Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ALCHEMY

  a story of perfect murder

  CHRIS JAMES

  Copyright © 2015 Chris James

  Also available in print at Amazon.com

  Printed Edition: ISBN: 9781507652763

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Da Vinci

  Be Warned

  The Trial: Day 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  The Trial: Day 4

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  The Trial: Day 3

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Trial: Day 4

  Chapter 8

  The Trial: Day 3

  Chapter 9

  The Trial: Day 3

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  The Trial: Day 5

  Chapter 12

  The Trial: Day 3

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The Trial: Day 3

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  The Trial: Day 5

  Chapter 18

  The Trial: Day 5

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  The Trial: Day 5

  The Trial: Day 6

  Chapter 23

  The Trial: Day 6

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  The Trial: Day 10

  The Trial: Verdict

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  The M'Naughten Rule - 1843

  Author

  Be warned thou prying eye

  These formulae thou dost espy

  Only those who dare ferment

  Each and every experiment

  Shall find the door and turn the key

  To mankind’s dream: Immortality

  The Trial: Day 2

  London, December, 1894

  By the time my carriage arrived at the Central Criminal Court in Old Bailey, I doubted that I, an unescorted young lady, could navigate my way unaided through the squalid mob outside. Pie sellers and prostitutes were enjoying a grand trade amid touts offering front row seats and wagers on the outcome of what was to become the trial of the century.

  With the assistance of an overweight brute wielding a horsewhip, I ran a gauntlet of urchins and beggars on either side of the stairs, losing a silk kerchief, though gaining an assortment of spittle and minor stains to my outer clothing, none of which I cared for.

  Approaching the crowded public gallery, I feared I would be forced to stand throughout the whole proceedings. However, the grateful usher to whom my maid had slipped a half-crown the previous day, duly appeared, bowed and escorted me to my reserved seat, centre front. I did wonder if another half-crown might have quietened those about me or, at least, removed the stench. I was grateful that my maid, who suffered similarly during the tedium of legal arguments and jurors being sworn in the previous day, had thoughtfully provided a pomander of violets. Proceedings were soon underway and I became fully engaged.

  As two burly jailers dragged the prisoner up from the cells and shackled him in the dock I was unsure if this was indeed my man – the man to whom I owed so much. Eyes buried deep in his battered face, his ragged apparel was no better than that worn by those cursing and spitting about me. I had doubts I was attending the right trial.

  The clerk below called for order and insisted that everybody stood, but the mob around me continued to barrage the prisoner with abuse. It wasn’t long before someone down there finally brought those up here to order. Hammering his gavel the judge, skeletal to a point of concern, made himself perfectly understood.

  ‘Any more, the lot o’ you’ll be thrown out. You hear?’

  As the charges were read out, all became clear. Jacob Silver, aged just twenty-four, charged with five counts of murder and one of grave robbing, needed me now more than ever – and none was more ready than I to proclaim his innocence.

  Well, that was my state of mind at the beginning of the trial, anyway.

  Bewigged prosecutor, Mr Percy Ponsonby, QC, I learned later from reports in The Times, was aged fifty-five and nicknamed the showman. Tall and distinguished, he was not about to disappoint. Defence counsel, Mr Eustace Ecclestone, on the other hand, appeared to sag by comparison and was described in the same paper as a run-of-the-mill barrister who happened to be passing at the time. From the look of his attire, they might have added: and much in need of the money. I feared the odds were not in my sweetheart’s favour.

  Standing in front of a long table covered with a white sheet, Mr Ponsonby faced the jury, whose necks strained to determine what props he was about to produce in that day’s performance. Grabbing a huge butcher’s knife, from which an exhibit label hung, its blade covered with congealed blood, he stabbed the sheet and whipped it away. As it floated to the floor like a cloud, the jurors were mesmerised by what had been concealed.

  ‘He painted beautiful women,’ Mr Ponsonby began, studying the jurors’ faces. They stared at four framed portraits of naked young ladies posing provocatively on the same chaise longue. A fifth frame had yet to be uncovered. In front of each portrait stood a smaller object, concealed under another sheet.

  Mr Ponsonby walked along the line of portraits, pointing solemnly at each girl with his vulgar knife. ‘Polly, Nora, Letty,’ he said, pausing at the next, ‘and Rebecca, her portrait unfinished, painted moments before her very last breath.’

  Dead on cue, those bereaved close by me squealed and groaned, murmuring the deceased’s names before fainting and being carried off. They made a remarkable recovery at the top of the stairs, I observed, as their palms were greased by a smart gentleman in a top hat.

  Mr Ponsonby flipped off the last portrait’s cover. ‘And finally, Rebecca’s sister – Emily. His lover. Took her own life to save him pain.’

  A hundred gasps filled the court. Emily, looked very young and quite exquisite in a billowing white top. Old men in the gallery stood and stared in awe at Emily’s beauty, their caps in their hands and tears in their eyes.

  Emily posed on the same chaise longue and in addition to a Louis XIV chair, I noticed an open window had been introduced behind her, her hair flowing gloriously in the wind. Using my opera glasses, I saw that out through the window Jacob had painted fine detail of ornate gardens laid around a fountain. And there was something quite shocking. In the trees beyond, a poacher or gamekeeper, judging by the brace of pheasants hanging from his belt, had hold of a naked lady, the lady’s identity conveniently concealed by the undergrowth.

  In my eyes, Emily’s was far more than a painting, it was a story, but I doubted Mr Ponsonby would tell it. After the reverend, behind me, grabbed my glasses and focused them on what I had discovered, all was soon made public, the gallery awash with tittle-tattle.

  ‘And this is what I shall prove beyond any shadow of a doubt, this monster,’ yelled Mr Ponsonby, jabbing the knife at the accused, ‘this murderer, did to our children!’

  Racing along the table, he flicked off the covers in front of the first four portraits, revealing a row of glass jars.

  Pickled inside, each girl’s severed head.

  So, this was what all the fuss was about.

  Juror number four promptly fainted and tumbled to the floor followed by number six. Other jurors retched, slamming handkerchiefs and sleeves up to their mouths. Women in the gallery swooned, along with the reverend too late to loosen his collar. I turned away
from the jars a moment, and was intrigued to see others willingly accept a coin or two to give way for bolder spectators to indulge in the grandstand view. Below, the judge insisted Mr Ponsonby wait until everyone had composed themselves.

  The pot in front of Emily’s portrait remained covered until Mr Ponsonby, confident he had regained everybody’s attention, performed his grand finale.

  ‘These four women,’ he said, pointing to the first four jars, ‘were sacrificed to save his one true love, Emily.’ Mr Ponsonby pointed to Emily’s magnificent portrait. ‘And this…’ he continued, his knife flicking off the sheet covering the last jar, ‘is how far he got with her resurrection.’

  A stampede quickly emptied the entire gallery.

  I remained steadfast, but the sight of poor Emily’s rotting and gangrenous head with maggots wriggling in every orifice did have me wishing I was in some other place.

  Oh, my darling! Just what have you been up to?

  Mr Ponsonby went on for another hour explaining how he would prove my poor Jacob was guilty as charged of killing four of the women, and murdering Police Constable Albert Everett.

  He then called uniformed Police Sergeant Frank Beck as his first witness. Constantly referring to his notes, moustached Sergeant Beck, a softly-spoken man of about forty, presented his evidence confidently like an officer familiar with heinous crime.

  ‘I went to his home where I found him surrounded by a mob of women after his blood. He asked to be taken into protective custody and was taken to Charing Cross police station,’ Sergeant Beck began.

  ‘So you hadn’t told him why you had gone to see him. Once at the police station, what were his first words?’

  Beck read out loud from his notes: ‘ “The professor. We were working on something. He needed– He’s slaughtered my poor girls. We must find him, stop him!” ’

  ‘You pressed him further on what they were working on?’

  ‘I did, sir. He said: “You wouldn’t understand. It’s science. Medieval science. A book he gave me: Alchemy.” ’

  ‘Now, his address at Victoria Embankment, sergeant. Was this the first time you had been called there?’

  ‘No, sir. Although it was a long time before, in December, 1885, to be precise. The accused was fifteen at the time.’

  ‘And what was found on that occasion, sergeant?’

  ‘A body, sir.’

  Chapter 1

  London, June, 1885

  It was my fifteenth birthday, the seventeenth of June. I couldn’t wait to get home and show Papa my latest drawing. My teacher wanted to buy it, but, as I told her, I would need to speak to Papa first.

  It was almost dark as I ran along the Embankment and seeing the gas lamp flickering down in the basement, I knew Papa would be preparing medicines for the evening trade.

  ‘Papa! Papa! I’ve sold my first picture!’

  As I hopped up onto the bench beside him, Papa laughed. ‘There! A professional now. And will I have to pay to see it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t let her have it, Papa, not until you’d seen it. Here.’ I pulled the drawing from my satchel. Papa’s face lit up, but then it always did. ‘Is it good, Papa? Will I be famous?’

  ‘Bootiful,’ he said. ‘Absolutely bootiful. Your best yet, Jacob. Go show your mother, then come and help me down here for a while. Need to finish early tonight. It’s someone’s birthday, I’m told.’

  Papa was an apothecary, like his father and two generations before him. My great grandfather, Hirschel Silberstein, was a Prussian and had fought at Waterloo alongside the Iron Duke, Wellington, as a senior medical officer. Hirschel brought his small Jewish family to London, settling in the East End near Aldgate where he set up shop. But continuing with his profession as an apothecary was more difficult than he envisaged. As a form of trade protection from the unworthy or unqualified, the livery companies of the City of London, known as the Worshipful Companies or Societies, forbade membership by any non-Christian, or more exactly, anyone failing to take their Christian Oath, until 1830.

  ‘Blow their licensing,’ Hirschel declared, ‘ We’ll just trade quietly, unofficially.’

  Attending appreciative hard-up patients quietly and cheaply, he was the most qualified quack of his day, Papa often reminded me. Some of Papa’s remedies still used today were prepared exactly as concocted by Hirschel and did the job better than most, prescribing doctors would begrudgingly admit after their English medicines failed.

  The Jewishness of my family wore thin after Hirschel passed, leaving a wife and two sons: Jacob, my grandfather, and his brother, Abel. Both had children, and pregnant wives.

  ‘If a simple oath is all that stands in the way of making a proper living, we’re better off taking the damn thing, rather than go to jail – and the rabbi be damned,’ Grandpapa Jacob told them all. So take it they did.

  As punishment, attendance at the Aldgate synagogue was denied them for decades. But the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries welcomed them with open arms. In retaliation, the now successful Silberstein clan, fearless of the fire and brimstone threatened by the rabbi, adopted the more acceptable surname of Silver.

  Mother was Catholic, and since Papa, a generation later, was included as part of that gang of reprobates who denied their faith, he argued that their marriage would really give the synagogue something to complain about. It was only when I was born that Papa decided he should repair bridges and made a generous donation to the synagogue’s repairs appeal that the local rabbi welcomed them back into the fold, Mama adopting the Jewish faith, though half-heartedly. Alas, this threw more grief my way, circumcision not least, as well as learning and continually reciting the Old Testament, then the mitzvoth, and now I was fifteen, the Talmud, for which I held much dread. Reading and writing Hebrew was deemed compulsory.

  Our home, and the business conducted within it – under it to be precise – sat on the Victoria Embankment facing the River Thames at Blackfriars. The property boasted two stories of living accommodation above the shop, as well as a small parlour behind it, and an attic with a huge skylight under a flat roof, a natural place for an artist’s studio. The business consisted of all the ground floor and the laboratory basement. It was near enough for city folk and those employed in London’s largest markets and on the river, and within easy reach of the Inns of Court. Papa treated all customers the same; judges waited their turn behind pimps and prostitutes – ladies of the night, as Papa called them – and on more than one occasion embarrassment had been caused by one’s recognition of the other, from other places of business, no doubt. Customers were served by way of a hatch at a side door ever since the shop had been robbed by French sailors, released after Napoleon’s defeat some seventy years before, the story goes. The front of the shop facing the street was still boarded up. The mighty River Thames was just across the street.

  That night, I had recited nineteen Latin, Russian, Polish and Greek verb conjugations to Papa’s satisfaction by the time we were on to our last order in the smoke and fumes down there. And then came a loud knock at the front door, which only salesmen or private visitors used.

  ‘If they’re selling, send them away,’ Papa said. ‘If it’s Mrs Greenstein for more sugar, tell her we’re out and to try the rabbi.’

  I ran upstairs and opened the door to an elderly, cloaked man carrying a silver-handled walking stick and a large, wrapped package. A top hat cast shadows over his face, revealing only a large wrinkly nose. He touched the brim of his hat.

  ‘Jacob Silver the artist, I presume?’ I nodded, flattered that my fame had spread so soon. ‘I’ve come to see the apothecary,’ he said and pushed his way inside. He walked with a stoop, leaning on his stick.

  ‘Someone to see you, Papa,’ I said, entering the laboratory where Papa was bent over double, coughing in a thick yellow smog.

  ‘Well, ask who it is. I’m in the middle of dispens–’

  ‘Too much sodium I fear, Mr Silver!’ our visitor exclaimed, stepping inside the laboratory. Painfully thin
, with a yellowed, cadaverous face and bony hands, his eyes appeared almost black in the gaslight down there. He had pure white, fluffy mutton-chop sideburns that stretched down into a scraggly white beard. ‘From the Institute, sir. A delivery.’ He offered me the package but Papa intervened, grabbing it and turning it this way and that before shoving it back to our visitor.

  ‘They give nought away. I’ve no money,’ Papa growled.

  ‘For the boy’s birthday. Without cost, catch or encumbrance, sir,’ he insisted, pushing the parcel back to Papa.

  Papa turned it upside down suspiciously.

  ‘But they ask that you cover my delivery expenses.’

  Papa thrust the package back to him. ‘Knew there was a catch.’

  ‘No catch, sir. A mere gesture of appreciation.’

  Such a large package! I prayed it would stay and thought I could help negotiations by tendering the earnings from my drawing.

  ‘Will a tanner cover it, sir?’

  ‘A tanner indeed. Thank you, my boy,’ and finally, the package rested with me. ‘May it inspire your imagination,’ he said, pocketing my sixpence before wiping his wet nose on the back of his hand.

  Papa grunted his displeasure. ‘Show our visitor out. Open it later.’

  I took the old man back up to the front door where I asked, ‘And who should I be thanking, sir?’ but he seemed not to hear and walked off into the night.

  It would be a year before I met him again.

  After dinner, I blew out the candles on my birthday cake and unwrapped some oranges, a new school satchel and the usual, shiny, freshly-minted silver sixpence from my Aunt Alice. Then, at last, I was allowed to leave the table and set about ripping the brown paper off the gift from the Institute.

  It was an ancient tome, its flaking title etched in gold on the weather-beaten leather cover: Alchemy.

  ‘Why they’d send anything here after forty years…’ Papa said as I curled up in a chair by the fire with the book. ‘There’s a catch. You’ll see.’

  A self-portrait drawing by Leonardo da Vinci lay loose inside the front cover. It appeared to be original – and had me mesmerised. The old master had long been my hero; my bedroom walls a testament to my admiration for him.