The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  “As in…gone, Sir. We cannot find her, though we tried our best to do so prior to alerting you, in case it was a false concern.”

  I vague sense of unease creeps over my skin.

  “Gone?” I repeat. “Gone to where?”

  “Well,” James stutters, his cheeks turning red. “Excuse me for saying so, Sir, but that is the point. We don’t know where. If we did, she wouldn’t be missing, would she?”

  Do all of these servants speak out of turn to me? I think they do, though I can’t imagine why. Do I not put a roof over their heads, food in their stomachs, and clothes on their back?

  No, you don’t. You don’t have a penny to your name, and that’s why you lord it over these people as if you were their true master. You are nothing but a dirty, filthy imposter.

  “Is it not feasible she is simply parading the grounds? She certainly mentioned something yesterday about intending to spend some time in the rose garden.”

  “We checked there already, Sir.”

  I sigh.

  “Look James, I really think you are panicking far too much. My wife has been apart from us for, let’s see: six months, or thereabouts? Do you not imagine she is simply taking her time to re-adjust, and re-visit all that she has missed? She is probably overwhelmed with everything, and no doubt, and quite understandably: wishes to spend time alone. Now surely, my boy, this makes more sense than her being ‘missing’? What, do you imagine that she has absconded?”

  “No Sir, I...”

  “Vanished?”

  “No, Sir...”

  “Killed herself?”

  James looks to the floor.

  Perhaps that was in poor taste.

  I hope she hasn't.

  She can give me a child, and then kill herself.

  That’s if I don’t kill her first.

  Lots of mothers die in childbirth, don’t they?

  “Look, James boy: she is in all probability, knowing Anne: which, incidentally, I do; doubtlessly she has taken it upon her pretty little head to go for an early morning wander, and neglected to tell anyone. I feel that is understandable, given the circumstance of recent months, don’t you? That she might be a little forgetful?”

  “Yes Sir, No Sir, I...” He wrings his hands. "Sir, we found blood.”

  “Where?”

  “On her bed-sheets, Sir.”

  “Look James, really,” I am disgusted. “I think that is for the women-folk to discuss, not men, and certainly not such an underling as yourself.” Turning my back on him, I move towards the window. “Kindly see to my bath; as you can see, I am filthy. I wish to clean myself up before I follow this ridiculous notion of Anne being ‘missing’ any further. Do I make myself clear?”

  “But Sir, I was supposed...”

  My temper flares, and I shout.

  “DO YOU UNDERSTAND YOUR ROLE, BOY?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Meekly.

  “Then be quick about it, and see that one of the maid's attends to this messy business of my bed at once.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Something Dreadful

  Beatrix

  April 24th, 1886

  Asquith House

  Lifting the heavy iron from the black silk, I replace it on the oven-top and take off the grease paper, holding it to the light. Darned grease stains. Discarding it, I put a fresh piece of blotting in its place and start again with the second iron that has been heating whilst I used the first.

  I may have to use a little benzole. This dress took me an age to sew, and I’ll be darned if I’m giving up on it.

  Just as I am angrily throwing aside the second paper, a voice beside me says, “I think ye ought t’ try a little beer on that, Miss.”

  Startled, I almost drop the iron. Standing beside me is Betty, poor child.

  “Betty, you gave me the fright of my life!”

  “Sorry t’ intrude, Miss’, she says, curtseying. “But I brought ye breakfast. James is nowhere t’ b found, and I couldn’t have ye starve now, could I?”

  “Oh, thank you Betty,” I say. The toast is beautifully done, golden and buttery. Just how both Anne and I prefer it.

  “Ye most welcome, Miss,” she says, turning to leave.

  “Betty?”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “What did you say about the beer?”

  “Beer, Miss. Ye mix it wit' a bit o’ water and ammonia, put ye sponge in it, dry it, and put it on ye silk. Good as new it will be, good as new.” Betty beams as if she has just informed me of the meaning of life.

  “How do you know that?” I ask gently. She is a scullery maid, how can she possibly know about the treatment of expensive silks?

  “Me Ma’, Miss. Before she got sick she was a Lady’s maid, just like ye. She ne’er forgot what she learned, and she passed it on to me when I was but a bairn.”

  I smile at her. She is still a bairn, but doesn’t realise it. Oh, for the days when we were both young and innocent!

  “Well, Betty,” I say, pausing. I know better than to ask her how her mother fares; if her daughter is in service as a scullery maid, I have no need to enquire. Betty’s position speaks for itself. “Thank you. After all my years as a Lady’s maid, I never did hear that one.”

  Betty beams so hard she looks about to burst.

  “Well, Miss, I’m glad t’ have shared somethin’ wit’ ye. I hate scrubbin' the pans' an pot's an' getting' all sweaty.” She hops a little on the spot. “Ye know, Miss, I hope one day to be like me Ma, a real Lady’s maid, but I hope I can service one as kind as Lady Anne, oh, I mean, Lady Stanbury...I still get confused sometimes.” She blushes a pretty pink. “But I'm so glad she's back!”

  “As am I, Betty. Don’t worry about titles too much, you are not the only one my dear, all of these titles are frightfully complicated. I once addressed a Duke as ‘Sir’. Imagine!”

  Betty giggles.

  “Miss, ye didn’t!”

  “Indeed I did. And it was most mortifying, but I am still alive, and I am still employed, so a mix up of titles is far from the worst thing in the world you can do, little Betty. But never mind, you will learn in time, whether you like it or not.”

  “Miss, ye toast will be cold, please, I best be on me way,” she says.

  It is most unlike Betty to be leaving me voluntarily; normally she flutters about my skirts as much as she possibly can. Probably she is eager to see Anne.

  “Of course.” I pick up a piece and take a bite in front of her. Swallowing, I declare it to be the best toast ever made, and Betty looks as if she will spontaneously combust. She still hops, obviously torn between me and her idol.

  “Go child, I know how many chores you have. By the way though, could you kindly tell James to come and see me when you find him?”

  “I will Miss, I most def’in-ly will.” With that, she skips out of the room.

  What an utterly delightful and most charming child. Could enchant the birds’ right out of their nests.

  I must ask Dorris, the housekeeper, about getting me some beer.

  Turning the oven off, I put the dress aside. I toilet and dress, and take the stairs to Anne’s chamber. Stepping onto the landing, I am greeted by the most unusual sight of Newman and James huddled together. Evidently hearing my footsteps, they turn in unison towards me.

  “What is happening?” I say, stopping in my tracks. I have never seen them loitering like this outside Anne’s chamber, and I am unsure how to react. “Is the Lady unwell? Why did she not call for me? Is the call system broken? Newman, I did mention it to you before!” I am indignant.

  “Miss Fortier, the bell structure is perfectly fine. However, whether Lady Stanbury is fine or not is yet to be determined,” Newman says.

  “She is missing!” splutters James. “I told Mr Stanbury, but the man wouldn’t hear of it. He is in a bad state; not emotional though mind, if you grab my meaning. The man vomited all over his bed, his nose is the size of a pancake, and I swear I saw flecks of blood on his hands too.” He grimaces.<
br />
  “Let me into her chamber at once,” I say.

  “Certainly madam, but please take heed to look about you carefully, you are surely the person best placed to see if anything is missing.”

  Why would I need to see if anything is missing?

  Have we been robbed?

  Standing aside, the gentlemen let me pass. The room is dark, the curtains still drawn closed from last night. The oil lamp is lit, casting an eerie orange glow over the bed. I look underneath it: the chamber pot is empty. Either unused or already cleaned, which tells me at least one thing. But I keep this knowledge to myself.

  The covers have been flung to the floor as if in great haste, and the sheet underneath is marred with brown-ish, red streaks. Dried blood. Perhaps my Lady had her courses, but then again...

  “Did you see the blood?” I call out to James and Newman.

  “We did, Madam, though we wish we hadn’t. Most disrespectful to have seen a thing like that, from our Lady, no less.” Newman calls back, and I hear him mumble something to James.

  I suspect they both wish they could burn out their eyes at this moment, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Mr Stanbury commanded them to. Once he had sobered up enough to realise the potential severity of this situation.

  Sobering up...

  Wait.

  Mr Stanbury was drunk last night. He was aggressive and verbally abusive towards Anne. According to James, he was sick this morning, and was wearing a swollen nose. This most surely indicates an abundance of alcohol consumed, by a man ill with grief, consumed with anger, and out of his mind at dinner.

  And now, this morning, Anne is missing.

  I can’t say for definite whether her courses are due, as with her having been away I have not been able to monitor them. If it is, it is most unlike Anne to have allowed this embarrassment to have occurred, unless it caught her by surprise; which happens to all women occasionally.

  But if not...where has this blood come from?

  Why is Anne nowhere to be seen?

  Is there a perfectly innocent explanation hidden in all this?

  Or is it something much more sinister, and obvious?

  “James,” I say, coming out of the room. “Find Betty. She can ride a horse faster than anyone in this house. Tell her to go to the nearest police station immediately. Newman, bring Lord Damsbridge. I think something dreadful has happened.”

  Brandishing A Rake

  Beatrix

  April 24th, 1886

  Asquith House

  From the moment Betty had taken off on the horse, word had spread fast: through the kitchen, down the corridors, across the gardens, into the stables, and into the ears of everyone employed at Asquith House.

  The only person that as yet remained uninformed was Lord Damsbridge, whom was nowhere to be found either, but this did not surprise me. He often takes off on business matters without informing the servants.

  Newman, James, and I told everyone that the police were shortly on their way, and all errands were dropped. All of the houses' staff were therefore gathered in the hallway an hour later when the policemen arrived: picking their way through the grand entrance slowly, purposefully; looking left, right, up, down, and everywhere all around them as if they expected to find Anne hiding in a rafter, or perhaps behind the door. Betty stood a ways behind them, peering around their legs and looking worriedly at me. I gave her a quick smile.

  “Now, what's all this fuss about a murder?” The taller of the three gentleman steps forward, taking off his hat and casting suspicious glances at everyone. Mrs Cook wipes her face on her apron, her sniffles the only answer to his question. I hesitate as to whether I should speak first, or wait to be directly spoken too. I decide on the latter.

  “My name is Superintendent Blake, and these are my two senior officers, Inspector Drum, and Inspector Jones.” The other two nod, standing behind their boss, as the man-in-charge walks further into the house, coming to a stop a few feet away from me, but not looking at me. “Who is in charge of this Manor?”

  Nobody speaks.

  He tuts, and shakes his head.

  “You, Madam,” he says, pointing to Mrs Cook. “Why do you cry so?”

  Mrs Cook wipes her eyes daintily, and curtseys; nearly toppling backwards in her grief.

  “Why Sir, because by all accounts, our Lady has been butchered!”

  “Really?’By all accounts'? That's the story I’ve just been told by this little lass behind me, too. Girl, come in here.” Betty creeps in, and looking up at him, stands as still as I've ever seen her.

  She's stopped hopping.

  “Little one, what was your name again?”

  “Betty, Sir.”

  “Go and stand over there next to your contemporaries, please.”

  She scuttles over to me and half hides herself in my skirts. I brush my hand over the top of her head, soothing her. She trembles under my touch, and I wonder what happened to make her so scared.

  “You.” The Inspector directly addresses me, coming over and standing so close to me that I can see my reflection in his badge.

  “Yes, Sir.” I curtsey just perfectly, never taking my eyes from his.

  “What is your name?”

  “Miss Fortier.”

  “Can you tell me what is going on here? Because I must say, I'm rather puzzled.”

  “Puzzled by what, Sir?”

  “A young girl comes running into my station, crying loudly about a murder, and her mistress being missing, and blood on a bed. Now to me, this rather flimsy evidence does not a 'murder' make. Yet I indulge the child, and bring two of my best officers all the way out here to investigate, and yet on my arrival, I find only servants. Where is the master of the house?”

  “I don't know, Sir.”

  “You don't know?” He stands back from me, and addresses the rest of the house. “Does anyone know where your master is?”

  Silence.

  Sniffing.

  “Well?”

  Betty scuffles her feet along the floor.

  I decide to take the lead.

  “Sir, Lord Damsbridge often has business needs to attend to, so it's not unusual for him to be absent.”

  “Really? And what about,” he pulls a notebook out of his pocket and squints at it. “A Mr Stanbury? He is the husband of the missing woman, yes?”

  “Yes, he is, and he's in his room, Sir.”

  “Why is he not down here with you lot?”

  A cough.

  A mumbled obscenity.

  “Miss Fortier, why is the master of the house not here?”

  I don't know how to tell him it's because half of the household wishes to kill him, and the man is probably scared for his life.

  He sighs.

  “Right, seen as nobody wants to answer that question, here's the most important one. How long has Lady Stanbury been missing for?”

  “Since this morning, Sir.”

  “'This morning'?”

  “Well, since last night, I suppose.”

  “Well, which is it?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. She was here last night but then she wasn't this morning.”

  “I'll kill 'im!” A voice comes from outside and all of us turn to the sound. Within mere seconds, Daniel comes bounding up the steps, leaping two of them at a time, shouting at the top of his lungs. “I tell you, I'll kill 'im! Where is he, the bastard?” He comes to a dead halt when he sees the three policemen, the garden rake hovering above his head. Yet the Superintendent doesn't let his surprise show at all, no moving of even a muscle. Not even his face.

  “I suggest you lower that weapon, Son.”

  Daniel does so.

  The Superintendent sighs again.

  “Put him in the drawing room, lads, and make sure he stays there.” The two Inspectors drag Daniel away with quite unnecessary force.

  The Superintendent turns back to us.

  “Can anyone explain to me what just happened there?”

  The only response he recei
ves is the ticking of a clock, until it is interrupted by a very young, very shrill voice.

  “'Cos Mr Stanbury kill't Lady Anne, an' 'cos we all want t' kill 'im! I mean, Lady Stanbury!”

  “Betty!” I hiss at her, and she hides further amongst my skirts as the Superintendant approaches us.

  “Forgive the lass, Sir, she doesn't know what she says.”

  His impassive face meets mine.

  “I think this she does, Miss Fortier. Out of the mouths of babes, and all that. Little one, come out of there at once.”

  She peeks out of the fabric, her hand clasped firmly around my leg.

  “Is it true? Does everyone believe that Mr Stanbury has killed Lady Stanbury?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Quietly.

  Something flashes across his features, before he turns away from us and moves his arm in a sweeping gesture.

  “Doe's anyone else have a weapon about their person?”

  Shakes of the head all round, but Mrs Cook turns a deep shade of red, and one of the laundry maid's turns a peculiar shade of white.

  I'm not the only one to notice.

  “Ladies?”

  Mrs Cook holds reaches under her skirts and pulls out a large pan, whilst the maid drops a poker on the floor.

  “Hmm.” Superintendent Blake walks over to them, shaking his head. “And what were you doing with these?”

  “I was drying the pan, Sir.”

  “I'm sure you were, Mrs?”

  “Cook. Mrs Cook.”

  “Well, kindly make your way to the drawing room also, thank you, there's a good woman,” he says, as she guiltily follows his order.

  “And you, child?”

  The maid who dropped the poker looks at him, and promptly faints; her head crashing heavily against the floor.

  “And I'm sure she was poking the fire. All of you, outside, immediately. I will speak with you again shortly.” The two inspectors come back into the hallway, one of them carrying the rake, and they startle as they notice the maid on the floor.

  “What happened to her?” one of them says.

  “She fainted, lad. Who is guarding the boy?”

  “Smithson, Sir. A fat woman just ran in there, too. What did she do?”