Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ‘Indeed we did. A very sad moment, I assure you.’ I took a few moments to console myself, deciding I should not mention the assisted suicide. ‘But, sadness aside, I was relieved to learn that Rebecca knew I’d lost Emily. Knew already. Can you believe that?’

  They could not.

  ‘But how, master?’ Betsy asked.

  ‘Because Emily told her. Told of being in such dreadful pain from her illness. My poor angel kept it from me, to spare me the agony.’ I could see that the professor and Betsy found the whole thing as incredulous as I did. ‘Don’t you see?’ I continued, ‘Emily and Rebecca had been in touch with one another the whole time. Emily didn’t depart this world because of my neglect. She succumbed to the pain. Something I was completely unaware of.’

  ‘It wasn’t the poison she gulped down?’ the professor said, incredulously.

  ‘My brave angel took it to spare me from watching her die.’

  ‘The poor darling,’ Betsy murmured, catching a tear with a corner of her pinafore.

  I almost broke into tears. Betsy consoled me. ‘Having been diagnosed incurable the poor darling didn’t dare ask me to search for a cure for fear of causing me discomfort. She couldn’t bear me discovering that I, too, was unable to help her.’

  ‘Thoughtful to the very end,’ Betsy said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  The professor’s choking spate had made him morose. We three sat for a good while in silence before I announced, ‘After dinner, Professor, we’ll go to the laboratory and you can show me what you’ve been up to. We’ll calculate what is needed to complete your experiments; get them all out of the way before Rebecca arrives at the end of the month.’

  ‘She’s coming here?’ the professor said, startled.

  ‘For me to do her portrait. Won’t that be grand? Of course, we must ensure Emily is well out of the way. Rebecca wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘No, that she wouldn’t, master,’ Betsy said, catching the professor with the corner of her eye.

  ‘End of the month, you say? You have a day?’ the professor asked.

  ‘The twenty-eighth, Professor. The day before Michaelmas Day.’

  ‘If you can now afford the final batch of chemicals, Master Jacob, I’ll have all I need,’ the professor said, suddenly far more enthusiastic. ‘The final result should be accomplished in good time to coincide with your dear guest’s arrival.’

  ‘It’ll be a special day, Betsy, let’s make it a big surprise for Rebecca,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, we’ll see she gets her surprise, Master Jacob,’ the professor said, chinking glasses with Betsy. ‘We surely will.’

  The days flew by. Early on the twenty-eighth of September I went to make a final inspection of the professor’s experiments in the laboratory. It had been quite some time since I had spent any real time with him. I was confronted by a pungent and musty smell on the way into the laboratory. The benches, walls and wooden floors had obviously just been scrubbed – but that hadn’t removed the objectionable smell.

  ‘What is that dreadful smell, Professor?’

  ‘All in good time, Master Jacob. All in good time,’ he repeated as he pulled down on the lever to open up the wall to the anteroom.

  As it slid back, the smell became overpowering and I noticed Emily’s glass urn on the bench, facing the wall. But there was a marked difference – her urn was full again, the vivid luminescent essence topped right up to the lid. And it was bubbling.

  I approached it.

  ‘Not yet, master. Let me explain the process,’ the professor insisted, pointing to the porthole in the top of our recently acquired copper distiller. ‘Pray, see for yourself.’

  Down inside the cauldron the bubbling golden fluid gave off vapours, condensing on the glass porthole.

  A screeching, black, knotted, thread-like object crashed against the glass, startling me.

  ‘Gracious!’ I yelled, staggering backwards.

  The professor laughed in my face. ‘Spirits, Master Jacob. Spirits of the dead.’ He bade I looked again as he pointed to three such creatures, angrily darting about in the mixture.

  ‘Spirits? You mean…’ I looked at the reflection dancing on his face. He looked quite mad.

  ‘Souls, master. Beautiful, living, thriving captured souls.’ His eyes were frenzied yet joyful as he admired those horrible things screeching and flitting through the slime like agitated pond life.

  Bending down over a canvas-covered tin bath, he yanked off the blood-stained cover. I dreaded what was in there – dreaded what explanation I was going to hear next. Over-powering vapours floated up from the steaming tin bath. That pungent smell again, took my breath away. I held my nose.

  ‘Closer,’ he demanded, ‘look through the steam.’

  The professor pulled up his sleeve and delved into the steaming, bloodied mess. And there it was, in front of my face. As the stinking and bloodied water ran off it, I soon recognised her. Her jet-black hair knotted in his fingers as he shook her severed head in front of me.

  Polly.

  I turned, staggered backwards and retched. My mouth opened wide but whether any noise came out or not, I cannot recall. The whole thing played like the most horrible nightmare.

  With Polly’s head dangling from one hand, the professor scrabbled around and produced another handful of hair and then another – hoisting out two more heads. Nora and Letty. He was drooling, wallowing in the filth.

  My lovely, lovely girls. He had murdered them all. I was close to collapsing.

  ‘You found it, Master Jacob. The apprentice has turned master.’ He dropped the heads back into the mire and went back over to the tall copper kettle. Vapour condensing off its Turk’s head dome drizzled down a long glass tube to the bench and dripped through a hole in the top of Emily’s glass urn. ‘The souls of your wench, widow and witch. So powerful,’ he turned Emily around, ‘they resurrected the dead.’

  He turned the urn. Emily’s head faced me.

  Her maggot-ridden eyes opened.

  Bubbles rose from her mouth as she smiled.

  ‘So now we have the wife,’ the professor announced, pointing at Emily. ‘Only one more ingredient is required, and the bitch Rebecca’s coming today, you say?’

  That was when my legs gave way and I passed out. I awoke sometime later, stretched out on the couch upstairs. I panicked, becoming more and more distressed as what I had seen turned out not to have been a nightmare. If only I could turn back the clock, make it go away. I grabbed a cloak and rushed out into the street, immediately taking a carriage to the gallery. I needed Rebecca’s address. I had to find her; warn her. Her life was in danger.

  This monster was killing everybody I loved.

  I burst into the gallery. Jean-Louis said Rebecca had just left there, she was on her way to my house, to return the Masquerade painting.

  I raced home again only to find police officers everywhere, surrounding Rebecca. At least she was safe.

  No sooner had an inspector introduced himself, an angry mob of women carrying knives and mallets descended upon us. They claimed I’d had their girls. Hissing and spitting as they called me horrid names, one lunged at me with a bloodied spike. I feared for my life.

  Inspector Neville’s men fended them off. I was forced to ask him to take me into protective custody.

  The Trial: Day 5

  Mr Ponsonby continued questioning Detective Inspector Neville.

  ‘So, in the police station the accused admitted that, in his house, from whence you came, were no less than four heads – severed from their bodies – together with the paraphernalia to raise the dead. Is that correct?’

  ‘That is correct, sir, yes. He said this professor had just shown them to him that morning,’ said the inspector, ‘and that they had been alive.’

  ‘At the police station, did you believe him, that severing these heads was the professor’s work?’

  ‘Everything was explained in the greatest detail, sir. Yes. Yes I did believe that something awful had
been going on there – and we did have the headless bodies from the river. But, unfortunately, when we went back to search the house, on that first visit I found nothing suspicious.’

  ‘Describe what you did find, inspector.’

  ‘Six hours after taking him into protective custody, together with Sergeant Beck and a team of detectives, I returned to Number 72, Victoria Embankment, and went inside, using the accused’s key. We made a thorough search of the premises but found nothing directly incriminating.’

  ‘You found none of these heads the accused had described as being there?’

  ‘No, sir. And no sign of any mischief, I might add.’

  ‘But you found portraits of three of the missing girls?’ Mr Ponsonby said, indicating to ushers to bring in the three more attractive portraits of the dead girls, that we had seen during the commencement of the trial.

  ‘Yes, sir. That proved to us those women had been there.’

  ‘And you did bring away some… shall we say… noxious substances?’

  ‘Yes, sir, which I passed to Dr Pincher for analysis.’

  ‘You found nothing directly incriminating, you say?’

  ‘No, sir. No heads in jars. No bodies. No blood. No professor and no laboratory journals of any kind. The laboratory was neat and tidy, freshly scrubbed I might add. There was a strong smell of some medical concoction or another. I don’t know what. We went on to search the whole house and were satisfied only one person lived there – the accused. There was one toothbrush, four bedrooms with four beds but only one with a mattress and any clothes in the wardrobe. Every other bedroom wardrobe was empty. And there was just one plate, and one knife and fork in the kitchen sink.’

  ‘No sign of another living soul?’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir.’

  ‘You questioned the accused for a further five hours, I understand?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘And he stuck to his story?’

  ‘He did, sir.’

  ‘So, without evidence…?’

  ‘Frankly, after we didn’t find a thing that he had described, I thought he was either spinning a yarn, sir, trying to get some attention, or, he knew where the women’s heads were, and wasn’t telling us. And, of course, I considered he could have been hallucinating; dreamt the whole lot up. Lacking any evidence to charge him, the accused was allowed home whilst we made further enquiries. We put a guard outside his home – Constable Albert Everett.

  ‘Miss Muxlow, Rebecca Muxlow that is, said she was certain of Silver’s innocence and went to meet him the next day. A friend of Silver’s, a psychologist, persuaded me of his innocence, as he, too, knew the accused well. He said he would assist us and go to Greenwold College and investigate the professor there – to prove Silver’s innocence.’

  Chapter 19

  Although it was a strange request, Sir Robert Weston did not hesitate to go to Charing Cross police station where his artist friend, Jacob Silver, had asked for his urgent assistance.

  Jacob explained everything to Sir Robert and that he was suspected of murder. After speaking with Inspector Neville, Sir Robert returned to Jacob in an interview room.

  ‘I’m concerned for you, Jacob,’ Sir Robert said, passing him a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his nose. He had been beaten; the whole of his face was bruised. ‘Three women fished out of the river. Their mothers said they sat for you and didn’t come home. And you’ve made portraits of all three without their heads.’

  ‘Don’t you see what he’s done? He’s made it look like I did it. I only painted them.’ Jacob became distraught.

  ‘This professor? When did you first see him?’ After Jacob didn’t answer, ‘Soon after your father died?’ Jacob nodded. ‘Kind, was he? Took you under his wing, did he? Look like dad, did he? Helping you find immortality, was that it? Like dad said?’

  Jacob blubbered through tears. ‘He brought me books with potions. We captured moods. It worked. Then we worked on immortality.’ He banged on the table. ‘They were my friends. He killed them. He showed me their heads – still alive.’

  ‘You live alone, don’t you?’

  ‘No, of course not. Four of us lived together. The professor and my housekeeper, Betsy, Emily and I. They were both there when the professor came to join us. But Emily– She–’

  ‘She another body they’re going to find?’

  ‘She… She died. She committed suicide. Her sister, Rebecca, will tell you. She knows all about it. Ask her. Can’t you see what he’s done? He’s made it look like I killed them. Can’t they see that?’

  ‘Immortality? Capturing souls? Come on, man! It’s all in your head. Jacob, this professor doesn’t exist.’

  Jacob clawed at his head. ‘Of course he bloody exists! I’ve known him since I was fifteen! We wanted… I needed to bring Emily back, raise her from the dead. Don’t you see?’ Grabbing Sir Robert’s lapels, Jacob screamed into his face. ‘You said you’d help me! I could swing for this! I did not kill my girls! I loved them; loved them all. Find this bloody madman!’

  The door barged open to Detective Inspector Neville’s office and Sir Robert strode in. Neville and Sergeant Beck looked up in surprise.

  ‘You knocked the shit out of him!’ Sir Robert shouted, ‘Would’ve admitted anything. I know the boy. He’s telling the truth. He painted them. He admits that. They’re missing. It’s this professor doing the killing. You have to find him! There’s no way this lad’s your killer. No bodies, no blood, nothing at all at the house. You’ve nothing on him. Find the professor; he’s your man. Silver’s terrified of him.’

  Sir Robert produced a caricature of the professor. That got their attention. ‘He drew this. Tutor at his old college. We must find him. There’s another possible witness. Jacob Silver and your chief suspect were thrown out after insulting Lady Jane of Sherston at the Savoy. Someone would’ve seen them together. And this housekeeper. She worked in the shop. Customers must have seen her. Get onto it. You’ll need to build a case against them. I’m sure the housekeeper was in on it. Not much could have gone on there without her knowing about it.’

  ‘Send someone to the Savoy, quickly,’ Neville instructed Sergeant Beck.

  ‘And Sergeant,’ Sir Robert said to Beck as he was leaving, ‘speak to this art gallery owner, a Monsieur St Clair. Someone went with Silver to the gallery. What can he tell us? And these Ripper paintings, ask him how he got those, will you?’

  ‘You think there’s a connection?’ Neville asked.

  ‘Something pretty evil changed the gentle artist I knew from painting beauty to... Doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Sir Robert then referred to the glass vials on Neville’s desk. ‘These vials you brought back? Silver rattled off the recipes like he was baking a cake. Deadly plants and fungi. He was addicted to them. Helped him get over losing his mistress, I suspect. He was manipulated like a puppet to acquire women for this monster. This stuff about immortality is all balderdash! Who ever heard of such a thing. And yet my friend in there was hoodwinked into thinking he was raising his mistress from the dead.’

  ‘We must track this professor down before he kills again,’ Neville said.

  ‘I suspect he’ll return to the laboratory,’ Sir Robert said. ‘They were in the final phase of his experiments apparently. The professor needs whatever’s in there and tomorrow is a special day, apparently, Michaelmas Day. Bail Silver, let him go home but keep someone posted outside – concealed. I’ve a feeling the professor will show up. Meanwhile, I’ll go to Greenwold College. See what they have on him.

  The duty sergeant put his head into the room. ‘A Miss Rebecca Muxlow is asking if we need her any more, inspector.’

  ‘I’d like a word with her, inspector,’ Sir Robert said.

  ‘Her life is in danger if this professor does exist, Sir Robert,’ Neville warned him. ‘This professor told Silver she had an important role to play. She’s the next ingredient.’

  Sir Robert sat opposite a shaken Rebecca in the police station
foyer. ‘He painted my daughter. She was dying. He gave her a new zest for life. She developed quite an affection for him. He’s a healer, not a killer – a good man. I’d stake my reputation on it.’

  ‘My sister loved him dearly. So gentle. He wouldn’t harm a fly. He told me he was a broken man when she died,’ Rebecca told him, patting her tears dry. ‘How he has got involved in this–’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear. I think losing Emily resulted in his taking . . . taking things to keep his mind off her. But he did tell me he finds great comfort in you.’

  This cheered Rebecca. She stood. ‘I must go to him. He needs me.’

  ‘Not here, I suggest. They’re taking him home. Meet him there tomorrow, but please, do be careful. And tell me, Miss Muxlow,’ Sir Robert added as he stood to leave, ‘did Jacob ever give you anything to take? His potions?’

  Rebecca avoided his eyes, walking with him to the front door, catching her reflection in a mirror there. ‘Only for minor ailments.’

  ‘And did they work?’

  Staring into the mirror, Rebecca touched the pure porcelain skin on her face. ‘Yes. Perfectly. He certainly had a flare for medicine.’

  Sir Robert opened the door for her.

  ‘Sir Robert, forgive me, but when did your daughter pass?’

  ‘Pass? Oh, no. Miraculously, she survived, you see. She lives life to the full now. All thanks to Jacob, I’m sure.’

  Chapter 20

  On Michaelmas Day, Rebecca stepped from a carriage outside Jacob’s business. She looked up at the accommodation above and shuddered as she approached the front door where a uniformed policeman leapt out from the bushes, surprising her.

  ‘I didn’t see you,’ the startled Rebecca said.

  ‘That’s the general idea, miss,’ Constable Everett replied.

  ‘Mr Silver is expecting me,’ she said, knocking on the door.

  The constable saluted and apologised for scaring her.

  Jacob opened the door and waved her inside. She winced at his beaten face.

  In the sitting room upstairs, Rebecca hugged him and kissed his cheek. ‘I was so concerned for you,’ she assured him, stroking his bruised face.