Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ‘How romantic,’ the professor added, solemnly, ‘sacrificing herself for him like that.’

  For the first time, Jacob sensed maybe there was a mite of compassion in the man. But he also found himself wondering about his own wife – his bride-to-be upstairs.

  A cock crowing jarred Jacob to his senses. He pointed up at daylight breaking through the basement skylight. ‘Heavens! I’m off to bed before Emily discovers my neglect,’ he said, rushing to the door and pelting up the stairs.

  ‘And neglect her you surely did, Master Jacob,’ the professor mumbled to himself. ‘God bless her soul.’ And with that, the professor ticked off from his list of five – a wife.

  Upstairs, Jacob rushed into Emily’s bedroom. He yelped, rammed his hand into his mouth. The bed had not been slept in.

  ‘Emily!’ he breathed, tearing into the bathroom. Nothing. Perhaps she had taken refuge in his bed, he thought proudly. But that dream soon disappeared; she was not there either.

  Where is she?

  He winced as he piled down the stairs into the drawing room, concerned more than ever now. No sign of her there, either. Echoing inside his head, his broken promises:

  You mean the world to me. I won’t neglect you. I promise.

  The dining room – empty. The kitchen and finally out in the garden.

  ‘Emily!’ he moaned, collapsing onto this knees. Tears streaked his face as sobs racked his body.

  Give it six months. . . Then he goes. . . I promise. . . I promise. . .

  The professor had Alchemy open on the bench when Jacob entered.

  ‘What to do with the souls. It’s all here, Master Jacob.’

  ‘Emily’s gone! You’ll have to leave!’ Jacob shrieked.

  ‘Leave?’ The professor looked flabbergasted.

  ‘Yes! Leave now! Emily has gone!’ Jacob shouted, pointing to the door.

  The professor stuttered, stabbed the book with his finger. ‘Look! Capturing souls. It’s all here. We can do this.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? YOU MUST LEAVE!’ Jacob screamed, clenching his fists.

  ‘But we’re on the verge–’

  ‘I CAN’T GO ON WITHOUT MY EMILY!’ Jacob screamed, grabbing him by the throat. He released him only after he began to choke and splutter into his face.

  ‘Master Jacob, she was a mere. . . a mere mortal. Crack this and you’ll be a god. Inspiration for mankind–’

  ‘She was my inspiration! I can’t go on without her! I’m dead without her. GO NOW! LEAVE THIS PLACE!’

  That was when Betsy entered the laboratory, her round physique blocking the whole door frame. Distraught, she wiped her eyes with her pinafore.

  ‘Mast– Master Jacob!’ she pleaded, sobbing. ‘I found– It’s– It’s–’ Betsy pointed upstairs.

  The darkness up in the apothecary’s shop was broken by the light from Betsy’s lantern as she led them both in.

  Jacob, shaking, face awash with tears, feared the worst. Betsy pointed to a nightgown protruding from behind the shop counter, on the floor.

  Horrified, Jacob fell to his knees.

  On the floor, surrounded by broken glass, her lips black, her purple tongue out, her hair floating in purple liquid – Emily.

  Agonised.

  Dead.

  Jacob would never forgive himself.

  The Trial: Day 3

  ‘And he described this visitor, the professor?’ Mr Ponsonby continued questioning Sergeant Beck.

  ‘He said the same man taught him science at college.’

  ‘Did the accused tell you why the professor returned?’

  ‘He wanted Silver to finish working on a formula, in their book: Alchemy,’ the sergeant said, pointing down to the old book lying on the table in front of the prosecutor.

  ‘Their book, you say?’ asked Mr Ponsonby, slapping his hand on top of the book.

  ‘Well, Silver said it was the professor who presented it to him on his fifteenth birthday, in June, 1885. ’

  ‘But it wasn’t theirs, was it, sergeant?’

  ‘So our enquiries ascertained, no sir.’

  ‘So what were they working on, did he say?’

  ‘Immortality, sir. And raising the dead. They had a formula for an elixir of some kind.’

  Oh dear! I wondered if I should listen to much more. Jacob was surely not capable of such sorcery. How much darker was this wicked trial going to get?

  ‘Immortality. An elixir. Raising the dead. That’s quite profound,’ Mr Ponsonby said, looking up to the gallery, seeking support, no doubt. ‘Did you have to persuade him to yield this information? Force it from him?’

  ‘No, sir. He gave it quite freely. He seemed quite proud of what he was setting out to achieve. Like it was quite a normal thing for a man of science to be doing, raising the dead and all.’

  More gasps rose all around the courtroom. I was quite shocked as to what my beloved had been up to. Raising the dead? My goodness, what had I missed in my assessment of Jacob?

  ‘The accused described this professor well, did he?’ Mr Ponsonby asked.

  ‘He did, sir.’

  ‘Did it sound like an accurate description, like a real person?’

  ‘Very real, sir. He even provided a sketch of the gentleman, to help us find him.’

  ‘And did you, or any other officers that you know of, speak to this professor?’

  ‘No, sir. We didn’t.’

  ‘Did you make enquiries as to his whereabouts?’

  ‘According to Silver he shared the same premises at the time, above the apothecary’s shop. And he apparently had a corner in the laboratory. But we found no trace of the man.’

  ‘No trace. But you looked everywhere?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We couldn’t prove he existed.’

  ‘Of course, he existed, you fool!’ Jacob screamed from the dock. ‘I’d known him nine years! He killed my girls!’

  ‘Silence!’ the judge called out, jabbing a finger in Jacob’s direction. ‘You’ll have your turn later. Continue, sergeant.’

  ‘We looked everywhere, sir. And someone went back to his old college to seek him out there.’

  ‘Did Silver speak of anyone else that would prove the professor’s existence?’

  ‘His housekeeper. Oh, and the college, Greenwold college.’

  ‘And what did the housekeeper say?’

  ‘We didn’t find, and have still not found, any housekeeper, sir.’

  ‘Mrs Pollock, sergeant? You haven’t found her?’

  ‘Extensive enquiries have been made and no trace of the woman found, sir.’

  ‘But the accused described her well, did he not? As round as she was tall?’

  ‘He did, sir.’

  ‘And you believed him, believed she did exist?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘You idiots!’ Jacob yelled. ‘She had the box room! The customers all knew her!’

  The judge hammered his gavel as a jailer put his hand over Jacob’s mouth. ‘Another peep out of you and I’ll have you gagged? You understand?’ Jacob did not respond. ‘You understand?’ the judge yelled. After a pause, Jacob nodded.

  ‘All these characters, sergeant, and none to be found?’ Mr Ponsonby continued.

  ‘No, sir. Not one.’

  ‘You asked shop customers?’

  ‘Well, the shop was closed up after Silver’s arrest, sir. It was difficult to find any customers. Those we did find found it all too distressing to discuss what went on there.’

  ‘Shocking state of affairs – nothing to support his story.’

  ‘Now, now, Mr Ponsonby,’ the judge intervened.

  I should think so! It was obvious to me the police had not looked hard enough for these two characters. Of course they existed.

  Mr Ponsonby smiled at the judge. ‘And, according to the accused, Emily suddenly died, sergeant?’ he went on.

  ‘Yes, sir. She committed suicide, the professor told him. But Silver was suspicious. Didn’t believe him.’

  �
�So, who was chosen to become their first subject to raise from the dead, I wonder?’

  ‘Emily died, and he was devastated, he said. They knew how to make the elixir work, so Silver said it was only natural to complete a batch and use it on Emily. Revive her. Bring her back from the dead.’

  There were groans from all about me. Poor Jacob must have been out of his mind with grief, thinking in such a way.

  ‘So Emily’s death was kind of convenient? It provided an instant guinea-pig for their first practical experiment?’

  ‘Yes, it did. That is why Silver said he had a suspicion the professor had killed her. For her soul. For the formula.’

  ‘Emily’s soul was needed for their potion, but Emily needed to die before they could resurrect her. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s the strength of it, yes, sir,’ the sergeant agreed.

  A flurry of reporters dashed from their seats and disorder broke out. The judge was forced to hammer his gavel a number of times but it was a good while before anybody took any notice.

  Chapter 13

  ‘I’ll need these ordered from the wholesalers for early delivery,’ the professor told Betsy, passing her a long list of ingredients.

  ‘I shall have to check with the master.’

  ‘The master will approve, rest assured.’

  ‘But there must be a hundred items here, and why d’you need so much?’ Betsy asked.

  ‘Science, my dear. Science. Work the master and I are perfecting.’

  ‘Well, approval must come from his nibs, and I can’t see him doing that when we’ve no money. His credit won’t stretch to it.’

  ‘No money?’ cried the professor. ‘But surely the shop has been open and taking money all this time, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a fledgling business. Delicate. I don’t always get me sums right. We’re not making much, and besides, without the master’s paintings to subsidise it. . . We’re broke. No two ways about it.’

  ‘But he sells his paintings for hundreds of pounds, madam,’

  ‘When he’s painted something to sell, yes. But it’s been over eighteen months now since he took anything new to the gallery. He’s given up painting the mistress or anybody else, it seems.’

  ‘And what about his invention – Silvesteur? Where’s all the income from that?’

  ‘That’ll take years to filter through. All the research and testing costs have to be paid back to them Pasteur people, first. Don’t count on it. You won’t be seeing anything from that for a year or two.’

  ‘Then I’ll ask him myself.’

  ‘Master’s not to be disturbed. Still grieving,’ Betsy said, rolling up her sleeves and ready to fight her corner.

  ‘Grieving? How long will he need? We’re on the verge of a major discovery.’

  ‘He’s just lost his wife!’ she shouted. ‘These things take time. Very sensitive, the master. Took it bad, he did.’ She raised a clenched fist in front of his wrinkled nose. ‘I forbid you to disturb him.’

  But the professor wouldn’t wait. He had the problem of a disposal of a body on his hands and leaving it to rot any longer was not something he cared to dwell on. No sooner had Betsy left, he made his way up the back stairs into Jacob’s bedroom.

  Jacob’s appearance shook him. Gaunt, unwashed and unshaven, he hardly recognised the bright young man he knew so well.

  ‘I’m sorry to–’

  ‘Go away!’ Jacob yelled, without looking at him.

  ‘We have to–’

  ‘How many times have I told you?’ glaring at him this time. ‘Leave this place!’

  ‘But we have a problem, Master Jacob, a serious one.’

  Jacob ignored him, pulling the bed covers over his head.

  ‘A body. And not the first one the police have found here, is it? We have to deal with it. Don’t want to see anybody going to prison, do we?’ After no answer, ‘I have to deal with it. I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.’ The professor left.

  Down in the laboratory he pulled an old galvanised iron bath out from the back and poured in various liquids from large glass carboys.

  Later, upstairs, morose and suicidal, Jacob reluctantly awoke from a drug-induced sleep, the same black shadow still hovering over him: how he could possibly survive without his dear Emily. He got out of bed and slipped into his dressing gown and wandered downstairs.

  In the laboratory he saw the professor asleep, sitting at the bench with his head laid on his forearms, snoring quietly. In the back he found the bath tub covered with a canvas sheet, so reminiscent of his father’s demise. He felt nervous. Losing her was bad enough, but what if she were discovered? Would he die in prison, like his mother?

  He lifted the corner of the sheet gently.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ the professor called out, striding towards him. ‘It needs another few hours.’

  Startled, Jacob dropped the corner of the sheet. But they both watched in horror, cowering back against the wall, as the sheet lifted itself high above the bath tub. They slid down the wall onto their backsides, gripping each other’s hands in mortal fear, as the sheet dropped and the smooth, wet, nymph-like Emily stepped gracefully out of the tub.

  ‘I’m so hungry,’ she said calmly. ‘Did I miss breakfast?’

  Terrified, Jacob yelled out loud – waking himself from his dream, his nightgown soaked through. Grabbing a dressing gown he flew downstairs into the laboratory.

  There, at the bench, the professor snored, his head in his arms, just like in his dream. Jacob crept towards the tin bath at the back of the laboratory, a canvas sheet stretched over it. Nervously, expecting the worst, he gently lifted a corner of the sheet – and yelped like a wounded dog!

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ the professor called out, ‘It needs another few hours.’

  But Jacob had touched it. And seen far too much. Something so horrible it brought bile right up into his mouth. He turned and grabbed the professor by the throat, spitting venom.

  ‘What have you done with my Emily?’

  The professor beat him off. ‘I think more to the point, Master Jacob, is what have you done with your Emily?’ The professor pulled the sheet off the bath. ‘Acid. She’ll be all but gone in a couple of hours. No trace. No evidence she was ever here.’

  Jacob flew at him again. ‘She was alive! You murdered her!’

  ‘Alive?’ the professor chuckled. ‘You saw her. Nothing was ever more dead. Poisoned herself because of your neglect.’

  Jacob reached for a fishnet on a pole and scooped what was left out of the tin bath – Emily’s head, half of it eaten away to the skull, the other half still almost normal.

  ‘SAVE HER! YOU HEAR ME? SAVE HER!’ Jacob screamed, startling the professor.

  ‘Save what?’ the professor shouted back. ‘There’s barely anything left of the gel.’

  Jacob took hold of the skull and held it close to his face, staring incredulously at all that was left of his dearest love. ‘We must save her, Professor. She’s all I have. We, of all people, have the means. We must do it! Save her.’

  ‘Put her down,’ the professor pleaded, taking the skull in his own crooked hands. ‘I’ll deal with her, save what I can. You’d better go and paint something. We need money to buy chemicals.’

  Jacob snapped out of his morbidity, aware he now had an important part to play. He uncovered the urn of his Elixir 32. ‘If Leonardo was right, then we must use it to revive Emily.’

  ‘With only her skull?’ the professor questioned.

  ‘Whatever morsel is left of her – I want her back. You hear me?’ Jacob insisted. When the professor didn’t respond, ‘You hear me, Professor?’

  ‘We’ll have to make a full batch. Find the souls we need.’

  ‘I’ll get the money, one way or another,’ Jacob promised.

  ‘Paint something to sell. Take in other models. It’s as simple as that!’ the professor offered.

  ‘Never!’ Jacob yelled back. ‘Emily would never forgive my painting other
women.’

  ‘Emily doesn’t really have much say in the matter, does she?’ the professor offered.

  ‘She meant the world to me. And she will return. We will bring her back. I’m not about to desecrate her memory by painting other women,’ Jacob remonstrated, storming out of the door. ‘You have the formula now, the whole formula. I’ll raise the money for the ingredients.’

  At the gallery, Jean-Louis was wary and apologetic. ‘Monsieur, eez no possible. Times is very ’ard, monsieur.’

  ‘Jean-Louis, it’s only an advance. Till I finish a masterpiece. A new girl, positively beautiful.’ Jacob pleaded.

  ‘Eez no possible, monsieur.’

  ‘Cut the accent, you bloody fraud. You’ve made thousands from me. Just a few hundred pounds will do.’

  Jean-Louis responded in perfect cockney, ‘You haven’t painted anything saleable for over a year. It’s all a gamble for me. I can do you a ton. An ’undred. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘You still have my prized Emily, worth thousands. Christ, people were begging for it and you can’t even sell that.’

  ‘There’s not a lot of people with the means–’

  ‘Should I take it elsewhere, perhaps?’

  ‘Two hundred then. But no more of your Emily’s, you understand? There’s demand for horror, masochism, sadism or Satanism, you understand? It’ll sell like hot cakes.’

  ‘Never!’

  Jacob stormed towards the door where a bunch of people were crowded around a painting. He pushed through them to look for himself. A horror painting – a woman tied and blindfolded, cuts over her body. The label read: Salute to de Sade. The price tag: 300 Guineas. And scribbled across it: Sold.

  He approached Jean-Louis again and quietly growled at him, ‘Damn you, man! All right! I’ll take it.’

  As he handed over the two hundred pounds, Jean-Louis gave a further warning, ‘No more of your ladies-in-waiting, d’you understand?’

  ‘Ladies-in-waiting?’

  ‘They sit, they wait. Wallflowers on these priceless walls. Get with the fashion, young Jacob, or you’ll be left behind, I tell you.’