The Medea Complex (22 page)

Dr Savage

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

Miss Fortier brushes past me as she exits the courtroom,
wiping at her eyes. It is only the second time I have seen her, and in doing so
I remember the time she was in my office when Nurse Agnus referred to her as
'Beatrix', despite me having never mentioned her first name. I thought it
mildly odd at the time, yet it bothers me now.

“'Arrest anyone who looks guilty',” mumbles Inspector Jones
from beside me. “Like we do that.”

I can't help myself. My words leave my mouth pickled with uncharacteristic
spite.

“Well, yes, you do. You arrested that man sat next to me not
an hour ago, and he hadn't done anything.” 

The Inspector looks mortally offended.

“He insulted a police officer!”

The man is a pig-headed idiot.

Mr Smithingson gathers himself and finally interrogates
Superintendant Blake further, establishing that it is quite possible Mr
Stanbury was hiding not out of guilt, but out of fear, and that holding a
candlestick to defend oneself against a rake-wielding man is hardly a crime. Everyone
has a right to self-defence.

He throws doubt on the case, and into my mind.

A fearful man would be acting almost the same as a guilty
man. Both would be defensive, scared, unable to meet people’s eyes, shying
away. Both would lie, but for different reasons. Both would be acting mad; both
would be in fear of their lives.

He rather expertly clarifies and reinforces the fact that
Superintendent Blake is not a medical man, and therefore could not accurately
suggest that there were 'four or five pints of blood' on the ground. He
suggests that any man of the house could have left the footprints: even a
woman, since it is not difficult for someone with a smaller foot to don a shoe
of those larger than their own. He makes it clear that there is no evidence of
Mr Stanbury having been drunk; someone, of course, could have planted alcohol
upon his clothes...why, Mr Stanbury himself may have spilt some upon himself!
He discredits the suggestion that the defendant was acting drunk by suggesting
he was in shock, and fear...both of which are apt to make a man act
differently, and even vomit from sheer nervousness, and berates the
Superintendant for not consulting a doctor immediately upon Mr Stanbury's
arrest. He reinforces the point that though the river was searched, no body was
found, and even suggested that Lady Stanbury disappeared of her own accord.
“She was mad, after all”.

“Is it possible that your police-work wasn't up to a high
enough standard to adequately, and unbiasedly, investigate the scene and the
defendant properly?”

“I resent that.”

“I’m sure you do, but answer the question. Would you
consider the investigation you did on this crime scene to be of a substandard
level?”

“No.”

“I disagree with you on that Superintendent, and even go so
far as to suggest that you were negligent in your duties." He rubs a
finger against the side of his nose, not-so-subtly implying that the policeman
is a liar. "Of course you wouldn’t admit fault, especially in a room full
of reporters; and I'm sure everyone in this room can understand that. Pride in
one’s own work and all, even in a job half-done. But after pride comes a fall,
Superintendant.”

Pride in ones work.

Errors of judgment.

Further witnesses for the prosecution are called up during
the next two hours, the jury listening to Mr Tumsbridge with a sycophantic
respect bordering on reverence. The cook of the house, aptly named a somewhat
ironic Mrs Cook, testifies to overhearing Mr Stanbury threatening his wife on
the night of her subsequent disappearance. She had been hiding in the kitchen,
she said, as the lady's maid, Miss Fortier, had bribed her with a hair-pin to
watch over her Lady from the relative safety of the cook's domain. But Mrs Cook
feared as much for the food in her fridge as the maid did for her mistress, and
henceforth assumed a position in the shadows in the back of the kitchen: thus
overhearing everything that Mr Stanbury said to Anne. “He all but threatened to
outrage her, he did, and then choke her to death afterwards!” she declared to
the jury, causing a silence to overcome the courtroom, broken only by a voice
somewhere, saying: “I've never heard of anything so preposterous. A woman
cannot be raped by her own husband, it is her duty to lie with him!” which was
'here, here'd!” by someone else.

Mrs Cook's testimony proved invaluable for the prosecution,
as on calling Miss Fortier to the witness stand she was nowhere to be found.
Five more servants are called in turn, whose combined testimonies strongly
collaborate Mr Stanbury to be of suspicious character, mean temperament, and a
quick-to-anger disposition. Mr James tearfully described the painful task of
informing his master of his wife’s disappearance, only to be dismissed as a
fool. “He laughed,” said the footman, sadly. “He laughed when we told him we'd
found some blood.” Even the young girl, Betty, testifies to the fact she saw Mr
Stanbury “Washing blood from his hands.” The butler testified to the house
having been locked up securely that night, so it was not possible that anyone
entered from the outside. Surprisingly, none of them heard anything but the
rain during the night; no sounds of violence. Lady Stanbury appeared to be her
normal, sane self. Inspector Jones testifies to his alcohol withdrawal symptoms
in the gaol, and my very own certificate is produced as evidence of his sanity
on the night of the crime.

Eventually, the last witness is called.

Lord Damsbridge takes to the stand, and is asked on
examination, the reasons why he never looked for her daughter when finding out
she was missing.

“You didn’t search for your daughter?”

“No.”

The galley gasps.

“My Lord, kindly explain to the shocked members of this
courtroom the reasons as to why you did not search for your daughter.”

“Because I knew that she was dead, and I knew that Mr
Stanbury had killed her.”

“Presumptuous!” shouts Mr Smithingson.

“Agreed, "says the Judge. “Lord Damsbridge, please tell
us facts, not feelings.”

“Apologies.”

“Accepted. We all know how hard this must be for you.” The
Judge glares at Mr Stanbury before instructing the prosecution to continue.

Mr Tumsbridge coughs, and does so.

“Why would you think such an awful thing, My Lord?”

Lord Damsbridge raises a hand to his brow, where it settles
like a mask. He speaks downwards, into the table.

“Because it was always Mr Stanbury's intention. Well, not to
kill my daughter; at least, I hope not...God knows I would have done something,
anything to protect her from that. I would have sent her to France, or
America....” His voice tails off as he is overcome by grief, and chokes back a sob.
His hand moves to wipe red-rimmed eyes.

Mr Tumsbridge patiently waits for his client to compose
himself, whilst dabbing away a few tears of his own.

“My Lord? Are you ready to continue?”

“I....I...I think so.”

“We all sympathise with you, and yet only those whom have a
lost a child of their own could possibly declare to truly empathize with you.
You have the whole of the courtrooms condolences, I'm sure.” He pauses. “Now,
tell us about this plan of Mr Stanbury’s to which you allude.”

Lord Damsbridge sighs.

“He wanted to inherit my estate. He came from a poor,
working-class background and purposefully seduced my daughter to get her
pregnant.”

Somebody titters in the court. “If only it were that easy!”

“But, My Lord…” Mr Tumsbridge shakes his head. “Isn’t this a
little…weak? After all, it takes two, as they say. How could he possibly know
his plan would work?”

Lord Damsbridges’ eyes flash.

“It only take one man, Sir, to make a woman with child. She
was young and naïve. Here was a man, armed with flattery and mystery. Who knows
whether she laid with him willingly or against her will? All he needed to do
was put a child inside her, and the deed was done.”

“But she could have walked away, My Lord. She wasn’t forced
to marry him.”

Lord Damsbridge mumbles something.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that? We didn’t’ quite hear you.”

“I said, I made her marry him! What, do you imagine I would
allow her to have a bastard child? Imagine the shame! When I found out, I was
ashamed to call her my daughter. I was angry; she was selfish to get herself
into such a position. She had no concept whatsoever of the damage she had done
by getting pregnant outside of marriage. I thought I had raised her better than
that, but..." He sighs, sadly, before his anger surfaces. "The second
that baby was out of her, she would lose everything. That is the reason he did
what he did, he knew about the entail! The moment she became pregnant, he had
her! If she had given birth to a bastard child, Asquith Manor would have
reverted to the Crown upon my death, and my own daughter would have been left
destitute! Mr Stanbury knew that.  I made her marry a murderer to secure her
future! It is all my fault! ” He starts to cry, and the Judge looks distinctly
uncomfortable. Mr Tumsbridge proceeds gently.

“How could you presume he knew that, My Lord?”

Lord Damsbridge sniffs, and semi-composes himself.

“After the marriage, we found letters. Horrible, awful
letters written between Mr Stanbury and his father. In them, was a plot to
seduce, impregnate, and eventually divorce my daughter. Anybody with half a
brain in their head knows bastard children cannot inherit. He knew I would make
them marry. He planned to become sole-guardian of John. My grandson. Upon my
death, Mr Stanbury would inherit everything until John was of age.”

The galley gasps, as do I.

This is almost identical to the story Mr Stanbury told me.
He admitted seducing her. He said he sought her out. He said his father told
him too. Now, here is proof from the other side that much at least, is also true.

Just as he told the truth about his father.

The speck of doubt in my mind ignites into a sizeable flame.

‘I did it because I love my child. Wouldn't any mother
care to do the same? I didn't feel guilty when the blood ran over my hands, yet
neither did I feel vindicated. I just felt I had protected my child in the only
way I knew how.’

The flame starts to burn everything in its path, memories
entering my head in quick, startling flashes.

‘
She hid the pregnancy from me for five months.’

“Hello, Beatrix.”

“Why is she not at Broadmoor?”

“She told me she killed her baby, and she would kill me.”

Is it possible I have judged one with the sins of the other?

“And of course…” Mr Tumsbridge shakes his head sadly. “When
your daughter killed her baby in a fit of insanity, she took all of that away
from him.”

“Yes. So he murdered her.”

Mr Smithingson doesn’t even object.

Mr Tumsbridge turns to the Judge.

“My Lord, at this point I would like to give this witness a
break. I think, as the father of the recently deceased victim of this trial, he
deserves as much assistance as we can give him. I kindly request a recess.”

The Judge looks to the defence.

“Any objections?”

Mr Smithingson sits with his arms crossed, looking most
unhappy. His jaw tics, as if pulled by an invisible hand.

“None, My Lord. None whatsoever.”

Edgar

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

Dead Man's Walk.

That's what they call the stones underneath my feet, the
walls on either side of me, the ceiling above my head. I look up, and almost
trip. My lawyer grabs hold of my arm.

"Watch it, lad. You-"

I shake his hand off me.

"Have you ever won?"

"What?" He turns his red-rimmed eyes towards my
own, and for the first time I notice how dishevelled he is.

"I said, 'have you ever won'?"

"This is my first trial, I told you. I'm really angry
with you right now, Mr Stanbury. What were you expecting here? You talk down to
me because I didn't 'defend' you with regards to the phrenologists opinion
about your head, yet you neglect to tell me that you sent letters, bloody
incriminating letters to your father; who, by the way, you told everyone was
dead!"

"I-"

"Do you have know how hard it's going to be to prove
your 'innocence'? You have totally, wholly, incriminated yourself beyond belief
and I just don't know what to do with you."

"You never gave me a chance to tell you!" I shout
at him, shocked by the strength of my own voice yet emboldened by the sound.
"You preferred to sleep at the table rather than asking me any questions!
What did you expect me to do?"

My lawyers face turns grim as he opens a door at the end of
the walk.

"Well, miscommunication between a defendant and his
lawyer is never a good thing, Mr Stanbury. Let us call a truce, as they say. I
suggest you and I clear this up once and for all. Tell me everything you can
about these letters. Tell me your motives, everything, right down to what
colour socks you were wearing when you wrote them. I want to know how you sent
them to your father, how he replied, who else was involved in this scheme, or
who else could have possibly known about it. I want to know if you have
enemies, Mr Stanbury; and whether one of them could have been your wife."

Dr Savage

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

Mr Smithingson does his best to limit damage control during
cross examination; portraying the servants attitudes as mere jealousy: that
someone of their own elk and station in life should lord it over them through
merely impregnating an aristocratic woman. He intimates that the young scullery
maid, Betty, was coerced and influenced in her testimony.

Though Mr Smithingson does manage to poke a few holes into
Mr Tumsbridge's well spun-web: reinforcing the fact that Lady Stanbury had only
been discharged from a mad-house the day before and could have run away under
another hallucination or drowned herself; that she may have simply been scared
of her husband and fled, it’s not enough to convince the twelve gentlemen on
the bench who frankly, appear bored.

 Is it possible that she ran away? Could I have been wrong,
and discharged a mentally unstable woman?

No, no. As awful a possibility that might be, I know, know,
that she was sane on discharge.

The only question remains as to whether she was ever insane.

The defence lawyer continues his speech despite its ineffectualness.

"This man is a as much a victim as the missing lady. A
pawn of his fathers. He never wished to lie and cheat his way into a life not
his own, oh no...he was co-erced into it by the man who was supposed to protect
him! He was brought up, gentlemen, believing in a fantasy. His father would
have thrown him out of the house had he not complied with his wishes, and there
is, gentlemen, an element of...what is the word? Brainwashing. Mr Stanbury
never, ever meant to hurt Lady Stanbury-" 

The courtroom quickly becomes a private theatre, the one
lawyers’ account of a good, but innocent man, and the others’ of a vicious,
vengeful killer. Mr Smithingson makes various other salient points yet he is
unable to completely shatter the rather clear picture issued forth by the
prosecution. He is hesitant, unsure. The jury, sensing his weakness, tolerate
him with barely disguised contempt and boredom, as if his valid hypotheses are
merely a waste of their time.

Lord Damsbridge is back in the witness box, looking much
recovered.

“You say this plot of his goes back decades, My Lord. How
so?” Mr Tumsbridge is once again the focus of everyone's attention.

“Well, before we found the letters you just read to the
court, my daughter found a hidden letter; when she was pregnant.”

“'A hidden letter'? Can you elaborate upon that please?”

“Yes. When Anne was four months gone, or thereabouts, she
was searching one day for another book to read. I think at this point she was
reading all she could on the subject of pregnancy: having lost the first one,
she was understandably anxious, and seemed to remember seeing medical texts
somewhere in the library. However, she found a letter hidden inside a book, and
brought it to me. It was a letter of blackmail.”

“Do you still have this letter?”

“Yes.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small,
neatly folded piece of blue paper.

“May I read it out to the members of the jury?”

“Yes. Of course.

As the words are read out to the court, I start to feel
sick. I've heard them before. Out of Mr Stanbury’s mouth...back in Asquith
House all those weeks ago, and more recently, in the gaol. The words that I put
down to the ravings of an alcoholic. But this letter clarifies beyond all doubt
in my mind that both Mr Stanbury and I have been set-up.

He is innocent.

There is no way he could have been lying.

It is here, on paper. Written in ink, sealed with wax.

Mr Stanbury was telling the truth.

"Are you alright, Doc?" A voice in my ear;
Inspector Jones. Was he part of this plot? Did he plant evidence, is he hiding
Lady Stanbury?

I shake my head in the negative.

"Well, you don't look so hot. All the foul air in here;
I don't know how you spend your life breathing and living in the same space as
degenerate criminals, I really don't."

I ignore him, my vision tunnelled to the scene playing out
at the centre of the courtroom.

Mr Tumsbridge finishes the letter, shaking his head.

“My oh my, My Lord. You had an illegitimate son?”

Lord Damsbridge smiles slightly.

“No, though I understand perfectly well how and why you
could deduce such a thing. If you had seen the look upon my daughters face when
she brought me that letter....well. You could have knocked her down with a
feather. No, the Lord Damsbridge to which the letter is addressed is not I, but
my grandfather; the 6th Earl of Damsbridge. Naturally, our titles are the same.
There is a small date at the top of the letter there.”

 “Ah, I see it now. 1811.”

“Yes.”

“What happened afterwards?”

“Well, it was obvious to me that whoever had send this
letter to my grandfather was indeed who he declared himself to be, as, if you
look at the broken wax seal on the envelope...” He pulls an old, yellowed with
age envelope out of his other pocket, “It is my grandfathers seal. Our family
crest.”

“So, a member of your family sent you this? I'm a little
confused here.”

“Yes, so was my daughter. Until I told her that the signet
ring that made this impression, was lost by my grandfather, many years before
he met and married my grandmother.”

“So an unknown person was in possession of your
grandfather’s ring? And what, used it to prove he was who he said he was?”

“At this point, it was just conjecture. I didn't know
anything about this letter...my grandfather certainly never mentioned it to me,
and if he had ever discussed it with my father, again, he didn't tell me. The
letter was a mere curiosity until Anne said something strange.”

“What did she say?”

“That the impression was familiar to her.”

“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I mean, it’s your family's
crest.”

“Yes...and no. We haven’t used seals for decades. It is an
old tradition that was naturally dropped when my grandfather evidently lost, or
somehow misplaced, the ring. We have a 16th century tapestry with the crest on,
but Anne had seen it somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“On a signet ring. Worn by Mr Stanbury. And that is when, on
natural further investigation, we found the horde of letters that you just saw,
underneath his bed from him and his father. That sealed for us, beyond all
doubt, who indeed Mr Stanbury was, and his intention against our family.”

The ring! The ring he was talking about!

The galley gasps, and Mr Stanbury looks terror stricken. And
guilty. The letters between Mr Stanbury and his father that condemned him are
once again read out loud to the court, and though Mr Smithingson attempts to
twist their content, he cannot dispute the fact that Mr Stanburys signature
glares brightly upon them, for all of the jury to see. Mr Smithingson rises,
and asks Lord Damsbridge only one question.

"How could Mr Stanbury have possibly known the child
would be a boy? It had to be a boy, didn't it? After all, the entail could not
pass to a girl."

Lord Damsbridge looks at the lawyer scathingly.

"His job was completed, Sir," he says, almost
sneering, "when he put a child in my daughters stomach. Because he knew I
would make them marry. If it had been a girl, do you imagine for even one
moment he would have stopped? He would have had my precious child popping them
out every year until a boy came along; a little like Henry VIII. Surely, I shouldn't
have to explain the obvious to such a learned man as yourself?"

"Was there any mention in the letters of murdering your
daughter? Because according to you, that was the plan."

"It was not the plan, Sir. If you were worth half your
ilk as a lawyer, you would have realised something the jury did long ago. His
plan was to get his hands on Asquith Manor, the house that his father and he
believed belonged to them by rights, by virtue, as ironic as that may sound, of
his bloody grandmother sleeping with my grandfather. The killing came
afterwards, when my daughter took that away from him. Are you stupid?"

Nobody addresses the fact that, grieving father or not, a
witness just insulted and verbally slandered a lawyer in front of the eyes of
the world. Somebody in the galley starts a slow clap, which gathers pace and
tone until the court is one slow, twisting, grinding beat of evil hearts and
minds.

Mr Smithingson looks around him; his eyes that of a wounded
man. He opens his mouth and closes it, muttering something about resting his
case. He is outnumbered, and outwitted. he may be defending an innocent man,
but the public don't care.

I care.

I must help him. I must help them both.

 The jury rise and make their way into their chamber to
makes their decision, and the defence lawyer’s eyes meet mine. I wave
desperately, and he inclines his head.

Mr Stanbury is innocent. Yet he is doomed, and my very own
words have helped condemn him. I was wrong. I’ve been blinded by medical texts
and a clinical eye. I didn’t listen to my client.

I should have looked for zebras, not buried my mind when I
found horses.

Because now, I fear there is no jury in the land that would
not convict.