The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  “I decided to examine the boudoir first. On entering Lady Stanbury's chamber, I immediately found what appeared to be a small amount of blood in the middle of the bed. On checking her windows, which incidentally were free of any obstruction, I found them locked and indeed bolted from the inside. I tried to unlock them and though it took me quite some time I managed to do so. Looking out, I saw the room was high and on the second level of the house, with a good thirty or forty foot drop to the ground. So whomever entered her room, if, indeed, anybody did, they must have come through the inside of the house.

  “Nothing seemed overtly amiss in the room, no obvious signs of a struggle. The Lady’s entire toilet was lined up neatly atop a vanity table, the mirror was intact.

  “I wondered if any of the furniture had been moved from its original position; though of course a struggle could have ensued without anything being displaced. Or the perpetrator could simply tidy up after himself. But, detecting being what it is, we summoned one of the house-maids from the garden. She tearfully clarified that everything was in its proper place.

  “Underneath the bed was a chamber pot, which was empty of any bodily fluids. This indicated that whatever happened to Lady Stanbury, did so before the light of the morning, when she most likely would have made use of it. Of course, if a crime had indeed been committed, the cover of night is a tool of even the most idiotic. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that you're less likely to be seen under a blanket of darkness whilst everyone is sleeping.

  “It wasn't until I found a long trestle of hair, hidden at the edge of a rug with its roots still attached, that I realized a crime had indeed been committed. This wasn’t something as simple as an unhappy woman running away. One of my men bagged it. It takes considerable force to remove ones hair by the very roots on that which they grow, Doctor.

  “I didn't find anything else in the room, nor in any of the others. My men and I went over them, three, four times: ever careful to pay attention to even the smallest of details. We almost expected at any moment to come across a body stuffed inside a wardrobe, or perhaps bundled in a fireplace. But we didn’t. That was it. All we found was the blood and the hair. Yet the garden gave us some more, much more. A patch of blood soaked ground, roughly five feet in diameter, a man’s bloody-footprint, and a lady's garter.

  “Mr Stanbury refused to come out, and it took two of my men to break the door down. They found him weeping in the corner next to a vomit ridden-bed. They told me stale alcohol hung heavily in the air and around his person, though a cold bucket of water indicated that at some point, he had tried to wash himself.

  “So there you have it Doctor, a whole wealth of circumstantial evidence to a murder. But we've got no body. And without one, it’s going to be difficult to do a damned thing. You’ve got to speak with him, and find out what on earth happened.”

  I Loved That Bitch

  Dr George Savage

  March 2nd, 1886

  The Cell

  As the warden draws back the bolt on the cell door, a mess of stinking rags huddled in the corner jerks at the sound.

  “Stanbury?”

  Silence.

  “What happened, Stanbury? Did you drink alcohol with the chloral I gave you? Did you take it the night Anne disappeared?”

  He shifts slightly.

  “Stanbury?” I reach out to him, recoiling as a terribly strong, faecal stench assails me. Embarrassed at my own reaction, I take a deep breath through my mouth, and ask him as gently as I can what happened.

  He still doesn't move.

  “Stanbury!”

  A voice comes from underneath the blanket.

  “He's got the ring, Doctor. The ring. They know everything.”

  “What are you talking about? What ‘ring’?” I suppress my frustration. “Focus, will you? Did you take the chloral together with the alcohol? This is important Stanbury; you could end up in prison or worse. I need you to tell me.”

  “No, no, no. I didn’t.” He shrugs the blanket off him and moves towards the light, his whole body shaking. As he draws closer, I suppress a gasp. His eyes are almost completely red; riddled with burst blood vessels. “Remember, you told me not to mix them. I couldn’t give up the drink so I never took it. At least, not that time.”

  I breathe a silent sigh of relief. Thank god. If he admitted taking chloral and drinking, then my reputation would be in tatters. Never mind the fact I told him not to combine the two: alcoholics are notorious for not abiding to instructions. I would therefore be deemed negligent for putting it into his hands. If the governors found out I prescribed the drug to him, and he had killed his wife whilst under its influence…

  I would lose my job, and be shamed. Mr Stanbury would be let off of course, the medico-legal world knows that chloral plus alcohol equals temporary insanity. I could even be deemed an accessory to the murder.

  I mentally shake off my concerns.

  There is nothing to worry about.

  He said so himself: he didn’t combine the two.

  Then what happened?

  I look at him more closely. The last time I shook hands with this man, he met my gaze and told me he had stopped drinking; yet the sour smell of recently ingested whiskey had danced on his breath. I had chosen to ignore it; too excited was I in my want to return him to his wife. I was selfish and overeager to discharge Lady Stanbury into his care. How could I have been so blind? I was a fool to think he could ever have forgiven her.

  He lied then, and he is lying now.

  I am a doctor specialising in psychiatry. My gift lies in detecting personalities and secrets, digging up the truth and seeing people for what they truly are. Why did I not see in him the need for revenge, rooted in blood, anger and ale?

  The first day in my office.

  ‘I hate her for what she has done.’

  That day in Asquith Manor.

  “The servants all hate me. None of this belongs to me. Our marriage was a sham.”

  The hatred was always there.

  Mr Stanbury clears his throat, a deep, phlegmy sort of grunt.

  “I need a drink, Doctor. My hands won’t stop shaking.” He stretches them out towards me. The grime and dirt does little to conceal the giveaway symptom of Delirium Tremens. I fondle the paper in my pocket. The certificate I am about to fill.

  “I'm worried I'm getting really sick, Doctor. I didn't do anything…it's all a conspiracy. Anne is alive, it all makes sense now. They took the ring for God's sake!”

  “You’re feeling ill because you’re withdrawing from the alcohol. I can’t give you any, Stanbury. I’m sorry.”

  You’re a liar, I think. And I don’t wish to help you. You are not insane, you are a cold-blooded murderer.

  “Yea, I didn’t think so.” He curls his arms around himself.

  “Stanbury…who are ‘they’?”

  He uncoils himself and screams, then punches the wall.

  “My damned father-in-law! The policeman! My wife! The maid! All of them, they’re all ‘they!”

  It’s worse than I thought.

  He may actually be insane.

  “Do you remember being brought here, Stanbury?”

  “Yes, of course I do!” He paces with renewed life. “It was my wife that had amnesia, not me!”

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out my notebook and pen, ready to write, when he crosses over to the bars and shakes them.

  “I am not your goddamn patient! Don't be writing anything, listen to me! You have to get me out of here! I'll tell you the whole story as long as you promise to save me Doctor; you have to save me from this mess I find myself in. I didn't kill anyone, I didn't! Is it not enough that my own flesh and blood has been torn from me? Is it not enough that my wife hates me, and has plotted against me to put me in such a position? Is it not enough that I am sober?”He throws himself onto the floor, begging me with his eyes and with his hands. The anger flows out of him as quickly as it came, and his body starts to shake with great, heaving sobs.
>
  I drag a chair over to the bars, and instruct him to tell me everything, right from the beginning.

  “I don’t have a chair, Doctor.”

  “That’s quite alright. Sit on the edge of the bed; we can hear one another just fine. I want you to tell me what you believe has happened to Anne.”

  He sits, and looks at me imploringly.

  “I'll tell you everything Doctor, everything. I didn't kill my wife. You must believe me.”

  **

  Edgar finishes telling me his story, and my head hurts.

  His tale is wild and utterly unbelievable. To consider it would imply that Lady Stanbury is alive.

  But it would also mean she was never mad: just very clever. That she deceived me. But how? She had all the signs and symptoms of puerperal mania. She killed her baby. That much is an absolute fact. I’ve seen the pictures. There was a dead baby on her kitchen floor. I diagnosed her. She had amnesia, hysteria, mania. Therefore, it cannot be true.

  It is physical impossibility. I have never met a woman intelligent enough to do such a thing, and don’t expect I ever will. Mother Nature simply did not equip them with such foresight nor acumen.

  “You purposefully set out to seduce Lady Anne?”

  He nods his head.

  “Yes, and it was easy. Laughably so. I'm ashamed, Doctor, but at that time I truly didn't have a sense of moral honour. I always meant to deceive the woman, but it was sheer luck that she happened to walk into the theatre that day. Yes, I got a job there on purpose, knowing that she liked to visit, but never did I imagine she would do so on my shift! Yet she simply brought forward the inevitable: it was always going to happen between us...an, erm, a meeting, that is.” He wipes his eyes on a dirty, snot-ridden sleeve.

  “I didn't know when, or exactly how I was going to engineer a meeting between the two of us, though. After all, how is a commoner supposed to meet a woman of such a social position? I guess I imagined that one day I would apply to the house for some work on the land, or perhaps dress myself up in some mock finery and pretend I was new to the area. I hadn't really considered the details. And my father was no help in the logistics of the whole farce, bugger him. But fate stepped in, as it seems want to do, and I took the opportunity.”

  “So, you seduced her for her money?”

  He shakes his head, and laughs mirthlessly. “Her money? Doctor, there is so much you don't understand. Why, if I wanted money, a man can always rob a bank, can he not? No, no...it wasn't about the money. At least, not at first.”

  He made it abundantly clear that it was five minutes ago. This newer, wilder tale is simply an attempt to justify his actions.

  I humour him.

  “Well, what was it about, then?”

  “Her. Me. Her family. My family. I’ve already explained. A woman left destitute to die alone in France, many, many decades ago. Revenge. A romp between the King and his mistress.”

  “What King?”

  “William IV, Doctor. The uncle of our Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria.”

  I sigh, ready to leave and give my opinion to the Superintendant. I’ve had enough of this family. I just want to get back to my home. My hospital. A niggle itches at my memory, his mentioning of the King: as intangible as a dream, fleeting, untouchable, and I let it go. I change tact, referring him to the more pressing matter of Lady Stanbury.

  “Did you follow Anne for long?”

  “I didn't have to. My father has been telling me all about her my whole life. I was born to be her husband, Doctor. He gave me no choice. He showed me Asquith House when I was ten years old. I knew everything about her; where she went, whom she visited, her hobbies-”

  “You said your father was dead.” I say it as a statement of fact.

  “Yes, well I had to. That’s what he wanted me to say. The man is alive and unfortunately, reasonably healthy. I can give you his address, if you like.”

  “So you lied.”

  “Yes, I lied. But I shouldn’t be hung for a mistruth! You must find my father; he will confirm everything I’ve told you. Please, you have to help me. This is a damned bloody set-up! They want me dead; they want me out of the way!”

  At the risk of pandering to a desperate man, I write the address and he calms slightly. I don’t question him any further; I can’t possibly ask him where he put her. Not now. At least this will prove, one way or another, whether his story has even a small measure of truth to it. Perhaps then, I can follow it further, though I don’t expect anything to come of it. I tell him I must leave, and he nods.

  “I loved that bitch!” he calls as I walk away, further reinforcing his guilt. I fill out a certificate and hand it to Inspector Jones along with the address of his father.

  “Sane, ey?” He smiles, and folds the paper in four before slipping it into a pocket. “Bloody shame, isn’t it. Poor woman.”

  I nod, eager to leave. Yes. He is sane. He is responsible. Drink often gets blamed for producing insanity, but not in this case. Crime itself is not proof of a defective mind.

  I turn away, but the Inspector stops me with a hand upon my arm.

  “Hold up, Doc. Our boy in there is suffering from alcohol withdrawal, isn't he? Is there anything I can do to make him feel better? It must be bloody awful if not havin' a beer can do that to you. Do you reckon he feels as bad as he looks?”

  “Just some hearty food and plenty of water. Thank you. Very kind of you.” I give him a half-hearted smile, and take another step towards the door.

  “Wait a sec! If I drink too much beer, will I get like that too?” He looks worried. “Especially with my erm, water problem. Bit embarrassing. Don’t want to discuss it with the lads.”

  I pat him on the back.

  “No. Mr Stanbury has been drinking spirits very heavily, for a period of some months. I shouldn't worry. You're quite alright to have a beer or two, though I would advise you to have a doctor look at your...you know.”

  His face brightens, and yet the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

  “Thanks so much Doctor. You've just made my day. In that case, I’m off to the pub.”

  As I leave the building, a very strong sense of unease cloaks me under its shadows; a sense of something being very, very wrong.

  I mentally rebuff myself, and shrug it off.

  My work here is done.

  A Duck Without Water

  Beatrix

  March 3rd, 1886

  Asquith House

  Forcing the last of my clothes in, I add a purse of lavender for the finishing touch. The contents threaten to burst at the seams, and in an effort to flatten them even further I sit on the suitcase. My eyes start stinging again and I wipe my handkerchief over my face, sniffing.

  “Miss? Oh, miss!” Betty comes running in and jumps upon me, crushing me in her embrace. “Miss, ye' don’t 'ave 't leave, do 'ye? Oh miss, I couldn' bear it 'ere without 'ye!” A tear trickles down a red and flushed cheek. Her bottom lip wobbles, and she holds something in her hands. It scrunches as she moves against me.

  "What do you have there, Betty?" I gently push her away from me.

  "What?" She stares down at her hand, and opens it. A ball of paper falls to the floor. "It's nuthin', Miss. Stupid idea, anyway." She draws back a tiny foot to kick it, but I am quicker than she. I snatch it up, and open it.

  It is a child's drawing, but one that could have been drawn by a girl or boy much younger than Betty.

  "Oh, you darling thing..."

  She starts to cry.

  "I thought if I cud' just draw 'er well enough, then I cud' make lots of them an' put 'em on trees, and give 'em t' people and stuff and maybe someone wud find 'er but I'm not good enough, it doesn't look anythin' like 'er! And I don't know 'ow t' write, so 'ow cud' I put 'missing' at t' top, anyway?" She takes it from me and crumples it back into a tight ball. "And now it doesn't matter, cos you're leavin' me too!"

  I don't have the heart to tell her that a poster, no matter how well depicted, would be useless. Instead, I f
ocus on the second issue.

  “I have to go, Betty. What's a Lady's maid without a Lady?”

  Her lip sticks out even further, and she embraces me again, harder.

  “It's like a sock without a shoe, Betty," I say, into her hair.

  She stops crying for a moment and looks at me, her arms entwined behind my neck, her sweet breath blowing gently upon my nose.

  “Or, like, like...” She leans back, blowing out her cheeks and rubbing her eyes with the back of her grubby little hands. The poster is all but forgotten. She tentatively joins in the game. “Like, Miss...the grass without the sun?”

  I smile.

  “A duck without water.”

  “A man without a hat.”

  “'A man without a hat', Betty?”

  She giggles.

  “Well Miss, they don’t 'alf look funny when they take 'em off.”

  “Don't be saying that to Lord Damsbridge now, he's quite paranoid about that bald spot of his!”

  She bursts into happy squeals of laughter. Oh, the beautiful innocent fickleness of youth!

  “Miss, 'ye know what else?”

  “I know that you've helped flatten my suitcase, you fat lump.”

  She laughs even harder, because she knows she's anything but.

  “But Miss, they’re even stranger without their clothes on! Men, I mean.”

  “Betty!” I swipe her gently across the ear. “How would you know that?”

  “Well, ye' remember tha’ mornin' when none of us cud find Lady Anne? I mean, Lady Stanbury?”

  “Yes?”

  “I crept into Mr Stanbury's room like, 'cos I could 'ear 'im shoutin' at Mr James an' I was, erm...I was-”

  “Poking your little nose in other people’s business?”

  She blushes.

  “Well, p'raps a little...aye, I was...but I saw 'im naked, Miss!”

  “Who, Mr Stanbury?”

  She nods furiously, and starts talking even faster; unsure whether she is in trouble or not.