The Medea Complex (19 page)

Dr George Savage

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

No matter how many times I enter this building, the Assize's
never ceases to impress upon me a feeling of inadequateness. Built to
accommodate perhaps three or four hundred men, on this day at least twice that
many have squeezed their way in. I can only guess at how many extra benches
have been crammed inside, the gallery is practically bursting past its
capacity. Everyone is jostling for a good view and leg space.

When the Clerk finally orders the prisoner be brought up, I
breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not sure what morbid sense made me attend today;
though I didn’t want to come and I don’t wish to stay, again, that feeling of
uneasiness clutches my soul, and glues my feet to the floor as surely as if
someone had shackled me to it. Perhaps I need to atone for my mistake, and see
justice delivered.

The murmuring around me ceases as the room falls silent save
for one fellow’s screech. Curious, I follow the sound. A man clutches
precariously to a pillar, his friends jeering from behind him.

Mr Stanbury moves slowly into the room, dressed in the black
uniform of a prisoner which hangs loosely upon his thinner than normal frame.
They’ve cleaned him up a bit, which pleases me. Yet when the odd flash of
photography temporarily lights up his face, I see a haunted, terrified man.

 I pull out my writing-pad. If I write everything down, I
can reflect upon it and grow as a physician.

Dullness of perception. Introverted.
Slowness of reaction. Aversion to light.

Classic symptoms of an alcoholic.

I sigh. My heart goes out to him, yet he betrayed me. He
betrayed his wife. He made me discharge an innocent, fragile woman into the
hands of a man who planned to murder her.

It is partly my fault she is dead.

I must atone.

I must understand why my judgement was so lacking.

It cannot happen again.

I turn my attention back to the courtroom, and study the man
walking alongside Mr Stanbury. His publicly appointed defence lawyer, no doubt.
Once seated, the lawyer idly begins to pick his nails, barely noticing the
weeping man beside him. The buzz in the courtroom commences once more, amidst
much finger-pointing.

“I'm going to have them all arrested for rioting, or at the
very least, routing...the bloody ruffians.”  A hand lands upon my shoulder and
I flinch. Inspector Jones stands above me, grinning at my surprise. He has
something green stuck in his teeth.  “There must be another two hundred of the
buggers outside, all pushing and shouting to get inside.” He squeezes my neck
firmly before diverting his attention to the young stranger sat next to me.
“Sir, can you move out of that seat please? Official police business.” 

The young man looks up at him, then at me, and yawns;
apparently unimpressed with his rank and much more interested in getting a
decent glimpse of the proceedings. Slowly, he says: “Listen, mate...I've been
sat 'ere fer' 'a bleeding age waitin' to see this. Ye' can bloody well stand.”
With that, he turns away from us both, yawns again, crosses his arms and legs,
and settles in for the long haul.

“Do you want to be arrested for obstruction of justice?”

The man doesn't even blink. “Bulls-cock. I 'aint obstructin'
'nuffink. You bleedin' bobbies, all a bunch 'o tarts' ye are.”

“Right. We'll do this the hard way then, shall we?”
Inspector Jones winks at me, then raises his voice above the crowd.

“Arrest this man at once!”

Suddenly, we are the centre of attention, and a few light
bulbs flash in our direction. Mortified, I turn away and my eyes meet those of
my dead-patient's father. Lord Damsbridge is watching us: observing the
spectacle with a hint of disgust.

Inspector Jones is now holding the man by his collar.

I wonder if Superintendant Blake taught him how to do that.

“Hey, 'lemme' go, yer' bleedin filth-bag!”

Another two officer swiftly descend upon him, and the crowd
parts a clear alley to the doors as the sergeants drag him out: the man kicking
and contesting his innocence loudly. Cheers and whistles follow his departure,
another bout of entertainment for the excited spectators.

Inspector Jones dabs at his brow, grinning, before bending
over and wiping the seat of the vacated chair with his sleeve. Satisfied, he
wiggles himself down into a comfortable position.

“As I was saying, Doctor...ruffians, the lot of them. You
can tell a lot by a man’s disposition, such as that idiot I just had arrested.
I guarantee you he's a criminal, and we'll find something he's done; other than
piss me off.  One more piece of scum off the streets. You mark my words,
Doctor: men like your hitherto friend over there have an innate desire to walk
on the wrong side of the road.”

I look at him, incredulous that an enforcer of the law could
be so judgmental. Surely, a man is innocent until proven otherwise? It is a
well known fact that certain people are uncooperative with the police: simply
because they abhor authority. It doesn't necessarily mean they have committed a
crime. Mr Stanbury may be an alcoholic, and he may be guilty, but I shudder to
think that everyone, innocent and guilty alike, could be treated like this
until final judgement is passed.

He sees the expression in my features and smiles.

“You think it's only alienists such as yourself that can see
the badness, and the madness in men? You should try doing my job for a week, or
even a day. Human-beings are a sorrowful lot, and the more of them we clear
from the streets, the better. I can tell just by looking at Mr Stanbury that
he's guilty of a crime. Nineteen out of twenty men who go on trial for murder
are guilty of it, you know. I don’t need to know about phreny-whatits and such
like to see that. I only went through the bloody motions of going through the
house because it’s my job, and because I'm not Superintendent. Yet.” He puts
his feet up on the chair in front of him, much to the annoyance of an elderly
lady. She starts and glares at him, but remains silent; turning back to
watching Mr Stanbury.

“Nineteen out of twenty?” I say, incredulous.”What about the
innocent one, then?”

“Doc, you’ve got a lot to learn. I reckon spending all that
time inside the madhouse has made you lose a bit of your reality. Do you think
the judge up there cares about the ‘innocent one’?” He gestures to the galley
around us. “'One?' Come off it. Capital punishment is necessary so society can
be protected. And if one or two men and women slip through the net?” He shrugs
again. “Who cares, Doc? Humans make mistakes. The few innocent are a justifiable
sacrifice for the greater good.”

Who cares? Who cares? I care.

I do what I do because I care.

He continues, warming to his theme.

“Anyway, he’s not innocent, Doc. Take a good look at his
past, his character. His reputation is as important a question as what he's
done and from all I've heard and seen, he's a bad one. You watch, Doctor. He's
going to be found rightly guilty, and he's going to hang for it.”

He throws something metal up into the air, catches it, and
smiles.

The uneasiness returns.

Edgar

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

Everyone in here wishes me an agonizing death. “Those who
enter, leave hope behind ye',” I say quietly, my sobbing starting anew at the
thought.

My lawyer rouses himself and frowns.

“Be quiet, lad,” he says gruffly, before resuming his
sleeping position.

I wonder if he is embarrassed by my tears, or just annoyed
at being out of bed.

“It's Dante,” I tell him in a whisper, but he either doesn't
hear me, or chooses not to respond. I want to punch him, but I don't have the
energy. At least I can be grateful that the shaking in my body seems to have
subsided somewhat: it is only when I lift my hands now that a slight tremor
affects me. I'm never, ever touching alcohol again. Ever. Rather than wanting a
drink; now, the thought of one makes me feel physically ill.

I hide my hands in my lap, lest the trembling be wrongly
interpreted as a sign of nervousness; of guilt.

“What's going to happen to me?” I press the man, whispering.
Someone somewhere is paying him to do a job, and the least he can do is tell me
what's going on.

He blinks rapidly at me, his bleary eyes watering. “I said,
be quiet! Please! This court business is the most laborious form of legal
business; do you know how many good lawyers have given it up to make their own
fortunes in private practices? I would go straight into my own office too, lad,
if I had the money, but I don't. So, please. Let me mentally prepare. I've had
no sleep at all this week, and if you want me to defend you, I suggest you let me
get a few minutes rest before the circus begins!” He moves away from me as far
as the cramped space between us allows, and puts his head back on the table. I
know that the pattern in the wood, the grain of it underneath his elbows will
be imprinted into my mind forever.

Within minutes my lawyer starts to snore gently, and I
wonder at him. This man probably holds my very life in his hands, yet prefers
to sleep instead of asking me questions. Doesn't he want to know my side of the
story? Doesn't he want to know whether he is defending an innocent, or a guilty
man? Doesn't that make a difference to how he is going to defend me? I want to
stand up and scream and demand a different lawyer, but something tells me that
would only serve to work against me.

I scan the crowd quickly, anxiously looking for a friendly
face. There is none to be found; the jury offer me nothing but twelve solemn
faces, and it dawns upon me how alone I am and have always been.

Except for those brief months in which I had a son.

Tears threaten again, as I am hit anew with grief. Will it
ever leave me?

I close my eyes. The trial. Focus on the present.

What was I doing?

I was looking for a face in the crowd.

I open my eyes.

Is my father here, then?  Has he come to watch the downfall
that he created?

He is not.

Bugger him, the bloody alcoholic. I hope he takes his stupid
wife in her stupid red dress and throws himself of a cliff/ I hope he rots in
hell with Anne. If I swing for this, I'm going to bloody-well haunt him.

I thought I'd lost everything, but now I may well lose my
very life. The fear of death makes me realise how very badly I wish to live,
even without my son.

My father and I were playing a game that we were never going
to win and we have been deviously outwitted, with the worst consequences.

I wonder what part, if any, Anne had to play in all this.

I wonder where she is.

I wonder what happened to her.

Is it even slightly possible that I did have a role to play
in her death, without realising?

I’m so confused.

I'm still wondering when the counsel for the prosecution
walks in.

It’s Mr Tumsbridge. The man I approached shortly after
Anne’s incarceration. He winks, and suddenly, his words come back to me.

Lord Damsbridge’s lawyer.

“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.”

The hairs along my arms and legs stand on end, a crawling up
my spine.

It was there all along. I was warned, and didn’t listen.

Dr George Savage

March 6
^th
, 1886

Old Bailey

I recognize that man. For a moment or two I am unable to
place him, his face is half-hidden underneath the generic lawyers wig. Yet as
his eyes raise to meet my own in a brief meeting of acknowledgment, it dawns on
me. Of course, he is Lord Damsbridge's own personal lawyer, and I met with him
once or twice: albeit briefly, when dealing with Anne's case and subsequent
incarceration. He is renowned to be a genius with the law; spinning tiny,
seemingly unrelated threads into a detailed, beautiful conclusion of
impenetrable evidence into which his victims are seamlessly bound and caught.

I glance over at Mr Stanbury. By the horrified expression on
his face, he too just realized who he's up against in this trial.

Will the lawyer be lenient, considering the extenuating
circumstances of Mr Stanbury’s grief and subsequent drinking problem? Will the
prosecution consider that despite all evidence to the contrary, no body has
been found?

What if Lord Damsbridge eventually blames me?

Will I be  sitting on that defence table next month; next
year?

The fact that she disappeared the day after her release from
my charge no doubt casts some doubts in people’s minds as to my skill, and this
bothers me almost as much as the next thought that enters my mind: the last thing
she told Tuke and I under hypnosis.

‘
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.’

Suddenly worried, I turn my head, searching for Lord
Damsbridge. He is sat at the prosecutors table, a small smile upon his face.
His expression is not that of  a man whose daughter has just been murdered. But
then, what do I expect? Every man deals with grief in their own way. Perhaps he
smiles at the notion of justice.

My friend would despair of me, poor old Tuke. He always did
tell me I got far too involved with my patients.

“All rise!” The clerks voice thunders across the room, and
hundreds of people stand as the judge himself enters the court; his white wig a
little larger than those donning the lawyers.

“Here he comes, the good old hand of justice,” Inspector
Jones says, digging me in the side. “He's a toughie, this one. Couldn't have
gotten a better man for the case. He never lets them get away with
murder." He laughs. "Get it? 'Get away with murder'?”

A bitter taste presents itself in my mouth, as it dawns on
me rather rapidly that I dislike this man standing next to me.

Immensely.

I can’t help myself. Something isn’t right.

 “Did you check the address I gave you?”

“A what, who?”

“The address, Inspector. When I left Mr Stanbury the last
time I visited him in the gaol, I asked you to check out his father’s address
for me.”

“Oh, that. Yes, I did.”

His eyes shift to the right, and in that instant I know
instinctively he is lying. Before I can say more, the judge take his place in
the high wooden dock and the clerk’s voice booms around the court.

“Be seated!” A universal rustle of clothing and plummeting
of heads indicates everyone’s acquiescence.

I continue in a whisper.

“And? What did you find?”

He hisses under his breath.

“His father was alive and well, contrary to what I believe
he told Lord Damsbridge and his daughter. Why do you suppose a man would lie
about his own father being dead? Disgusting, that is, and merely proves what a
despicable character he is.”

Wait.

Mr Stanbury told the truth about something.

“Anyway, none of it matters. All that matters is justice is
served here, today.”

“What did his father tell you?”

“That any son of his that laid hands upon a woman was dead
to him. He said that he would help the investigation in any way possible, and
in fact, gave us some very important information.” He grins at me, an excited,
morbid sneer.

“What did he give you?”

He sucks air through his teeth, and waves a hand
dismissively. The court is now silent; we should not be talking.

“Look, can we discuss this later? All will be revealed, as
they say. Watch, and learn, Doctor. Watch and learn.”