I stare at her a while longer, practically frozen myself in sheer amazement. I wouldn't believe it unless she was cowered in front of me, right here, right now. Sheer blind luck and a mother’s determination have led her to our very doorstep.
Though I can understand the power of the latter more than anyone.
A mother will never let her child go, and will literally walk to the ends of the Earth for him; to hell and back if need be, into death itself. It is a sad ending for this woman though, who failed to protect her son.
I stand up.
“We don't know of any baby being adopted in these parts. The only people who live in this house now are an elderly man and a bunch of servants. The lady who lived here is dead, and so is her child. I'm sorry, but you've come to the wrong place.”
She makes to join me, but falls back into the mud with a small frown upon her face.
“Are ye' sure? But,” she looks about the field, gazes at the emptiness. “But...this was t' last place I cud think of...”
I realise that I need not have bothered stopping the carriage. This woman is no threat to us. Her blue lips tell me all. She will be dead within the day.
“I'm sure. Now, I'm sorry, but I really have to leave now.” I brush my skirts, dismissing her.
“Miss, miss,” a pale hand, a hand of a child, reaches out and clings limply to my dress. “Cud ye' take me t' the nearest inn? Or village? I'm so coooooold...”
I flick her hand off me.
“I'm sorry, but no. We don’t pick up vagrants,” and with that I run back to the carriage.
I force myself not to look back.
An Evolutionary Throwback
Dr Savage
March 6th, 1886
Old Bailey
“His head, Sir. His basilar-metrical angle is thirty-eight degrees.”
Mr Tumsbridge nods thoughtfully, as I yawn and attempt to stretch my legs. I can’t imagine where the prosecution found a Phrenologist, never mind their reasons for bringing him in. It is a field much outdated, and almost everyone disregards their opinions. I don’t ever consult them.
“Can you explain to the members of the jury the significance of this finding?”
The Phrenologist sits straighter in the witness box.
“Of course I can, yes. You and I, Sir, have an angle of around twenty-eight degrees, or thereabouts.”
“You can tell that by looking at me, can you?”
“Well, not exactly, but I can make an educated guess, Sir. You only have to look at Mr Stanbury to see he’s an evolutionary throwback.”
Someone in the gallery snorts with suppressed laughter.
“’An evolutionary throwback’, Mr Chime? Is that an insult?”
Mr Chime shakes his bushy eyebrows.
“Not at all, Sir. It’s a medical term.”
It most certainly is not. This is exactly the reason these idiots have no place in, or near, my asylum.
“Look at his sloping forehead. His ears are unequal, by one millimetre.”
“Right. What is the significance these angles, please?”
“Oh. Based on my reading, he’s a murderer alright.”
“Mr Chime! The client is innocent until proven guilty!” Mr Tumsbridge softly rebukes him, but he doesn’t mean it. After all, it’s his witness.
“Oh, I’m sorry Sir, I just meant that-“
The prosecutor waves his words away with a flick of his hand.
“It's quite alright. But please, refrain from such comments before the defence objects to it.”
“Ok. I-”
“Instead, kindly rephrase. Do you mean to say that the defendant likely has murderous tendencies due to the shape and size of his head?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Meant. Mean.” The witness blushes, and pulls on his eyebrows.
“Why is that, Mr Chime?”
“Oh. Right. Because, well, studies have been done for decades now; comparing the skulls of animals and humans, murderers and innocents, and the findings are conclusive. Animals and humans that kill have a larger basilar phreno-metrical angle.”
“Kindly explain to the jury what a basilar-phreno angle is.”
“It’s the measurement taken from the opening of the ear to the eyebrow, and along the horizontal. I guarantee you he’s got killer tendencies. I never met a single case of a murderer with the basilar phreno-metrical angle less than thirty-five degrees, just like I never knew a man with an angle of twenty-five degrees or less to have the disposition nor inclination to kill. His is thirty-eight, so…” He shrugs. “This type of head is that of a low and vicious person, Sir. He's more like an animal, Sir, than you or I. His skull is like that of a carnivorous animal.”
“’A carnivorous animal’”. Mr Tumsbridge turns to the jury. “Did you hear that? The defendant has the skull of a blood-thirsty, wild animal. And we all know what wild animals like to do, don’t’ they?” He walks up and down, waggling a finger.
“They kill without foresight, gentlemen. Just like the defendant.”
That was uneccesary, and has absolutely no basis in scientific fact. I wait for the defence to cross examine.
“Your witness,” says Mr Tumsbridge, as he makes his way back to the prosecution table.
Mr Smithingson stands. “I have no questions for this witness.”
The Judge looks shocked, as am I.
“Are you sure, Mr Smithingson?”
“I’m sure. Thank you.”
Wants To Kill Me
Edgar
March 6th, 1886
Defence Table
My lawyer sits back down and I kick him angrily under the table.
“Why didn’t you defend me?”
“What am I supposed to say? I haven’t a clue what he was talking about! If he says you’ve got a basilar-something head of thirty-eight degrees, who am I to argue with scientific fact? How can I say, ‘no he hasn’t sir, he’s got an angle of twenty-three’, and then what? He measures your head in front of everyone and we get made to look like fools?” He squints at me. “And you do have a rather sloping forehead, lad…”
“You do realise Mr Tumsbridge wants to kill me, don’t you?”
I’m desperate. I want to claw at him, shout out loud, throw a rock at someone.
“Of course he does, lad. That’s his job. Shush, will you? I need to listen.”
I sit back, exhausted. The bastard lawyer is now questioning one of the policemen.
“You arrived at the house at ?time, arrested a couple of servants. Then what happened?” Mr Tumsbridge says, pacing the floor.
“We found Mr Stanbury crouching in a corner of his bedroom, half-naked and holding a candlestick.”
“What happened thereafter?”
“My men took a plaster cast of the footprint, and some photographs of the scene, whilst I escorted Mr Stanbury back to the station, whereupon he was in too much of a distressed and drunken state for anyone to take any statements from him.”
Mr Tumsbridge walks over to the prosecution table, rustling about underneath it for a minute before pulling out a plastic bag. Inside is something white. He holds it up in the air, and approaches the witness box.
“Is this the cast you made of the footprint?”
“Yes.”
He goes back to the table once again, coughing as he reaches for another piece of evidence.
“And these are the photographs?”
The policeman looks at them.
“Yes.”
“These, gentlemen of the jury, where taken the crime scene. Excuse the gruesomeness, there's a lot of blood in some of them.” He happily passes the photos around the jury, and turn by turn each member scrutinises the small pictures. One man pales. The lawyer waits a few minutes before collecting them back, and I wonder at a justice system that will show ‘evidence’ to perfect strangers that the accused has never seen. I don’t know what those photographs show.
“What did you do when you arrived at the station with the defendant?�
�
“We carried out normal procedure. Booked him in, took his particulars.”
“How was he acting, at this point?”
“He tried to fight us off and he was rather incoherent.”
“’Incoherent?’ In what way?”
“He kept rambling about a plots and King’s and an actress called Dorothea. He didn’t make any clear verbalisation of anything that made sense. He was clearly intoxicated, so we put him in a cell.”
“Would it be normal practice for you to seek the advice of a doctor, in these cases?”
“No, if they are obviously drunk then we let them sleep it off.”
“If they are mad, would you then call a doctor?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So in your opinion, he was not mad.”
“No, I clarify: he was drunk.”
“Do you think he murdered his wife whilst he was drunk, in that case?”
“I-”
“My Lord!” My glass of water almost tips as my lawyer jumps to his feet, bumping into my own arm with his. He doesn't apologise. “I must object to this line of questioning. My learned friend is using a loaded question. How is the witness supposed to answer? If he says yes, he is agreeing that in his opinion, my client killed his wife whilst drunk, yet if he says no, it equally suggests to the members of the jury that my client killed his wife, but whilst he was sober!”
“I agree, Mr Smithingson,” The Judge says, rubbing his eyes. “Be seated. And you, Mr Tumsbridge: I suspect you know better by now than to use such underhand techniques during an interrogation of a witness. Rephrase the question, or move onto the next.”
Astounded, I lean back into the chair, finally allowing a small flicker of hope to rest upon my lips. Mr Tumsbridges' own mouth moves into a downward curve.
“You may continue, Mr Tumsbridge.”
“Yes, My Lord.” His wrinkled old hand gestures minutely towards me from beside his waist, a tiny, almost imperceptible pointing gesture, as his thumb points towards his neck and moves in a side-ways motion. The smile dies upon my face. He just gestured the death penalty at me!
“Apologies for the interruption, Superintendent Blake. Now, where were we? Yes, I was asking you what part you believe Mr Stanbury had in the murder of his wife.”
The policeman is silent for some time, before raising his head and saying, “You might want to rephrase that question too, Mr Tumsbridge, for I cannot even say for sure, upon oath, that a murder has even been committed.”
Gasps rise through the court like a flock of birds taking to the air. The policeman ignores the fuss he has created, and continues.
“It is possible that one has, even probable. But I am a policeman, not a mathematician, Sir. Has violence occurred within Asquith House? Yes, I would say so, definitely. Is Lady Stanbury missing? Evidently so, yes. Can I say for sure she has been murdered? No, I cannot. You must realize, we have not found a body. How can I say in absolute certainty that a murder has been done, less so whom the perpetrator is? I suspect everyone and no-one; I am merely a detective, Sir. It is your job to find the truth.”
The silence in the court is complete, less the sound of Mr Tumsbridge wheezing heavily.
“Indeed it is, Superintendant Blake, which is the very reason you have been called to the stand to give your testimony. Let me ask you something; are you aware of the legal term to which I earlier alluded, corpus delicti?”
“I cannot say that I am, no.”
“This means, quite literally, body of evidence, Mr Blake. It has been taken by some lay-people rather literally in recent years, hence the term 'no body, no murder'. This misinterpretation has led some people to go around killing at whim, as they believe that if they hide the body well enough, they cannot possibly be charged with a murder.” From somewhere, the sound of someone nervously tapping their feet is the only accompaniment to the prosecution lawyer's words, and second’s later a man from the galley runs out of the court.
“But they are desperately mistaken. Body of evidence, Superintendant, means that if there is sufficient evidence of any means: be it physical or circumstantial, the person accused can be charged with murder. So, I now must expand upon your response. You believe there has been no murder, as there is no body?”
The policeman looks a little pale, as he answers uneasily.
“Yes...”
“Yes?”
“Erm, I'm not sure what you want me to say, Sir.”
“I don't want you to say anything, other than the truth. Superintendant, given the amount of blood at the scene, the hair, the signs of violence, Mr Stanbury's behaviour...do you believe then, that it is possible a murder may have been committed?”
“Well, I can't say for certain that one has, Sir, I mean-”
“How much blood did you find at the scene?”
“A lot, Sir.”
“Can you quantify 'a lot'?”
“The patch on the ground would be indicative of at least four or five pints."
“I see. How is your medical knowledge, Superintendant?”
“Not as good as a medical mans, I expect.”
Someone guffaws, and is swiftly escorted from the courtroom.
“If I was to make a patch of my own blood on the ground, right here, right now, by opening up my wrists or my throat; a patch the same size of that found upon the grass, what would happen to me?”
“You would die, unless medical attention was given to you most urgently.”
“And where there any medical men upon the scene?”
“No.”
“Any evidence of any first aid being administered whatsoever by anyone at any point?”
“No.”
“Let's get back to the footprints. Did you find any significance with them?”
“Yes, they were the same size as Mr Stanbury's feet.”
“So we have clear evidence of violence being committed, a patch of blood large enough to kill a man who, by the way gentlemen of the jury, hold more blood in their bodies than that of a woman...we have footprints next to the blood the exact same size as Mr Stanbury's, and a missing woman. Is that about right, Superintendant Blake?”
“That is correct, yes.”
“Than that will be all. Thank you for your co-operation.” He turns and looks towards me but addresses the Superintendant. “Please remain where you are, as I'm sure the defence have something to say to you.”
Superintendant Blake's head drops onto his chest, and he puffs in and out with a long, slow breath. He visibly deflates upon the stand as the Judge calls for a brief recess. Does he believe me innocent, then?
Is at least one person in this large and unfriendly world finally on my side?
And if so, is it enough?
Actions Without Proof
Beatrix
March 6th, 1886
Old Bailey
I arrive at the courts during a recess, much out of breath and sweating despite the cold. I use my elbows to push my way through the crowd until I reach the prosecution table.
“Damn the man, Tumsbridge! You brought in a bloody hostile, inadequate witness!”
“Don't worry yourself. He's only one man on the stand. I know what I'm doing. Focus on Mr Chime. He was good, wasn’t he?”
The two men speak in low voices, my ex-employer a deep shade of purple.
“I don’t care about Mr Chime. I care about the policeman who has just shone bloody doubt on the case. I'm not happy about this. At all.”
“Well you should care about Mr Chime, as has just verified for the jury that your son-in-law has the same characteristics of a murderous animal. They won't forget that, trust me. Fret not, My Lord.”
A squeak involuntarily passes my lips, and Lord Damsbridge whips his head around.
“And you. Where have you been? What took you so long? Why are you all wet?” His voice raises an octane as he fires his questions at me. I am momentarily lost for words.
“I got caught on the road Sir; the mother of-”
/> “Look, I don't have time to listen to your excuses. It doesn't really matter now you are here."
“But Sir, the mother of-”
Mr Tumsbridge sensibly moves away from us. My ex-employer follows him with his eyes for a moment, before returning his attention to me.
“Why are your hands shaking? I hope you're not about to have an episode of hysteria, Miss Fortier. Most insane asylums are quite unpleasant, or so I hear.” He leans closer, putting his hand over mine: the warmth of his skin seeping through my gloves. The threat is implicit and pretending to have an itch, I move my hand away. A small smile crosses his features; he knows.
“You better not ne having doubts, Miss Fortier-”
“I'm not, My Lord!” I interrupt him in my hysteria, struggling to keep my voice level. He needs to know about the girl, about what I've done. Perhaps he can save her, he can do anything, he can send a cab to pick her up. “It's just, if you'll listen to me, I had the most awful confrontation on the way here with-”
He misunderstands my despair.
“Remember what he has done; he does not deserve your sympathy.”
“He has not my sympathy, My Lord,” I say, tears now falling freely down my face. I feel no shame; merely exhaustion. “But you must listen to me; you don't know what I did-”
He turns away from me,
I am entreating a wall.
I’m relatively sure I'll one day be joining my ex-employer in hell, but what else was I to do?
Anne's mother saved me from death when she found me in the street all those years ago; filthy, semi-conscious, and covered in blood. Yet I have returned that favour covered in more blood: what would her dear voice say to me now, if she were here to witness all that has transpired? Would she be angry, disappointed?
The Judge returns too quickly, and calls the court to order. Mr Stanbury notices my appearance, and I imagine his gaze entreats me to help him I look away, ashamed, as the tall police officer I met once climbs the stairs to the witness box.
The Medea Complex Page 22