The Medea Complex (23 page)

Beatrix

March 7
^th
, 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.

Edgar

March 6
^th
, 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-“

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?”

“I'll try my best,” Doctor Savage says, before bending and
sitting next to my lawyer. I'm not even tempted to offer him my chair.

“Let me tell you both what I'm thinking. Remember when your
wife was admitted to Bethlem Hospital?” I move to answer but he shakes his
head. “Just let me speak. It was a strange enough request at the time, that a
woman found unfit to stand trial should enter Bethlem. All criminal lunatics
get sent to Broadmoor. Naturally, I put this down to the fact that her father
contributes heavily to the hospitals' fund. With enough money, you can do and
request almost anything, unfortunately. Yet I accepted her as I saw her as a
genuine case...why would I not have?” He laughs, bitterly. “To tell you the
truth, I’m still not sure. But here's the thing. I only realized as time went
by, that Lord Damsbridge had only started contributing six months before Lady
Stanbury killed your child. Number One. Number Two: she never quite fit into
the diagnostic box of puerperal mania. Sure, she did, but there was something
about her physical symptoms that never quite tallied with the psychological ones.
But who was I to think otherwise? Everyone is different. If there's anything
I've learned from science, it’s that one man can have a pulse of fifty, and
another a pulse of one hundred. And they can both be perfectly well. Yet, she
didn’t remember you, which was unusual enough to pique my interest at the time
but unfortunately, not my curiosity.

“Number Three: You told me she hid the pregnancy from you
for five months. I then believed it to be her anxiety, and her love for you as
her husband to not cause you any grief if she miscarried for a second time. I
now think she hid the pregnancy from you, as if she were planning on giving
birth to the baby, and never letting you know you had a son. If she had access
to those letters of yours, I guarantee you that’s what she was trying to do.
She knew you were going to divorce her and take away her baby-"

"The Custody Act-"

Dr Savage whirls upon my lawyer.

"Damn the Custody Act! You and I both know it doesn't
work, and so did she! She was more intelligent than any of us gave her credit
for!" He turns to me, the desperation in my eyes reflected in his own.
"You thwarted her plan, Edgar, to quietly give birth and take the child
safely away, so she hatched a new one.

“She actually admitted killing the child to one of my
attendants. The nurse naturally told me of this, but I put it down to the
remnants of a hypnosis session which Lady Stanbury had undergone a few weeks
prior. Oh, I knew she killed her child: that came out wrong. What I meant to
say is that she admitted doing so whilst she was sane. And now the letters,
confirming the story you told me about William IV and Dorothea Bland. Oh, drat,
the hypnosis session!”

My mouth is hanging open. What is he telling me? I verbalise
the question, but he ignores me, pulling anxiously at his beard. We already
know she killed my son. What on earth is he trying to tell us?

“Who has been hypnotised?” asks my lawyer from the floor.
Doctor Savage ignores him.

“I should have known from the minute she admitted
everything!” He looks to the ceiling and shouts. “Damn you, Tuke! Our research
was far from finished, you old bat!” Who is Tuke? I don’t have any time before
he gazes at me and continues talking a mile to the dozen.  “Why, those letters
that have just convinced the jury of your guilt, only prove that she was
telling the truth, and that you are an innocent man! One in twenty…by god, you
are to be the one in twenty!” He leaps up, and runs to the door. “I repeat:
your wife saw those letters whilst she was pregnant! She believed you were
going to take the child away from her, so she took the child away from you! She
knew that if you divorced her, she would lose her child forever, but she was
unable to divorce you so she did the next best thing! My God! A woman will do
anything to protect her child, and I mean anything! I don’t know how exactly
she did it, only that she did!”He hammers at the door. “Guard! Let me out at
once!” He turns to me, a manic look in his eyes. “The key to your freedom
Stanbury, I have it! I wrote down the transcript of her confession! Guard, let
me out!” He kicks the door. “Guard!” The door opens, and he runs out.

My lawyer and I look at each other, each one as confused as
the other.