The Medea Complex (7 page)

Edgar

November 5th, 1885

Asquith Manor

I am nearing the end of writing a letter and reading through
my papers when I am disturbed by Betty, a small servant girl of perhaps twelve
years. She is yet to learn respect for her employer, and does not understand
the meaning of making herself invisible: barging into the library with a bang
and demonstrating my point perfectly. I put aside the newspaper, printed over
fifty years ago.

“Oh, Sir! Sir! There be a man t' see ye, 'ee says 'ee is
part 'o ye family, like! I daenne' 'know ye 'ad more family! I 'eard ye Father
was dead, like!”

“Child, do you not have any respect for your master? Has
nobody ever told you children should be seen, and not heard?” I can't decide if
I'm angrier over the intrusion itself, or the fact she almost caught me crying.

My grandmother would not be proud of me right now.

The servant-girl frowns at me and fidgets, hopping manically
from one foot to another as if she is standing on a pile of hot coals. She
clutches a filthy cloth in her hands. “I ne-er did 'ear t'at one Sir! But, Sir,
'ee said 'ee wants 't 'see ye right away! T' man, I mean! That's why I came
runnin' in, but oh please, forgive 'me! I was in t' middle 'o polishin' the silver,
an' he' knocked on t' glass! T' window, I mean! He din even knock 'o the front
door, like!”

“Betty!” My morning is further disturbed by the arrival of
Beatrix, who despite Anne's incarceration still manages to creep around the
Manor. Discussions with Lord Damsbridge regarding her dismissal proved
fruitless. He pronounced that it was up to Anne and Anne alone to choose her
lady's maid, and neither he nor I could fire her.

We'll see about that. Time changes everything.

In her hurry to stop the young servant, Beatrix didn't knock
either. My temper increases. I rub my eyes.

“Look, what is the meaning of this intrusion? This is
absolutely unacceptable behaviour from the servants of my Manor.” I stand up
abruptly, and throw my pen at the wall, where it bounces off onto the floor.
Betty twitches as if she is about to run forward to fetch it, but Beatrix
restrains her by a hand upon her shoulder. She whispers something to her and
the girl nods.

The older servant curtsies, and nudges Betty to copy her. 

“Apologies, Sir. Betty is young and eager to please her
master. She thought she did right by coming to you immediately, such was the
urgency of the gentleman who has requested you downstairs. I shall personally
make sure it doesn't happen again.” Her eyes meet mine for the briefest of
moments and in them I detect a hint of defiance, and even dislike, before she
turns away, pushing Betty out of the library. The door slams shut with a bang
that reverberates throughout the household, further irritating my senses.

What have I done to her to encourage such a look? Apart from
trying to sack her of course, but there's no way she could possibly know about
that. No matter, I will return to the topic at a later date, and approach Lord
Damsbridge once again with my concerns.

I take off my ring and lock it inside the desk.

Quickly, I move over to a small wooden cabinet and unlock it
with a quiet click. Looking around me, I pull out a bottle of whiskey.
Satisfied I am alone; I pour myself a large measure and gulp it.

Relief. Just for a moment.

 Screwing the cap back on the bottle, I pull the bell that
hangs beside the cabinet. I'm still not used to such luxury, but god knows I
deserve it.

“Sir!” The butler rushes in, a drowsy little man who causes
no trouble at all, and despite his elderly handicap fails not under the burden
of his years. He gives me a small bow, and waits for further instructions. That
is how I should be received by all my servants: they should never disturb me,
yet come at once when I summon them. This is what my Father has taught me. This
is my right.

“Who calls on me?”

“A gentleman Sir, but I must profess I’ve never seen him
before,” the butler says, folding his liver-spotted hands in front of him. “He
was lurking around outside, peering through the windows. I don't think the
fellow knew where the doorbell was.” He looks at me doubtfully, as if not quite
believing his own explanation for witnessing such odd behaviour. 

“Well, did you ask him his name?”

“I did, Sir. He said to tell you his name is Mr Jordan.”

The past crawls up my neck, and the hairs on my arms stand
up at once. The oddity is explained in the telling of the name.

“Shall I send him away, Sir?” asks the butler, perceptive as
always. The man has outlived so many people, it’s no wonder his acute observations
are as well-honed as a hawk circling its prey. He knows instantly I am afraid
of meeting Mr Jordan.

“No, it's quite alright. I was just a little faint there for
a moment: must be the grief, you know. It still hits me hard sometimes.”

I must face Mr Jordan. My future happiness depends upon it.

The old man nods.

“He was a beautiful child, Sir.”

I know. I know.

He coughs.

“Shall I inform Mr Jordan you will be with him momentarily?
He waits for you in the drawing room.”

“Yes,” I say, watching him leave as I retrieve my
half-finished letter from the desk, and pen from the floor. I put them both
into my pocket and sigh. If only he hadn't come. This letter will never be sent
now. I am too much of a coward. I adjust my clothes and take a deep breath.

By the time I arrive at the drawing room, the butler is
waiting for me.

“Can I get the two of you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“Yes. The finest whiskey you have, please. Mr Jordan is an
old friend of my father’s: may his soul rest in peace.”

“Indeed. Sir.” He makes his way to the kitchen, and I know
he will be returning within minutes. I quickly enter through the doors to face
Mr Jordan.

The gentleman looks up as I enter, interrupted as he was in
the midst of shaking ice from his boots onto the floor. He scrapes the rest of
it off on the edge of a chair, where it falls onto a two hundred year old
Persian rug. I wince as the brown sludge soaks into the delicate fabric. He
moves over to a chair closest to the fireplace, and sits down in a manner that
is suggestive of ownership and familiarity, stretching his legs out in front of
him.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't Mr Stanbury, aka, Lord of t'
Manor. I'd tip my hat at 'ye, except the butler put it on a hat-stand,” he
says, laughing meanly. “Doing well for yerself, I see? There are many things to
amuse such a fine gentleman as yourself in here, isn't there? Books, a grand
piano...” He arcs his arm and gestures to the wall above an oak table. “A
lovely painting you have there by the way. Who is she, Anne's mother? The poor thing's
dead, in't she?” He looks at me and points to the chair next to him, as if it
is he whom should be inviting me to sit. “Sit, Lord Stanbury. Tell me about
your life, I wish to know of your escapades. I should imagine there are quite a
few servants that could keep a man amused here too, ey? Seems to me, the only
thing you don’t seem to have is a wife. Pity that you haven't thought it
necessary to inform yer own father of recent developments. Drove the woman
insane, did you? Shame, as I got word she’s quite the beauty. If she’s anything
like her mother was, I'd have to agree.”

“Shush! What are you doing here? I told you I would write to
you!” My chest tightens, and I take a slow, deep breath.

“Well, my son, I have received no letter from ye, you, in
over three months. T'was as recent as a fortnight ago I read of this horror, on
the front page of The Gazette, no less! You've gotten us into a right pickle,
so ye have.” He digs deep inside his cheap pockets, and pulls out a neatly
rolled newspaper. “This is how I found out, my son. Can you imagine?” He slaps
the newspaper against my chest twice before I snatch it away from him.

The butler picks this moment to intrude upon us, but
thankfully, knocks hard twice on the door before entering. I quickly unroll and
sit on it. I adopt an air of relaxation and smile innocently at the butler as
he hobbles into the room.

“Mr Jordan? Can I offer you a glass of our finest whiskey?”

My father looks at me, the edges of his mouth curling
upwards.

“Aye, t'would warm me up, that would. Much appreciated.
Thank you,” he tells the butler, watching me over the top of the servants head
as the old man pours a small measure of the orange liquid into a crystal glass.

 “T'wud like more of that, young man,” my father says,
looking disdainfully into the glass. Somehow my father manages to insult people
under a thin veil of politeness. He rarely gets away with it though and the
butler is no fool. The blush that rises to his cheeks betrays the fact he knows
he has been insulted, but in his position, he can hardly address it. He merely
pours more whiskey into the glass until it almost over-fills.

“Sir, I do beg your pardon. It seems I've gone a little
overboard there. I'd hate for you to spill it upon such a fine suit. Here-” he
gestures to my father as if to take it away from him “Let me pour a little out.
Nothing but the largest of measures for such a fine gentleman, isn't that
right, Sir?” He looks to me, the picture of innocence.

My father, too idiotic to realize that the butler has gotten
the best of him, waves him away, and raises the glass to his lips. “No matter.
More is better than less,” he says in his ignorance, his bastardized English
grating upon me like teeth on a stone. Taking a swig, he sighs with the
happiness of a man who regularly seeks solace in a bottle.

My own whiskey poured; a perfectly perfect measure, the
butler leaves us in peace, placing the decanter and fresh glasses on the small
table in between my father and I.

“There was no need to insult the man, father,” I say through
my teeth, lifting my behind and pulling out the newspaper.

“'Insult the man', you say? And how did I do that?”

Same as always; looking for an argument. I sigh and let the
matter pass, opening the paper.

“Forget it. Why are you here? What possible reason could you
have for taking such a risk?”

My father lifts his shoulders back, and raising his head,
finishes his drink and

pours himself another vastly generous glass. I hope he
doesn't intoxicate himself before he leaves.

“Read that, will 'ye?”

I open it up.

Evening Herald

October 12th, 1885

OLD COURT. October 6th, 1885.

Before Mr. Grantham.

241. ANNE STANBURY (28),For the wilful murder of her
recently born male child.

MR. CAMPBELL. Prosecuted.

Upon the evidence of Dr Scott, the medical officer at
Holloway Gaol, the Jury found the prisoner of unsound mind and unable to plead.
To be detained during Her Majesty's Pleasure.

STANBURY, Anne Rose (28), was indicted for and charged on
Coroner's inquisition with the wilful murder of her male child.

Mr. Bowkin and Mr. David Campbell prosecuted: Mr.
Hutchinson defended, at the request of the Court.

ELEANOR JAMES, nurse. I first attended to the prisoner
during her first confinement one year ago. She was again confined on May 4th,
and I then attended to her until August 1st. She got over this confinement
well; she appeared happy and cheerful, and was a fond and loving mother. I next
saw her on August 8th; she complained of feeling weak and suffering
sleeplessness, and complained of loss of milk, not being able to feed her baby.
At 11.30 that night I saw her for the last time, she was in bed with the baby.
From my experience as a nurse if a woman loses her milk after confinement it
often has an effect on the mind.

WILLIAM STRONG, 183, New Queens Road, Clapham. I was a neighbour
to the prisoner and her husband, and they were thoroughly respectable people.
Prisoner was a kind and affectionate mother to her little boy. Around 1.30 on
the morning of October 5th, I heard the cry of a baby, and I saw light in the
kitchen, which was most unusual. The baby seemed to be crying with great
distress, and I thought it neighbourly of me to knock and see if all was well,
or if I could be of any assistance. I was concerned the baby may have taken
sick.  Through the window I saw the prisoner in her dressing gown; there was
blood on her hands and her arms were outstretched. The baby had gone silent,
and at this point Mr Stanbury entered the kitchen. I called out, "What has
she done?" Mr Stanbury came around and opened the door, he was pale and
said, "Come and look." I went into the kitchen and saw the baby on
the floor, near it there was laying a knife (Exhibit 1).

Dr. JOHN STANFORD, 4, Wandsworth Bridge Road. I attended
to the prisoner in her confinement on May 7th and until August 1st. On October
5th, which was about 8 weeks after I had last seen her, I was sent for to
Asquith House. I found her then suffering from puerperal insanity; that is a
form frequently accompanying the stoppage of milk, and infanticide is one of
the characteristics. The child had had its throat cut, and was dead.

Cross-examined. I think she would not know what she was
doing when she committed this act.

Dr. SCOTT, medical officer, Holloway Prison. I have had
prisoner under observation since August 5th. My conclusion is that at the time
of committing this act she was not responsible for her actions.

Verdict, Guilty, but insane at the time of commission of
the offence.  Unable to stand trial.

To be detained during Her Majesty’s Pleasure at Bethlem
Royal Hospital, until such time she is deemed sane.

Seeing it on paper brings back that terrible night and I
close my eyes, all of a sudden in physical pain.