The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  The Superintendent shakes his head.

  “Come on lads, the rest of the men are where they should be, correct?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Excellent. Now everyone, like I told you, outside. Now. Before I arrest the lot of you.”

  Betty refuses to let go of my skirts as we make our way outside, and I ask her if she is alright.

  “I'm alright Miss, thank ye'. But they scare me, those police. Are they gonna' arrest us all, like 'ee said?”

  “No, Betty. It’s just a threat. He has no reason to arrest us. You've done well today, my child.” I kiss her on the forehead and hold her tight whilst the police go about their business of arresting Mr Stanbury.

  Wash In Your Own Piss

  Edgar

  March 2nd, 1886

  Local Gaol

  My hands are shaking, and I don’t know if it’s because of the lack of whiskey in this place, or out of fear. I wish that I was still drunk, and that this week has been nothing but a figment of my imagination, but these walls seem very real, as do the steel bars that prevent me from leaving this cell. The bruises on my arms are very real too.

  “Mr Stanbury?” A policeman approaches my cell, coming to a stand-still mere inches from the bars.

  “Sir! Please, can I have some water?” I jump up from the bed, and hold out a long-since empty cup.

  He tuts and takes it. I follow his back down the corridor until he disappears from sight. My throat hitches, but thankfully after a few seconds, he reappears.

  "Here." He pushes the cup towards me with such force that half of it sloshes onto the floor. It's all I can do to not fall to my knees and lick up the precious, wasted liquid. It is tepid, but I don’t care.

  I gulp it, and wipe my mouth. "Thank you, I-"

  He interrupts me with a low, aggressive utterance.

  “Murderer.”

  I can't help it; a laugh explodes out of me, just as it did when James, the footman, suggested that my wife was missing. Just as it did during the indictment, when the charges were read against me. “You are all mad. She’s no doubt taken off for a walk.”

  “And a week later, there's still no sign of her? That’s a long bloody walk, mate.”

  “Well, perhaps she went to visit some friends, and neglected to inform anyone. She is, after all, a lunatic.” I correct myself quickly. “Was, a lunatic. Was.”

  “I don’t think so Mr Stanbury, and neither does anyone else. Is that why you killed her? Because she is a ‘lunatic’, as you say?”

  “No, I-“

  “Because she murdered your baby, right? You decided to get your revenge. You waited for her to be discharged, all the while plotting, and then as soon as she was released you-“

  “No!” I throw myself upon the bars. “No, no, no! You have it all wrong, you have everything wrong! I didn’t kill her, how could I? She’s my wife for god’s sake.”

  He looks down at me and sneers.

  “Was your wife, you mean? She’s dead.”

  How, what? Did they find her body? Can it really be true?

  “Did you…is she…I mean…” I stumble backwards, dropping the cup on the floor. “Is she-”

  “Dead?” The policeman crosses his arms. “Is that what you were going to ask me? Is that what you are trying to verbalise, you drunken fool?”

  “I…I…”

  “You left enough blood of hers on the ground for any jury in the land to convict you. There’s no way she ‘walked’ anywhere. Corpses don’t generally move. Which meant that you put her somewhere afterward. So where did you put her, huh?”

  “I…” I fall to the ground. Where is that smelly, stinking blanket? I want to cover myself in it; I never want to move, ever again. My life is over.

  “Get off your hands and knees, you piece of scum.”

  No, no. I shall not. Nobody listens to me. Nobody knows me. I just want to be away from here, anywhere but in this cell. I don’t deserve to be here, I haven’t done anything wrong…

  “Here.” He throws something into the cell, a tinkling sound which lands, glinting in the corner. “Lord Damsbridge sends his regards.” I pick up the object, and open my hand.

  My ring. I lost it a week ago; sure I'd put it in my desk drawer. This explains why I was unable to find it.

  They took it.

  All I have done and all that I am has been discovered.

  I have lost everything.

  “I have been set up,” I say, picking up the ring. I cross over to the bars and hold it out to him. “This is proof, irrefutable proof, that whatever they tell you is a lie. I no more murdered my wife than I murdered my son.” I sit on the floor, my arm held aloft.

  The ring is whipped out of my hand and pocketed, before he squats and brings his face close to mine. An inch of air is all that separates us, yet it is as insurmountable as walking through metal.

  “Have you looked in the mirror, Mr Stanbury? A fine shiner you’ve got there. Fought you, did she? You know, I'm actually wondering now, given the value of hindsight and all, whether you had something to do with your son's death, too. But no matter. If we can't get you on that, we can certainly get you for the murder of your wife.” His nose wrinkles as he sniffs.”In the meantime, I suggest you try to get some sleep, or, at the very least, a wash.”

  He knows.

  His stance, his sneer, his utter dismissiveness of my very valid argument is wrong. Very wrong. Unless, of course, Lord Damsbridge is paying him.

  “How much is he paying you?” I wipe my face, so weary now, so tired. Tired of living a lie. Something happens inside of me, a snapping of something essential to life. I'm tired of the plotting and planning and living on the edge of a knife. Tired of life and death and love and insanity and drink and everything. But mostly I am tired of being me, the son of my father, the one who started this whole thing. I was never anything to him but an instrument: one that he sent out into the world to do the dirty work of his own father.

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” he says, unperturbed, brushing invisible dirt from his trousers as he stands up. He is so close to me that I hear his knees crack. The perfectly ironed trousers taunt me.

  “You do! Your eyes betray you! Lord Damsbridge! How much is he paying you to set me up?”

  His face twists into something approaching a sneer, part disdain, and part disgust, as if I were nothing but something rotten on the bottom of his perfectly shined shoes.

  I realise that he will never admit it, and try a different approach.

  “Look. I know that you know what I'm talking about. I know it. But if you won’t admit that to me then I understand that too; no doubt he is paying you far more than you could ever earn on your salary, and I, more than anyone, understand the pull and the attraction of money.” He continues to stare at me. “But can you at least take me somewhere so I can have a wash, Sir? You even said yourself that I smell offensive.”

  His jaw works, and for a moment, I imagine with relief that my words have registered with him.“Wash in your own piss, murderer.”

  “Jones! Inspector Jones!” A new voice echoes down the long, gray corridor. “Jones!”

  “Ah, that's my signal to leave. I want to leave you with just one thing, Mr Stanbury.” He throws the ring into the air, catches it, and smiles. “Crime just doesn't pay in the end, does it?”

  Detected Conclusion

  Dr Savage

  March 2nd, 1886

  Local Gaol

  The police regard me with suspicion as I enter their domain. They manifest their collective impatience with the insult of an alienist's intrusion by twitching awkwardly or outright ignoring my presence. Some officers move away whilst the more curious amongst them remain, gossiping quietly. Hostility crackles in the air, amplified by the usual shouts and howls echoing from the cells beyond. One particular officer leans against a wall, idly tapping his truncheon against his upper thigh, eyeing me from underneath his hat as if I were the criminal. No doubt he is new and restless, eag
er to arrest someone.

  “Gentlemen,” I say politely, dropping my bag onto a small chair in the entrance hall. My purposefully deferential tone hits the right nerve, a few chests puff out, truncheons withdrawn. For the moment at least, they feel their rightful authority over me has been exerted. I am reminded of birds twisting in the wind as the flock's prejudicial enmity melts away.

  “Alright boys, quieten down.” A dissenting murmur ascends through the group as an incredibly tall gentleman steps to the forefront and nods at me. He is almost military in his manner, and I wonder if he was in the force.

  “Good evening, Doctor. I'm Superintendent Blake from the Criminal Investigation Department, in charge of this lot for my sins. I'm afraid that the more immature amongst us are rather morbidly excited by this most unusual case. However, these two gentlemen behind me; Inspector Drum and Inspector Jones, are slightly more professional in their approach and that's why the rest of this raggle are still Sergeants.” A collective snigger rises through the crowd, and the Superintendent apparently notices for the first time that one of the alluded to 'professionals' appears to absent. “Where is Inspector Jones?” He turns to the other Inspector, a prematurely white-haired man. “Inspector Drum?”

  “I think he went to take a piss, Guv,” calls someone from the crowd.

  Inspector Drum shrugs his shoulders.

  Superintendent Blake puffs out his cheeks.

  “Are we all assembled here for a reason, you bunch of conkers? Stop your gawking, and attend to your duties! We're up to our ears in criminals as it is! Go, all of you, now.” The men start to disperse. “Blight!” The Superintendent yanks the collar of a man walking innocently behind him, practically decapitating the poor fellow. “Go and find Inspector Jones. Tell him to meet us in the kitchen.” He pushes him away and he quickly disappears through a side door.

  “You've caused quite a hubbub amongst my men, Doctor. Now, let’s have a nice pot of tea whilst we wait for Inspector Jones. I think he has a bladder problem; he's forever disappearing of late. Inspector Drum, run ahead will you and put the water on, there's a good fellow.” I pick up my bag, and together the two of us start walking through the station.

  “Now, Doctor, I can’t say I’m happy to be seeing you again so soon. Doesn’t reflect well upon us as a force I'm afraid, when people go around killing each other and going missing; and here we are supposed to be preventing crime. Half our station is out already; I won't lie to you, the whole damned town is inhabited by lawless buffoons. But most of the crimes are relatively petty and victimless: larceny, prostitution, drunkenness, vagrancy, and of course, the occasional domestic dispute. None of which ever end up in court, even if someone dies.” We come to a door, and he rummages in his pockets, eventually pulling out a set of keys. He struggles with the lock for a moment, before noticing my silence. Turning to me, he raises his eyebrows. “Ah, you’re probably thinking I’m a heartless bastard, aren’t you? Sorry Doc. But the truth is that most murder victims don’t get much attention. I mean, who cares if another prostitute is found dead?” He tries the door again, kicking it until it pops open, and we descend a long, gloomy staircase. “But an infamous, aristocratic woman, well, that’s different.”

  “It should not matter what part of society one comes from, Superintendent,” I say, trying not to look too closely at the inhabitants of the cells on either side of me. “Every victim deserves justice. After all, ranking is merely an accident of birth.”

  “Is it? Can’t say I’ve ever thought of it like that. Look, no matter. Fifty of my men are out now, continuing the search for Lady Stanbury.” He scratches his chin. “I must say though, I'm rather shocked by this turn of events within such an eminent family. I mean, what are the chances of a husband and wife both committing separate murders? There's got to be more than this than meets the eye, Doctor. My detectable detective nose is twitching.” Entering the kitchen, Inspector Drum and four steaming mugs of tea await us; the former wobbling precariously on the back two legs of a chair. We settle down. The drink is bitter, but comforting on such a cold night.

  Inspector Drum tells us that Inspector Jones is on his way.

  “Where was he?”

  “Blight came running in, red as a prawn, Boss. Told me he was on the pot.”

  The Superintendent raises his eyebrows at me. “I don’t suppose you'd look at the man’s water-works for him, would you?”

  “No damned alienist is coming near my private parts, “says the errant Inspector, entering the room and looking at the drinks. “No offence doc, but I'd rather see a proper doctor.” He pushes his tea away from him as he sits down. “No tea for me, thanks,” he says, an expression of dislike upon his face. I can't decide whether his countenance is born of the conversation, or if he is just naturally predisposed to rudeness.

  Inspector Drum starts laughing. “He can't even have a drink without running for a piss, Doctor.”

  “I can recommend a different doctor for you, Inspector Jones.” I say.

  “Are we here to discuss my cock, or are we here to solve a missing person’s case?”

  Anger. Negativity. Presumptuous.

  “I think it’s a murder case, actually,” Inspector Drum says, slurping his tea.

  The Superintendent leans over and swats him on his ear.

  “Doctor, you're here because Lord Damsbridge specifically requested that you join us on this case. We're not likely to refuse him much: not when he contributes so generously to our funding. Anything he asks, we’ll try our very best to accommodate, you understand?” He pauses, and takes a long sip of his tea. “Anyway, what kind of men would be if we didn't do it out of the goodness of our hearts? The man’s only grandson is dead, and now his only daughter is missing. The bugger might be rich, but he's lost everything that matters.”

  I nod.

  “I'd say thousands of pounds in the bank matters,” says Inspector Drum. “We should be paid more in all. Working seven days a week just ain't natural, Sir.”

  The Superintendent pulls a face, and ignores him.

  “Anyway Doctor, he says that you know Mr Stanbury reasonably well from your contact with him whilst looking after his wife.” He turns to Inspector Drum. “The one who is missing, lad.” He drains the rest of his tea slowly, before adding thoughtfully, “So far, there's no body.”

  “I reckon we'll find one soon enough though, Boss. Probably she’s been dumped in the river, and it'll take a week for her body to bloat and rise. All that blood in the garden?” He shudders. “Nobody can bleed that much and survive. Hey, maybe this mad-doctor would like to have a guess where the body is.” He leans over the table towards me, his eyes shining. “I’ll bet you a shilling to a shit it’s in the river.”

  I cross my arms, and lean away from him. Superintendent Blake looks uncomfortable.

  “Inspector Drum, kindly desist with your unwarranted, unfounded allegations and imaginings. Why did I ever make you an Inspector?”

  “'Cos I'm good, Boss.” Inspector Drum sits back in his chair. “I see you’re not a gambling man, Doctor.”

  “No, I’m not. Leads to degeneration of the mind.”

  “Really? Bloody hell. Perhaps I should stop then. Anyway, I’ll find the woman, bet or no bet. Got a nose like a hound, I have.”

  “You have in all, always sticking it into other peoples businesses,” says Inspector Jones. “Sir, if I were you I'd let me do the investigating on this one.” He looks pointedly at Inspector Drum. “Alone.”

  “Need two of you, lad.”

  “Well, what about teaming me up with someone else then?”

  “Oi, what’s wrong with me?”Inspector Drum says.

  “You're presumptuous, careless, idiotic, stupid, and your tea tastes like piss,” Inspector Jones replies, his face stony.

  “How would you know? You haven't even tasted it! And if it does, then it tastes like your piss, most probably, seen as you have a problem with your-”

  “That’s enough, lads. Why, you are quite an e
mbarrassment! Look Doctor, the broad and the short of it is that it's not just Lord Damsbridge who wants you here. I also have a duty to enquire as to whether the prisoner is of sound mind. We can't send him to trial if he's not and again, that's something you can help us with. I know there needs to be two reports so I've already contacted another doctor. He should be arriving in the next few days to give an impartial assessment of Mr Stanbury.”

  Inspector Jones mumbles something about getting Inspector Drum's head tested, too.

  “So, Doctor, there you have it. A few of my lads are already convinced that he's gone ahead and murdered this poor lass, as you can see.” He frowns at Inspector Drum. “I'm sure I taught you to detect, Inspector: not to jump to conclusions.”

  “Aye, you did Boss, and that is my detected conclusion.”

  “Idiot,” says Inspector Jones.

  “Where is Mr Stanbury now?” I ask, keeping my opinions and thoughts of this whole set-up to myself.

  “In a cell, of course,” says the Inspector, draining the last of his tea. “He's not too happy about it, but then, none of them ever are. It's not exactly The Langham Hotel here.”

  “I'd like to speak with him.”

  “Yes, obviously, but first let me tell you what we've found. One of the young maids in the employ of Lord Damsbridge took it upon herself to get on a horse and come down to the station. It took a while to garner that her mistress had gone missing under suspicious circumstances during the night, but when we eventually learned of the lady in question's name, we moved quickly. We all knew we were potentially looking at a revenge killing right from the off. Some of my officers said that they wouldn't blame the man for doing what he did to the woman who killed his child, but they were the ones who found the dismembered baby in the family's kitchen last year. I immediately took these men off the case, as their emotions would stop their ability to be objective and contribute effectively to the investigation.

  “We arrived at the house, and I sent some of my men to conduct a search of the area surrounding the Manor.