others. My men and I went over them, three, four times: ever careful to pay
attention to even the smallest of details. We almost expected at any moment to
come across a body stuffed inside a wardrobe, or perhaps bundled in a
fireplace. But we didn’t. That was it. All we found was the blood and the hair.
Yet the garden gave us some more, much more. A patch of blood soaked ground,
roughly five feet in diameter, a man’s bloody-footprint, and a lady's garter.

“Mr Stanbury refused to come out, and it took two of my men
to break the door down. They found him weeping in the corner next to a vomit
ridden-bed. They told me stale alcohol hung heavily in the air and around his
person, though a cold bucket of water indicated that at some point, he had
tried to wash himself.

“So there you have it Doctor, a whole wealth of
circumstantial evidence to a murder. But we've got no body. And without one,
it’s going to be difficult to do a damned thing. You’ve got to speak with him,
and find out what on earth happened.”