The Dreams of Cardinal Vittorini and other Strange Stories by Reggie Oliver
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Authors: Reggie Oliver
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only Miss Marchant who was put on trial. There was not a strong enough case against Dr Bradley, who gave evidence against her in court. She was found guilty of murdering six of her patients and of inflicting grievous bodily harm on a further seven, but the number of her victims was generally thought to be far higher. Condemned to death, she was found subsequently to be insane and sent to Broadmoor. Dr Bradley committed suicide in abject poverty a year after the trial.
The story haunted my imagination, and I tried to find out more about the subject. Very little of substance came my way, except that, a year after I had read the account in Victorian Scandals , I found another photograph of Eleanor Marchant.
It was in a book about the criminally insane which I discovered while browsing idly through a second-hand bookshop in Oxford. There were pictures from Broadmoor records, and among them a double portrait of Eleanor Marchant from 1905. In many ways, I wish I had never seen the picture.
It showed her in full face and profile lit uncompromisingly against a white background. In each of the pictures her chin was raised and she was looking downwards. This gave her an air of defiance which was accentuated by the eyes, now sunken, but still smouldering with the will to power. The long gash of a mouth was wrenched down at the ends in a rictus of misery and despair. It was the look of a defeated tyrant fighting a last despairing battle in the burning citadel. Behind the rage the fear of death could plainly be seen. A note under the photograph stated that she died shortly after it was taken. After that I lost the desire to discover any more about Eleanor Marchant; the ending of the story was so entirely without hope.
Eleven years later I wrote a play for Radio 4 which was accepted. After it had been broadcast and noticed favourably, the Head of Drama took me out to lunch. She wanted to commission another play from me: had I any ideas? I had not expected this offer and my mind was a blank until into it, unbidden, came the Broadmoor photograph, that vision of Hell. I began to tell the Head of Drama the story of Eleanor Marchant and why it obsessed me. She was intrigued: if I could give her a brief outline she would commission me. Before I was fully conscious of the fact that Miss Marchant and Grove House were entering my life again, I had agreed.
My synopsis was accepted and I began work. I was both elated and reluctant. I think that initially I went on with the project because I was afraid to turn down work. At a deeper level, though the subject was in some ways repugnant to me, I felt the need to purge myself of its subconscious vibrations. To do this I had to research the story more thoroughly.
I was relieved to find that the London Library had the books on the Marchant Case mentioned in the bibliography of Victorian Scandals , but when I looked on the shelves all of them were out. I was filled with indignation: somehow the Marchant affair had become my property; and I resented anyone who wanted to appropriate the subject for their own purposes. So it was partly out of vindictiveness that I put in an order for all the books I wanted to be returned and sent to me as soon as the borrower’s time was up.
Three weeks later a parcel arrived at my flat in Tufnell Park. In it were the books I had asked for and with them was a letter from the London Library saying that they were passing on a note from the previous borrower to whom naturally they had not given my address. The note was on a postcard headed: Monica Freede MA PhD, Department of Women’s Studies, Dorset University; together with a telephone number. It read:
I was a little concerned when I was asked for these books back. Are you also writing a book on the Marchant case? If not, what is your interest? Could you contact me on this number? Monica Freede.
It amused me to think that this Monica Freede was suffering from the same jealous, proprietorial feelings that I was, but
The story haunted my imagination, and I tried to find out more about the subject. Very little of substance came my way, except that, a year after I had read the account in Victorian Scandals , I found another photograph of Eleanor Marchant.
It was in a book about the criminally insane which I discovered while browsing idly through a second-hand bookshop in Oxford. There were pictures from Broadmoor records, and among them a double portrait of Eleanor Marchant from 1905. In many ways, I wish I had never seen the picture.
It showed her in full face and profile lit uncompromisingly against a white background. In each of the pictures her chin was raised and she was looking downwards. This gave her an air of defiance which was accentuated by the eyes, now sunken, but still smouldering with the will to power. The long gash of a mouth was wrenched down at the ends in a rictus of misery and despair. It was the look of a defeated tyrant fighting a last despairing battle in the burning citadel. Behind the rage the fear of death could plainly be seen. A note under the photograph stated that she died shortly after it was taken. After that I lost the desire to discover any more about Eleanor Marchant; the ending of the story was so entirely without hope.
Eleven years later I wrote a play for Radio 4 which was accepted. After it had been broadcast and noticed favourably, the Head of Drama took me out to lunch. She wanted to commission another play from me: had I any ideas? I had not expected this offer and my mind was a blank until into it, unbidden, came the Broadmoor photograph, that vision of Hell. I began to tell the Head of Drama the story of Eleanor Marchant and why it obsessed me. She was intrigued: if I could give her a brief outline she would commission me. Before I was fully conscious of the fact that Miss Marchant and Grove House were entering my life again, I had agreed.
My synopsis was accepted and I began work. I was both elated and reluctant. I think that initially I went on with the project because I was afraid to turn down work. At a deeper level, though the subject was in some ways repugnant to me, I felt the need to purge myself of its subconscious vibrations. To do this I had to research the story more thoroughly.
I was relieved to find that the London Library had the books on the Marchant Case mentioned in the bibliography of Victorian Scandals , but when I looked on the shelves all of them were out. I was filled with indignation: somehow the Marchant affair had become my property; and I resented anyone who wanted to appropriate the subject for their own purposes. So it was partly out of vindictiveness that I put in an order for all the books I wanted to be returned and sent to me as soon as the borrower’s time was up.
Three weeks later a parcel arrived at my flat in Tufnell Park. In it were the books I had asked for and with them was a letter from the London Library saying that they were passing on a note from the previous borrower to whom naturally they had not given my address. The note was on a postcard headed: Monica Freede MA PhD, Department of Women’s Studies, Dorset University; together with a telephone number. It read:
I was a little concerned when I was asked for these books back. Are you also writing a book on the Marchant case? If not, what is your interest? Could you contact me on this number? Monica Freede.
It amused me to think that this Monica Freede was suffering from the same jealous, proprietorial feelings that I was, but
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