Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ‘Her soul? I questioned. He replied:

  “The professor only needed hers – then his work was complete. Don’t you see? It’s Michaelmas Day and he has taken all their souls – made himself immortal!” ’

  ‘Of what significance was Michaelmas Day, inspector?’ Mr Ponsonby asked.

  ‘According to their book Alchemy, sir, this was the date on which their concoction for immortality should be administered.’

  ‘Administered to whom, inspector?’

  ‘We never found out, sir.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Then he broke down. After composing himself, he said:

  “He’s made it look like I killed them. But he killed them all. There’s a journal. It’s all in there. You must find that journal. Or he’ll do it again.”

  ‘He then added: “He revived Emily. Then took her soul.” ’

  The gallery was in uproar and the four remaining reporters down in the courtroom made to leave. I so wanted to believe Jacob, but each witness’ testimony was making it more and more difficult.

  ‘Remain seated!’ the judge ordered. ‘I will not have any further interruptions, d’you understand?’ They returned to their seats, shamefully. ‘Continue, Mr Ponsonby.’

  ‘Inspector, did you find this journal he spoke of?’

  ‘No, sir, only the old book: Alchemy.’

  ‘What else did the accused have to say about the dead body and these women’s heads found in his home?’

  ‘After telling me that the professor had shown him the severed heads alive the day before, and complaining the police did nothing about it, he ceased cooperating and asked to see his friend, a psychologist. We were then advised that nothing more would be said on the matter. But he did agree to a psychiatrist interview, to prove he was sane, he said.’

  ‘And after the psychiatrist’s meeting?’

  ‘I then made the decision to charge the accused with murder.’

  ‘Thank you, inspector. I have no further questions of this witness, m’lud.’

  Mr Ecclestone stood to begin his cross-examination. ‘Inspector, you were in charge of this investigation, yes?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Somewhat incompetent, not finding this room of horrors the first time, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir. It was well concealed.’

  ‘What steps did you take to find this missing professor?’

  ‘After hearing from the college and the accused becoming irrational–’

  ‘Irrational?’

  ‘Speaking of immortality, talking heads and the like; I was convinced this professor never existed. This was corroborated by our earlier searches of the murder scene – that Silver lived and worked alone – and from other evidence.’

  ‘So you made no effort to find the professor – whom the accused blamed for the murders?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’

  ‘Not really. You mean you made no effort.’ Before the inspector could answer, ‘What efforts did you take to find Betsy Pollock, the housekeeper?’

  ‘We made a thorough search but could find nothing to suggest she ever lived there.’

  ‘And after referring to a police psychiatrist, decided she did not exist either?’

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

  ‘And what difference would it have made to your case if either or both of these missing persons did exist?’

  ‘A great deal. We would obviously have needed to interview them, rule them out.’

  ‘Or rule them in, inspector?’

  Neville did not answer.

  ‘Did you find any of Constable Everett’s blood on the accused?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Is it likely that someone slashing a man’s throat would remain free of blood splatter?’

  ‘We believe the throat was cut from behind, sir. In which case blood would not necessarily be found on the killer.’

  ‘Surely anybody could have killed Constable Everett? Anybody passing.’

  ‘True, sir. But would they end up with the knife next to them, when they were discovered?’

  ‘No more questions, m’lud,’ said Mr Ecclestone.

  ‘You may step down, inspector,’ said the judge.

  It had been another long and horrific day and, thankfully, the judge asked that the jury be given some respite to come to terms with the evidence they had heard, adjourning proceedings until the morning.

  I prayed that Mr Ecclestone would have greater success in proving the professor and Miss Pollock existed – for Jacob’s sake.

  The Trial: Day 6

  ‘Mildred Agatha Muxlow, Muxlow Hall, Finchingfield,’ the elderly veiled lady said, after handing the Bible back to the usher.

  This poor woman had lost two daughters and her son and my heart went out to her. Dressed all in black and wearing a veil, she looked so frail, but refused to sit while giving her evidence, scowling at poor Jacob throughout the whole proceedings.

  ‘You are the mother of Thomas, Emily and Rebecca Muxlow, now deceased?’ Mr Ponsonby began, solemnly.

  ‘Murdered by him! Yes,’ the old lady replied, pointing directly at Jacob.

  ‘Mrs Muxlow,’ the judge interrupted, ‘you have our deepest condolences for your loss but I must instruct you to keep your opinions as to the guilt or otherwise of the accused, to yourself, madam.’ The old lady remained silent. ‘Is that understood?’ the judge pressed. Mrs Muxlow begrudgingly acknowledged that it was.

  ‘Can you confirm, Mrs Muxlow, that Thomas, Rebecca and Emily, spent their holidays between 1886 and 1888 at Lord and Lady Bedford’s estate near Greenwold College?’

  ‘Yes. 1888 was their last spring together.’

  ‘Our deepest sympathies, madam, but can you explain to the court how Thomas Muxlow died?’

  Mrs Muxlow dabbed back a tear under her veil before answering. ‘He died of cancer. Of the face. After being treated by him,’ she pointed again at Jacob in the dock, ‘for removing freckles.’

  ‘You were directly aware he was being treated by Jacob Silver?’

  ‘He wrote and told me so – in agony, I might add.’

  ‘Do you still have that letter?’

  ‘No, the police took it. And now they’ve lost it.’

  ‘What was Emily’s condition, during early 1888?’

  ‘She was fragile, often breathless. She had consumption.’

  ‘For which she took medication?’

  ‘The best we could find. But my sister, Lady Bedford, discovered she had been administered other concoctions. His potions. Before he seduced her.’

  That set tongues wagging around me. I wondered if Jacob had been a naughty boy, or whether the old lady was just bitter after he had cured her daughter and not the doctors she had employed.

  ‘You know this for a fact?’

  ‘The gel admitted it, before… before...’ She did not need to finish.

  ‘Forgive me, madam, but I must ask you to confirm; eventually, Emily took her own life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know how she–’

  ‘Rat poison. She was still holding the glass.’

  In the dock, I noticed Jacob sobbing into his sleeve. He must have loved her so.

  Mr Ponsonby gave Mrs Muxlow a moment to compose herself before asking, ‘Was anyone else in the household aware she took her own life?’

  ‘She told her sister she would,’ and after blotting another tear, ‘The pain, you see? She couldn’t bear it any longer.’

  ‘And precisely when did Emily die?’

  ‘A month after Thomas. June the third, 1888.’

  I caught my breath.

  ‘1888?’ a gentleman to my right quietly asked me.

  That couldn’t be right. I was as puzzled as he was, but nevertheless put a finger to my lips, suggesting he listen intently – expecting a correction. From the groaning around us, I guessed we were not the only people confused. If Emily died in 1888 who on earth
had lived with Jacob till 1894? To whom had he proposed marriage?

  ‘I want to confirm that we heard you correctly, Mrs Muxlow. Emily died in June, 1888? Over six years ago?’

  ‘Yes, a month after her brother. They rest side by side in the family tomb.’

  ‘So she could not possibly have run off to London to live with the accused?’

  ‘Of course not. And I would never have allowed that, not for an instant.’

  ‘If anyone said they had lived with your daughter, Emily, between April, 1892 and earlier this year, a period of over two years, what would you say to that?’

  ‘They are lying. Or insane. She died and was placed in the family crypt, in 1888.’ She produced three sheets of paper. ‘Here are all my children’s death certificates.’

  Whispering circulated the gallery as puzzled looks on faces appeared everywhere.

  ‘I believe there is something else you wish to tell the court?’ Mr Ponsonby said.

  Mrs Muxlow stared straight at Jacob and appeared quite overcome. She struggled to speak before finally announcing: ‘Her tomb was desecrated a month after she was interred. Her head was removed.’

  What?

  I was startled. Everyone about me was as confused as I was. Had Jacob taken his lover’s head? How awful! But that could only mean… Had he been living with just Emily’s head?

  God! Jacob, how could you?

  Horrified, and unable to stomach any more such evidence, I stood and pushed my way towards the stairs and the street. But sitting at the end of the bench, next to the doors, was someone I least expected to see – Papa – and there was no mistaking the look of surprise on his face when he caught sight of me, snivelling into my handkerchief.

  Papa stood, abruptly, and took me on his arm away from that place, the public gallery now in uproar. The judge was still pounding his gavel as we left, attempting to regain control.

  In a street café, just around the corner from the court, my father quietly chastised me for disobeying his strict instructions: not to attend this trial.

  ‘I know the outcome,’ he assured me. ‘He is mad, do you hear me? Completely mad!’

  I sat and continued crying as people I recognised from the public gallery came into the café. The judge must have allowed a recess.

  ‘I knew you had feelings for the boy – which is why I specifically informed you not to attend his trial,’ Papa said sternly, stirring his tea. ‘He cannot win, Lizzie. He will hang. And you will have to get used to that idea. I’m sorry. But that is how it is. Forget him. Forget everything. The boy is due for a very sad end. You will only upset yourself.’

  ‘But if he is mad, then surely he should plead so. They don’t hang the insane. He would be saved,’ I tried.

  ‘Guilty by reason of insanity? That was already thrown out – on day one. There is a rule, the M’Naughten Rule, which decides these things.’

  ‘But why was it thrown out? They surely cannot doubt he is completely mad? Taking her head, for goodness sake!’

  ‘It’s… It’s complicated. You see, whilst he might have been stark raving mad when he lived with the poor girl’s head, he later claims he went to save Rebecca – save her from certain death. That proved that he knew it was wrong; knew what he was doing was wrong. That is the basis upon which a man is considered fit or unfit to plead – whether he knew the difference between right and wrong. And Jacob knew.’

  ‘Jacob knew it was wrong for the professor to kill Rebecca, not him!’ I remonstrated.

  ‘Well, you’ll find that isn’t so. They’ll prove it was Jacob doing the killing.’

  ‘So, these… these lawyers, have decided between them he is fit to stand trial? To hang, is that it?’ I pressed.

  ‘Acting on the advice of psychiatrists from both sides – yes, that is what they decided. It is the law of the land, Lizzie. As long as he gets a fair trial–’

  ‘Fair trial? I haven’t seen a shred of evidence that he killed those four girls. What makes you so sure he will be found guilty? They have nothing. Nothing at all.’ Papa looked at me in silence – was that because he, too, had not seen any evidence? I continued to rant. ‘Granted, living with just a woman’s head… But I can’t talk about that. It disgusts me. There were others in that house. Miss Pollock delivered the girl to him. What has she got to say about her part in all this?’ Papa stood and took my arm. But I had not finished. ‘How could she stand idly by while Jacob was proposing to a dead girl? And this professor. Where is he? He’s the murderer. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘My dear, I see no other solution,’ Papa insisted, looping his arm through mine and leading me out into the street. ‘I think you had best hear the evidence for yourself.’

  After offering a small bribe, Papa was able to take a place by my side at the front of the public gallery, when the court reconvened. The judge took his place on the bench and after everybody was seated he looked up to the gallery with a solemn look on his face.

  ‘Another outburst like that and I will have the gallery cleared for the duration of this trial. D’you hear me up there?’ He then turned to Mrs Muxlow who had resumed her place in the witness box, sobbing quietly to herself. ‘Mrs Muxlow, are you well enough to continue?’ She nodded that she was and the judge nodded to the prosecutor to carry on.

  Mr Ponsonby soon got back into his flow. ‘Mrs Muxlow, I understand you collected art?’

  ‘Only as an amateur. My daughter Rebecca would recommend works.’

  ‘And did your daughter, Rebecca, recommend you acquire a particularly good painting of your other daughter, Emily?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I needed no persuading. We saw it hanging in the gallery in the Strand. It was such a good likeness that I felt I must have it.’

  Mr Ponsonby ushered in two attendants, one carrying a framed portrait, the other an easel. The glorious painting was set up to face the jury and gallery. ‘And is this the first painting you so acquired?’

  The old lady acknowledged that it was and Mr Ponsonby entered it into evidence. ‘Exhibit 1, m’lud.’ It was the wonderful portrait of Emily we had seen at the opening of the trial.

  ‘May I ask the price of this masterpiece, Mrs Muxlow?’

  ‘What’s the price got to do with it?’ Mrs Muxlow said angrily. She couldn’t look Mr Ponsonby in the eye and turned to the judge for support. The judge held up his palms and shrugged, suggesting she answer.

  ‘I am simply trying to draw comparisons – between this and other Emily’s you later acquired, madam,’ Mr Ponsonby added.

  ‘The price ticket said twenty thousand pounds. Or guineas. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds then, or thereabouts. I see. Did you continue to acquire other portraits of Emily?’

  ‘I acquired eleven in all, from a series of twelve, the gallery advised.’

  Ever the showman, Mr Ponsonby begged his lordship’s permission and an entourage of attendants brought in the remaining ten paintings, standing them on easels alongside the first.

  I gasped. The whole public gallery was buzzing with gossip.

  Turning to Mrs Muxlow again, Mr Ponsonby asked: ‘And are these those ten other paintings?’ Mrs Muxlow agreed they were. ‘Exhibits 25 to 34, m’lud,’ Mr Ponsonby announced.

  I was shocked and looked at Papa in dismay. The line of paintings was nothing like what I expected, or what anybody else expected in that courtroom, for that matter, judging by the sharp intakes of breath.

  ‘And the twelfth portrait, Mrs Muxlow? To complete the set?’ Mr Ponsonby asked.

  ‘I sent Rebecca to acquire it but it had apparently been sold.’

  ‘And what price, madam,’ Mr Ponsonby asked as he walked to the portrait furthest from us, ‘did you pay for this portrait?’

  ‘The last one? They couldn’t give it away. It was fifteen pounds,’ Mrs Muxlow answered.

  ‘I suspect that was to cover the cost of the frame,’ Mr Ponsonby said, running his hand round the gilt frame. ‘So, just to clarify, Mrs Muxlow:
you paid twenty thousand pounds or thereabouts for the first one, and only fifteen pounds for the last. Both portraits by the same artist, Jacob Silver?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why were you so intent on buying the whole series when you clearly had such negative feelings over these later versions.’

  ‘ ’Cause I couldn’t bear anyone else seeing my dear daughter like that. And I knew he murdered my son and daughter, that’s why.’

  Mr Ecclestone bolted to his feet – but the judge waved him to sit back down.

  ‘The jury will ignore that remark,’ the judge said, looking directly at the jury. He then turned to Mrs Muxlow. ‘I am sure, being an intelligent woman, you were aware that kind of remark is not allowed here. This is the second time I have had to address this issue, Mrs Muxlow. If it happens again, I will hold you in contempt of court.’ She stared at the floor. ‘Is that clear, madam?’ he said in a raised voice.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the old lady muttered humbly, still staring down at her feet.

  ‘Do you have any idea, Mrs Muxlow, what happened to the last in the series, the twelfth Emily?’ Mr Ponsonby continued.

  ‘My daughter was informed by the gallery that it had been sold.’

  ‘And did you learn how much it was sold for?’

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds. Or guineas. Daylight robbery, you ask me.’

  ‘And had you ever seen that twelfth portrait, the last of the series?’

  ‘Yes. It was not too dissimilar to the one I bought, number eleven.’ She pointed: ‘That last one, there.’

  ‘Not too dissimilar and yet you only paid fifteen pounds for yours. And do you know to whom it was sold?’