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4 June, 1873
It was quite improper of me, I confess.
Blood pools from my father’s corpse, and his once-groomed moustache is upturned and ruffled in a macabre imitation of a bygone fashion. I chuckle, but it trails off when I realise I’ve actually killed my father. His pristine black uniform lies wrinkled from our struggle.
“I need you to maintain the standard I’ve set,” father said, adjusting his badge. “People have expectations of my daughter.” I absently rub the bruise underneath my corset.
Nearby, fragments of the Bone China tea set litter the floor. My journal lies damp and blotched, words bleeding into each other. I touch my corseted waist, and a sharp pain lances through me.
“Harriet, I was speaking to Mrs. Higgins, and I now see we’ll definitely have to cinch you in another few inches.”
The next morning, two policemen knock on my door. When the stout one asks after him, I feign a worried pout.
“He didn't come in, Miss. May we check the house?”
Refuse.
Refuse.
Refuse.
I beckon them in. As we pass the library, the taller one pauses, his nose wrinkling. “There’s a rancid smell coming from there. May we take a look?”
Damnation.
I smile thinly. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I don’t wait for the inevitable yell. I hoist my up dress and flee outside. I make it perhaps two hundred feet before they tackle me into the dirt.
13 July 1873
I sit in the Old Bailey’s courtroom. Looking around, I notice at least one hundred people staring daggers at me. It seems I’ve been quite popular since my arrest. Chatter ebbs and flows from the gallery.
“–was nothing but kind to her–” I suppose he was very good at keeping it a secret.
“–syterical. Just snapped and went at him with a teapot.” Again with the hysterical spiel!
The judge comes in and we all stand.
“Miss Harriet McLaren, you are accused of the murder of Mr. Caine McLaren, Chief of London Police Force. You pleaded not guilty for the reason of provocation.”
I nod.
He continues. “On the 5th of June 1873, The victim was found dead in his library. We have heard from Constables Perry’s testimony. The crown now calls Miss Mclaren.”
In the box, I look at the lawyer in front of me. Short, with a short white wig and a clean black gown.
“Miss McLaren, my name is Phineas Shapiro" His voice has a paternal effect. “I understand that this may be difficult, given your…state of mind. Can I ask you a few questions?”
The tone bites at my skin, it's the kind of voice you use with rabid animals.
“Please read out the last sentence in the entry dated 28th of May.”
I look down at the offending page. “I feel murderous, like I could smash a teapot?” If you’d read the rest of it, you buffoons, you’d see it's about my inability to hit the arpeggios on Chopin’s Nocturne.
He pauses for a moment before speaking, “I see”. His voice is as patronizing as ever, but now his eyes glint.
“In the entries on the 1st of June and the 15th of May, what did you suggest Mr Mclaren did to you?”
I look up and meet his eyes for the first time in this ordeal. Damnation, if he’s going to wave my journal around like a prop, at least the words ought to be mine.
“He beat me, Mr Shapiro, in places where bruises could not be seen. I learnt not to make a sound, and wore a corset so tight that, even now, I can hardly breathe.”
A hush falls over the courtroom. Their version of me tightens.
“But you didn’t report it, did you?” His voice cuts through the silence.
“To who? The Head of Police?” I stand up.
“Miss Mclaren, answer the question.”
I sit back down. “...No, and–” it's not as though anyone would care. After all, what happens in a man’s house is his private business, isn’t it?
“Or your friends?” He knows just as well as I do, that I’m confined to that house. But he asked anyway.
“There was nobody–”
“I put it to you that you imagined the lot of it.” He sounds pitiful.
“No.”
“I put it to you that one week prior, you felt inexplicably murdero–”
“I had a damned good reas–’.
“I put it to you that, on the 4th of June, you fell into hysterics and beat your innocent father within an inch of his life with a random copy of Middlemarch.”
“I swear—"
“I put it to you, Miss Mclaren, that your father never laid a finger on you, and that you are truly, utterly, hyste-.”
I slam the journal onto the box’s edge, and the crack echoes. “I specifically chose Middlemarch because I have been constantly restrained! So yes, I hit him with it! But I’m not hysterical, I had a perfectly good reason. After years and years, wouldn’t you have snapped? Oh, and the god-dam journal entries were about Chopin!”
The bewigged judge squeaks. “God-dam indeed.”
R v McLaren [1873] EWCC 17
Fletcher LJ
[1] This is a curious matter in which both the Crown and the Defendant submit that the defendant is not guilty. The Defendant for reason of provocation, and the Crown for reason of mental illness.
[His honour referred to the facts]
[12] The Defendant’s submission is that she lost control as a result of the alleged abuse inflicted upon her by her father. This is improbable, given the lack of corroborating evidence beyond the Defendant’s journal. In light of the Defendant’s outbursts, I find that she is not a credible witness. I prefer the Crown’s submission that the Defendant, because of sudden hysteria, lacked the requisite mens rea for murder.
[13] For these reasons, I find the Defendant not guilty for mental illness. She is to be committed for treatment at Her Majesty’s pleasure.