Is it possible that she ran away? Could I have been wrong, and discharged a mentally unstable woman?
No, no. As awful a possibility that might be, I know, know, that she was sane on discharge.
The only question remains as to whether she was ever insane.
The defence lawyer continues his speech despite its ineffectualness.
"This man is a as much a victim as the missing lady. A pawn of his fathers. He never wished to lie and cheat his way into a life not his own, oh no...he was co-erced into it by the man who was supposed to protect him! He was brought up, gentlemen, believing in a fantasy. His father would have thrown him out of the house had he not complied with his wishes, and there is, gentlemen, an element of...what is the word? Brainwashing. Mr Stanbury never, ever meant to hurt Lady Stanbury-"
The courtroom quickly becomes a private theatre, the one lawyers’ account of a good, but innocent man, and the others’ of a vicious, vengeful killer. Mr Smithingson makes various other salient points yet he is unable to completely shatter the rather clear picture issued forth by the prosecution. He is hesitant, unsure. The jury, sensing his weakness, tolerate him with barely disguised contempt and boredom, as if his valid hypotheses are merely a waste of their time.
Lord Damsbridge is back in the witness box, looking much recovered.
“You say this plot of his goes back decades, My Lord. How so?” Mr Tumsbridge is once again the focus of everyone's attention.
“Well, before we found the letters you just read to the court, my daughter found a hidden letter; when she was pregnant.”
“'A hidden letter'? Can you elaborate upon that please?”
“Yes. When Anne was four months gone, or thereabouts, she was searching one day for another book to read. I think at this point she was reading all she could on the subject of pregnancy: having lost the first one, she was understandably anxious, and seemed to remember seeing medical texts somewhere in the library. However, she found a letter hidden inside a book, and brought it to me. It was a letter of blackmail.”
“Do you still have this letter?”
“Yes.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, neatly folded piece of blue paper.
“May I read it out to the members of the jury?”
“Yes. Of course.
As the words are read out to the court, I start to feel sick. I've heard them before. Out of Mr Stanbury’s mouth...back in Asquith House all those weeks ago, and more recently, in the gaol. The words that I put down to the ravings of an alcoholic. But this letter clarifies beyond all doubt in my mind that both Mr Stanbury and I have been set-up.
He is innocent.
There is no way he could have been lying.
It is here, on paper. Written in ink, sealed with wax.
Mr Stanbury was telling the truth.
"Are you alright, Doc?" A voice in my ear; Inspector Jones. Was he part of this plot? Did he plant evidence, is he hiding Lady Stanbury?
I shake my head in the negative.
"Well, you don't look so hot. All the foul air in here; I don't know how you spend your life breathing and living in the same space as degenerate criminals, I really don't."
I ignore him, my vision tunnelled to the scene playing out at the centre of the courtroom.
Mr Tumsbridge finishes the letter, shaking his head.
“My oh my, My Lord. You had an illegitimate son?”
Lord Damsbridge smiles slightly.
“No, though I understand perfectly well how and why you could deduce such a thing. If you had seen the look upon my daughters face when she brought me that letter....well. You could have knocked her down with a feather. No, the Lord Damsbridge to which the letter is addressed is not I, but my grandfather; the 6th Earl of Damsbridge. Naturally, our titles are the same. There is a small date at the top of the letter there.”
“Ah, I see it now. 1811.”
“Yes.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“Well, it was obvious to me that whoever had send this letter to my grandfather was indeed who he declared himself to be, as, if you look at the broken wax seal on the envelope...” He pulls an old, yellowed with age envelope out of his other pocket, “It is my grandfathers seal. Our family crest.”
“So, a member of your family sent you this? I'm a little confused here.”
“Yes, so was my daughter. Until I told her that the signet ring that made this impression, was lost by my grandfather, many years before he met and married my grandmother.”
“So an unknown person was in possession of your grandfather’s ring? And what, used it to prove he was who he said he was?”
“At this point, it was just conjecture. I didn't know anything about this letter...my grandfather certainly never mentioned it to me, and if he had ever discussed it with my father, again, he didn't tell me. The letter was a mere curiosity until Anne said something strange.”
“What did she say?”
“That the impression was familiar to her.”
“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I mean, it’s your family's crest.”
“Yes...and no. We haven’t used seals for decades. It is an old tradition that was naturally dropped when my grandfather evidently lost, or somehow misplaced, the ring. We have a 16th century tapestry with the crest on, but Anne had seen it somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“On a signet ring. Worn by Mr Stanbury. And that is when, on natural further investigation, we found the horde of letters that you just saw, underneath his bed from him and his father. That sealed for us, beyond all doubt, who indeed Mr Stanbury was, and his intention against our family.”
The ring! The ring he was talking about!
The galley gasps, and Mr Stanbury looks terror stricken. And guilty. The letters between Mr Stanbury and his father that condemned him are once again read out loud to the court, and though Mr Smithingson attempts to twist their content, he cannot dispute the fact that Mr Stanburys signature glares brightly upon them, for all of the jury to see. Mr Smithingson rises, and asks Lord Damsbridge only one question.
"How could Mr Stanbury have possibly known the child would be a boy? It had to be a boy, didn't it? After all, the entail could not pass to a girl."
Lord Damsbridge looks at the lawyer scathingly.
"His job was completed, Sir," he says, almost sneering, "when he put a child in my daughters stomach. Because he knew I would make them marry. If it had been a girl, do you imagine for even one moment he would have stopped? He would have had my precious child popping them out every year until a boy came along; a little like Henry VIII. Surely, I shouldn't have to explain the obvious to such a learned man as yourself?"
"Was there any mention in the letters of murdering your daughter? Because according to you, that was the plan."
"It was not the plan, Sir. If you were worth half your ilk as a lawyer, you would have realised something the jury did long ago. His plan was to get his hands on Asquith Manor, the house that his father and he believed belonged to them by rights, by virtue, as ironic as that may sound, of his bloody grandmother sleeping with my grandfather. The killing came afterwards, when my daughter took that away from him. Are you stupid?"
Nobody addresses the fact that, grieving father or not, a witness just insulted and verbally slandered a lawyer in front of the eyes of the world. Somebody in the galley starts a slow clap, which gathers pace and tone until the court is one slow, twisting, grinding beat of evil hearts and minds.
Mr Smithingson looks around him; his eyes that of a wounded man. He opens his mouth and closes it, muttering something about resting his case. He is outnumbered, and outwitted. he may be defending an innocent man, but the public don't care.
I care.
I must help him. I must help them both.
The jury rise and make their way into their chamber to makes their decision, and the defence lawyer’s eyes meet mine. I wave desperately, and he inclines his head.
Mr Stanbury is innocent. Yet
he is doomed, and my very own words have helped condemn him. I was wrong. I’ve been blinded by medical texts and a clinical eye. I didn’t listen to my client.
I should have looked for zebras, not buried my mind when I found horses.
Because now, I fear there is no jury in the land that would not convict.
Risk Losing Everything
Beatrix
March 7th, 1886
On The Road
The carriage shakes and jolts as I finally reach the last mile of the journey, the sun having long dipped beneath the horizon. A single gaslight illuminates the cab, and though much wearied by my journey, I allow myself to read through the letter once more.
Monday 2nd December, 1811.
Dear Lord Damsbridge,
Please pardon the poor paper on which this letter is written, unfortunately, with a scratchy pen and I am sorry to say, produced in the poorest of light. Yet it is with much hope that I write to you, as I feel you will be naturally overwhelmed with joy to hear the good news with which I am about to impart.
I fear I shall linger much if I do not make myself plain as quickly as possible, so I take a deep breath and advise you to do the same before you read any further.
I am your son.
My name is Christopher Bland, I was born on February 5th, 1784. My mother, Dorothea Bland, told me much about you growing up, yet it is only recently I learned of your true identity in the form of a letter that, much to my grief, I only stumbled upon after her death in Paris, in 1811. My Lord, I was much affected by the contents of this letter, and feel it is my honourable duty to uphold the memory of my mother who was a wonderful woman in many, many ways, yet died alone, in abject poverty, in France.
I attach to you a written copy of my mother’s note. I have retained the original, for reasons that shall no doubt, become very clear to you. I would gratefully suggest that you read it immediately before reading onwards with this letter.
The contents of this letter being what they are, I ask only that you have the decency to treat me like the son that I am to you, and I will thus keep your secret: as a good son would do anything to protect his father. I realise that not only could this letter cause great scandal, but may also incite you to lose your life. As a son having recently discovered the true identity of his father, it would be a shame if I was to lose him so soon to the noose.
I wish for instant recognition, Dear Father, and to be fully written into your will; granting me full heir apparent to all that you have naturally bestowed upon your other, legally-legitimate son; the 7th Earl of Damsbridge. He is welcome to keep the title, I ask only for the property, land, and all personal possessions which would have been my due, if only you had had the decency to marry my mother.
I know that this may be rather a difficult task for you and your lawyer (if you don’t have one, I suggest that you employ one as soon as possible). Of course, I am looking out for your interests, Dear Father.
I realise this may be quite a shock to you, yet I believe if you look to the wax seal on the back of this letter, it will prove to you that I am who I say I am, and I have the power to love you as much as I have the inclination to ruin you. The relationship between a man and his mother is most precious, Dear Father, and the only reason I can bear your abhorrent treatment towards her is if you make amends with her son, your son, thus enabling her to sleep well amongst the dead. A relationship with my father is something I have never known, but wish to remedy at your earliest convenience.
Yours Affectionately,
Christopher Jordan.
Aka – Your Loving Son.
The attached letter is the one I hold in my hands.
The original, however, now lies with Mr Tumsbridge....and the eyes of the world, thanks to Mr Stanbury's father...a miserable alcoholic who grew up resenting the world but unable to do anything about it, other than push his own son to bear the burden. A man too stupid to realise that the prostitute he is living with was a spy, employed by Lord Damsbridge to immerse herself into his house as his mistress, her only job to lie with him, and save any letters that he might receive from his son. A man who has then gone on to give over his own flesh and blood over to a mob that will sentence him to death, for the price of a year’s worth of whiskey.
A man who will surely now die alone, the prostitute having done her job, having earned enough to open her own boarding house.
Funny, how some people will sell their children, whilst others will risk losing everything just to keep them.
The carriage finally struggles up the long hill that takes me to my final destination, a place I never imagined I would be but somewhere I know I belong. With the woman who will always be my daughter, not of my body, but of my soul. My redemption.
I cannot keep the smile off my face as the cab stops outside a small little house, hidden amongst a copse of orange trees and hibiscus shrubs.
I laugh when the coach driver opens the door, and a tiny hand reaches out to grab mine.
The One In Twenty
Edgar
March 6th, 1886
Court Cell
“It is not enough that you cry out your innocence! There is nothing I can do! The jury hate you so much, you have condemned yourself as surely as if you put the noose around your own neck! They are proof of you being a liar, and when liars start to speak nobody believes them. How do they discern you're not lying now, when you were lying then? Or were you lying about lying then? When do you stop lying?”
“I don't know,” I say, unable to answer any of his questions, watching my lawyer pace the six by eight foot cell. “But I didn't do it, I swear on my dead sons' memory.”
He makes as if to kick my chamberpot, but thinks better of it when he notices it has not been emptied for days. He wrinkles his nose in disgust, and turns back to me. “And to mark them with the bloody ring!"
"My father made me, he said that by using the seal we would empower ourselves-"
"Your father's almost as deluded as you are. Where is that ring, by the way?"
"I don't know, the policeman had-"
“'You don't know, you don't know'! Forget it! You should know! Lad, I don't think it even matters anymore!" His mood switches rapidly. "You have practically signed your own death warrant! Lord Damsbridge has sealed beyond doubt your motives for the crime! What kind of idiot are you, acting on your fathers say so? There is the issue of respecting your parents, Stanbury, and another of being idiotically naïve and blind to their faults and eccentricities. As for opportunity...well, they've got you on that too, haven't they? I'm not even sure if I believe you're innocent at this point-” A knock on the cell door comes, and I flinch. Mr Smithingson scowls at me. “Ah, here he is now. Hopefully, lad our saving grace.” The metal door opens and swings outwards, revealing the sombre face of Dr Savage.
“Doctor.”
“Smithingson.” He enters quickly, shutting the door behind him. My lawyer speaks quickly.
“Right, lads. We must be quick about this. Doctor, this man is going to hang. Despite my antics in there, I don’t see how I can possibly save him from the noose. Quite clearly, my client plotted with his father to take over the Earl’s title and estate by having a son, and murdered his wife when she became insane and took that away from him. Now-”
“I didn’t kill her,” I interrupt.
“Shush, lad. Now, Doctor, what I want to know is this. What are the chances of having our boy here being unfit to plead?”
I leap from the table.
“You're not putting me in some godforsaken lunatic asylum! I'm not mad!”
“Be quiet, lad! Before I walk out of this courtroom and leave you to hear the bell toll for you alone!”
I close my mouth and sit back down. Dr Savage comes over and rests a hand upon my shoulder, answering Mr Smithingson but looking directly at me. I see sadness in his face, and a trace of bewilderment.
“We can’t. It’s too late.’
“We can say that he’s insane, then he’ll walk free-“
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Dr Savage becomes angry.
“Mr Smithingson! Don't you realise that to put in a plea, you needed to pursue the unfit to stand trial plea before the trial began? You can't do that anymore, not at this stage. I’ve testified in many cases where the defence have tried to pull an insanity stunt out of their pocket at the last minute when it seems that they are losing beyond all hope, and I have never once seen it stop any man or woman go to the noose! The judge and the jury are not stupid; do you not think they know it is the desperate move of a desperate man? He has already been declared sane at the time of the offense, and to attend trial. I myself signed one of those certificates!”
“But-”
I gape at him.
"The judge's hands are tied, Doctor. If the jury find him guilty of murder, he has no option but to deliver punishment based on past precedent. Common law itself binds future decisions..."
I barely hear the lawyers words' as he starts rambling, 'stare decisis' this, and 'matter of first' that. I can only stare at Doctor Savage. The man whom I considered a friend; my only friend.
He has betrayed me.
“No, Mr Smithingson, none of that would work at this stage. The only thing we can do is expose the truth. And I think I know what that is, but I need your help. First of all, I don’t believe your client killed his wife.”
“You don’t?” He looks bewildered, and peers around him. “Well, who did then?”
“Nobody. I highly suspect she is still alive.”
I almost weep in gratitude. A lone tear snakes its way down my cheek, settling upon my lip. I lick it off.
Salty.
“But why, how...” My lawyer trails off and sits down on the floor. “Is it too much to ask what the bleeding, bloody hell is going on here? Can you fit it into,” he looks at his watch, “three minutes and forty two seconds?”
The Medea Complex Page 24