The Phantom Of Delirium

"Nemo me impune lacessit.”—Edgar Allan Poe

To be sane is not the same as to be insane, for one is the product of the mind's stability and the other of a mind gone terribly astray. The contrast between one and the other if punctiliously observed has a distinction that is clearly recognisable, but in this modern century, it is often distorted.

It is facile to presume madness, yet it is difficult to determine its authentic guise with the malice prepense. There are those minds that are capable of being convincing and are masterful geniuses with their contrivance and modus operandi, but there are those minds that are wasted foolishly, in the search for their sanity propugned. It is significant that we realise that life is not a guarantee for sanity, it is only the precursor to insanity.

The narrative that you will read, is no contradiction to the truth, and it will be established then, that no one is exempted from insanity by aleatoric elements. A symptom of insanity is the name that we fear to utter, for it is as real as the face that it represents. What is impardonable is the sin of murder, not the crime of its action. You will deem my client and defendant, non compos mentis or compos mentis.

It all began on one normal day of May, in the year of 1898. The setting was the city of Paris, and my client was an English actor, whose name was Dexter Mansfield. He had been detained and accused of a series of murders that had taken place mostly, in the isolated parts of the city. I was paid handsomely to be his attorney and represent him.

My name is François Garnier. It was the middle of the period of the Belle Époque, where the Eiffel Tower had been constructed and the completion of the Paris Opera. Paris was a booming city with its innovations in commerce, industry, art and technology. It was the cynosure of Western Europe and the envy of other metropolitan cities across the continent.

There was an array of different nationalities. The Italians were dedicated in businesses such as ceramics, shoes, sugar, and the Germans in leatherworking, brewing, baking and charcuterie. The Swiss at making watches and clocks. The new aristocrats were the bankers, financiers and entrepreneurs, whose residences were mostly in the 8th arrondissement, from the Champs-Elysées to the Madeleine Church. In the district around the Rue Des Rosiers, there were many Jewish people.

The less affluent shop owners lived in Porte Saint-Denis to Les Halles to the west of the Boulevard de Sébastopol, whilst the middle-class employees of enterprises lived closer to the centre of the city along the Grand Boulevards.

Mr Mansfield was arrested in the district of Le Marais, near the Seine or at the Latin Quarter. He had been accused of murdering a reputable woman by the name of Madame Lavigne, the widower of a Parisian aristocrat.

According to several witnesses, he was seen exiting her residence and was the last person seen with her, before her brutal death. Mr Mansfield when questioned by the police had said that he had spent time with the deceased widower, but that it was during the evening, not during the night that she had been presumed to be murdered.

I had conscientiously studied the facts and the depositions of the witnesses. I had realised afterwards that the case would be indeed challenging but not implausible to win. There were several discrepancies in the reported details of the ensanguined murders.

I was at home, when I was informed of his arrest. I had been tending to another matter that had involved, a case that had recently been resolved. One of Mr Mansfield's acquaintances had contacted me, about accepting his case. We had a lengthy conversation by telephone, and I had assured him that I would do my best to represent Mr. Mansfield. Unbeknownst to me, Mr Mansfield had heard of my acclaimable reputation, as an attorney.

I had the intuitive notion that there were more details to this case that were not yet disclosed completely. The public was fascinated by the gory details and unwanted spectacle. There was idle gossip that had been circulating, amongst the aristocrats of Paris. Most of them were supportive of my client.

There was one incriminating shred of evidence that was not propitious to Mr Mansfield's innocence and lack of involvement. The weapon that was used for that murder was found and had been identified, as belonging to Mr. Mansfield. When asked by the police about the murder weapon that was a dagger, Mr Mansfield had disclosed to them that it was prompt used, for Shakespeare's Macbeth. He had been playing the role of Macbeth, at the Théâtre du Châtelet for almost a week.

It was not out of the realm of possibilities that he was innocent, and the dagger discovered was nothing more than a mere coincidence. Mr Mansfield had stated that it was not difficult to steal a prompt and use it efficaciously, for a heinous murder. The dagger would ultimately play an important factor in the murders.

I had heard of notorious murderers in Europe and some of them were beyond mere descriptions and connotations. They all seemed to have a common thing between them and that the culprits were considered and determined to be deranged. I had studied to some degree the pattern of madness in prior criminals I had represented in the tribunals, but none would be, as devious as Mr Mansfield. He would be the Devil in disguise. History would be plagued, with criminals of this kind of demented state.

There were many of them that were treatable in rooms of hidden asylums, whilst others were intractable in their control. I had always wondered, about the capacity of the mind, when that mind was abnormally unstable. When I finally spoke to Mr Mansfield, he had declared his innocence from the beginning to me. I had not noticed evident signs of madness or heightened anxiety, instead he reflected the guise of serenity and indifference, as if he believed that he was innocent.

Either he was demonstrative of his innocence, or he was merely imposing his role as an actor proficiently. This would be the one thing that would cause me to be attentive towards his behaviour and assuetudes. I was told that he was an excellent actor and amongst the best of Victorian times. I could see in the depth of his brunescent eyes and piercing stare that he revelled in being in control of the situation, although it had appeared to me that he was at the mercy of the magistrate.

For a whole week, my sole attention was towards his liberation. My questions were, of course, strictly professional and about the case, but I needed to know as well, about his persona. In my presence, he was always the debonaire gentleman and had displayed proper British etiquette in his mien. He was eccentric and flamboyant. His clothing was an example of his fine appeal and elegance.

I could not detract from my analysis of him, the fact that he was a performer and as to be expected, he had a fervent penchant for things that were luxurious, in particular, wine which he was extremely fond of its exquisite taste. As a Frenchman, I shared in his enjoyment of wine, however, I could not afford to distract myself with his conviviality. I was not the one arrested, nor under suspicion.

In all my years of exercising as an attorney of law, I had never quite had a client, like Mr Mansfield. His charm was inimitable, but underneath his appearance there was more to him I had felt. I would learn that even though he had a solid reputation being an actor, as a man he did seem to have noticeable flaws in his character.

In accordance with another witness, he had a rakish propensity for women of wantonness. This piece of evidence was admissible to his case, and it was the type of publicity that was not desirable. When I had asked him directly about his lewd affairs of which I had no real interest in divulging, except that it was necessary to know for his defence, he told me that indeed, he would often visit these women at night.

He also pointed out something that was relevant but odd. He said that the prostitutes that he would frequent were few, because he much preferred woman of class to entertain himself. The fact that he spent his time in the company of prostitutes did not make him guilty. It was not uncommon to see men of prominence resorting to brothels. Our conversations shared amongst each other were very insightful and vital to his defence. It had allowed me to know better the man that was Mr Mansfield. I heard about him as an actor, but I had never seen him perform on the stage.

The fact that he was accused of killing numerous women was sufficient to make me aware of the situation that was unfolding. I had often wondered in my privacy, how the mind of a madman was in comparison to a normal mind? What could provoke the mind to deviate so horrendously? What could cause that person to kill without a measure of mercy?

In the end, all of these questions and more would be answered, and what would eventually occur, would be pure evil. An evil that I had not experienced, in all my years of living. He was under arrest, but he was confident that he would be released soon. I, on the other hand was not that certain of that feasibility. The case would all depend on the facts and the testimonies of the witnesses.

The fact that he was a well-known actor in Europe and America was something that was taken under consideration to some degree. It was not a guarantee for his acquittal. He had made one simple request to me, and that was that I brought him the daily newspaper. I thought that was peculiar, but it was his request. Even though we had communicated in English, he did know French well enough to speak the language. When I asked him where he had learnt it, he smiled, then told me from a French mistress he had met in Paris a decade ago.

My time away from Mr Mansfield was mostly spent compiling the details and information that could be amassed that were paramount to his defence. I was focused. After all, my pay was considerable. I could not anticipate the verdict, but I had prepared Mr Mansfield for a guilty verdict. I had managed to locate two witnesses, one a man and the other, a woman. Both of them were fain acquaintances of Mr Mansfield and were willing to testify on his behalf. Mr Mansfield had well-established connections in France, especially in the city of Paris.

The fact that he had frequented brothels was a concern to me, but I was cognisant that the reputation of a prostitute was not that respected, nor was a prostitute a reliable witness. When I saw Mr Mansfield the following morning at the jail that he was being kept, I had discussed with him the trial and what was to be expected. He was pleased to hear that I had obtained witnesses for his defence.

There was another piece of good tidings, and that was the prosecutor's principal witness who had sworn to have seen Mr Mansfield in the presence of the deceased Madame Lavigne before the murder had left the city. No one knew, where she went. Due to her absence, the case would be dismissed.

As for the other cases which were then seven, the witnesses in those cases were also dismissed, due to the lack of credible witnesses. The only witnesses that could be introduced were harlots, who were not credible witnesses. Mr Mansfield had been released from jail and was free to resume his tour through Europe. Although he was exonerated from the horrible charges of murder, he did not stay another day.

He had left on that day that he was freed. He had expressed his gratitude towards me for representing him and had bid his adieu. I had returned to my other duties and clients. Before Mr Mansfield had departed the city, he had sent me an invitation to one of his stellar performances in Berlin. The terrible news of the murders had not reached Berlin, or his charges that were dismissed subsequently.

There, he could continue his profession, without the encumbrance of a charge impeding his performances. Little would I know that I had defended a man that would result in being, a cold-blooded murderer. A month had passed, and the murders had ceased in their manifestation. It was eerily ironic that they had abated, once Mr Mansfield had left Paris. At first, I had thought it was a mere coincidence, but by sheer accident, I would discover his haunting past and present. There would be strong evidence that was not disclosed or known at the time, to either the prosecutor or myself that would be revealed, a year afterwards.

The female witness who was the main witness of the prosecution was later found stone dead. According to the newspaper, she had been viciously murdered. There was no other information given. There was no mention of a prime suspect. Apparently, she had fled to Germany. It was in that neighbouring country that she was discovered by her landlord. I had continued with my case, but I could not dismiss in my mind, the insolvable murders. Eight persons had been killed and there was no one apprehended to be prosecuted. There were other important cases in Paris that had occupied the police and the newspapers.

Something in my intrigue to know the truth had compelled me gradually to remember and indagate the cases on my own. Eight women murdered, but no solid clues to be efficiently reliable. Where would I begin my investigation? I had begun with the police and had requested documents that were recorded about the cases. The police were reluctant, at first, yet they had acquiesced in the end, thinking that I would not discover anything pertinent or damaging to renew the cases.

I was not that reticent. I was resolute to discover the culprit behind their murders. It was not my responsibility to solve their murders, but I could not permit their deaths to be in vain. I had perused the reports and could not find anything that was out of the ordinary, with one exception, and that was the fact that all the witnesses that were gathered, had either fled or were killed.

It was too much of an irony to easily dismiss. I don't know why my thoughts had gravitated to Mr Mansfield. Truly, I had no idea, where he was at. I did not know, if he was still touring and performing in Europe or America. I had deeply contemplated the thought in my head that Mr Mansfield was somehow involved, in these atrocious murders perpetrated and had displayed inherent duplicity.

If there was a notorious scheme utilised in the murders and cover up of them, then duplicity would be the ideal form to get away with murder. The fact that the witnesses had either died or were still in hiding, had caused me to speculate about that relevancy. There were too many inconsistencies and ironies, with the cases to be merely coincidental in their nature.

Mr Mansfield was an argute man, and capable of charming the women he had associated with in his rendezvous. If he had effectuated these horrific murders, how then was he able to not be apprehended before by the police? There were only two options that were plausible, he either was assisted or he was intelligent enough to be able to murder the women and not be detected so facilely.

There was not a time in my mind that was as ever restless than this precise time in my life. I had gone to the coast of Perpignan to distract myself for a week, hoping to recharge my determination. After my return, I had regained my desire and interest in solving the cases of the murders in Paris. I was at the Le Café du Dôme reading a newspaper, when there was news of a series of murders that were occurring in Belgium and the Netherlands. My immediate thought was, who could have killed these women? It was very strange that these cases were all identical to the ones in Paris, a year before. I had to focus on the facts of those cases.

Fortunately, for me, the newspapers had divulged sufficient details to surmise how the murders were achieved, and who could be the murderer. Mr. Mansfield had returned to Paris. I would be apprised of his return, when I had seen the placards on the streets, announcing his name in bold letters. I believed that he had returned knowing that Paris was occupied, with other pressing matters in the public.

I suppose as well, since he was never convicted of any of the heinous crimes, he had felt brash enough to return. I was eager to see him once more, and know what had become of him, since his release. I was no longer his attorney and was not bound, by the attorney and client restriction or privilege that had constrained our interactions in privacy. It did not mean that he would answer any of my inquisitive questions that I had to ask. Therefore, I was cognisant of that undeniable probability.

I was at my home, when I received the unannounced visit of a stranger who had knocked on my front door. When I answered the door, the stranger who was a woman, had handed me some letters. She did not reveal her name and she left, but she did tell me that they were extremely important and evidence of the vercordious mind of a madman. At first, I was not certain about whose letters they had belonged to or were written by.

Immediately, I sat down to my table and had begun to read the contents of the letters. I would be shocked by what I had read and the information contained in these damaging letters. They were letters written by Mr Mansfield, in his own words and in his own ineffaceable ink.

The letters written were a recollection of the admission of his guilt, where he acknowledged every murder, and how he had devised the macabre murders step by step. The bizarre thing was that they originally were sent to an anonymous person, but never sent.

How they came into the hands of the woman that had given them to me, I do not know. Were they given to her, because Mr Mansfield had confided in her or did someone else who had possession of them, gave them to her secretly? Whatever was the specific reason or manner, I had possession of them afterwards. The question that was on my mind was, what to do with the letters? In my opinion it was sufficient proof to condemn Mr Mansfield, but that would depend on the action of the police.

I would learn the following morning about the death of the woman that had given me the letters. Although I did not know her name when we had met that brief moment, her countenance was what I did not forget. A photograph of her was displayed, in the local newspapers of Paris. It had conjured the memories of the terrible murders. Was I to assume this murder to be purely coincidental or was this planned like the other murders?

I had decided to keep the letters in my possession, until I had figured out what to do next. I had to locate Mr Mansfield, not because of the letters, but to know for how long he was staying in the city and where was he staying at. Was it at a hotel or at a residence of an acquaintance?

I went to several hotels, expecting to find him, but I was unable. Therefore, I had decided to go to the same theatre where he was performing at the last time, the Théâtre du Châtelet to actually locate him. It was there that I had seen him again in person. He had not change much in his physicality and in his decorum.

When I had approached him after the play was finished to speak to him, he was not surprised to see me at the theatre. He welcomed me and was cordial enough to invite me for a drink, to which I had respectfully refused. I was under the general impression that he knew, why I had sought him. He was not overtly evasive in his words, but in his demeanour towards me. His eccentricity was nonpareil and demonstrative.

I had left the theatre, with the sense that my intuition was correct, he was the sole murderer behind the women that were discovered dead. I would not have to tarry to see him anew, for he would come to me, knocking at my door. I don't know how he knew, but he knew that I had his letters in my possession. He had a subdulous approach that magnified his false empressement. His ability to conceal his inhibited nature was magnificently displayed, like an interchangeable chameleon.

I had not forgotten that he was an actor and a good one of vast experience. He had come to speak to me privately, about the matter of the letters. I was startled that he was able to discover that I had them and that he requested them from me. This was the exact moment, when there was no doubt in me that he was the murderer, and I had realised that with an incontrovertible certainty. His grue and his ingannation were uncovered, at last.

I simply told him staring into his penetrating eyes that I had no idea what he was talking about. It was a daring risk that I was exposing myself to its celeritous peril. I could tell that he was not pleased with my remark. We both knew I had his letters, but I was not willingly to concede to his game of intimidation. I knew that standing before me was likely, a cold-blooded murder, and that I could be his next victim. He merely smiled at me and expressed indirectly, an ominous threat.

I had responded by once more, telling him that I did not know anything about his letters. He departed the house, but before he did, he told me to be careful. I in return, had told him to be careful as well. I had the instinctive premonition that he would be back to attempt to kill me. I knew what he wanted and what those letters had meant by incriminating him. I had to be calm, yet I was nervous to even think about who this madman was truly.

I knew what was at stake, not only his freedom, but his reputation of which he valued tremendously. He seemed to care more about not tarnishing that reputation, as an actor. I had read the letters countless times, realising the ineffable horror that was in the thoughts of this insidious man. It was daunting to fathom and unbelievable to know how this one man could have operated sanely in society, and at the same time, be so perverted in his insanity.

To ponder that consideration, had sent abrupt shivers down my spine. I had stepped out that evening and had made the conscious decision to leave the letters in the possession of the police. They would ultimately condemn Mr Mansfield. As I was walking home, I had noticed that a stranger was following me in the street. He was well disguised that I could not clearly distinguish his features, but I knew it was Mr Mansfield, the Devil in disguise. I could perceive his footsteps, as I had walked ahead.

I hastened in my footsteps, and he had equalled my rapidness. I had taken the shortest route to my residence that were streets filled with people. I was able to blend in with the Parisians enough to lose him in the multitude or so I had thought. Apparently, he had reached my house, before I did and worse, he had entered without a key. That night upon my arrival, I had locked the doors firmly closed. I headed in the vicinity of the parlour, attempting to close the windows also, but as I had proceeded to do that, Mr Mansfield was standing in the entrance waiting for me. He was behind me.

I would be shocked to see him inside my home, with a despicable grin. He had come to kill me. Before he was going to kill me, he had wanted for me to know that I was not only incompetent as an attorney, but foolish as a man to defy him. He was aware of the fact that I had given the police the letters. He did admire my audacity to hand over the letters, yet it did annoy him that I had done that.

He then began to talk incoherently about the murders, and how masterful he was to achieve them with little effort exhausted. He had a sharp, singular dagger in his right hand. It was the cruel instrument that he had used to kill all of his innocent victims.

He uttered, "Is this a dagger which I see before me?" It was the haunting lines from Shakespeare's Macbeth. There was no doubt that he had come to murder me. The conversation between us was mostly one sided. He had commanded and dictated the conversation, through the expression of his menacing actions and words.

For some reason, he did not seem to want to kill me so suddenly. It was as if he wanted to make one last memorable performance, before he would murder me. His mind was absolutely mad, and he would express a subrident laughter that was diabolical in nature.

I had to be quick with my reactions and thoughts. It was clear that he was unhinged, but could I find deep within that chasm of insanity, a measure of sanity? I had to think, how to get away. His mercurial temperament had superseded his thespian talents.

As he was continuing to reveal the barbarities and prurient details of his murders, I had seen nearby, a shaded night-lamp that was a veilleuse. He had turned on the oil lamps of the parlour. He had acted as if he had all the time in the world and was not concerned if time had passed.

There was no contrition in him expressed. His erratic idiosyncrasy would be his degringolade. It was the precise moment that I had been seeking. I had distracted him for a moment, before I reacted. When I did, I had quickly grabbed the veilleuse and struck him on the head with it. It had knocked him down. I had kicked the dagger to the side and ran out of the front door on to the streets of Paris. He would chase after me, but he would not get far.

A passing waggon hauling loaded goods that were heavy would crush him, as he had tried to hunt me. Thus was the horrendous ending that Mr Mansfield had created, with his irrepressible reign of terror. I stood there observing what had happened and the aftermath that was as brutal, as were his murders. There were innumerable onlookers that had witnessed the whole event. They had witnessed Mr Mansfield running wildly, into the street and being crushed by the heavy waggon instantly.

The thought that I was going to be his next victim was harrowing. He had planned everything upon that night, with one exception, his inevitable death. I do not know if there is such a thing as fate in this modern world. If there was such an evolving thing, then he had certainly met his appointed death on that night. His best performance would never see its greatest fruition, nor its meritorious accolades. It was queer to believe that he was not perfunctory in his roles as an actor, but his final act would be reckless.

The weapon that he used that was the dagger, would be retrieved and handed to the police. Their investigation had abated, with the death of Mr Mansfield. The newspapers would report his untimely death and as fate would dictate, they would also report on the new evidence established that was divulged by the police that Mr Mansfield was indeed, the murderer of the women that were savagely killed in Paris a year before.

It would be discovered and reported in the years to come that he too was involved in the series of unsolved murders, in the other parts of Europe. I had also learnt that many of his statements were at variance with the facts. He had either paid off witnesses or simply murdered them. His Machiavellian imposture was indicative of his Mephistophelean nature. If there was ever a singular man that was born evil and not inficete, it was then him, Mr Mansfield. He was the silhouette of a lunatic without compunction. It was reported that he had enjoyed the chamber of mortal flesh of orgies and sadistic pleasures.

His paragon of virtue had once exhibited the traits of a virtuoso man that had deliciated in secrecy and details. His performances were imbued with his ingenuity, but his impetuosity would doom him in the end. Stochastic actors and murderers have appeared and disappeared from the world, and all that we have of them presently, are the vestiges of their acts, laudable or abominable in deeds. He would be synonymous, with being a psychopath.

Verily, it was impossible to completely attempt to get into the sick mind of Mr Mansfield, nor his desiderative impulse to kill. All that I can say on the matter is that he was an exceptional actor, but a devious man. How easy it is to be a sycophant and at the same time a psycho, with an abderian temperament. There in the obscure confines of the erotic bodies of a lurid temptation evoked, were the women who had succumbed to his seductive predation. Where surreal fantasies meet death, in the Orphelian mind of a phantom of delirium.

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