The Medea Complex (6 page)

Edgar

November 4th, 1885

Mr Tumsbridges Office

“I received your letter Mr Stanbury, and I'm sorry to be the
bearer of bad news but I'm afraid that you're not entitled to anything.”

“How can that possibly be?”

“The law, my friend. The law.”

I can only stare at the lawyer as he ignites another
old-fashioned candlestick, his liver-spotted hands shaking as he does so. He
notices my gaze, and blowing out the match says, “It's terrible getting old,
isn't it? I shouldn't be surprised if I set fire to this whole darned building
one day, my hands tremble so terribly. I hope the landlord installs this
electricity thing before that happens.” He grins at me and though his
watery-blue eyes appear filtered, they sparkle with a sharpness as bright as
any mans. “You're in a very difficult position, my friend.”

I twirl the ring on my finger, caressing the emblem.

“Yes, I gather that. Is there anything I can do? Anything at
all?”

The old man coughs into his hand, and looks at the contents
for a moment before wiping it on his sleeve.

“No.”

“No?”

“Indeed not.”

I wonder if he's playing with a full deck of cards.

“Mr...”

“Tumsbridge. Mr Tumsbridge. Had that name for several
decades young man, and it's not likely to change anytime soon.”

Frustrated, I reach into my pocket and reluctantly hand him
a piece of paper. “Mr Tumsbridge, this is my marriage certificate. Now, as Lady
Stanbury's husband, this entitles me to the real estate, and all income of my
wife’s. I want access to it whilst she is incarcerated.”

He holds it under the candle-light for a moment, and I
suppress the urge to snatch it back. He's surely going to set it alight, and
then the evidence would be gone in an instant. He snorts as he reads through
it, and just as I am about to give into my desire he hands it to me.

“Still, my friend, you're not entitled to a bean.”

“How so?” I'm desperate.

“What year did you marry Lady Anne?”

“As it says on the certificate,” I say, frustration rising
within me. “1884.”

He laughs out loud.

“What month?”

I suppress the urge to ask him whether he can read, and say
tightly, “July.”

“My friend, aren't you in a pickle. There's a little
something called The Married Women's Property Act. Came into force, would you
believe, in 1884. That means you aren't entitled to anything, as I already
said. And to be honest, even if you had married her in 1784, you still wouldn't
get anything.” His eyes gleam like a snakes.

A very old snake.

Why did he bother asking me what year I was married if it
didn't change the answer?

“Please, explain to me,” I say wearily, resting my head atop
my arms on the desk.

“Well, your wife is the only daughter of an Earl whose
property just so happens to be male entailed, happens all the time with these
'peer's' and rich people. An old tradition, a way of keeping it in the family.
But I'm sure you know all about that, don't you?” He pauses and my breathe
hitches in my throat. How can he possibly...

“But anyway, it’s simple. The property, the real estate,
that is, the land, the house, all that expensive stuff, doesn’t belong to her
and never will. Therefore, my friend, it doesn't belong to you either. And if
even if there were no restraints of an entail, and the property hypothetically
did go to her, you still wouldn’t be entitled to it due to the aforementioned
law. If she doesn't birth forth a male child, it will go to some far off cousin
or obsolete uncle, I expect. It can pass through her, but not to her. And so,
with the loss of your son,” he shrugs again. “I'm afraid you lost your only
handle on the situation. Notwithstanding the fact she's in a mad-house of
course, and will most likely never get out. Which is why you came to see me, I
understand. But I'm sorry to say my friend that your presence in the Manor is
at the liberty and kindness of her father. At this moment in time it belongs to
him. The fact that she's in a lunatic asylum doesn’t strengthen your case: it
weakens it.”

Nausea rises up in my throat, and I swallow.

“Mr Tumsbridge, surely there is something you can do to help
me. There must be some sort of, something, for this situation?”

“Divorce her.”

“But, I-”

“What's the alternative? I am aware of your wife's case, Mr
Stanbury. Unfortunately, everyone does. I s'pect they even know about it over
in France, and that's saying something. In all likelihood, even if she gets
better, she will most likely be taken for a trial and incarcerated at the gaol
for the next twenty years. And what happens to you then? Lord Damsbridge and I
are friends, and I don't imagine for one second he'll let you live the rest of
your days at the Manor. Taking in mistresses under his roof whilst his daughter
rots away in some cell? Ha! You have no rights to be in that house. None. Zip.
Nada.”

“But-”

“You have no money, yes. Mr Stanbury, a bit of hindsight
wouldn't go amiss here. I suggest you commence divorce proceedings against your
wife; there's many a loophole for this sort of thing and would be easy for you
to do. In fact, if you say she was insane at the time of your marriage, or
shortly thereafter, you are entitled to a straight out annulment. Would you
like me to do that for you?”

“No, absolutely not, I might hate what she's done but I love
my-”

“Has her Doctor advised you to divorce her?”

“No, he has not! He-”

He interrupts me.

“Most unusual. Common advice is to do so.” He sighs. “Right,
ok. Mr Stanbury, are you aware that she probably was mad when you met her, and
you just didn't notice? It's perfectly alright for you to decide-”

“No. I do not want a divorce. What I want is my wife back,
at home with me, and until then, perhaps access to a little money.”

He remains silent for a moment, tapping his nose with long,
dirty fingernail.

“Have you ever been unfaithful to your wife, Mr Stanbury?”

Hold on a second, what?

“What?”

“Tinkled the maid, coddled the cook, fluttered with the
ladies down in the city-”

“No!” I'm offended.

“Ever slept with a relative? Your mother, for example?”

He's mad.

“Mr Tumsbridge, I'm sorry for having wasted your time, I see
that now.” I start to rise from my seat when he moves surprisingly fast,
darting out a hand to grab me.

“Sit down, Mr Stanbury. I'm aware that gentlemen such as yourself
don't like to be asked these questions. I was merely demonstrating what your
wife would have to prove if she wanted to divorce you.”

“What, that I had relations with my own mother?”

“Or brother. It doesn't matter, though if it were the latter
she could sue you for buggery too.” His eyes gleam, and I feel all of a sudden,
incredibly uneasy. “Plus intolerable cruelty; if you've ever knocked her around
a few times, given her a blue eye, that sort of thing.”

Well, I never.

“I don't like your tone, Mr Tumsbridge. I've never hit a
woman in my life, I've never had intercourse with anyone or anything other than
a woman, and-”

He interrupts me, shaking his head.

“I thought as much.” He glances at my hand. “Nice ring you
have there. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, erm-” I move it away, out of sight. How stupid of me to
have worn it here. What if he recognizes it...

“Never mind, just trying to lighten the mood. Look, I was
merely demonstrating the fact that she cannot divorce you. She can't let you
go, even if she wanted to. But you can let her go. Your child is dead, that
can't possibly be conductive to any sort of future relationship, can it? Learn
from your mistakes, Mr Stanbury, and move on. But next time, meet a woman who
owns her own property and issue a child with her. Divorce her, accuse her of
adultery. Then the child will go to you: as the father you have the right to
keep the child. The woman will most likely trade you the property for the baby,
women are like that. They'll do mostly anything for their own flesh and blood,
sentimental fools.”

“But that's-”

“Horrible? Awful? Treacherous?” The old lawyer leans forward
and blows the candle out. The darkness makes his words ominous, fearful. “Do
your morals really go against such a thing, Mr Stanbury? I think not. Please
don't try to fool an old hand. The law shall do as it pleases. It's there to
protect, but it can also destroy. Remember that, my friend, and also remember I
advised you to divorce her. Now, pass me my cane, will you? It’s over there by
that hat-stand.” Just like the candles light, our conversation is blown out. He
has dismissed me as easily as he would crush a roach.

Loathe as I am to do as he asks, I oblige him, suddenly
eager to be away from him, to be home. Home?

I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw something.

He looks at me.

“Do I amuse you, Mr Stanbury?”

“Not at all,” I say, still contemplating his last words as
he rises slowly to his feet, and takes the cane from me. “I simply had a bit of
dust up my nose, that's all.” A cracking sounds comes from somewhere within him
when he stands, and I wonder how he moves at all, yet he manages to hobble over
to the door unattended.

“Blasted thing, dust. Well, I can only imagine how hard it
must be living in a house with no woman to do the housework for you.” He shrugs
on his coat, eyeing me.

“I have servants, Mr Tumsbridge.”

He looks perplexed for a moment, and then laughs.

“Of course you do, of course. How could that possibly have
escaped me? My friend, I do believe my mind is going. Used to be as sharp as a
pin, I did. Now,” he puffs out his cheeks, looking around him sadly. “Well,
now...I'm just a used up bag o' bones, as they say. Can't see straight, and now
I can't think straight. But mind me, my friend, I know all about the leprous
arm of the law. And I'm telling you, you're done for if you stay in that house
and don't divorce that woman.” He turns and opens the door, a blast of icy wind
whipping into the office. “If you think things are looking bad for you now,
trust me and heed this warning: they will get a whole lot worse for you.”

Is that a threat?

“Mr Tums-”

“Come my friend, please. I don't want a snow drift in my
office come morning. Look, I suppose there is a very slight, unlikely chance
that your wife will get well, be released from the asylum, you'll have another
child together; a son, who won’t die, Lord Damsbridge will die before him and
you'll be happy as a king. But I don't expect it, and neither should you. You
really should take the advice of an old man who has seen everything and heard
even more. Truly. At this point, you have everything to lose, and nothing to
gain.”

We make our way down the stone steps, snow crunching
underfoot. I pull my thin overcoat tighter around me, shivering.

“I see you are set in your ways. I'm sorry I couldn't help
you.” He lifts his hat. “Good evening to you, my friend.” He starts walking
away from me, whistling a familiar tune, yet one I am unable to place. I grit
my teeth when suddenly he stops, and calls to me.

“By the way, my friend, our little conversation is free.”
His laugh echoes through the empty street as the blizzard swallows him whole;
the dim glow of muffled gas-lights hanging abstractly, dejectedly, in the air.

Anne

November 5th, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

What was I thinking?

That uneducated oaf of a man didn't have a clue what we
would do once we were outside the main doorway. Standing there grinning at each
other on the stone steps, the cold air refreshing in its recent rarity, we
descended together, arm-in-arm. Our grins expanded ever wider once our feet
touched upon the wet grass. However, mine faded as I quickly realized that
neither he nor I had known what to expect. We must have looked like fools just
standing there, immobile. What did we expect: an open door that led us straight
onto a road? A carriage waiting for us, perhaps?  I remember looking at the
gate: a large, imposing, locked gate, that would be impossible to climb, and
high walls surrounding a square courtyard.

Not even a glimmer of freedom.

Yet, free people walk on the other side of those walls.

Aggravated by this notion, I looked at him.

“Well?”

“No need t' look at me so expectantly, girl. I haven' t'
clue either.”

A whistle blew from behind us, and I knew we had been found.
I didn't fancy being put into the sack again, so I simply turned around, sat on
the stone steps and waited. He, however, had the genius idea of leaping into
the nearest bush, which just so happened to be a rose bush. There also happened
to be another man hiding inside it. Both their startled squeals gave his
location away.

That man will never get out of here.

But I will. I am sure of it.

“You fiends didn't let me wear a pretty dress!” I shouted as
they dragged me to my cell, which they unceremoniously threw into without so
much as a single comment. Happily, no sack materialized. Not so happily, Fat
Ruth forced me to drink an awful amber-coloured liquid, that a short while
later, caused me to vomit violently, and involuntarily evacuate my bowels all
over the floor.

I have never, ever, been so mortified in my entire life.

It left me with terrible, cramping stomach pains, for the
rest of the day.

“Doctor's orders,” she said, smiling as she left the room.

Damned witch.

Two days later, I'm still here. The odd plate of food has
been deposited, but that's it. There has been no repetition of the foul drink.

Left to stew in my own company, I mentally attempt to burn
the image of the gardens into my brain for future reference. Where there any
trees next to the wall, or the gate? Was there a jailor outside with a bunch of
keys? Was the soil soft or hard: would it be possible to dig my way out if I
should get into the garden again?

I bang my fists against the mattress in frustration. As much
as I want there to be an easy escape route, I know there is not. These people
are obviously rather intelligent, despite my calling them to the contrary.
They’ve managed to hold dozens of hostages in a house large enough to rival the
Manor. They are not exactly inconspicuous in their doing! Yet they have not
been arrested! Unless of course the outside world thinks that this building is
something else. Perhaps a home for wayward women, or some sort of work-house,
or...

Maybe they even have the police in their pockets.

I shudder.

But the biggest question of all remains yet unanswered.

Why am I here?