Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ‘He’s murdered my girls. All three! I thought they were going to charge me. Thank God for Sir Robert,’ he said, going into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

  He poured sugar into a bowl. From a pot marked salt he added a large pinch to the bowl of sugar. Licking his fingers, he squeezed his eyes tight and relished the sensation, shaking his head repeatedly.

  Jacob looked down into the street below at the policeman on guard, concealed in the shrubs. He smiled. He served the tea on a silver tray in the sitting room, setting it down on a low table in front of Rebecca. ‘This will cheer you,’ he said, sitting opposite.

  As Rebecca spooned sugar into her cup, he said: ‘Drink up then we can go up to the studio, if you feel up to it. Painting you will take my mind off things.’

  ‘I so missed you all these years, Jacob,’ Rebecca said, reaching out for his hand. She squeezed his fingers. ‘Emily always knew that I loved you, too. You the artist. Me the art dealer. I feel we’ve so much in common.’

  Jacob felt uncomfortable and gently pried his fingers loose. He stared into his cup at the luminous green swirling there. ‘I would wait for Emily to wake. The sun that rose within her eyes would penetrate every bone in my body. I felt everything she felt. Was touched when she was touched, hurt when she hurt. I was Emily. She, me. But she’s gone, that light has gone. There’s still a huge lump here in my heart that is–’

  ‘Aren’t we going upstairs?’ Rebecca asked, unable to conceal her annoyance. She stood up abruptly and Jacob led her upstairs towards his studio. On the landing, Rebecca turned and took Jacob’s hand, pressing it to her breast. ‘Jacob, there is life after Emily!’

  Jacob looked down at what she was doing with his hand – and then pulled it away, walking into the studio. The chaise was exactly as he left it and Rebecca sat on its edge, her eyes fixed on Jacob standing at his easel. Before being asked, she slid her clothes to the floor and leaned back provocatively on the chaise, sliding her fingers between her legs to tempt him away from the canvas. Her eyelids became heavy.

  Jacob picked up her dress off the floor and placed it across her lap. Then he took one hand from between her legs, kissed her finger tips tenderly and positioned it on the back of the chaise, the other to her breast. Returning to his easel, he poured a rich luminous fluid into a dish.

  Rebecca’s eyes were now extremely heavy; a drowsiness overcame her as she watched his brush dip into the bowl then touch his lips. The room began to distort and spin. She held onto the back of the chaise with both hands as Jacob’s voice drifted over her – unable to decipher the words.

  He came closer to her, put his face in front of hers. ‘I want you in my horror collection. To preserve your essence into eternity.’ He pulled a long butcher’s knife from a closet behind her. ‘I want you to act frightened. That’s the whole point, you see?’

  Rebecca was disturbed by his more aggressive tone. She shivered and felt like she was falling, falling off the chaise into a dark hole.

  ‘More! Like you’re really scared!’ Jacob yelled, raising the knife above his head; his eyes wild; tormented.

  As his face became enraged, Rebecca realised for the first time that this was not the tender Jacob she thought she knew, the cripple she had seduced so easily.

  This one appeared intent on killing her.

  Chapter 21

  At Greenwold College, Sir Robert Weston sat listening to elderly school secretary, Miss Delores Dunne, as she recalled Jacob Silver.

  ‘The crippled boy? Expelled after administering potions and molesting a young girl. He was lucky he wasn’t arrested for murder.’

  ‘Come, come. I know the boy. You have no reason to level such accusations,’ Sir Robert said sternly, pulling at one end of his handlebar moustache.

  ‘Thomas Muxlow died of cancer of the face not long after Silver gave him something for his freckles. Proving it was Silver was difficult. The police didn’t pursue it. And in any case he had been expelled. He gave Thomas’s sister, Emily, things, too – to seduce her,’ Delores added with a sharp tongue as she poured tea.

  ‘But he says she seduced him.’

  ‘That’s highly unlikely, Sir Robert. She was an angel. The sweetest thing. The last you would think of taking their own life.’

  ‘You heard about that?’

  ‘It was the talk of the school. Our reputation was at stake. Rat poison they said. She died instantly. But I would wager Silver had something to do with it.’

  ‘Silver had nothing to do with it, I assure you. He loved her dearly. She took her own life and her loss broke his heart. How on earth could her death, years after he left, affect your reputation?’

  After Miss Dunne explained, Sir Robert was astounded. Fumbling in his briefcase, he produced the likeness of the professor which Jacob had drawn for him. ‘This professor. Taught him science. What can you tell me about him?’

  Miss Dunne studied the drawing, turning it this way and that. ‘I think you had better come with me,’ she said, leading Sir Robert into the Corridor of Alumni and through to the catacombs.

  Sir Robert rushed back from the catacombs into the office, snatching the telephone receiver off its pedestal.

  ‘Get me Scotland Yard! Urgently, madam!’

  Chapter 22

  Jacob swiped the blade of the knife in front of Rebecca’s face. His eyes bulging, mouth drooling, he leapt behind her and drew the knife across her throat, without touching the skin.

  ‘More, woman! It’s your . . . last . . . bloody . . . breath!’ he screamed.

  Rebecca, trembling, turned her head to steal a glance at his face. With terror in her eyes, she clutched her dress, pushed the blade away, gashing the palm of her left hand. She squealed and leapt off the couch.

  ‘Jacob! Stop!’ she screamed, her clenched fist spurting with blood.

  Behind him, the closet door swung open revealing an open panel inside at the back.

  Staring at Rebecca, her maggot-ridden head in a glass urn, a young lady she thought she recognised.

  ‘Your sister!’ Jacob yelled. ‘I’m given her new life!’

  Emily’s one good eye flicked open and she smiled. Bubbles rose from her mouth as she yelled a muffled, piercing, ‘Bitch!’

  Rebecca, naked, shaken and trembling, yelped and flew downstairs. Jacob chased after her, the knife still in his hand. Screaming and yelling, she tried the front door. It was locked. She lifted the letterbox and yelled out into the street.

  Laying on the step outside, she saw a pair of black boots smothered in blood, the legs attached extending into the shrubs.

  With Jacob in close pursuit, Rebecca fled down more stairs into the laboratory, slamming the door behind her. Terrified and exhausted, she wedged it with a chair and slipped back into her dress, blood still dripping from her hand. Using her drawers as a bandage, she searched the room for something with which to defend herself.

  Jacob pounded on the door. ‘Trust me, it’s only for the portrait,’ he pleaded. ‘I want to capture you at your most vulnerable, that’s all.’

  Under the skylight windows, Rebecca pulled up a chair and climbed up onto the bench. She could just reach the window latch.

  ‘We must finish what we started, my darling,’ Jacob cried out tearfully. ‘Make us both immortal.’ Rebecca became more nervous than ever when he added, ‘You’ll join us. Emmy and me.’

  A brass lever attached to the wall caught Rebecca’s attention. She pulled it down to use for a step up into the street above. But it gave way under her weight. She stumbled back onto the bench as a loud whirring, hissing and clanking noise filled the laboratory.

  ‘No! Not in there, Emmy!’ Jacob shouted.

  Behind Rebecca the dividing wall to the anteroom opened up, revealing a dark cavern inside. She could hear water lapping, and climbed down off the bench, praying for a way out.

  Jacob seemed more determined than ever, thundering on the door which began to ease open. His fingers wrapped around the door’s edge as Rebecca nervo
usly stole past him into the anteroom.

  Once inside, she found a similar brass lever and yanked on it. The hissing and whirring started again as the wall closed and for a few moments, provided she held the lever firmly down, she felt safe. Rippling light from the grille out onto the river filled the anteroom. On a side bench she found a chisel and, as Jacob yelled on the other side of the wall, she wedged it into the lever’s mechanism. She had escaped. Relief ran through her body. Scum marks on the steps leading down to the river showed it was almost high tide. At low tide, she would simply walk out – walk away from this horrid place and the beastly Jacob Silver, she thought. And he can hang for killing those girls.

  ‘You won’t like it in there, Emily,’ Jacob pleaded outside, pounding on the wall. ‘Please, come out and let’s finish what we began.’

  Rebecca, incensed he had mistaken her for her sister, explored her surroundings. The bench had various paraphernalia covered with a canvas sheet and in the corner, a luminous golden light shone from the porthole on top of a large copper kettle. She glanced inside.

  Phantom, knotted string-like demons darted towards her face, scaring her. The longer she stared the more agitated they became.

  My God! What has he been doing in here?

  Rebecca then turned to the bench and the canvas sheet. She lifted a corner. Startled, her face in terror, she pulled the cover off. Three glass jars sat there – their contents staring at her.

  The heads of Polly, Letty and Nora.

  She felt her knees give way and as she fell backwards onto the flagstone floor the last thing she saw and heard etched deeply into her brain – the three girls laughing at her.

  The Trial: Day 5

  ‘Inspector Neville, after hours of interrogation from both you and Sergeant Beck do you regret releasing the accused to return home?’ the prosecutor continued.

  ‘Obviously. In hindsight.’

  ‘You were persuaded he was innocent?’

  ‘Against my better judgement, yes.’

  From what I had heard, thus far, he was and remains innocent. They should have been searching for this mad professor.

  ‘Tell the court what happened the day after Silver was released.’

  ‘After receiving information from the accused’s old college I returned with other officers to the apothecary’s on the Victoria Embankment. We forced entry and quickly searched the premises. We found the accused upon entering the laboratory. But things were different. The whole room was different.’

  ‘Different? In what way?’ Mr Ponsonby enquired.

  ‘A wall which had previously been there when we searched the place the day before, was no longer there. We discovered it was mechanically controlled and concealed an anteroom with access to the river. Unfortunately, we had completely missed it before.’

  Murmurs circulated the court as reporters lurched forward and began scribbling rapidly on their notepads.

  ‘And what did you find in this anteroom, inspector?’

  ‘It was a chamber of horrors, sir. I’d not seen anything like it in all my years in the service,’ Inspector Neville said, raising his notebook and then reading on. ‘The walls and ceiling were smothered in fresh blood. The accused was covered in mud and soaking wet. He was standing over a copper distillery device, in the corner, peering down inside through an open porthole.’

  ‘And what did you find inside this distillery, inspector?’

  ‘It was empty, sir – drained dry by a tube at the bottom.’

  ‘And what did the accused say?’

  ‘He said we were too late. “He’s taken them.” ’

  ‘He?’

  ‘He was referring to this professor.’

  ‘The mysterious professor that he told you earlier had conducted experiments there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Was there any trace of this professor?’

  ‘No trace whatsoever, sir.’

  ‘Have you or your officers ever found any trace of this mysterious professor?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘And what else did you find in that anteroom, inspector?’

  ‘In front of a bench sprawled across the stone floor was a woman’s body in a pool of blood.’ Neville paused, whether for effect or to gather courage, I could not say. ‘Her head had been removed. The left palm had been slashed – a defensive type of wound. On a bench we found four severed heads in jars.’

  My goodness! What had the mad professor done now?

  The gallery broke into loud chatter and the judge hammered his gavel repeatedly until restoring order. He then nodded to the inspector to continue.

  ‘A large butcher’s knife lay beside the woman’s body on the floor together with a rubber tube attached to a balloon of sorts.’

  Mr Ponsonby held up a butcher’s knife and other items as he asked, ‘Are these the said knife and apparatus?’ Inspector Neville confirmed they were. ‘Exhibits 17,18,19, my lord. Were you able to deduce the purpose of these items?’

  ‘Later, yes. A medieval Italian book, laying on the bench, described the process. The victim’s throat was cut and the tube fed deep down the throat.’ Folk were swooning and passing out all around me as the inspector continued. Ushers dragged numerous spectators out. ‘As the body bled out, at the last breath, elixir was poured down the tube to purge what remained there – drive it out. The balloon was fastened to the end of the tube and captured what was emitted.’

  ‘And precisely what was emitted?’

  ‘According to the medieval manual – the soul.’ Sharp intakes of breath rose from the gallery. ‘The balloon was then emptied into the large, copper condensing boiler – the still in the corner,’ the inspector continued. ‘The mixture was brought to the boil and vapour driven off, condensed into containers.’

  Five ushers then carried into the courtroom what looked like covered vessels, placing them on the bench in a line in front of the prosecutor.

  ‘And did you find any of the finished product?’ Mr Ponsonby asked, whipping off four of the covers to reveal four of the glass jars we had seen at the commencement of the trial – each containing a severed woman’s head. A fifth jar remained covered.

  ‘Yes, sir. Inside those four jars with the heads of the three missing models: Polly Daniels, Letty Norton and Nora Perkins. The fourth was identified by her mother as belonging to Rebecca Muxlow.’

  At that, a veritable stampede of reporters headed from the court, the judge’s attempts to prevent them falling on deaf ears. Perplexed ushers were barged aside as the mob burst out through the courtroom doors to spread the word. The judge, furiously pounding his gavel, had a real job on his hands before order was properly restored and Mr Ponsonby was asked to continue. The four jars were formally entered into evidence.

  ‘Was this the same Rebecca Muxlow whom you met the day before, inspector?’ Mr Ponsonby continued.

  ‘Yes, when she returned a portrait painted by the accused.’

  ‘What was wrong with this painting? Why was she returning it?’

  ‘It frightened her. She claimed it screamed, sir.’

  Here upstairs, the gallery was alive with gasps and whispers. Two elderly ladies must have decided it was all too much and vacated their seats. I was of a mind to leave, myself.

  ‘Did you find anything else of significance in the house that had not been noticed during your earlier search of the premises?’ asked Mr Ponsonby.

  ‘Yes. In the back of a cupboard in the studio, inside a secret compartment we found a decayed head in a jar. The accused was asked about it and said it was all that remained of Emily Muxlow, who had died on the premises.’

  ‘Is this the jar, inspector?’ Mr Ponsonby asked, unveiling the hideous jar containing Emily’s rotting head.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Exhibit 24, m’lud. Did you find anything else in the studio?’

  ‘Yes. Blood. Identified as being in the same group as Rebecca Muxlow’s, it dripped from the chaise longue all the way to the basement labo
ratory. This probably came from Miss Muxlow’s hand wound and confirms she was first attacked in the studio, then fled to the basement. It matched blood we found on the knife.’

  ‘And the accused admitted to being alone with her in the studio, brandishing a knife?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Scaring the living daylights out of her.’

  ‘It would seem so. Yes, sir.’

  ‘And now can you describe what you found outside the house, inspector.’

  ‘Upon our arrival, lying across the front door we found the body of Police Constable Albert Everett – his throat had been cut.’ More gasps from the gallery.

  ‘And the murder weapon?’

  ‘The pathologist found identical blood grouping to Constable Everett’s, on the blade of the knife, Exhibit 17, found next to Rebecca Muxlow’s body – along with her blood.’

  ‘Meaning the same knife was used to kill both, and probably by the same person?’

  ‘Probably, sir.’

  ‘Did the accused say anything about the policeman’s body outside his front door?’

  ‘He said he found it there when he ran from the house to go across the road to the river, where there was another entrance to the basement. He said he could see the officer was dead, and feared for Rebecca’s safety.’

  ‘You arrested Jacob Silver and took him to Charing Cross police station. Did you record the accused’s version of events?’

  ‘He had nothing to hide, he said, and gave a full account. I wrote everything down.’ Inspector Neville held up his notebook.

  Now at last, my darling would prove his innocence.

  ‘Read from your notes, inspector, if you will.’

  ‘After I asked Silver what had happened since he left the police station the day before, he said: “Rebecca came to have her portrait painted the next day. We went up to my studio but she became frightened.”

  ‘I asked him to explain. He replied:

  “I wanted to add her portrait to my horror collection. There was a knife. It was just meant to frighten her. But she ran off. She locked herself in the anteroom in the laboratory – the room where the professor worked. I feared for her safety – he had already killed my other models – but you hadn’t believed me earlier. That anteroom has access to the river. After she wouldn’t let me in, I made my way to the river entrance. That was when I opened the front door and found the policeman with his throat cut. There was nothing I could do for the poor chap. But I feared for Rebecca’s safety. I had to wait until low tide and by the time I got to her it was too late. She was already dead – her soul taken.”