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 the two, 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 malice prepense. There are minds capable of being convincing, masterful geniuses with their contrivances and modus operandi, but there are also minds wasted foolishly in the search for sanity propugned. It is significant that we realise life is no guarantee of sanity—it is only the precursor to insanity.

The narrative that you are about to read is no contradiction to the truth, and it will soon be established that no one is exempt from insanity by aleatory elements. A symptom of insanity is the name we fear to utter—for it is as real as the face that it represents. What is unpardonable is the sin of murder, not merely the act of the crime. You will deem my client and defendant either non compos mentis or compos mentis.

It all began on an otherwise ordinary day in May, in the year 1898. The setting was the city of Paris, and my client was an English actor by the name of Dexter Mansfield. He had been detained and accused of a series of murders that had taken place, mostly, in the more isolated quarters of the city. I was paid handsomely to serve as his solicitor and to represent him.

My name is François Garnier. It was the middle of the Belle Époque, when the Eiffel Tower had been erected and the Paris Opera completed. Paris was a booming city, with 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 a great diversity of nationalities. The Italians were engaged in trades such as ceramics, shoemaking, sugar, and confectionery; the Germans in leatherworking, brewing, baking, and charcuterie; the Swiss in horology, crafting fine watches and clocks. The new aristocracy comprised bankers, financiers, and entrepreneurs, whose residences were largely situated in the 8th arrondissement—from the Champs-Élysées to the Église de la Madeleine. In the district around Rue des Rosiers, there was a thriving Jewish community.

The less affluent shopkeepers resided from Porte Saint-Denis to Les Halles, to the west of the Boulevard de Sébastopol, whilst the middle-class employees of larger enterprises lived nearer the centre of the city, along the Grand Boulevards.

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

According to several witnesses, he was seen exiting her residence and was the last person seen with her prior to her brutal death. When questioned by the police, Mr Mansfield claimed he had indeed spent time with the deceased widow—but during the evening, not during the night when she was presumed to have been killed.

I had conscientiously reviewed the facts and depositions of the witnesses. I soon realised the case would be 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, a case that had recently been resolved. One of Mr Mansfield’s acquaintances contacted me about accepting his case. We had a lengthy conversation by telephone, and I assured him I would do my utmost to represent Mr Mansfield. Unbeknownst to me, Mr Mansfield had heard of my respectable reputation as a solicitor.

I had an intuitive sense that there were details yet undisclosed. The public was captivated by the gory particulars and unwanted spectacle. Idle gossip had been circulating among the Parisian aristocracy—most of whom, surprisingly, were supportive of my client.

There was one incriminating piece of evidence, however, which was not favourable to Mr Mansfield’s claim of innocence. The weapon used in the murder—a dagger—had been identified as his. When questioned about it, Mr Mansfield explained that it was a stage prop from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. He had been playing the role of Macbeth at the Théâtre du Châtelet for nearly a week.

It was not beyond the realm of possibility that he was innocent, and that the dagger was simply a coincidence. Mr Mansfield insisted it was not difficult to steal a prop and use it effectively in a heinous act. The dagger would ultimately become a key factor in the investigation.

I had heard of notorious murderers across Europe—some of whom defied description. They all seemed to share one trait in common: they were considered profoundly deranged. I had studied, to some extent, the pattern of madness in prior criminals I had defended before the tribunals, but none would be so devious as Mr Mansfield. He would prove to be the Devil in disguise. History would be plagued by criminals of such demented disposition.

Many such individuals were treatable in the confines of asylums, while others proved intractable. I had always wondered about the capacity of the mind—especially when that mind was abnormally unstable.

When I finally spoke to Mr Mansfield, he insisted from the outset that he was innocent. I noticed no evident signs of madness or heightened anxiety. Rather, he exuded an air of serenity and detachment, as though he truly believed himself innocent.

Either he was innocent, or he was simply playing his role as an actor with great proficiency. This ambiguity compelled me to remain vigilant regarding his behaviour and mannerisms. I was told he was an exceptional actor, among the finest of the Victorian era. I could see in the depth of his brunescent eyes and piercing gaze that he relished being in control—even though he appeared to be at the mercy of the magistrate.

For an entire week, my attention was devoted to securing his release. My enquiries were, of course, strictly professional and concerned the case, but I also sought to understand his persona. In my presence, he was always the debonair gentleman, displaying impeccable British etiquette in his bearing. He was eccentric and flamboyant. His clothing reflected his fine taste and elegance.

I could not ignore the fact that he was a performer, and—predictably—he possessed a fervent penchant for luxury, particularly wine, of which he was extremely fond. As a Frenchman, I shared in his appreciation of wine, yet I could not afford to be distracted by his conviviality. I was not the one under arrest.

In all my years practising as a solicitor, I had never encountered a client quite like Mr Mansfield. His charm was inimitable, but beneath that surface, I sensed something more. Though he had a sterling reputation as an actor, as a man, he appeared to have noticeable flaws in his character.

According to another witness, he had a rakish inclination for women of ill repute. This testimony was admissible and carried unwanted publicity. When I asked him directly about his alleged licentious affairs—which I had no desire to delve into, save for the necessity of his defence—he admitted that he did, indeed, frequent such women at night.

He also pointed out something that was relevant but odd. He said that the prostitutes he frequented were few, as he much preferred women of class for his entertainment. The fact that he spent time in the company of prostitutes did not, in his view, make him guilty. It was not uncommon to see men of prominence resorting to brothels. Our conversations, shared between us, were very insightful and vital to his defence. They allowed me to better understand the man who was Mr Mansfield. I had heard of him as an actor, though I had never seen him perform on stage.

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

In the end, all these questions—and more—would be answered. And what would eventually occur was pure evil. 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 so certain of that likelihood. The case would all depend on the facts and the testimonies of the witnesses.

He was a well-known actor in Europe and America, and that was taken into consideration to some degree. However, it was no guarantee of acquittal. He made one simple request of me: to bring him the daily newspaper. I found that peculiar, but it was his wish. Although we communicated in English, he spoke French well enough to converse in it. When I asked him where he had learnt it, he smiled and said it was from a French mistress he had met in Paris a decade ago.

My time away from Mr Mansfield was mostly spent compiling details and information 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 the possibility of a guilty one. I managed to locate two witnesses—one a man, the other a woman. Both were fain acquaintances of Mr Mansfield and were willing to testify on his behalf. Mr Mansfield had well-established connections in France, especially in Paris.

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

There was another piece of good news: 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 had gone. Due to her absence, the case was dismissed.

As for the other cases—there were seven in total—the witnesses in those were also dismissed due to a lack of credible evidence. The only witnesses available were harlots, who were not seen as trustworthy. Mr Mansfield was released from jail and was free to resume his tour through Europe. Although he was exonerated from the heinous charges of murder, he did not remain another day.

He left the same day he was freed. He expressed his gratitude to me for representing him and bid me adieu. I returned to my other duties and clients. Before Mr Mansfield departed the city, he sent me an invitation to one of his stellar performances in Berlin. The terrible news of the murders had not reached Berlin, nor the charges against him that were subsequently dismissed.

There, he could continue his profession without the encumbrance of a criminal charge impeding his performances. Little did I know that I had defended a man who would ultimately prove to be a cold-blooded murderer. A month passed, and the murders ceased. It was eerily ironic that they stopped once Mr Mansfield had left Paris. At first, I believed it to be a coincidence, but by sheer accident, I would discover his haunting past—and present. Strong evidence, unknown at the time to either the prosecutor or myself, would be revealed a year later.

The female witness who had been the prosecution's main witness was later found dead—viciously murdered. According to the newspaper, no further details were given. There was no mention of a prime suspect. Apparently, she had fled to Germany, and it was there that her landlord discovered her body.

I continued with my cases, but I could not dismiss the memory of the unsolved murders. Eight women had been killed, and no one was apprehended. The police and the newspapers were occupied with other important cases in Paris.

Something in my desire to know the truth compelled me to gradually reflect and investigate the murders myself. Eight women, brutally killed, but no solid or reliable clues. Where was I to begin my investigation? I started with the police and requested access to the case files. At first, they were reluctant, but in the end, they acquiesced, assuming I would find nothing pertinent or damaging enough to renew the cases.

I was not deterred. I was resolute in my pursuit of the murderer. It was not my duty to solve the crimes, but I could not let their deaths be in vain. I perused the reports and found nothing out of the ordinary—save for one detail: all the witnesses had either fled or been killed.

It was too much of an irony to dismiss so lightly. I could not say precisely why, but my thoughts kept returning to Mr Mansfield. Truly, I had no idea where he was. I did not know whether he was still touring Europe or America. I deeply contemplated the thought that Mr Mansfield might somehow be involved in these atrocious murders, and had displayed an inherent duplicity.

If there were a cunning scheme behind the murders and the cover-up, then duplicity would be the ideal means to get away with such evil. The fact that the witnesses had either died or vanished caused me to ponder the significance of that detail. There were too many inconsistencies and ironies in the cases to be considered merely coincidental.

Mr Mansfield was an astute man, capable of charming the women with whom he had his rendezvous. If he had committed these horrific murders, how had he managed to avoid apprehension by the police? There were only two plausible explanations: either he had assistance, or he was intelligent enough to kill the women and avoid detection with ease.

Never before had my mind been so restless as during this period of my life. I went to the coast of Perpignan to distract myself for a week, hoping to renew my resolve. Upon my return, I regained my desire and determination to solve the Paris murders. I was at Le Café du Dôme reading a newspaper when I saw reports of a series of murders occurring in Belgium and the Netherlands. My immediate thought was: who could have killed these women? It was very strange that these cases were identical to those in Paris a year earlier. 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 committed, and who the murderer could be. Mr Mansfield had returned to Paris. I became aware of his return when I saw the placards on the streets announcing his name in bold letters. I believed he had returned knowing that Paris was preoccupied with other pressing matters in the public sphere.

I suppose, too, that since he had never been convicted of any of the heinous crimes, he felt bold enough to return. I was eager to see him once more and learn what had become of him since his release. I was no longer his solicitor and was not bound by the restrictions or privileges of solicitor-client confidentiality that had once constrained our private interactions. That did not mean he would answer any of the probing questions I wished to ask, and I was well aware of that undeniable likelihood.

I was at home when I received the unexpected visit of a stranger who knocked on my front door. When I answered, the stranger—a woman—handed me some letters. She did not reveal her name and promptly left, though she did tell me that the contents were of great importance and evidence of the disturbed mind of a madman. At first, I was uncertain as to whom the letters had belonged or who had written them.

Immediately, I sat at my table and began reading their contents. I was shocked by what I read and the information these damning letters contained. They were penned by Mr Mansfield, in his own words and unmistakable handwriting.

The letters were a full confession of his guilt, where he acknowledged each murder and described, step by step, how he had devised the macabre acts. Strangely, they had originally been addressed to an anonymous recipient, but were never actually sent.

How they came into the hands of the woman who delivered them to me, I do not know. Were they given to her because Mr Mansfield confided in her, or had someone else, once in possession of them, passed them to her in secret? Whatever the specific reason or manner, I now had them in my possession. The pressing question was: what should I do with the letters? In my opinion, they were sufficient proof to condemn Mr Mansfield, though that would ultimately depend on the actions of the police.

The following morning, I learnt of the death of the woman who had given me the letters. Though I did not know her name from our brief encounter, I had not forgotten her face. A photograph of her appeared in the local Parisian newspapers, rekindling memories of the terrible murders. Was I to believe this murder was mere coincidence—or had it been planned, like the others?

I decided to keep the letters for the time being, until I could determine what to do next. I needed to locate Mr Mansfield—not because of the letters, but to find out how long he intended to remain in the city, and where he was staying. Was it a hotel or the residence of an acquaintance?

I visited several hotels in the hope of finding him, but was unsuccessful. I then decided to return to the same theatre where he had last performed: the Théâtre du Châtelet. It was there that I saw him again in person. He had not changed much, either in appearance or in demeanour.

After the play ended, I approached him. He was not surprised to see me at the theatre. He greeted me warmly and courteously invited me for a drink, which I politely declined. I had the distinct impression he knew why I had come. He was not overtly evasive in speech, but his demeanour was guarded. His eccentricity remained unparalleled and demonstrative.

I left the theatre with the firm conviction that my intuition had been right all along—he was the sole murderer of the women found dead. I would not have to wait long to see him again, for he came to me, knocking on my door. How he knew I had his letters, I do not know—but he knew. His approach was subtly insidious, masked by a pretence of charm. His ability to conceal his twisted nature was masterful, like that of a chameleon.

I had not forgotten that he was an actor—and a skilled one. He came to speak to me privately about the letters. I was startled that he knew I possessed them and that he asked for them. It was at that moment I had no doubt—he was the murderer. I realised this with unshakable certainty. His deceit and vileness had finally been exposed.

Looking directly into his piercing eyes, I simply told him I had no idea what he was referring to. It was a daring risk, exposing me to immediate danger. I could see he was not pleased by my remark. We both knew I had the letters, yet I refused to submit to his game of intimidation. I understood that the man standing before me was likely a cold-blooded killer—and I could well be his next victim. He smiled at me and issued, indirectly, a menacing threat.

I repeated that I knew nothing of the letters. He left my house, but before doing so, warned me to be careful. I replied, telling him the same. I had a strong premonition that he would return to kill me. I knew what he wanted and what those letters meant—they incriminated him. I tried to remain calm, though I was deeply unsettled by the true nature of this madman.

I understood what was at stake—not only his freedom but also the reputation he so desperately cherished. He seemed to care more about preserving his public image as an actor than anything else. I had read the letters countless times, grasping the unspeakable horror in the thoughts of this insidious man. It was chilling to consider how he had managed to function in society, whilst harbouring such monstrous perversions.

The immediate thought sent deep shivers down my spine. That evening, I made the conscious decision to deliver the letters to the police. They would be the ones to ultimately condemn Mr Mansfield.

As I walked home, I noticed a stranger following me through the streets. He was well disguised; I could not clearly make out his features—but I knew it was Mr Mansfield. I could sense his presence by the sound of his footsteps behind me.

I quickened my pace, and he matched my speed. I took the shortest route to my residence, passing through crowded streets. I was able to blend in with the Parisians well enough to shake him—or so I thought. Somehow, he reached my house before I did—and worse, he had entered without a key. That night, when I arrived home, I locked the doors firmly behind me. I made my way to the parlour to close the windows, but as I did so, Mr Mansfield was already there—standing behind me in the doorway.

I was utterly shocked to see him inside my home, bearing a wicked grin. He had come to kill me. But before doing so, he wanted me to know that I had not only failed as a solicitor but was a fool for defying him. He knew I had given the letters to the police. He even admired my boldness, yet it deeply irritated him.

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

He uttered, 'Is this a dagger which I see before me?'—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 it, 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 desired to make one last memorable performance before he would murder me. His mind was utterly mad, and he would express a subrident laughter that was diabolical in nature.

I had to be quick in 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 continued to reveal the barbarities and prurient details of his murders, I noticed nearby a shaded night-lamp—it was a veilleuse. He had lit the oil lamps of the parlour. He acted as though he had all the time in the world and was unconcerned if time passed.

There was no contrition expressed in him. His erratic idiosyncrasy would be his dégringolade. It was the precise moment I had been waiting for. I distracted him briefly, then I acted. I quickly seized the veilleuse and struck him on the head with it. It knocked him to the floor. I kicked the dagger aside and ran out through the front door, into the streets of Paris. He chased after me, but he would not get far.

A passing waggon hauling heavy goods crushed him, as he attempted to pursue me. Thus ended the horrendous reign of terror that Mr Mansfield had unleashed. I stood there, observing what had occurred—the aftermath was as brutal as his murders. Numerous onlookers had witnessed the entire event. They saw Mr Mansfield run wildly into the street and be crushed by the heavy waggon instantly.

The thought that I was to be his next victim was harrowing. He had planned everything for that night, save for one thing—his inevitable death. I do not know if such a thing as fate exists in this modern world. If it does, then surely, he met his destined end that night. His greatest performance would never reach its intended fruition, nor receive its meritorious accolades. It is strange to believe that he was never perfunctory in his roles as an actor, yet his final act was reckless.

The weapon he had used—the dagger—was recovered and handed to the police. Their investigation abated with Mr Mansfield’s death. The newspapers reported on his untimely demise and, as fate would have it, also revealed new evidence disclosed by the police—that Mr Mansfield was indeed the murderer of the women savagely killed in Paris the year prior.

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

He had once seemed a paragon of virtue, exhibiting the traits of a virtuoso man who relished secrecy and detail. His performances were imbued with ingenuity, but his impetuosity doomed him in the end. Random actors and murderers have appeared and disappeared from the world, and all that remains of them are the vestiges of their acts—laudable or abominable in deed. He would become synonymous with the term psychopath.

Verily, it is impossible to fully penetrate the sick mind of Mr Mansfield, nor to comprehend his desiderative impulse to kill. All I can say is that he was an exceptional actor—but a devious man. How easy it is to be both a sycophant and a psycho, possessing an abderian temperament. There, in the obscure confines of lurid, erotic temptation, lay the women who succumbed to his seductive predation. Where surreal fantasies meet death—in the Orphelian mind of a phantom lost in delirium.

In the weeks that followed Mansfield’s death, I found myself incapable of severing the strange, necrotic bond that had formed between us. Though he was buried beneath the weight of Parisian soil, his shadow lingered, woven into the innermost fabric of my thoughts. Even in his absence, he seemed to tread just behind me, his breath at my neck in moments of silence. The events that had unfolded in that dim parlour were etched into me—not merely as memory, but as a lingering stain.

I attempted to resume my life with studied detachment, but the world had shifted subtly. The streets no longer invited me with the same warmth. The gaslamps flickered a little too low, and each turning corner brought a sense of theatrical expectation, as though the city itself had become a stage awaiting a grotesque encore. Even my own reflection, at times, appeared to wear an expression I did not recognise—some exhausted understudy rehearsing lines I had not written.

Compelled by some unnameable impulse, I began retracing Mansfield’s life. I wanted to understand what madness had driven him, what force had twisted his art into ritual. I spent hours in dusty libraries and creaking municipal offices, poring over theatre records, old playbills, and faded photographs. What emerged from the pages was not a clear narrative, but a strange lattice of shifting identities and performance. Mansfield had not merely played roles—he had inhabited them, and, in turn, allowed them to inhabit him.

In an obscure theatrical journal from 1892, I discovered mention of a production mounted at the Théâtre du Sang—a place rumoured to blur the line between drama and sacrament. Mansfield had portrayed Caligula in a now-lost adaptation penned by a decadent poet who later drowned himself in the Seine. Reviewers of the time called the performance 'disturbingly authentic' and 'too real for the civilised palate'. The production was closed prematurely after a stagehand went missing. No charges were brought. I could not help but imagine the rehearsals—Mansfield pacing like a beast in the dark wings, whispering monologues to ghosts, perhaps already consumed by the figure he claimed to embody.

One rainy afternoon, I ventured to the abandoned remains of that grand theatre. Its façade was blackened with soot, its windows blinded by boards, yet something in its presence compelled me forward. I found an entrance through a gap in the wall where ivy had pried apart the mortar like curious fingers. Inside, the air was thick with mildew and something older—something bitter and earthy, like spoiled wine and old blood.

Descending to the basement, I discovered a space that had not seen daylight in years. The wooden stage was still intact, though warped and cracked. Upon it rested remnants of forgotten performances—dusty props, broken masks, fragments of tattered costume. But what unsettled me most was the presence of candles, not ancient and crumbled, but fresh, their wicks blackened only recently. Someone had been here. Someone had continued the rites.

At the rear wall hung a curtain—thick, velvet, and moth-eaten. Behind it, a small alcove revealed itself, painted floor to ceiling in a deep crimson hue. Symbols unfamiliar to me had been etched into the paint, some with charcoal, others—more disturbingly—with something darker and congealed. In the centre lay a mirror, its glass cracked, its surface smeared with handprints. I did not look into it. I could not. A dread beyond reason swelled within me, as though to meet my own gaze there would be to find something else looking back.

From that moment on, something began to change within me. The nights became heavier, stretched and warped by a sense of invisible theatre. I would awaken with my bedsheets tangled about me like a shroud, the taste of iron on my tongue. There were moments when I caught myself mouthing words I did not recognise—archaic fragments that felt rehearsed. Once, I woke to find my journal filled with lines I had no recollection of writing, penned in a script far more elegant than my own.

I became consumed with the idea that Mansfield had not died, not entirely. Perhaps his body had been dispatched, but his essence—his role—had merely shifted stages. I, who had witnessed the final act, had become the unwitting inheritor. As absurd as it sounds to reason, it did not feel absurd. The feeling burrowed deep, persistent as a melody overheard in a dream.

Unable to sleep, I began pacing through the city at night, moving past the familiar cafés and galleries with the stride of a man lost in narrative. I became aware of the invisible architecture of performance—the way passersby moved like actors, the way shop windows resembled prosceniums. There were nights I stood at street corners, whispering lines under my breath, not knowing from which play they originated. More than once, I found myself standing outside a theatre, staring at a blank marquee as though waiting for my cue.

In that moment, I felt not fear, but a dreadful certainty. I was no longer merely a man recounting horror. I was now a character, stitched into the essential fabric of the performance. Whether Mansfield had conjured something or become it, I could no longer deny its reach. It had found me. It had chosen me.

Since then, I have avoided mirrors altogether. They no longer show the world I inhabit. In their surface, I see stages built in candlelight and eyes that do not blink. The role presses closer each day. I no longer recall how I used to speak. My words are measured now, metered like verse. When I pass strangers in the street, they sometimes smile with recognition—though I do not know them. Perhaps they, too, have read the script. Perhaps we are all part of it now.

And so, I write this not as warning, but as confession that I acknowledge openly with the truth.

The curtain never truly falls.

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