Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ‘We shall see, sir, I said to the accused. He replied:

  “Yes! You will see. See that you’ve made a terrible mistake. D’you think I go around killing people for the fun of it, is that it? I am a healer, sir. From four generations of healers, you hear? I did not kill those girls! Go order your Bobbies to Blackfriars and arrest this demon, this professor.’

  My darling, darling Jacob! How I remember so well those glorious days, sitting so close to you. And how sadly now, I recall our parting. Dutifully, you returned to your ailing loved one – and I so understand that now. But I’m not dead, my darling. On the contrary, I live only for you. If only you would look up and see me, see how I care and how willing I am to help you in your hour of need.

  But he didn’t look up. He continued to cower in the dock, a vacant look on his face.

  Chapter 16

  Soon after the funds received from Sir Robert ran out, and egged on by an empty larder and belts that could not be further tightened, Jacob mellowed towards producing works of horror. A child dying in the neighbourhood after Betsy was unable to supply a simple remedy due to lack of stock, was almost the last straw. This added further pressure on him to earn money by whatever means, or risk losing the business that had been in his family for generations. Finally, having increased his daily intake of Essence of Emily, his worst fears, his ultimate nightmare, occurred: her urn was about to run dry. And what was left of her head began to rot. As he watched gangrenous blotches erupting all over what was left of her face he knew he had to preserve her – at whatever cost. Without her, he saw his life crumbling before him. There was only one solution: paint horror and earn some money to buy chemicals, and save Emily.

  ‘Damn him! I’ll do it,’ Jacob finally succumbed, summoning his girls to report for duty. Polly was the first to return.

  ‘The usual, is it? Clobber off and plant me fanny on the couch?’ she asked, her clothes falling to the ground at her feet.

  Jacob, pounding away with a mortar and pestle behind his easel, was quite taken aback. ‘So quick, Polly. In a hurry?’

  ‘Sorry, habit. Never ’ang around getting’ me togs off. Sooner they get it over wiv the better I like it.’ She turned to him, thrusting out her bosom, teasing, pouting her lips. ‘How would you like me, kind sir?’ Polly turned around, her back to him. She bent double and touched her toes, giggling, then poked her face through her legs. ‘This way?’ she cackled, then stood up straight and turned back to face him again, arms and legs stretched apart, ‘or this way?’

  Jacob laughed, holding up the club-shaped stone pestle. ‘Gosh, you take my breath away,’ he admitted, the tightness in his trousers causing him to turn about. ‘But I want to try something different. An experiment.’

  ‘Not wiv that you ain’t, mister,’ Polly cried out, grabbing her clothes off the floor and beginning to step into them. ‘Fort you was a quiet one. This wha’ you ’ad in mind all along?’

  Jacob laughed out loud, throwing down the tool. ‘Relax! It’s for the paint, that’s all.’ He went over and coaxed her to sit on the edge of the chaise, carrying a bowl of hair accessories. ‘I want you to fix your hair, Polly. Try and get it to look like this.’ He showed her a Harper’s Bazaar clipping of a high coiffure exposing the neck, then passed her the bowl of beads and hair clips.

  ‘Blimey. Done up like a dog’s dinner,’ Polly said, after she had fixed her hair using the huge mirror that hung behind the chaise.

  ‘Like royalty,’ Jacob countered, going to her. ‘Superb. I just want to…’ He threaded some pink beads into her hair. ‘Now, if you’ll just sit upright on the edge of the chaise with this hand-mirror. Hold it like this. Imagine you’re dressing up, for the ball.’ He went back behind the easel. ‘I need you to shift your bottom about an inch that way,’ he pointed towards the door. ‘Now, your head. Turn it just a little more towards the window, and… Fine. Superb.’ From his point of view, behind the easel, it was perfect, the mirror behind Polly reflecting all of her back and head, and the hand mirror just visible.

  Polly giggled infectiously as Jacob mixed his pallet and added the all-important Essence of Emily. He then began work on the outline; sweeping strokes, lightning fast. A dip of burnt umber, a dab of precious essence – a sip from the very last glass.

  ‘Will I be able to see it, as it goes, this time? Steal yer secrets?’ Polly laughed.

  ‘No, sorry. But I’ll show you when it’s done.’

  The next day, Polly returned and this time was asked to hold a plain, white-porcelain masquerade mask on a stick, instead of the hand mirror. During the third sitting, Jacob made a more unusual demand. After relishing a long slug of essence, he asked Polly, ‘I want you to pretend you’re frightened. Scared out of your wits. D’you think you can do that?’ She looked puzzled. ‘I’ll demonstrate.’ Jacob threw faces of terror and torture – succeeding in only making Polly laugh. ‘You can do that?’

  Polly attempted to impersonate Jacob – and burst out laughing. ‘S’no use, Jake. I ain’t no actress.’

  Jacob demonstrated again how she should show fear and dread; how to grimace and scream – all to no avail. He knocked back the rest of the essence in anger. Finally, he ran downstairs into the kitchen, returning with a tool that was expected to help. Surprising Polly, he jumped behind her wielding a huge butcher’s knife. ‘Scream, damn you!’ he yelled, thrusting the knife towards her naked neck.

  Polly’s face twisted into horror; her eyes frenzied, mouth widened, and she yelled the place down, shoving her arms up into his face to protect herself.

  ‘That’s it!’ Jacob laughed. ‘Exactly it! Keep it like that, will you?’ He held up the knife again – she yelled again. Rushing back to his canvas, Jacob finally captured the moment.

  But Polly witnessed that it was his eyes, his face that now took on the mask of horror. She became fearful as his frenzied eyes vibrated in his skull, his mouth spitting and hissing as he tore at the canvas with wide sweeps of his brush, wielding it like that butcher’s knife. Crimson splashed everywhere; on the portrait’s neck, the dress, in the hair; and on his clothes, on his hands, in his hair.

  Polly jumped up, fearful of where this was all leading. ‘Gorra go now,’ she squeaked timidly, easing herself into her clothes, her eye constantly on the madman at the easel.

  And then the spell broke. As quickly as it began. Jacob was his old self again, calm and collected like always; but exhausted by this nerve-racking sitting. He stood back from the easel and admired his work, his shirt soaked from sweat. He was confident the fake Frenchman would snap up this new offering – from his darker side.

  After Polly pocketed the extra shilling Jacob awarded her, she quickly dressed. He opened the door to the studio. ‘I’ll show you out, Polly. And thanks again for being such a great actress. Exciting things going on here. Send Letty next, would you? And you might prepare her for what’s to come. Don’t want to intimidate the poor girl.’

  ‘S’okay, I’ll see meself out, no trouble,’ Polly said. ‘You get back and finish me paintin’. Can’t wait to see it finished,’ she said edging out of the door, not caring whether she saw the finished painting or not. She just wanted to be out of there. Away from him.

  At the bottom of the stairs Polly was met by the professor. He spoke quietly, ‘Master Jacob wanted me to show you his new beauty treatment. It’s down here,’ he said, indicating the stairs down to the laboratory.

  The professor led Polly through into the anteroom where a pot of light-brown cream sat on the bench. ‘He’s working on a new perfumed balm for making women’s skin younger. Here,’ he held out her arm and dabbed a knob of what looked like butter into her palm. ‘Best applied just under your nose. Takes years off,’ the professor said, stepping back three paces and taking out his handkerchief.

  Polly caught a whiff of the foul butter. ‘Jesus bloody Christ. Like fuckin’ pig’s sh–’ Her eyes rolled. The professor stuffed the handkerchief over his nose. Polly trembled, stammered, ‘W-w-what have you–’<
br />
  Polly shook and wobbled; her eyes rolled up into her skull. She reached out, grabbed onto the five-feet-high copper kettle, and then collapsed, her head bouncing off its glass porthole.

  Her face flat on the ground, the last thing Polly saw and heard was the hissing and clanking of the whole wall closing beside her face – before she passed out.

  Nora duly arrived to pose for her horror painting. Jacob found she was a better actress than Polly and didn’t need much frightening at all. He found it fun working with her.’

  ‘You saw Polly, Nora? She told you what I’m after?’

  ‘Ain’t seen ’ide nor ’air of ’er. You said you might have some extra work. Thought I’d pop by.’

  After he’d finished explaining the pose, the hairdo, the hand mirror, and the porcelain mask, Jacob began painting in the background on the canvas as Nora prepared. ‘So where is Polly?’ he asked. ‘She wanted to see her portrait.’

  ‘Got that rich geezer in tow, ain’t she just. Spect he’s makin’ demands,’ Nora told him.

  ‘I told her, I don’t know why she does it,’ Jacob said, concentrating on the canvas.

  ‘She needn’t. There’s another sly ol’ bugger got a place in Brighton. Says he’ll set her up good and proper. Live like a queen he tells her. We all said we’d go down and take a butcher’s one of these days.’

  ‘A butcher? Why would she need a butcher?’

  Nora laughed out loud. ‘Butcher’s hook, look. Take a look. Geddit?’

  Jacob nodded and smiled. ‘Be great for her to live near Nell’s boarding school.’

  ‘Boarding school? That what she calls it now?’

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s a posh way ’o puttin’ it, I ’spose. Was called reform school when I last saw the sign outside. Girl’s clepto. Nicks anything that glitters. Beatin’ her ten times a day ain’t knockin’ it out of ’er either, they tells Polly.’

  Jacob sat, astounded. He needed a while to compose himself. ‘The poor darling. She truly was an angel when I last saw her. What could have gone wrong? What got into her?’

  ‘Ask me, it’s the life our Poll leads. Left the kid with any bugger who’d take ’er, to foller ’er trade. And this is what it’s led to.’

  Jacob pressed a few more pearls into Nora’s high hairdo and demonstrated how she should hold the hand mirror. ‘I would like to call the painting Isadora, if you have no objection, Nora.’

  ‘Call it wha’ yer like, guv’nor long as I get me dosh.’

  It would be another two sittings before Jacob broached the horror element of Nora’s portrait.

  ‘Just pretend you’re scared. Scared out of your wits,’ he told Nora.

  Her first attempt was nothing more than a mild grimace. ‘I ain’t no drama queen, sorry,’ Nora apologised. When the carving knife came out she improved tremendously, like her life depended on it.

  ‘Murder, murder!’ she yelled out, her face terrified.

  ‘Hold that!’ yelled Jacob. ‘Perfect,’ he said, splashing on the crimson.

  A few moments later, Betsy burst into the studio closely followed by a uniformed policeman, Constable Owen Williams, thundering up the stairs, his truncheon drawn. He forced Jacob up against the wall, the truncheon across his neck.

  ‘Now then, what’s your game, mister?’ the constable demanded, turning to Nora. ‘Y’alright, miss?’

  Jacob fought for his breath.

  Nora, stark naked, raced over from the chaise and burst out laughing. After tugging at the truncheon to prevent Jacob choking, she explained, ‘Only muckin’ about, constable. No harm done, look.’ Her breasts almost touched his nose.

  Embarrassed, Constable Williams hurried back down the stairs where Betsy let him out.

  Nora approached the easel. ‘Dying to see it,’ she said.

  ‘Nearly done, dear. Nearly done,’ Jacob said.

  Back on the street, Constable Williams met another patrolling constable and shared the tale of the actress and the painter. The two roared with laughter right outside the shop. Behind them, at street level, the basement laboratory windows splattered with blood, striped this way then that.

  Nora’s screams were met with a ‘Now then, what’s your game, mister?’ followed by hoots of laughter, from the two policemen.

  Dying to see it, Nora had earned her five bob well.

  An overfed fishwife arrived outside the closed apothecary’s shop early one evening. Dressed in a disgusting bloodied apron, wielding a scaly mallet in one hand and a scrawny five-year-old girl in the other, she asked the girl, ‘This the gaff?’ The girl nodded. The woman rapped hard on the shop door with her mallet until Betsy opened it.

  ‘Me gel, she ’ere?’ the fishwife bellowed.

  ‘Girl, madam? What girl pray?’ asked Betsy.

  ‘The painter. He’s ’ere?’

  ‘He’s indisposed at the moment. Can I help?’

  ‘What’s he done wiv our Nora? Came to ’ave ’er pitcher done. Ain’t bin ’ome since.’

  ‘Well, I assure you she’s not here. She had five shillings to spend and spoke of going to Brighton. I suggest you go and look there, madam,’ Betsy said firmly, shutting the door in her face.

  Jacob had a bounce in his stride as he unloaded the three horror paintings from his carriage and took them inside the art gallery.

  ‘Bonjour, bonjour,’ Jean-Louis gushed, putting the paintings to one side for a moment, facing them to the wall. ‘Monsieur Zhaycoob, this is a coincidence indeed, there’s a dealer here buying some of your lesser Emily’s. I’ll introduce you,’ he offered, gesturing for Jacob to join him in the smaller salon at the rear of the gallery.

  Jacob noticed an attendant lifting the last of three Emily’s down off the wall as a youngish and well-dressed, well-to-do lady stood by, her back to him.

  ‘Who is she? What’s her name?’

  Jean-Louis pulled out a business card. ‘Muxlow. Rebecca Muxlow.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Jacob gasped, Rebecca turning around to greet him. ‘An old friend, Jean-Louis. This calls for a celebration.’

  ‘Jacob darling, how nice to see you after all these years,’ Rebecca said, greeting him with open arms and offering him her hand to kiss. She looked him up and down. The absence of his iron legs must have pleased her. She smiled broadly. ‘My, how you’ve grown so.’

  ‘And you have matured into a fine lady, Rebecca, I must say,’ Jacob said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘My goodness, such beauty.’ He gave her a twirl. She laughed. ‘Say you’ll pose for me, please. I can’t wait to capture your very essence.’

  Rebecca giggled. ‘Did he tell you? I’ve bought every one of your Emily’s. For… for a client. She had to have them all.’

  Jean-Louis, eager to see the new works Jacob brought in, made an excuse and left them to catch up.

  *

  Seeing Rebecca after all these years almost overwhelmed me. With her now looking so much more like Emily, the memories came flooding back. I wanted to touch her, hold her close, to bathe in sweet memories – of her sister. And what of Emily’s demise? Rebecca, of course, could not have known. While Emily and I were together, Rebecca had never called. Emily insisted she didn’t want anything to do with her, and never mentioned her. And I knew better than to mention her name myself. I had always presumed her animosity towards her sister was because of the incident in the boathouse, which Emily never once referred to in our time together.

  Having to tell Rebecca that her dear sister was dead, filled me with dread. How could I? How would I explain what we did with her? That she is unblessed, cold in a jar. Preserved, so that I might study her for eternity, drink her essence to keep my sanity; use her golden light to keep my miserable flame burning. How could I subject Emily’s dear sister to such pain? I chose to remain silent on the matter. If Emily’s name should arise I would deny having seen her since college, spare Rebecca the anguish. It was as simple as that.

  What I couldn’t deny was that there, in front of
me, was a replica of Emily. A new-born Emily. In the flesh. Perfect and provocative. A living, breathing, sensuous Emily. Alive! I almost felt ashamed, but I wanted her, wanted to touch her, caress her, envelope myself with her bosom, run my fingers and tongue over every inch of her. I almost felt I could have taken her right there in the middle of the floor, in a public window. I didn’t care. The blood rose in me. I could feel the flush…

  ‘Yes. I would like that,’ Rebecca said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I was puzzled. She would? On the floor? Now? ‘Sorry?’ I said.

  She looked at me, a little confused herself. ‘I’d be honoured to be painted by you, Jacob.’ She smiled uneasily.

  I needed to concentrate, take my eyes off her cleavage and stop these yearnings. ‘You were so alike,’ I told her, looking deep into her eyes for a signal; surrender; acquiescence.

  Rebecca tenderly touched my hand. I gripped hers; more to feel her flesh than for support. Her long fingers, just like Emily’s, entwined with mine. For a few moments it was divine. It was like Emily had returned yet again – as I knew she would, as she must, for me to survive.

  ‘You still miss her, don’t you?’ Rebecca asked, a deep sadness in her face.

  Rebecca knows? She knows Emily has gone? How could that be? We dared not tell. It was the most secret of all secrets. After dear Papa, another loved-one’s body found in my house, I could not risk telling a soul.

  ‘She had a secret, Jacob. It’s my duty to tell you.’

  I looked down at Rebecca’s fingers stroking my hand, sensing more pain was on its way. She approached Jean-Louis and pointed to his office. We were both then guided towards it where Jean-Louis left us and closed the door. My heart was thumping. I dreaded what Rebecca was about to say.

  ‘Those medications you gave her made her the happiest I’d ever known – after she got over Rosemary’s overdose, of course. She would never stop telling me how much you meant to her. I was quite jealous. My little sister had the most beautiful man all to herself.’ Rebecca lifted our joined hands and kissed the back of mine. ‘But the light-hearted jolliness Emily always portrayed was an act, Jacob. She had consumption. She was dying. Jolly on the outside, dying from the inside. She couldn’t bear the thought of deteriorating in front of you – you watching her die, mourning her. She came to me, asked for the means. I…’ tears welled in Rebecca’s eyes and then she burst out with: ‘I supplied it. She took rat poison. Ended it all.’ Tears ran down Rebecca’s face.