The defence lawyer rises and starts to speak. He looks fresh out of University.
“Mr Blake...a few things bother me about this case, and I'm hoping you can enlighten me. Are you willing to do that?”
“Of course.”
“Good, thank you. What time did you say you arrived at Asquith Manor on 24th April, 1886?”
“Just after ten in the morning.”
“Right. So at that time, people would be going about their work, wouldn't they?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Yet when you arrived, the servants had been called away from their work to wait for your arrival. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Is it suspicious that a cook would be holding a pan, and a maid a poker in the middle of a working day, Mr Blake? The tools of their trade, if you will?”
“I suppose not, no, but...”
“Yes..., I know, you said, and I quote: 'presumably to make an attempt on Mr Stanbury's life'. What confuses me is why you would jump to such a preposterous conclusion.”
Silence.
“That was a question, Mr Blake.”
“Oh. Well, erm...I thought that because there were threats being made, and the boy with the rake. I've explained this already.”
“But doesn’t this frankly, unjustified theory give the members of the jury an impression of the defendant’s guilt? After all, most people don’t go around the place killing others without a motive. So to imply that they were after Mr Stanbury implies that they had some sort of revenge to wreak...which in turn, suggests motive and guilt on his part in Lady Stanbury's disappearance.” He turns to the jury, his smile met with a few approving nods.
Mr Tumsbridge and Lord Damsbridge speak lowly and rapidly to one another, but I am unable to hear what they are saying.
“Let me raise the issue of this 'boy with the rake'. Now, according to you, he harboured some rather untoward intentions towards Mr Stanbury. Yet none of us can presume to know the motives behind others actions without proof. Why, for all we know, the stable boy could have had amorous affection toward the Lady, and decided to take it upon himself to do away with the competition! Just because one man threatened Mr Stanbury, does not mean that other members of the staff, holding perfectly innocuous objects at the time, had similar motives-”
Mr Blake interrupts.
“They looked guilty. Why, the younger maid fainted when confronted-”
“Mr Blake, never, ever interrupt counsel. Wait a moment, are you suggesting that 'looking' guilty is the same as being guilty?” He starts to laugh. “Is that what the police force does now? Arrest anyone who looks guilty?”
The Superintendant flushes, as the lawyer raises his hands to the sky.
“You don’t need to answer that, your hesitation is enough. It is all nothing but a load of supposition! Incredible, really, I'm almost lost for words. I am lost for words, in fact. Please, give me a moment.”
The lawyer strokes his chin for a few minutes; the only sound in the court that of anticipation and the odd, nervous whisper. I sneak a glance at Mr Stanbury. Some of the colour seems to have returned to his face and he is sitting up straighter in his chair. His gaze is fixed hopefully upon his lawyer who seems to be exceeding all of our expectations. Perhaps he does have a chance, after all. Where that will leave us, I have no idea. But I'm not sure I can have a third death upon my head. Surely, even if he was found not guilty at this trial, we could still figure something out. There is always a way...always. I look hopefully at Lord Damsbridge, meaning to say something to him, but he is lost in the muted conversation with Mr Tumsbridge; gesturing angrily towards the witness box. I don’t need to see anymore of this, I can't bear to watch. Glancing once more at Mr Stanbury; for what, I don’t know... the possibility of redemption? To tell him with nothing more than a look and a grimace that I'm sorry? I rise from my seat. But he doesn't notice my leaving any more than anyone else does as I walk out of the courtroom.
My heart weeps for all of the innocents that will end up paying dearly for our sins.
Errors Of Judgement
Dr Savage
March 6th, 1886
Old Bailey
Miss Fortier brushes past me as she exits the courtroom, wiping at her eyes. It is only the second time I have seen her, and in doing so I remember the time she was in my office when Nurse Agnus referred to her as 'Beatrix', despite me having never mentioned her first name. I thought it mildly odd at the time, yet it bothers me now.
“'Arrest anyone who looks guilty',” mumbles Inspector Jones from beside me. “Like we do that.”
I can't help myself. My words leave my mouth pickled with uncharacteristic spite.
“Well, yes, you do. You arrested that man sat next to me not an hour ago, and he hadn't done anything.”
The Inspector looks mortally offended.
“He insulted a police officer!”
The man is a pig-headed idiot.
Mr Smithingson gathers himself and finally interrogates Superintendant Blake further, establishing that it is quite possible Mr Stanbury was hiding not out of guilt, but out of fear, and that holding a candlestick to defend oneself against a rake-wielding man is hardly a crime. Everyone has a right to self-defence.
He throws doubt on the case, and into my mind.
A fearful man would be acting almost the same as a guilty man. Both would be defensive, scared, unable to meet people’s eyes, shying away. Both would lie, but for different reasons. Both would be acting mad; both would be in fear of their lives.
He rather expertly clarifies and reinforces the fact that Superintendent Blake is not a medical man, and therefore could not accurately suggest that there were 'four or five pints of blood' on the ground. He suggests that any man of the house could have left the footprints: even a woman, since it is not difficult for someone with a smaller foot to don a shoe of those larger than their own. He makes it clear that there is no evidence of Mr Stanbury having been drunk; someone, of course, could have planted alcohol upon his clothes...why, Mr Stanbury himself may have spilt some upon himself! He discredits the suggestion that the defendant was acting drunk by suggesting he was in shock, and fear...both of which are apt to make a man act differently, and even vomit from sheer nervousness, and berates the Superintendant for not consulting a doctor immediately upon Mr Stanbury's arrest. He reinforces the point that though the river was searched, no body was found, and even suggested that Lady Stanbury disappeared of her own accord. “She was mad, after all”.
“Is it possible that your police-work wasn't up to a high enough standard to adequately, and unbiasedly, investigate the scene and the defendant properly?”
“I resent that.”
“I’m sure you do, but answer the question. Would you consider the investigation you did on this crime scene to be of a substandard level?”
“No.”
“I disagree with you on that Superintendent, and even go so far as to suggest that you were negligent in your duties." He rubs a finger against the side of his nose, not-so-subtly implying that the policeman is a liar. "Of course you wouldn’t admit fault, especially in a room full of reporters; and I'm sure everyone in this room can understand that. Pride in one’s own work and all, even in a job half-done. But after pride comes a fall, Superintendant.”
Pride in ones work.
Errors of judgment.
Further witnesses for the prosecution are called up during the next two hours, the jury listening to Mr Tumsbridge with a sycophantic respect bordering on reverence. The cook of the house, aptly named a somewhat ironic Mrs Cook, testifies to overhearing Mr Stanbury threatening his wife on the night of her subsequent disappearance. She had been hiding in the kitchen, she said, as the lady's maid, Miss Fortier, had bribed her with a hair-pin to watch over her Lady from the relative safety of the cook's domain. But Mrs Cook feared as much for the food in her fridge as the maid did for her mistress, and henceforth assumed a position in the shadows in the back of the kitchen: thus
overhearing everything that Mr Stanbury said to Anne. “He all but threatened to outrage her, he did, and then choke her to death afterwards!” she declared to the jury, causing a silence to overcome the courtroom, broken only by a voice somewhere, saying: “I've never heard of anything so preposterous. A woman cannot be raped by her own husband, it is her duty to lie with him!” which was 'here, here'd!” by someone else.
Mrs Cook's testimony proved invaluable for the prosecution, as on calling Miss Fortier to the witness stand she was nowhere to be found. Five more servants are called in turn, whose combined testimonies strongly collaborate Mr Stanbury to be of suspicious character, mean temperament, and a quick-to-anger disposition. Mr James tearfully described the painful task of informing his master of his wife’s disappearance, only to be dismissed as a fool. “He laughed,” said the footman, sadly. “He laughed when we told him we'd found some blood.” Even the young girl, Betty, testifies to the fact she saw Mr Stanbury “Washing blood from his hands.” The butler testified to the house having been locked up securely that night, so it was not possible that anyone entered from the outside. Surprisingly, none of them heard anything but the rain during the night; no sounds of violence. Lady Stanbury appeared to be her normal, sane self. Inspector Jones testifies to his alcohol withdrawal symptoms in the gaol, and my very own certificate is produced as evidence of his sanity on the night of the crime.
Eventually, the last witness is called.
Lord Damsbridge takes to the stand, and is asked on examination, the reasons why he never looked for her daughter when finding out she was missing.
“You didn’t search for your daughter?”
“No.”
The galley gasps.
“My Lord, kindly explain to the shocked members of this courtroom the reasons as to why you did not search for your daughter.”
“Because I knew that she was dead, and I knew that Mr Stanbury had killed her.”
“Presumptuous!” shouts Mr Smithingson.
“Agreed, "says the Judge. “Lord Damsbridge, please tell us facts, not feelings.”
“Apologies.”
“Accepted. We all know how hard this must be for you.” The Judge glares at Mr Stanbury before instructing the prosecution to continue.
Mr Tumsbridge coughs, and does so.
“Why would you think such an awful thing, My Lord?”
Lord Damsbridge raises a hand to his brow, where it settles like a mask. He speaks downwards, into the table.
“Because it was always Mr Stanbury's intention. Well, not to kill my daughter; at least, I hope not...God knows I would have done something, anything to protect her from that. I would have sent her to France, or America....” His voice tails off as he is overcome by grief, and chokes back a sob. His hand moves to wipe red-rimmed eyes.
Mr Tumsbridge patiently waits for his client to compose himself, whilst dabbing away a few tears of his own.
“My Lord? Are you ready to continue?”
“I....I...I think so.”
“We all sympathise with you, and yet only those whom have a lost a child of their own could possibly declare to truly empathize with you. You have the whole of the courtrooms condolences, I'm sure.” He pauses. “Now, tell us about this plan of Mr Stanbury’s to which you allude.”
Lord Damsbridge sighs.
“He wanted to inherit my estate. He came from a poor, working-class background and purposefully seduced my daughter to get her pregnant.”
Somebody titters in the court. “If only it were that easy!”
“But, My Lord…” Mr Tumsbridge shakes his head. “Isn’t this a little…weak? After all, it takes two, as they say. How could he possibly know his plan would work?”
Lord Damsbridges’ eyes flash.
“It only take one man, Sir, to make a woman with child. She was young and naïve. Here was a man, armed with flattery and mystery. Who knows whether she laid with him willingly or against her will? All he needed to do was put a child inside her, and the deed was done.”
“But she could have walked away, My Lord. She wasn’t forced to marry him.”
Lord Damsbridge mumbles something.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that? We didn’t’ quite hear you.”
“I said, I made her marry him! What, do you imagine I would allow her to have a bastard child? Imagine the shame! When I found out, I was ashamed to call her my daughter. I was angry; she was selfish to get herself into such a position. She had no concept whatsoever of the damage she had done by getting pregnant outside of marriage. I thought I had raised her better than that, but..." He sighs, sadly, before his anger surfaces. "The second that baby was out of her, she would lose everything. That is the reason he did what he did, he knew about the entail! The moment she became pregnant, he had her! If she had given birth to a bastard child, Asquith Manor would have reverted to the Crown upon my death, and my own daughter would have been left destitute! Mr Stanbury knew that. I made her marry a murderer to secure her future! It is all my fault! ” He starts to cry, and the Judge looks distinctly uncomfortable. Mr Tumsbridge proceeds gently.
“How could you presume he knew that, My Lord?”
Lord Damsbridge sniffs, and semi-composes himself.
“After the marriage, we found letters. Horrible, awful letters written between Mr Stanbury and his father. In them, was a plot to seduce, impregnate, and eventually divorce my daughter. Anybody with half a brain in their head knows bastard children cannot inherit. He knew I would make them marry. He planned to become sole-guardian of John. My grandson. Upon my death, Mr Stanbury would inherit everything until John was of age.”
The galley gasps, as do I.
This is almost identical to the story Mr Stanbury told me. He admitted seducing her. He said he sought her out. He said his father told him too. Now, here is proof from the other side that much at least, is also true.
Just as he told the truth about his father.
The speck of doubt in my mind ignites into a sizeable flame.
‘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.’
The flame starts to burn everything in its path, memories entering my head in quick, startling flashes.
‘She hid the pregnancy from me for five months.’
“Hello, Beatrix.”
“Why is she not at Broadmoor?”
“She told me she killed her baby, and she would kill me.”
Is it possible I have judged one with the sins of the other?
“And of course…” Mr Tumsbridge shakes his head sadly. “When your daughter killed her baby in a fit of insanity, she took all of that away from him.”
“Yes. So he murdered her.”
Mr Smithingson doesn’t even object.
Mr Tumsbridge turns to the Judge.
“My Lord, at this point I would like to give this witness a break. I think, as the father of the recently deceased victim of this trial, he deserves as much assistance as we can give him. I kindly request a recess.”
The Judge looks to the defence.
“Any objections?”
Mr Smithingson sits with his arms crossed, looking most unhappy. His jaw tics, as if pulled by an invisible hand.
“None, My Lord. None whatsoever.”
Dead Mans Walk
Edgar
March 6th, 1886
Old Bailey
Dead Man's Walk.
That's what they call the stones underneath my feet, the walls on either side of me, the ceiling above my head. I look up, and almost trip. My lawyer grabs hold of my arm.
"Watch it, lad. You-"
I shake his hand off me.
"Have you ever won?"
"What?" He turns his red-rimmed eyes towards my own, and for the first time I notice how dishevelled he is.
"I said, 'have you ever won'?"
"This
is my first trial, I told you. I'm really angry with you right now, Mr Stanbury. What were you expecting here? You talk down to me because I didn't 'defend' you with regards to the phrenologists opinion about your head, yet you neglect to tell me that you sent letters, bloody incriminating letters to your father; who, by the way, you told everyone was dead!"
"I-"
"Do you have know how hard it's going to be to prove your 'innocence'? You have totally, wholly, incriminated yourself beyond belief and I just don't know what to do with you."
"You never gave me a chance to tell you!" I shout at him, shocked by the strength of my own voice yet emboldened by the sound. "You preferred to sleep at the table rather than asking me any questions! What did you expect me to do?"
My lawyers face turns grim as he opens a door at the end of the walk.
"Well, miscommunication between a defendant and his lawyer is never a good thing, Mr Stanbury. Let us call a truce, as they say. I suggest you and I clear this up once and for all. Tell me everything you can about these letters. Tell me your motives, everything, right down to what colour socks you were wearing when you wrote them. I want to know how you sent them to your father, how he replied, who else was involved in this scheme, or who else could have possibly known about it. I want to know if you have enemies, Mr Stanbury; and whether one of them could have been your wife."
Blinded By Medical Texts
Dr Savage
March 6th, 1886
Old Bailey
Mr Smithingson does his best to limit damage control during cross examination; portraying the servants attitudes as mere jealousy: that someone of their own elk and station in life should lord it over them through merely impregnating an aristocratic woman. He intimates that the young scullery maid, Betty, was coerced and influenced in her testimony.
Though Mr Smithingson does manage to poke a few holes into Mr Tumsbridge's well spun-web: reinforcing the fact that Lady Stanbury had only been discharged from a mad-house the day before and could have run away under another hallucination or drowned herself; that she may have simply been scared of her husband and fled, it’s not enough to convince the twelve gentlemen on the bench who frankly, appear bored.
The Medea Complex Page 23