The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  “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.

  “Ye' see? How awful for a grandfather t' read that about his own bairn's bairn. So I'm sure ye' can understand how I'm here to see how 'me own flesh and blood, what I have left, that is, is bearing up under such terrible circumstances. What other possible reason do ye' think? Of course, if ye' had written to me, as promised, I wouldn't be here, Lord Stanbury. Oh, and I could use some money; 'me new wife fancies a little red dress that I can't possibly deny her.”

  “I'm not a Lord, Father, and never will be. And I suggest that you buy it for her, as I don't have any money.” I can see John's blood splattered, mutilated body lying on the concrete floor, a physical throbbing imprinted behind my left eye.

  “Don't have any money? Pray tell son, how that is possible. I see 'meself sittin in a chair which costs more than my humble little house...” He lifts his bottom and pats the seat pointedly. “And that decanter there could mortgage half of London for a decade, too.”

  Of course. To imagine he would be here for anything less than selfish reasons...

  How did he even find a new wife? What woman, in her right mind, would go within six feet of my father?

  He trespasses upon my thoughts.

  “Son, whilst you're living the life 'o luxury 'ere, I'm forced to live in a town of smog, woken up at all hours by the rumble of traffic and hawkers shoutin' out their goods at the crack of dawn before I've 'ardly had a chance t' open my eyes...” Does he think I don't remember? Does he forget I grew up in the very house to which he refers? “Can ye' guess how many times the crumpet man rings his bell before the clock tolls seven in the morning? Two hundred and thirty-seven times. That's a lot of ringing just outside of ye front door, and I hardly get any sleep nowadays. I tried throwing a shoe at him once, but he called me a foul name and threatened t' hit me. Poor Vicky can't sleep either, bless 'er 'eart.”

  So knowing my father's status of abject and woeful poverty, how does she imagine he can buy her a red dress?

  My father is a coward as are most bullies, and though his tongue can be sharp his arms are thin and puny. The one time he had a fight, the woman knocked him clean unconscious, and he lost his front teeth. Not that it made much impact upon his vanity: he never smiled much before anyway.

  “I feel badly about that. I really do.” I don't. “But there's not much I can do. You can take the decanter if you want, I'll tell the butler we accidentally broke it, and one of the servant girls cleaned away the mess. I don't expect him to go checking upon it. But I can’t give you any money, for I tell the truth when I tell you I am poor.”

  He looks at the decanter.

  “'Aye, I'll take it, but I'm taking it full with the whiskey, mind.”

  “Just don't drink it all in the carriage on the way home, will you?”

  “You think I came in a carriage?”

  “I don't care how you came, but you'll be going back in one. I'll summon the coachman right away.”

  “You better get your beautiful wife out of the mad-house, son. And soon. Remember who you are, remember your roots. You have work to do.” The threat is implicit.

  “I grew to love her-”

  “Ye', so you say. But who are you trying to deceive: me, or yourself?”

  I can never send the letter containing the truth, for he will never believe it. Deceit and lying comes as naturally as breathing to my father, and he therefore assumes everyone else is the same. He will never understand, nor care, how hard these lies have been for me.

  “I'll write to you father.” I can't be bothered to argue with him, not now. I don't need to tell him today that I'm not doing it; I'm not going through with what we agreed. Hopefully he'll go back to his little hovel, drink himself to death, and I'll be free.

  “You better, son. Do ye' still 'ave the ring?”

  “Of course I do, it's locked safely away. But why don’t you take it with you, I don't think it's wise keeping it here, what if they find out-”

  “You'll keep it on ye' son, t' remind you of yer roots. Don't get carried away like some idiot in love, ye just look at tha' ring and remember that both I, and ye, and yer grandfather should've been wearing that thing with pride, a long, long time ago.” He stands up, and winks at me. “Don't worry son, as soon as 'ye get another child in 'er, and out of 'er, everythin' will be fixed. Just make sure ye keep that one alive, ey?”

  He slams the door on his way out.

  A Fine Fraudster

  Dr Savage

  November 5th, 1885

  Royal Bethlem Hospital

  After prescribing a draught for a young man with boils that he insists upon popping and thus infecting, I wash my hands and wait for the next patient to come in. Enter she does, slowly, warily, looking to the ground; her face pale, her cheeks sallow. Nurse Agnus says something to her and gently pushes her further into my office, before closing the door and leaving us alone to assess one another. I see defiance flash in her eyes, and I stand up as leisurely as she came over the threshold; matching and mirroring her movements. Not wishing to alarm her, hoping only to establish some level of rapport between us.

  The only thing more frightening than a lunatic woman is a trapped animal, and I therefore wish to supply her with the illusion of space, and freedom.

  “Good Morning, Anne,” I say, sitting in my chair so she is the one left standing.

  She frowns at me as if unsure of my actions and looks at the seat in front of her, twiddling her fingers.

  “Would you like to sit, Anne?”

  “I would. Thank you,” she says, and does so.

  Thank you?

  She is calmer this morning than she was the last time I saw her, and as my gaze meets hers

  I marvel at the fact that I can look into the face of a murderess and still perceive an attractive woman. In a lunatic asylum, it is seldom one meets with physical beauty. Degeneracy in nature is naturally in opposition to attractiveness, and well-being, for good reason.

  “How was your breakfast, today?” I ask her.

  “Awful. Do I have to eat porridge every damned day?”

  She has a point.

  “Well, what would you like to eat for breakfast, Anne?”

  “I should like some warm, golden, very buttery-toast, if that's not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all,” I say, scribbling it onto a piece of paper. “Now, Anne. I have done something for you, and I would like you to do something for me in return. Can you tell me why you tried to escape last week?”

  She frowns at me.

  “That's an idiotic question. I tried to escape because I'm not supposed to be here.” She shakes her head as if bewildered at my stupidity.

  “Ok. What about the gentleman with whom you tried to escape? Do you think he is supposed to be here?”

  “Well, I..” She stops, twiddling with the strings on her gown. “He said something about his family putting him in here, which I simply do not understand. If you are kidnapping people for ransom, then that doesn't make sense to me.” She closes her eyes, breathing for a moment before opening them. “Also, he didn't appear to be the sort that would have much money. I'm very confused here.”

  She is starting to rationalize! I hide my smile with a hand.

  “Anne, was there anything strange about the gentleman? Anything at all?”

  “Well, he did say something rather odd.”

  “What was it?”

  “He told me that he murdered his wife. Then he said he was joking. I must say, I found it in very poor taste indeed.”

  Her short term memory is returning. The man did, indeed, murder his wife. Then he ate her. The only way she could know of this is if he told her. And she remembers! I try to push her memory back further.

  “Hmm. A very poor joke, I am inclined to agree. Anne, let's forget the gentleman for a moment
. I want to focus back on you. Can you tell me the last thing you remember, before being here?” I have asked her this before, and will continue to so: until such a time as she recollects her life.

  “I went to sleep. How many times must I tell you? I don’t understand what you want from me, but I do wish that you would tell me. I would like to go home.”

  Anne is unusual in that she doesn’t quite seem to fill a singular diagnosis; doesn’t wholly ‘fit’ into any particular box. She has all the outward symptoms of 'acute delirious mania': memory loss, definite cause (puerperal psychosis), sudden onset, yet she does not have the fever, refusal of food, flushed cheeks, or incoherence of speech that accompanies it. In my assessment of the insane, the symptoms form the point of division between curable and incurable cases. Based on appearances alone, I would consider Anne an ‘incurable’ case; however, puerperal insanity is curable. I shall proceed slowly.

  “Tell me about going to bed that night, Anne.”

  She looks to her lap, and mumbles something under her breath.

  “Pardon, Anne?”

  She stands, pushing the chair behind and away from her. “I said, you are perverted. Why do you imagine it appropriate to ask a Lady the particulars of her going to bed? Would you like me to tell you that I sleep naked at times, in the summer when the heat feels like a blanket over my skin? That at these times I have no need of clothes? Is that what you wish to know? Why oh why am I here?” She starts to cry, and sways back and forth. She is upset, but so far she is not being violent, and I have seen far worse than this.

  The memory of a person suffering from mania is sometimes akin to listening to someone with a double consciousness. When talking of recent events Anne is calm and collected, yet when confronted with her memory of before the asylum, her angry, confused feelings resurface. Though interesting to witness: a mind protecting itself in such a way is frustrating as a professional; to be unable to reach it.

  “No Anne, you misunderstand me. I simply wish to know of your last memories of being at home, before you came to be here. Whether you believe me presently or not, you will, given time. You will understand and recognize me for that which I am: a doctor, trying to help you.”