The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  “Only from behind though Miss, and I thought I might 'o seen a bit of blood on 'im, now I think about it.” She hops off me, and looks to the floor. “On 'is hands, like.”

  How could she have seen that?

  “'Ee 'ad 'is back 't me, and he was bent over like, takin' off 'is clothes. I didn't see that much o' 'im Miss, not really, only his back and his erm...behind bits, his bottom...and well, when 'ee threw t' dirty clothes' out o' 'is way, I noticed 'ee 'ad dried blood on 'is fingers.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “No, Miss. Nobody asked me. I mean, even them Inspectors what came round askin' everyone like, they dinnae ask anythin' off' me, not afta' I spoke wiv' them in t' police station.”

  “Would you be willing to tell them?”

  “Oh yes Miss, 'o course. I'd kill Mr Stanbury wit' me' own 'ands, so I would, if I got t' chance. I never liked 'im, but nobody ever listen's t’ children, do they? Especially just a maid, like me.”

  “They'll listen now, Betty. I promise.”

  I sweep her into another hug, and the both of us hold tight, neither wanting to let the other go.

  “Betty?”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Can you keep a secret? A really, really big one?”

  Her lip threatens to wobble again, but she smiles and makes the sign of an 'x' in front of her chest.

  “Cross 'me 'eart, Miss.”

  I whisper into her ear.

  “I'll be back someday to look after you, I promise.”

  Wrong Side Of The Road

  Dr George Savage

  March 6th, 1886

  Old Bailey

  No matter how many times I enter this building, the Assize's never ceases to impress upon me a feeling of inadequateness. Built to accommodate perhaps three or four hundred men, on this day at least twice that many have squeezed their way in. I can only guess at how many extra benches have been crammed inside, the gallery is practically bursting past its capacity. Everyone is jostling for a good view and leg space.

  When the Clerk finally orders the prisoner be brought up, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not sure what morbid sense made me attend today; though I didn’t want to come and I don’t wish to stay, again, that feeling of uneasiness clutches my soul, and glues my feet to the floor as surely as if someone had shackled me to it. Perhaps I need to atone for my mistake, and see justice delivered.

  The murmuring around me ceases as the room falls silent save for one fellow’s screech. Curious, I follow the sound. A man clutches precariously to a pillar, his friends jeering from behind him.

  Mr Stanbury moves slowly into the room, dressed in the black uniform of a prisoner which hangs loosely upon his thinner than normal frame. They’ve cleaned him up a bit, which pleases me. Yet when the odd flash of photography temporarily lights up his face, I see a haunted, terrified man.

  I pull out my writing-pad. If I write everything down, I can reflect upon it and grow as a physician.

  Dullness of perception. Introverted. Slowness of reaction. Aversion to light.

  Classic symptoms of an alcoholic.

  I sigh. My heart goes out to him, yet he betrayed me. He betrayed his wife. He made me discharge an innocent, fragile woman into the hands of a man who planned to murder her.

  It is partly my fault she is dead.

  I must atone.

  I must understand why my judgement was so lacking.

  It cannot happen again.

  I turn my attention back to the courtroom, and study the man walking alongside Mr Stanbury. His publicly appointed defence lawyer, no doubt. Once seated, the lawyer idly begins to pick his nails, barely noticing the weeping man beside him. The buzz in the courtroom commences once more, amidst much finger-pointing.

  “I'm going to have them all arrested for rioting, or at the very least, routing...the bloody ruffians.” A hand lands upon my shoulder and I flinch. Inspector Jones stands above me, grinning at my surprise. He has something green stuck in his teeth. “There must be another two hundred of the buggers outside, all pushing and shouting to get inside.” He squeezes my neck firmly before diverting his attention to the young stranger sat next to me. “Sir, can you move out of that seat please? Official police business.”

  The young man looks up at him, then at me, and yawns; apparently unimpressed with his rank and much more interested in getting a decent glimpse of the proceedings. Slowly, he says: “Listen, mate...I've been sat 'ere fer' 'a bleeding age waitin' to see this. Ye' can bloody well stand.” With that, he turns away from us both, yawns again, crosses his arms and legs, and settles in for the long haul.

  “Do you want to be arrested for obstruction of justice?”

  The man doesn't even blink. “Bulls-cock. I 'aint obstructin' 'nuffink. You bleedin' bobbies, all a bunch 'o tarts' ye are.”

  “Right. We'll do this the hard way then, shall we?” Inspector Jones winks at me, then raises his voice above the crowd.

  “Arrest this man at once!”

  Suddenly, we are the centre of attention, and a few light bulbs flash in our direction. Mortified, I turn away and my eyes meet those of my dead-patient's father. Lord Damsbridge is watching us: observing the spectacle with a hint of disgust.

  Inspector Jones is now holding the man by his collar.

  I wonder if Superintendant Blake taught him how to do that.

  “Hey, 'lemme' go, yer' bleedin filth-bag!”

  Another two officer swiftly descend upon him, and the crowd parts a clear alley to the doors as the sergeants drag him out: the man kicking and contesting his innocence loudly. Cheers and whistles follow his departure, another bout of entertainment for the excited spectators.

  Inspector Jones dabs at his brow, grinning, before bending over and wiping the seat of the vacated chair with his sleeve. Satisfied, he wiggles himself down into a comfortable position.

  “As I was saying, Doctor...ruffians, the lot of them. You can tell a lot by a man’s disposition, such as that idiot I just had arrested. I guarantee you he's a criminal, and we'll find something he's done; other than piss me off. One more piece of scum off the streets. You mark my words, Doctor: men like your hitherto friend over there have an innate desire to walk on the wrong side of the road.”

  I look at him, incredulous that an enforcer of the law could be so judgmental. Surely, a man is innocent until proven otherwise? It is a well known fact that certain people are uncooperative with the police: simply because they abhor authority. It doesn't necessarily mean they have committed a crime. Mr Stanbury may be an alcoholic, and he may be guilty, but I shudder to think that everyone, innocent and guilty alike, could be treated like this until final judgement is passed.

  He sees the expression in my features and smiles.

  “You think it's only alienists such as yourself that can see the badness, and the madness in men? You should try doing my job for a week, or even a day. Human-beings are a sorrowful lot, and the more of them we clear from the streets, the better. I can tell just by looking at Mr Stanbury that he's guilty of a crime. Nineteen out of twenty men who go on trial for murder are guilty of it, you know. I don’t need to know about phreny-whatits and such like to see that. I only went through the bloody motions of going through the house because it’s my job, and because I'm not Superintendent. Yet.” He puts his feet up on the chair in front of him, much to the annoyance of an elderly lady. She starts and glares at him, but remains silent; turning back to watching Mr Stanbury.

  “Nineteen out of twenty?” I say, incredulous.”What about the innocent one, then?”

  “Doc, you’ve got a lot to learn. I reckon spending all that time inside the madhouse has made you lose a bit of your reality. Do you think the judge up there cares about the ‘innocent one’?” He gestures to the galley around us. “'One?' Come off it. Capital punishment is necessary so society can be protected. And if one or two men and women slip through the net?” He shrugs again. “Who cares, Doc? Humans make mistakes. The few innocent are a justifiable sacrific
e for the greater good.”

  Who cares? Who cares? I care.

  I do what I do because I care.

  He continues, warming to his theme.

  “Anyway, he’s not innocent, Doc. Take a good look at his past, his character. His reputation is as important a question as what he's done and from all I've heard and seen, he's a bad one. You watch, Doctor. He's going to be found rightly guilty, and he's going to hang for it.”

  He throws something metal up into the air, catches it, and smiles.

  The uneasiness returns.

  I Was Warned

  Edgar

  March 6th, 1886

  Old Bailey

  Everyone in here wishes me an agonizing death. “Those who enter, leave hope behind ye',” I say quietly, my sobbing starting anew at the thought.

  My lawyer rouses himself and frowns.

  “Be quiet, lad,” he says gruffly, before resuming his sleeping position.

  I wonder if he is embarrassed by my tears, or just annoyed at being out of bed.

  “It's Dante,” I tell him in a whisper, but he either doesn't hear me, or chooses not to respond. I want to punch him, but I don't have the energy. At least I can be grateful that the shaking in my body seems to have subsided somewhat: it is only when I lift my hands now that a slight tremor affects me. I'm never, ever touching alcohol again. Ever. Rather than wanting a drink; now, the thought of one makes me feel physically ill.

  I hide my hands in my lap, lest the trembling be wrongly interpreted as a sign of nervousness; of guilt.

  “What's going to happen to me?” I press the man, whispering. Someone somewhere is paying him to do a job, and the least he can do is tell me what's going on.

  He blinks rapidly at me, his bleary eyes watering. “I said, be quiet! Please! This court business is the most laborious form of legal business; do you know how many good lawyers have given it up to make their own fortunes in private practices? I would go straight into my own office too, lad, if I had the money, but I don't. So, please. Let me mentally prepare. I've had no sleep at all this week, and if you want me to defend you, I suggest you let me get a few minutes rest before the circus begins!” He moves away from me as far as the cramped space between us allows, and puts his head back on the table. I know that the pattern in the wood, the grain of it underneath his elbows will be imprinted into my mind forever.

  Within minutes my lawyer starts to snore gently, and I wonder at him. This man probably holds my very life in his hands, yet prefers to sleep instead of asking me questions. Doesn't he want to know my side of the story? Doesn't he want to know whether he is defending an innocent, or a guilty man? Doesn't that make a difference to how he is going to defend me? I want to stand up and scream and demand a different lawyer, but something tells me that would only serve to work against me.

  I scan the crowd quickly, anxiously looking for a friendly face. There is none to be found; the jury offer me nothing but twelve solemn faces, and it dawns upon me how alone I am and have always been.

  Except for those brief months in which I had a son.

  Tears threaten again, as I am hit anew with grief. Will it ever leave me?

  I close my eyes. The trial. Focus on the present.

  What was I doing?

  I was looking for a face in the crowd.

  I open my eyes.

  Is my father here, then? Has he come to watch the downfall that he created?

  He is not.

  Bugger him, the bloody alcoholic. I hope he takes his stupid wife in her stupid red dress and throws himself of a cliff/ I hope he rots in hell with Anne. If I swing for this, I'm going to bloody-well haunt him.

  I thought I'd lost everything, but now I may well lose my very life. The fear of death makes me realise how very badly I wish to live, even without my son.

  My father and I were playing a game that we were never going to win and we have been deviously outwitted, with the worst consequences.

  I wonder what part, if any, Anne had to play in all this.

  I wonder where she is.

  I wonder what happened to her.

  Is it even slightly possible that I did have a role to play in her death, without realising?

  I’m so confused.

  I'm still wondering when the counsel for the prosecution walks in.

  It’s Mr Tumsbridge. The man I approached shortly after Anne’s incarceration. He winks, and suddenly, his words come back to me.

  Lord Damsbridge’s lawyer.

  “If you think things are looking bad for you now, trust me and heed this warning: they will get a whole lot worse for you.”

  The hairs along my arms and legs stand on end, a crawling up my spine.

  It was there all along. I was warned, and didn’t listen.

  A Bitter Taste

  Dr George Savage

  March 6th, 1886

  Old Bailey

  I recognize that man. For a moment or two I am unable to place him, his face is half-hidden underneath the generic lawyers wig. Yet as his eyes raise to meet my own in a brief meeting of acknowledgment, it dawns on me. Of course, he is Lord Damsbridge's own personal lawyer, and I met with him once or twice: albeit briefly, when dealing with Anne's case and subsequent incarceration. He is renowned to be a genius with the law; spinning tiny, seemingly unrelated threads into a detailed, beautiful conclusion of impenetrable evidence into which his victims are seamlessly bound and caught.

  I glance over at Mr Stanbury. By the horrified expression on his face, he too just realized who he's up against in this trial.

  Will the lawyer be lenient, considering the extenuating circumstances of Mr Stanbury’s grief and subsequent drinking problem? Will the prosecution consider that despite all evidence to the contrary, no body has been found?

  What if Lord Damsbridge eventually blames me?

  Will I be sitting on that defence table next month; next year?

  The fact that she disappeared the day after her release from my charge no doubt casts some doubts in people’s minds as to my skill, and this bothers me almost as much as the next thought that enters my mind: the last thing she told Tuke and I under hypnosis.

  ‘I did it because I love my child. Wouldn't any mother care to do the same? I didn't feel guilty when the blood ran over my hands, yet neither did I feel vindicated. I just felt I had protected my child in the only way I knew how.’

  Suddenly worried, I turn my head, searching for Lord Damsbridge. He is sat at the prosecutors table, a small smile upon his face. His expression is not that of a man whose daughter has just been murdered. But then, what do I expect? Every man deals with grief in their own way. Perhaps he smiles at the notion of justice.

  My friend would despair of me, poor old Tuke. He always did tell me I got far too involved with my patients.

  “All rise!” The clerks voice thunders across the room, and hundreds of people stand as the judge himself enters the court; his white wig a little larger than those donning the lawyers.

  “Here he comes, the good old hand of justice,” Inspector Jones says, digging me in the side. “He's a toughie, this one. Couldn't have gotten a better man for the case. He never lets them get away with murder." He laughs. "Get it? 'Get away with murder'?”

  A bitter taste presents itself in my mouth, as it dawns on me rather rapidly that I dislike this man standing next to me.

  Immensely.

  I can’t help myself. Something isn’t right.

  “Did you check the address I gave you?”

  “A what, who?”

  “The address, Inspector. When I left Mr Stanbury the last time I visited him in the gaol, I asked you to check out his father’s address for me.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, I did.”

  His eyes shift to the right, and in that instant I know instinctively he is lying. Before I can say more, the judge take his place in the high wooden dock and the clerk’s voice booms around the court.

  “Be seated!” A universal rustle of clothing and plummeting of heads
indicates everyone’s acquiescence.

  I continue in a whisper.

  “And? What did you find?”

  He hisses under his breath.

  “His father was alive and well, contrary to what I believe he told Lord Damsbridge and his daughter. Why do you suppose a man would lie about his own father being dead? Disgusting, that is, and merely proves what a despicable character he is.”

  Wait.

  Mr Stanbury told the truth about something.

  “Anyway, none of it matters. All that matters is justice is served here, today.”

  “What did his father tell you?”

  “That any son of his that laid hands upon a woman was dead to him. He said that he would help the investigation in any way possible, and in fact, gave us some very important information.” He grins at me, an excited, morbid sneer.

  “What did he give you?”

  He sucks air through his teeth, and waves a hand dismissively. The court is now silent; we should not be talking.

  “Look, can we discuss this later? All will be revealed, as they say. Watch, and learn, Doctor. Watch and learn.”

  Not A Gentleman By Birth

  Edgar

  March 6th, 1886

  Defence Table

  When the judge enters the court, my stomach rebels. I grab hold of my lawyer's shoulder, and squeeze. The room tilts as if I am on a ship.

  “Ow! What was that for? I told you to let me sleep-” he rubs his eyes and blinks, seeing the man for himself. “Oh, right.” His freshly rested eyes glint behind a sheen of excitement, or possibly anticipation.

  “The judge, he's here-”

  “I know, I can bloody well see him. Look, lad, don't speak now! The prosecution are about to present their case." A man with long hair takes to the stand and reads out the indictment, and my plea of not guilty. "Oh, no, wait...the clerk goes first. Silly me.”

  The 'clerk' continues on, presenting two medical certificates; both of which declare me sane.