That's a relief.
The clerk stands down, and Mr Tumsbridge takes his place: adjusting his wig and coughing loudly.
“May it please you gentlemen of the jury and your Lordships, that I am counsel for this case brought against the prisoner, to bring him to justice for a desperately heinous transgression.” He speaks softly, quietly, so much so that I struggle to hear him as do most of the jury; several members leaning forward in their seats. “I am overwhelmed with gratitude that so many of you feel personally affronted by what has occurred, and I thank you all for your support in attending today.” He turns around, and points a twisted finger in my direction. I lower myself down further into my chair, but not before I return the gesture with a look of absolute hatred. I hope he knows I know, the bloody bastard. Oh, wait. Everyone is looking at me. Damn. What if they saw that? They are going to think I really am a murderer. What should I do now? Cry? Adopt a serious expression? Should I meet their gaze, or stare at the floor? I chew on my nails, and inspect them instead. The old man continues.
“The prisoner at the bar stands indicted for that awful level of crime gentlemen: that of murder. And not just any old murder, but one borne of the utmost calculation and intention. A murder of the woman this man promised to cherish, love, and value for life. A woman who gave him everything, and from whom he took everything. His wife.”
He winks at me and turns back to the jury box.
I start to stand, but think the better of it. Killing an old man in front of several hundred people would certainly ensure I go to the gallows. Perhaps if I’m quiet, I still have a chance. After all, I’m not guilty of that which he accuses me.
“The prisoner I just pointed to is Mr Edgar Stanbury, not a gentleman by birth, but referred to as such by virtue of the marriage to his victim: Lady Stanbury, formerly known as Lady Anne, the only child borne of the 8th Earl of Damsbridge. She was a woman who inherited her father’s morals, a woman of the most noble heritage; a stable within our community, a pillar of strength, a model of virtue. Though society was initially outraged regarding her involvement with the death of her baby, I’m equally sure that that very same society now feels only pity and sympathy for a woman who didn't understand what she did, and was thus certified as insane. Yet her own husband was unable to garner those compassionate feelings that even a perfect stranger would find hard to suppress.
“The crime Mr Stanbury committed is so shocking, so repellent, that many of you in this room will find it difficult to believe that such a scheming, evil man exists in our world. Believe it, gentlemen. He has been proven to be sane, unlike his wife was. She was merely a victim of his inherent deceitfulness. He knew exactly what he was doing. We will prove motive, and opportunity. And you, members of the jury, have a very important job to do here today: that is to fairly, swiftly, and justly find him guilty of his crime.
“On the night of April 23rd, 1886, Lady Stanbury was discharged recovered, sane, after a six month stay at Royal Bethlem Hospital, where she had undergone treatment for puerperal mania. Her husband, Mr Stanbury, escorted her back to the house, where they both indulged in supper, and he overindulged in alcohol. He is a known alcoholic, gentlemen. During the evening, he became more and more verbally abusive towards his wife, and at one point, threatened to kill her. Witnessing this, the maid, Miss Fortier, took Lady Stanbury to her bed, whereupon she settled her to sleep. Lady Stanbury was frightened of her husband at this point, but she believed she had been taken to safety. However, the next morning, Lady Stanbury had vanished. One of the footmen, a Mr James, ventured to inform Mr Stanbury of his wife’s disappearance, whereupon he found his master in a very dishevelled state, reeking of alcohol, and acting strangely. The police were contacted, Mr Stanbury was arrested, and evidence was found that Lady Stanbury had been murdered."
He moves his gaze away from the jury, and pauses, looking to the ceiling, before sighing and saying, quietly, clearly, and slowly:
“To this day, Lady Stanbury's body has not been found. Tragedy, an absolute tragedy.”
One member of the jury dabs a handkerchief under an eye.
“I'm sure the question on many of your minds is this: how can one possibly suggest that a murder has been carried out in the absence of any body? Indeed, how can we find it prudent to try a man on such a charge? Well, not least of these reasons are that she was well known, gentlemen: for being both an Earls' daughter, and having her face across the front of every newspaper in the land but a year ago! If she was still alive, she would have been seen, and found by now! Authorities up to three hundred miles away from the scene of the crime were notified, and she hasn't been found!” The jury nods thoughtfully.
“Experience has taught us, gentlemen, that a train of circumstances above that of human contrivance, coupled with a wealth of circumstantial evidence, does a fact make. I don't wish to take up too much of your time regarding the rather more salient points at such an early moment in the trial, but I want you to hear, learn, and remember these words throughout this trial: corpus delicti. Body of evidence. We have more than enough of this for you to find this man guilty. You will all have the chance to learn and review the case as you see fit, but remember these words!" He smacks his hands down hard on the bench, causing a juror in the front to flinch. "It is most important! I will establish clear evidence of a murder, without any reasonable doubt, and once you have heard the information and witness-attestation's for yourselves, you will find that absence of a body cannot stop you from finding this man guilty. As a well known passage in Genesis says, 'Who so sheddeth mans blood, by man shall his blood be shed'. It is your duty, gentlemen, to dole out the swift hand of rightful justice.” He bows slightly, coughs up another part of a lung, and rasps, “Your Witness, Mr Smithingson.”
'Blood be shed'? Oh god, they really are going to push for the death penalty. I grasp my lawyers’ leg. “Blood,” I whisper weakly. “They want my blood.”
My lawyer pushes my hand away and sniffs.
“I know they do, lad, but never fear. I shan't let them take a drop of it.” He frowns in the direction of the prosecution. “Did he call me up, lad?”
Oh, Lord.
“He did.”
He stands and takes to the floor as Mr Tumsbridge flashes him a predatory smile.
“Gentlemen of the jury, there's nothing quite like a bloodthirsty lawyer, is there?” He chuckles to himself, and a few members of the jury nervously titter politely back.
“But it is not your duty to be so, gentlemen. I actually find it...what’s the word-” He waggles a finger in the air. “Reprehensible, that my colleague here would even suggest it.” He flashes a smile at Mr Tumsbridge, who glares back at him stonily. “Quite. Look, we're all human here, and we all make mistakes. I’m sure some of you, no, most of you have done the odd little crime or two? Perhaps pinched a sweet from a shop as a boy, or lied about your taxes?”
“Absolutely not!” calls one of them, in a disgusted and offended tone of voice.
“Oh, come on, course you have. Anyway, no matter. There’s no crime in lying. Only if you get caught, as they say.” He laughs again, and starts to pace up and down, before adopting a look of seriousness. “Which is why it is so....unfair, that my innocent client is even here! It is almost blasphemous! Do any of you want to be a modern day Pontius Pilate'? Because you will, if you hang my client-”
Mr Tumsbridge jumps up.
““My Lord, that is slanderous in the extreme, and I resent the implication, to which my colleague has just referred, that I am some sort of...bloodthirsty murderer!”
The Judge bangs his gavel, frowning.
“I agree. Mr Smithingson, kindly keep the references to the Son of God out of this, will you?”
A small titter comes from the back of the galley, whilst the jurors regard my lawyer with disgust.
“I didn't say anything about Jesus; I was talking about the man who crucified a man he shouldn't of...”
“Enough!”
“Apologies, M
y Lord.”
“Just get on with it. And be professional. This isn’t a bloody fairground.”
A reporter starts scribbling on his pad, and I can only imagine what the newspapers will be headlining tomorrow. What in hell is my lawyer doing? I want another one. He's useless; he's going to send me to my death. The jury stare at him in collective disgust.
“It was merely a comparison. You will learn, gentlemen, during this trial that there has been no murder. This is all a big bloody farce. Why, if there had been, why is the prosecution not showing us a body? Because they don’t have one. Did you know, in 1660, two men were hanged for a murder, and shortly afterwards the dead victim turned up? Alive! Walked right into his house, he did! He’d been taken as a slave to Turkey. Now, do you want a repeat of that, now? What will Lady Stanbury say if she turns up and you’ve gone and killed her bloody husband? This ridiculous, archaic notion of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…jeepers...anyone would think we were living in Jesus ‘time-” He stops, coughs. “In the seventeenth century! This is the nineteenth century, gentlemen! There is no such thing as a perfect murder, gentlemen. Evidence always remains. Yes, we have the blood...but whose blood? It could be anyone's, why; it could even be animal blood! There is no link between this blood and Lady Stanbury having been 'murdered'!
"I repeat: there is no evidence of murder, not even of a crime! The only thing my client is guilty of is that of a sin which is innocent in the eyes of the law and judged as a transgression only in the eyes of his fellow man: that he, a commoner, should have fallen in love with an aristocratic woman. My, it's almost Romeo and Juliet all over again. My earnest colleague here gave you a legal term to remember, and now I shall give you one. Corpus delicti. It means that a crime must have been proven to have occurred, before any man or woman can be convicted of such crime. And that gentlemen, is why you have no choice but to find my client innocent. That is all. Thank you.” He walks back towards our table, a child-like grin on his face.
“Did alright up there, didn't I lad? Say, did I tell you this is my first trial?”
At The Expense Of Your Own
Beatrix
March 6th, 1886
On The Road
“Stop! Stop that carriage at once!”
My lord, that child cannot keep her words in her head. Although my heart aches to give her another, long lasting cuddle, prolonging my departure will only serve to increase her childish grief. The carriage moves steadily onwards, each bump and knock of the cab taking me further away from my home and closer towards my fate.
“Madam,” says the coachman, Mr Davies. “There's a strange lookin' woman running after us. What should I do?”
Another inhuman screech; a wrenching of a soul torn apart. Can she really be so unhappy?
“Give me my baby!”
That is not the voice of Betty.
I sink down into the seat, closing my eyes as if to drown out the sound; as if to hide.
“Madam, whoever she is, she just fell over into a puddle of mud. Should we not stop for her?” Mr Davies' tone wavers uneasily as he shouts over the wind, and the carriage starts to slow down.
I run a hand over the window, and press my face against it. There is indeed a woman lying prone on the ground, covered in wet dirt, screaming.
“No, carry on.”
The carriage issues forth with a jolt as the coachman obeys my order, whipping the horses harder.
How is she here? She shouldn't be here.
“Tell me where he is!” A thud hits the back of the carriage.
Uncharacteristic anger rises within me.
“Stop the carriage, Mr Davies.”
“But Madam, I thought ye said t'-”
“Stop the carriage at once!”
I nearly smack into the screen as he pulls back on the reins with force. Instead of waiting for him to lower the steps and assist me, I jump down into the road, my boots crunching and squelching in the sludgy mix of gravel and rain. I ignore the splatter kicking up onto my dress as I rapidly approach the woman; her face paling in colour as she sees the expression of anger upon mine.
“Why are you throwing rocks at our carriage?”
“You've got my baby!” She picks up another rock and stands, squinting through the rain in anguish towards the cab. “I know you have!” She tries to rush past me, and I take the stone from her before grabbing her; noticing absently that my hands encircle her upper arms with ease.
“Let go of me!”
I pull her towards me, so close that the individual veins in the whites of her eyes resemble a wildfire.
“We don’t know anything of you, nor of a baby. Do you want to be arrested for vandalising our coach?” I shake her. “Well, do you?”
She starts to speak before being taken over by a heave, and vomits a stream of weak, watery green bile onto my shoes. Letting go of her in disgust, I take a step back as she falls onto the ground.
“Madam?” Mr Davies pokes his head around the side of his box, shielding his face from the rain.. “Is everything alright?”
I dont expect he can hear anything from there, nor see much either.
I wave at him as I call out.
“Everything’s fine! Merely a woman who has lost her way!”
“Well, she shouldn't be out in these parts, all alone!” He shouts. “Here, I’m sure we can give 'er a lift t' the next town?”
“No, we absolutely cannot! We can’t go around picking up every vagrant we see, Mr Davies!. And, I fear she is sick! Get back into your place, please! I will deal with her!”
He continues to peer through the rain for a moment longer, before deciding that this is a matter he has no say about. His head pops back where it should be, and the girl and I stand alone.
She looks up at me, her eyes fixed upon the rock I still hold in my hand. Rain runs down her face, and mixes with snot, tears, mud, and pain.
“Miss, I just want my baby. Please. I don’t mean ye' any trouble, I wouldn't 'aver 'armed ye'.” She shudders once, twice, ten times, before I realise she is ill dressed for the weather and shaking uncontrollably; the skin of her bare arms a dusky shade of blue, her lips two slabs of ice. “I walked all t' way 'ere, Miss. I been walkin' fer three days. I 'avent eaten, and I feel terrible. But I just want my baby. Please.”
Any pity I might otherwise have felt for this woman: though on closer inspection she is a mere girl; is overshadowed by my love and loyalty to another woman who means everything to me, and whom I will do anything to protect.
I kneel in front of her.
“You gave your baby away. In fact, you paid someone to take him, isn't that correct?” The girl moans, and rocks back and forth in the mud. “How much was his life worth to you?”
She doesn't answer me.
“How much?” I scream in her face and she blinks, confused by my fierce onslaught.
“Two pounds, but she wanted five-”
“'Two pounds'? Two measly pounds?”
She starts to cry harder, floundering in the wet dirt. “I didn’t do anything t' 'im Miss, I was got a job as a wet nurse, and I needed someone t' look after 'im-”
I poke her in the chest.
“Ow! Listen, I-”
“You paid someone to take your own child, and in doing so sentenced him to death. Giving all of your milk to some rich woman’s child at the expense of your own?” I spit into her face. “How could you? How could any mother kill her own child? Did you enrol him into a burial society, too? I suppose you did. You disgust me! Do you have any idea what he would have survived upon? Do you? The dregs of bottles left around from others, and that’s if he was lucky. How about a bit of dirty water, piss-ridden from the sewers? You can throw a bit of laudanum into the mix, because that’s the only thing that keeps a hungry child’s appetite suppressed and stops them crying. These babies die, you evil wrench; slowly, and painfully, through starvation, dehydration and loss of their own mothers love!”
Mr Davies chooses this moment to interfere ag
ain; this time, poking his head above the carriage roof.
“Everything ok, Madam?”
“Everything’s quite alright! I won’t be a minute more!” I call, before lowering my voice once again and try a different tack. “Listen, whatever you did in the past I'm sure you did it for the right reasons at the right time. I-”
“I didn' give 'im away t' 'ave 'im die, Miss! I gave 'im t' Mrs Dyer so's she could raise' 'im fer a while! I was forced out of t' workhouse an' nobody else wud 'ave me! Wet nursing was t' only thing I could do; what could I do? I needed t' earn a living, or we'd both be dead!”
She doesn’t realise that her child is already dead, and that same death is almost upon her now. In a day or so she will be found frozen solid to the ground, and buried by a stranger in an unmarked grave. Just another victim of the brutal British weather. Yet she continues talking, teeth chattering, without even a shawl to pull around her, oblivious to her fate.
“Amelia said tha' a rich lady paid one hundred pounds fer 'im, that 'ee was adopted out. She said t'was better I didn’t know t' name o' t' woman like, in case I changed me' mind. She said I was lucky like, as most babies that get wiv' 'er end up dyin' o' stuff, but Amelia didn't know that I never meant Caleb t' be adopted out: she kept sayin' sumthin about how's I wanted me baby dead or I wouldn't ave contacted 'er, I didn't know what she meant....I kept on at 'er Miss, I only wanted 'er t' keep hold of him fer a while whilst I saved up. But then she said she didn't know t' name o' t' lady anyway, an' she laughed in me' face when I told 'er she should ne'er 'ave given 'im away if that's what I felt about it, an' she called me naïve and stupid. But I ain't stupid Miss, I' been tryin t' find 'im ever since, well, for the last coupla weeks; 'ee ain't dead, no matter what ye' say, I 'ad t' save up a fair amount o' money mind to buy food and shelter, but now I've ran out and this is the last place that I 'eard of a rich woman 'avin a baby, and I thought that 'e might be 'ere...” She stops and breathes heavy, almost unable to fill her lungs. I imagine each inhalation filling them with crystals of ice, perhaps she will freeze from the inside out.
The Medea Complex Page 21