Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you compare it with this document,’ said Mr Ponsonby, passing another document to the witness. ‘Exhibit 37, m’lud. The accused’s examination paper for his apothecary’s certificate.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you being an expert in handwriting, what did you find upon comparing the two?’

  ‘I found thirty-seven points of similarity in the two specimens.’

  ‘To which your conclusion is…?’

  ‘In my professional opinion, both were written with the same hand.’

  ‘You are saying, in so many words, Jacob Silver had proposed to himself?’

  The gallery burst into laughter. But as I looked over at Jacob, I could see that he was extremely embarrassed by this declaration, attempting to hide his face in his hands.

  Retrieving the two handwriting samples, Mr Ponsonby then took a small oil painting off the bench and handed it to the witness. ‘Were you given this painting to examine by Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Yes, by Detective Inspector Neville. He asked me to compare the work with another and comment on the signature.’

  ‘Exhibit 38, m’lud, a macabre Ripper-scene painting acquired from The Strand Gallery. Mr Wheeler, did you compare the signature on this painting with that on this work, exhibit Number 1?’ Mr Ponsonby asked, pointing to the prized Emily on its easel.

  Surely the prosecution were not suggesting Jacob painted such horror? He had described to Sergeant Beck how he abhorred the work.

  ‘Yes. I found sixteen points of similarity between the two signatures and it is my professional opinion that they were painted by the same person.’

  Groans rose from the gallery around me. This was indeed bad news for Jacob. He had always denied painting such macabre works – and earlier, I had felt sure he was incapable of portraying such horror. So, had he painted them?

  ‘I have no further questions, m’lud.’

  Mr Ecclestone quickly rose to his feet.

  ‘Mr Wheeler, you found thirty-seven points of similarity in the handwriting samples and were professionally satisfied they were by the same hand.’ Taking up the Ripper-scene painting and pointing to the signature, he asked: ‘So, how can you be satisfied with only sixteen points of similarity with this signature?’

  ‘Simply because it is a smaller sample. The more words, the more similarities.’

  ‘If I were an artist with years of experience and had a similar brush to that which was used and the same colour paint, is it possible I could copy Jacob Silver’s signature well enough to obtain sixteen points of similarity?’

  ‘Well, I suppose–’

  ‘Yes or no, please, Mr Wheeler.’

  ‘Well, if you–’

  ‘Just yes or no, will do, Mr Wheeler.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose–’

  ‘Yes! That’s the word I’m looking for. Thank you. No further questions, m’lud.’

  So maybe Jacob didn’t paint them. The gallery owner’s evidence will prove that, beyond all doubt.

  The prosecution then called their final witness, and it was not the art gallery owner. I looked forward to him being called by the defence.

  ‘Lionel Hastings, KCB,’ the witness announced as he lowered his hand and passed back the Bible.

  ‘Sir Lionel, would you please tell the court about your professional credentials,’ Mr Ponsonby began.

  ‘I am a psychiatrist and head of psychopathology at the London Hospital and…’

  Defence Counsel bobbed up from his bench. ‘The defence accepts Sir Lionel as being an expert witness in mental health, m’lud,’ and sat again.

  Mr Ponsonby pressed on. ‘You were present during various interviews along with Sergeant Beck, Inspector Neville and the accused, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I was. And I interviewed the accused with Dr Sigmund Freud, visiting from Vienna, acknowledged expert in the field he calls psychoanalysis.’

  ‘Please tell the court of your findings.’

  ‘We identified Silver’s ailment as multiple personality disorder. He spoke freely about his life and the events leading up to his arrest. Silver described how, at an early age, he had become accustomed to people dying about him, due to his father’s practice as an apothecary.’

  ‘Did that give rise to any conclusions on your part?’

  ‘His mother’s method of dealing with father’s demise was described by him rather more freely and openly than I would have expected. He admitted responsibility for some of the deaths his poor prescriptions had caused but had no shame or remorse. Having made a promise to his dying father to strive for immortality, and then losing him, the closest human being in his life, his father’s subsequent preservation undoubtedly had a profound effect on him. He admitted that he would have liked to have preserved his father forever. With what we know now, I would submit that these events were the seed, resulting in the first shoots of his mental instability.

  ‘Effectively orphaned and crippled by polio, he is then outcast at his college. Lonely, bullied and homesick, this extremely intelligent boy would naturally seek allies, and a replacement father-figure, and I believe this is what drove him to befriend a fellow outcast, the benefactor of the school – adopting him as his professor of science.’

  ‘When you say: adopted him, can you expand on that for us, please?’

  ‘Having engaged in conversations with the imaginary professor, or the artist’s impression of him if you prefer, the professor crossed over from being imaginary, in Mr Silver’s subconscious, to becoming a real person; another persona, co-existing in his own mind. So far as Mr Silver was concerned, from that moment on, the professor was real enough to touch, smell, talk to and argue with – just as the accused described to those interviewing him.’

  ‘He was real, you idiot! You’re all idiots!’ Jacob screamed from the dock, amid many a sharp intake of breath from the gallery.

  ‘Quiet!’ the judge yelled back at him. ‘It’s your turn later!’

  ‘Left much to his own devices, the boy’s mind had him believe he was a master in all things; grandiose schemes that led to him, apparently, developing potions and concoctions that he believed could cure anything – even the incurable. Sadly, this was delusion and led to the eventual death of his best friend, Muxlow, and very nearly killed his sweetheart, Muxlow’s sister – Emily.’

  ‘So there was no malicious intent when he administered these concoctions?’

  ‘Not at all. Mr Silver believed, above all else, in his own skills. He wanted rid of Muxlow’s freckles – the professor, his other persona, informed him belladonna would achieve that. Mr Silver had no knowledge, in truth, whether that particular potion would work or not; his imaginary professor had invented the process. And it killed the boy. Likewise, Mr Silver imagined he was curing Emily – in fact, from what we can ascertain, what he gave her nigh on killed her. But against all the odds, for she was in a weak state from consumption, she survived. The other medications she was taking at the time probably limited the damage Mr Silver’s harmful medications could inflict.

  ‘Banished from the college, the boy’s mind would have been in turmoil. He had lost the only two people who meant anything to him – including the one person he dearly loved – Emily.’

  ‘He continued painting Emily from memory?’ said Mr Ponsonby, standing at the side of the line of eleven portraits of Emily which had been brought back into court, and pointing to the prized Emily.

  ‘Yes. A brilliant artist with a brilliant memory to match, he recalled her so well. Just look at the beauty in that first portrait. Her own mother vouches for its accurate portrayal of her daughter. Recalling her with such clarity, such detail, this reveals an utter infatuation with the girl, there is no doubt about it. He kept Emily alive in his imagination by continually painting her. But memories of her eventually faded away, probably due to the addled state of his brain, after becoming addicted. She would no longer materialise no matter what concoctions he swallowed.’

  ‘
Perhaps now you could explain why he went for her head and the meaning behind these paintings, Sir Lionel,’ said Mr Ponsonby, indicating the line of eleven easels.

  ‘His first rendition, his prized Emily he called it, would have been the most beautiful, because she was still fresh in his mind. But when his memory of her faded, it was akin to losing an arm or a leg. So he went off to bring her back.

  ‘He denied that, at every opportunity, but he had to go and get her – to fulfil his need for her in his life again. To survive. There is no doubt that he had an enormous passion for the girl – a desperate need.’

  ‘But Emily had died, years earlier.’

  ‘He couldn’t have been aware of that until his arrival back at Greenwold. There is no doubt that learning of her death would have devastated his mind. Pushed him over the edge. He lost all reason. Someone must have explained she was interred in the family tomb at Finchingfield – an unguarded place where he could go and help himself.’

  ‘And so he desecrated the family crypt and took her head?’

  ‘That is my professional opinion, yes. He took her head and preserved it, in formaldehyde – just like he did with his father. To him it was the natural thing to do.’

  In the dock, Jacob was sobbing, covering his face with his arms.

  ‘During his interviews, he spoke of Emily arriving out of the blue, four years after he’d last seen her,’ Mr Ponsonby said.

  ‘That would have been after her head was removed from the formaldehyde and embalmed. He had dressed her to pose as his mistress – in the bath chair. His inspiration returned, immediately. And so he was joyful, able to paint her again, his mind blocking out, completely forgetting, the morbidity of how she came to be there.

  ‘He painted eleven portraits over the next nine months or so. In his eyes, it was the same Emily on the canvas. His beautiful Emily.’ Sir Lionel looked over towards Jacob in the dock. ‘When he described that line of paintings to us during his interview, he was adamant they were all identical. To him, they were, in every way – beautiful and identical. But his artist’s eye, recording like a camera, tells us that this was not so. We see Emily as she actually was, picture by picture – horrifically decomposing before us.’

  ‘How was it possible that Silver thought Emily was alive again?’

  ‘Oh, to him, she was alive the whole time. And very much so. She became another persona in his imagination, just another of the strangers that we know of, taking up residence there. She would do anything his subconscious demanded. He spoke six languages – she spoke six languages. His favourite book was War & Peace – her favourite book was the same. He could recite eleven of Lord Byron’s poems from memory – she could do the same. It was no coincidence – he had given birth to her, after all. Everything she did or said came from him; from his script; from his knowledge; from his desires. He proposed to her and she to him. But we can prove from the handwriting of the betrothal she apparently made, that it was he, in fact, who did all the proposing.’

  Goodness, Jacob! You were so terribly ill.

  I could not take my eyes off Jacob cowering silently in the dock.

  Murmurs rose throughout the courtroom. My heart went out to him. I felt he needed me now, more than ever. But where was Betsy Pollock while all this was going on? Why had she done nothing to stop it?

  ‘Sir Lionel, the accused had the police believe he and Emily had intended to live together as man and wife, quite normally. Can you explain how such monstrous behaviour might have been considered normal by the accused?’ asked Mr Ponsonby.

  ‘So far as Jacob Silver was concerned, Emily was alive and well. We have his own confession about his extraordinary drug intake. This, added to a genius’s wild imagination, and I am in no doubt that, as distasteful as this may seem, he lived, conferred, and would have slept with Emily, like any other couple, if they had married. Remember, what he saw was only what he wanted to see – a beautiful, desirable, and whole Emily. Had they married, she would have become the perfect wife he desired her to be – in every way. And he truly believed his art was making her, and him, immortal. His own Mona Lisa.’

  I was beginning to feel unwell from the already sickening evidence and was quite unprepared for the next line of questioning.

  ‘And what of his drinking the elixir in which her severed head floated?’

  ‘The toxicologist has confirmed that the elixir in which Emily’s head floated – Elixir 32, Mr Silver had called it, until it became his Essence of Emily – was indeed a derivative of the nectar to which he had become addicted. Whether medically, biologically, chemically or psychologically, I cannot be certain, but her decomposing head added to what the elixir meant to him. By drinking it, he shared her means of surviving so that he became part of her – she became part of him. And he needed to maintain that euphoria every day, by topping-up every single day.’

  A juror vomited. Groans and grimaces rose from the public gallery. Mr Ponsonby paused while the juror composed himself.

  ‘You’re suggesting he drank this obnoxious substance to survive?’

  ‘He couldn’t do without it. Addicted beyond belief, it made him feel a part of his... his victims.’

  ‘And when the Essence of Emily dried up?’ he continued.

  ‘Catastrophe! He was rapidly losing her to decay. But he was sure he had a way to save her – bring her back to life. Now, his resistance to taking innocent lives was thrown to the wind. He knew it was wrong. Wrong to kill. But his need for these five souls was a greater need. Their souls would resurrect and rejuvenate his Emily. He had to have them murdered, to survive himself, and commanded his evil professor to take their lives, steal their souls. By the time the last girl’s soul was added – he was convinced he could raise Emily from the dead. Adding Emily’s soul would mean she became immortal. And he, consuming the same elixir, would become invincible.’

  All around me, a wave of nausea ran through those present, as a cleric retched into his handkerchief. Others fought to get out into the fresh air. A fat woman fainted, blocking the aisle. Folk piled over the top of her or vaulted over the benches to freedom. I felt so relieved when the judge was forced to order a short recess.

  Papa was right. I had needed to hear this myself, for I would never have believed him, had he told me himself. Jacob was far more mad than I ever dared believe. The vision I had, once so glorious, was all but destroyed.

  When we reconvened, Mr Ponsonby continued questioning the psychologist.

  ‘And what of the mysterious professor and immortality?’

  ‘As I have said, the professor was another invention of his mind and became part of him – an extension of himself. The professor loved alchemy – because Jacob Silver loved alchemy. The professor sought the elixir of life, immortality – as Jacob Silver had promised he would seek immortality, to his father. During our interviews, Mr Silver often remarked about the professor seemingly reading his mind. Of course he could, he was one and the same mind. As one of his multiple personalities, the professor was just as real a person to Mr Silver as any man in the street.’

  ‘He was real, you fool! I knew him nine bloody years!’ Jacob cried from the dock, as a guard slapped him down.

  ‘Silence, or I will have you gagged!’ the judge yelled back, pounding his gavel. The gallery became a cauldron of murmurs and groans before settling again.

  ‘And what of the housekeeper, Betsy Pollock?’

  At last, finally we may find out the truth. Why had she ignored what was going on?

  And then, the final blow…

  ‘Betsy Pollock, too, was just another persona. A figment of his imagination, a character performing in his play. A play to achieve his dream – Emily in his life, forever – both of them immortal.’

  ‘They were real, you idiot!’ Jacob yelled from the dock again, rattling his chains. As the jailer attempted to gag him, ‘I knew them both from Greenwold!’

  Mr Ecclestone jumped to his feet and went over to the side of the dock, jabbing a finge
r in Jacob’s face while admonishing him.

  I felt devastated. The last inkling of some normality in his life – gone. I considered leaving to spare myself the cruel truth. But another part of me was urging me to stay – to have faith. Believe in this mad man. But how could I?

  The judge was furious. ‘Just once more, d’you hear me? Just once more and I’ll have you gagged or withdrawn. You will have your turn. Wait until then!’ he scathed. ‘Continue, Mr Ponsonby.’

  ‘Mr Silver told the police that he wanted to show Emily off to the world. Take her for walks, go to meet customers in their shop, but Miss Pollock forbade that, for one reason or another. He said she not only existed but took control of Emily. How would you explain that, sir?’ asked the prosecutor.

  ‘This is typical behaviour for one with multiple personality disorder,’ Sir Lionel said directly to the jury, ‘one personality working against another. Let me explain using an analogy. Imagine Mr Silver’s mind, if you would, as a stage, putting on a performance. There is a cast of four: Mr Silver himself, Emily, the professor and Betsy Pollock. The audience is the big wide world but only one of the cast is actually real, and the only one able to step out from backstage and converse with the audience – Jacob Silver. The curtain rises. The play begins. Enter Jacob Silver, the only person on stage. And he tells us he dotes on Emily and wants her onstage – to show her to the audience, the big wide world. The others say, and that includes Emily: It’s too cold, or she doesn’t want to, or she has a headache, or whatever, and remain backstage, preventing him from showing the real world their best kept secret – that none of them are real.’ Sir Lionel looked at the jurors in turn, quizzically. ‘You might ask: But how do they come to do this? Well, simply ask yourself this: Who wrote the script?’ He paused, a finger raised in the air, then pointed it towards a smiling juror. ‘Exactly! Mr Silver! Mr Silver’s subconscious knows Emily cannot be seen in public. And so cast members, for whom he wrote the script and directed everything onstage, conspired to prevent that from happening.’ He turned back to Mr Ponsonby. ‘I think that is the best way I can explain it.’