The Medea Complex (20 page)

Edgar

March 6
^th
, 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.

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, My 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?”

Beatrix

March 6
^th
, 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 again; 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.

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.