The Medea Complex (21 page)

Dr Savage

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

 “His head, Sir. His basilar-metrical angle is thirty-eight
degrees.”

Mr Tumsbridge nods thoughtfully, as I yawn and attempt to
stretch my legs. I can’t imagine where the prosecution found a Phrenologist,
never mind their reasons for bringing him in. It is a field much outdated, and
almost everyone disregards their opinions. I don’t ever consult them.

“Can you explain to the members of the jury the significance
of this finding?”

The Phrenologist sits straighter in the witness box.

“Of course I can, yes. You and I, Sir, have an angle of
around twenty-eight degrees, or thereabouts.”

“You can tell that by looking at me, can you?”

“Well, not exactly, but I can make an educated guess, Sir.
You only have to look at Mr Stanbury to see he’s an evolutionary throwback.”

Someone in the gallery snorts with suppressed laughter.

“’An evolutionary throwback’, Mr Chime? Is that an insult?”

Mr Chime shakes his bushy eyebrows.

“Not at all, Sir. It’s a medical term.”

It most certainly is not. This is exactly the reason these
idiots have no place in, or near, my asylum.

“Look at his sloping forehead. His ears are unequal, by one
millimetre.”

“Right. What is the significance these angles, please?”

“Oh. Based on my reading, he’s a murderer alright.”

“Mr Chime! The client is innocent until proven guilty!” Mr
Tumsbridge softly rebukes him, but he doesn’t mean it. After all, it’s his
witness.

“Oh, I’m sorry Sir, I just meant that-“

The prosecutor waves his words away with a flick of his
hand.

“It's quite alright. But please, refrain from such comments
before the defence objects to it.”

“Ok. I-”

“Instead, kindly rephrase. Do you mean to say that the
defendant likely has murderous tendencies due to the shape and size of his
head?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Meant. Mean.” The witness
blushes, and pulls on his eyebrows.

“Why is that, Mr Chime?”

“Oh. Right. Because, well, studies have been done for
decades now; comparing the skulls of animals and humans, murderers and
innocents, and the findings are conclusive. Animals and humans that kill have a
larger basilar phreno-metrical angle.”

“Kindly explain to the jury what a basilar-phreno angle is.”

“It’s the measurement taken from the opening of the ear to
the eyebrow, and along the horizontal. I guarantee you he’s got killer
tendencies. I never met a single case of a murderer with the basilar
phreno-metrical angle less than thirty-five degrees, just like I never knew a
man with an angle of twenty-five degrees or less to have the disposition nor
inclination to kill. His is thirty-eight, so…” He shrugs. “This type of head is
that of a low and vicious person, Sir. He's more like an animal, Sir, than you
or I. His skull is like that of a carnivorous animal.”

“’A carnivorous animal’”. Mr Tumsbridge turns to the jury.
“Did you hear that? The defendant has the skull of a blood-thirsty, wild
animal. And we all know what wild animals like to do, don’t’ they?” He walks up
and down, waggling a finger.

“They kill without foresight, gentlemen. Just like the
defendant.”

That was uneccesary, and has absolutely no basis in scientific
fact. I wait for the defence to cross examine.

“Your witness,” says Mr Tumsbridge, as he makes his way back
to the prosecution table.

Mr Smithingson stands. “I have no questions for this
witness.”

The Judge looks shocked, as am I.

“Are you sure, Mr Smithingson?”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

Edgar

March 6
^th
, 1886

Defence Table

My lawyer sits back down and I kick him angrily under the
table.

“Why didn’t you defend me?”

“What am I supposed to say? I haven’t a clue what he was
talking about! If he says you’ve got a basilar-something head of thirty-eight
degrees, who am I to argue with scientific fact? How can I say, ‘no he hasn’t
sir, he’s got an angle of twenty-three’, and then what? He measures your head
in front of everyone and we get made to look like fools?” He squints at me.
“And you do have a rather sloping forehead, lad…”

“You do realise Mr Tumsbridge wants to kill me, don’t you?”

I’m desperate. I want to claw at him, shout out loud, throw
a rock at someone.

“Of course he does, lad. That’s his job. Shush, will you? I
need to listen.”

I sit back, exhausted. The bastard lawyer is now questioning
one of the policemen.

“You arrived at the house at ?time, arrested a couple of
servants. Then what happened?” Mr Tumsbridge says, pacing the floor.

“We found Mr Stanbury crouching in a corner of his bedroom,
half-naked and holding a candlestick.”

“What happened thereafter?”

“My men took a plaster cast of the footprint, and some
photographs of the scene, whilst I escorted Mr Stanbury back to the station,
whereupon he was in too much of a distressed and drunken state for anyone to
take any statements from him.”

Mr Tumsbridge walks over to the prosecution table, rustling
about underneath it for a minute before pulling out a plastic bag. Inside is
something white. He holds it up in the air, and approaches the witness box.

“Is this the cast you made of the footprint?”

“Yes.”

He goes back to the table once again, coughing as he reaches
for another piece of evidence.

“And these are the photographs?”

The policeman looks at them.

“Yes.”

“These, gentlemen of the jury, where taken the crime scene.
Excuse the gruesomeness, there's a lot of blood in some of them.” He happily
passes the photos around the jury, and turn by turn each member scrutinises the
small pictures. One man pales. The lawyer waits a few minutes before collecting
them back, and I wonder at a justice system that will show ‘evidence’ to
perfect strangers that the accused has never seen. I don’t know what those
photographs show.

“What did you do when you arrived at the station with the
defendant?”

“We carried out normal procedure. Booked him in, took his
particulars.”

“How was he acting, at this point?”

“He tried to fight us off and he was rather incoherent.”

“’Incoherent?’ In what way?”

“He kept rambling about a plots and King’s and an actress
called Dorothea. He didn’t make any clear verbalisation of anything that made
sense. He was clearly intoxicated, so we put him in a cell.”

 “Would it be normal practice for you to seek the advice of
a doctor, in these cases?”

“No, if they are obviously drunk then we let them sleep it
off.”

“If they are mad, would you then call a doctor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So in your opinion, he was not mad.”

“No, I clarify: he was drunk.”

“Do you think he murdered his wife whilst he was drunk, in
that case?”

“I-”

“My Lord!” My glass of water almost tips as my lawyer jumps
to his feet, bumping into my own arm with his. He doesn't apologise. “I must
object to this line of questioning. My learned friend is using a loaded
question. How is the witness supposed to answer? If he says yes, he is agreeing
that in his opinion, my client killed his wife whilst drunk, yet if he says no,
it equally suggests to the members of the jury that my client killed his wife,
but whilst he was sober!”

“I agree, Mr Smithingson,” The Judge says, rubbing his eyes.
“Be seated. And you, Mr Tumsbridge: I suspect you know better by now than to
use such underhand techniques during an interrogation of a witness. Rephrase
the question, or move onto the next.”

Astounded, I lean back into the chair, finally allowing a
small flicker of hope to rest upon my lips. Mr Tumsbridges' own mouth moves
into a downward curve.

“You may continue, Mr Tumsbridge.”

“Yes, My Lord.” His wrinkled old hand gestures minutely towards
me from beside his waist, a tiny, almost imperceptible pointing gesture, as his
thumb points towards his neck and moves in a side-ways motion. The smile dies
upon my face. He just gestured the death penalty at me!

“Apologies for the interruption, Superintendent Blake. Now,
where were we? Yes, I was asking you what part you believe Mr Stanbury had in
the murder of his wife.”

The policeman is silent for some time, before raising his
head and saying, “You might want to rephrase that question too, Mr Tumsbridge,
for I cannot even say for sure, upon oath, that a murder has even been
committed.”

Gasps rise through the court like a flock of birds taking to
the air. The policeman ignores the fuss he has created, and continues.

“It is possible that one has, even probable. But I am a
policeman, not a mathematician, Sir.  Has violence occurred within Asquith
House? Yes, I would say so, definitely. Is Lady Stanbury missing? Evidently so,
yes. Can I say for sure she has been murdered? No, I cannot. You must realize,
we have not found a body. How can I say in absolute certainty that a murder has
been done, less so whom the perpetrator is? I suspect everyone and no-one; I am
merely a detective, Sir. It is your job to find the truth.”

The silence in the court is complete, less the sound of Mr
Tumsbridge wheezing heavily.

“Indeed it is, Superintendant Blake, which is the very
reason you have been called to the stand to give your testimony. Let me ask you
something; are you aware of the legal term to which I earlier alluded, corpus
delicti?”

“I cannot say that I am, no.”

“This means, quite literally, body of evidence, Mr Blake. It
has been taken by some lay-people rather literally in recent years, hence the
term 'no body, no murder'. This misinterpretation has led some people to go
around killing at whim, as they believe that if they hide the body well enough,
they cannot possibly be charged with a murder.” From somewhere, the sound of
someone nervously tapping their feet is the only accompaniment to the
prosecution lawyer's words, and second’s later a man from the galley runs out
of the court.

“But they are desperately mistaken. Body of evidence,
Superintendant, means that if there is sufficient evidence of any means: be it
physical or circumstantial, the person accused can be charged with murder. So,
I now must expand upon your response. You believe there has been no murder, as
there is no body?”

The policeman looks a little pale, as he answers uneasily.

“Yes...”

“Yes?”

“Erm, I'm not sure what you want me to say, Sir.”

“I don't want you to say anything, other than the truth.
Superintendant, given the amount of blood at the scene, the hair, the signs of
violence, Mr Stanbury's behaviour...do you believe then, that it is possible a
murder may have been committed?”

“Well, I can't say for certain that one has, Sir, I mean-”

“How much blood did you find at the scene?”

“A lot, Sir.”

“Can you quantify 'a lot'?”

“The patch on the ground would be indicative of at least
four or five pints."

“I see. How is your medical knowledge, Superintendant?”

“Not as good as a medical mans, I expect.”

Someone guffaws, and is swiftly escorted from the courtroom.

“If I was to make a patch of my own blood on the ground,
right here, right now, by opening up my wrists or my throat; a patch the same
size of that found upon the grass, what would happen to me?”

“You would die, unless medical attention was given to you
most urgently.”

“And where there any medical men upon the scene?”

“No.”

“Any evidence of any first aid being administered whatsoever
by anyone at any point?”

“No.”

“Let's get back to the footprints. Did you find any
significance with them?”

“Yes, they were the same size as Mr Stanbury's feet.”

“So we have clear evidence of violence being committed, a
patch of blood large enough to kill a man who, by the way gentlemen of the
jury, hold more blood in their bodies than that of a woman...we have footprints
next to the blood the exact same size as Mr Stanbury's, and a missing woman. Is
that about right, Superintendant Blake?”

“That is correct, yes.”

“Than that will be all. Thank you for your co-operation.” He
turns and looks towards me but addresses the Superintendant. “Please remain
where you are, as I'm sure the defence have something to say to you.”

Superintendant Blake's head drops onto his chest, and he
puffs in and out with a long, slow breath. He visibly deflates upon the stand
as the Judge calls for a brief recess. Does he believe me innocent, then?

Is at least one person in this large and unfriendly world
finally on my side?

And if so, is it enough?

Beatrix

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

I arrive at the courts during a recess, much out of breath
and sweating despite the cold. I use my elbows to push my way through the crowd
until I reach the prosecution table.

“Damn the man, Tumsbridge! You brought in a bloody hostile,
inadequate witness!”

“Don't worry yourself. He's only one man on the stand. I
know what I'm doing. Focus on Mr Chime. He was good, wasn’t he?”

The two men speak in low voices, my ex-employer a deep shade
of purple.

“I don’t care about Mr Chime. I care about the policeman who
has just shone bloody doubt on the case. I'm not happy about this. At all.”

“Well you should care about Mr Chime, as has just verified
for the jury that your son-in-law has the same characteristics of a murderous
animal. They won't forget that, trust me. Fret not, My Lord.”

A squeak involuntarily passes my lips, and Lord Damsbridge
whips his head around.

“And you. Where have you been? What took you so long? Why
are you all wet?” His voice raises an octane as he fires his questions at me. I
am momentarily lost for words.

“I got caught on the road Sir; the mother of-”

“Look, I don't have time to listen to your excuses. It
doesn't really matter now you are here."

“But Sir, the mother of-”

Mr Tumsbridge sensibly moves away from us.  My ex-employer
follows him with his eyes for a moment, before returning his attention to me.

“Why are your hands shaking? I hope you're not about to have
an episode of hysteria, Miss Fortier. Most insane asylums are quite unpleasant,
or so I hear.” He leans closer, putting his hand over mine: the warmth of his
skin seeping through my gloves. The threat is implicit and pretending to have
an itch, I move my hand away. A small smile crosses his features; he knows.

“You better not ne having doubts, Miss Fortier-”

“I'm not, My Lord!” I interrupt him in my hysteria,
struggling to keep my voice level. He needs to know about the girl, about what
I've done. Perhaps he can save her, he can do anything, he can send a cab to
pick her up. “It's just, if you'll listen to me, I had the most awful
confrontation on the way here with-”

He misunderstands my despair.

“Remember what he has done; he does not deserve your
sympathy.”

“He has not my sympathy, My Lord,” I say, tears now falling
freely down my face. I feel no shame; merely exhaustion. “But you must listen
to me; you don't know what I did-”

He turns away from me,

I am entreating a wall.

I’m relatively sure I'll one day be joining my ex-employer
in hell, but what else was I to do?

Anne's mother saved me from death when she found me in the
street all those years ago; filthy, semi-conscious, and covered in blood. Yet I
have returned that favour covered in more blood: what would her dear voice say
to me now, if she were here to witness all that has transpired? Would she be
angry, disappointed?

The Judge returns too quickly, and calls the court to order.
Mr Stanbury notices my appearance, and I imagine his gaze entreats me to help
him I look away, ashamed, as the tall police officer I met once climbs the
stairs to the witness box.

The defence lawyer rises and starts to speak. He looks fresh
out of University.

“Mr Blake...a few things bother me about this case, and I'm
hoping you can enlighten me. Are you willing to do that?”

“Of course.”

“Good, thank you. What time did you say you arrived at
Asquith Manor on 24th April, 1886?”

“Just after ten in the morning.”

“Right. So at that time, people would be going about their
work, wouldn't they?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Yet when you arrived, the servants had been called away
from their work to wait for your arrival. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Is it suspicious that a cook would be holding a pan, and a
maid a poker in the middle of a working day, Mr Blake? The tools of their
trade, if you will?”

“I suppose not, no, but...”

“Yes..., I know, you said, and I quote: 'presumably to make
an attempt on Mr Stanbury's life'. What confuses me is why you would jump to
such a preposterous conclusion.”

Silence.

“That was a question, Mr Blake.”

“Oh. Well, erm...I thought that because there were threats
being made, and the boy with the rake. I've explained this already.”

“But doesn’t this frankly, unjustified theory give the
members of the jury an impression of the defendant’s guilt? After all, most
people don’t go around the place killing others without a motive. So to imply
that they were after Mr Stanbury implies that they had some sort of revenge to
wreak...which in turn, suggests motive and guilt on his part in Lady Stanbury's
disappearance.” He turns to the jury, his smile met with a few approving nods.

Mr Tumsbridge and Lord Damsbridge speak lowly and rapidly to
one another, but I am unable to hear what they are saying.

“Let me raise the issue of this 'boy with the rake'. Now,
according to you, he harboured some rather untoward intentions towards Mr
Stanbury. Yet none of us can presume to know the motives behind others actions
without proof. Why, for all we know, the stable boy could have had amorous
affection toward the Lady, and decided to take it upon himself to do away with
the competition! Just because one man threatened Mr Stanbury, does not mean
that other members of the staff, holding perfectly innocuous objects at the
time, had similar motives-”

Mr Blake interrupts.

“They looked guilty. Why, the younger maid fainted when
confronted-”

“Mr Blake, never, ever interrupt counsel. Wait a moment, are
you suggesting that 'looking' guilty is the same as being guilty?” He starts to
laugh. “Is that what the police force does now? Arrest anyone who looks
guilty?”

The Superintendant flushes, as the lawyer raises his hands
to the sky.

“You don’t need to answer that, your hesitation is enough.
It is all nothing but a load of supposition! Incredible, really, I'm almost
lost for words. I am lost for words, in fact. Please, give me a moment.”

The lawyer strokes his chin for a few minutes; the only
sound in the court that of anticipation and the odd, nervous whisper. I sneak a
glance at Mr Stanbury. Some of the colour seems to have returned to his face
and he is sitting up straighter in his chair. His gaze is fixed hopefully upon
his lawyer who seems to be exceeding all of our expectations. Perhaps he does
have a chance, after all. Where that will leave us, I have no idea. But I'm not
sure I can have a third death upon my head. Surely, even if he was found not
guilty at this trial, we could still figure something out. There is always a
way...always. I look hopefully at Lord Damsbridge, meaning to say something to
him, but he is lost in the muted conversation with Mr Tumsbridge; gesturing
angrily towards the witness box. I don’t need to see anymore of this, I can't
bear to watch. Glancing once more at Mr Stanbury; for what, I don’t know... the
possibility of redemption? To tell him with nothing more than a look and a
grimace that I'm sorry? I rise from my seat. But he doesn't notice my leaving
any more than anyone else does as I walk out of the courtroom.

My heart weeps for all of the innocents that will end up
paying dearly for our sins.