Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  What was happening to me?

  Betsy herself was becoming more and more nervous before she said something about a young lady that had called into the shop and was asking after me. Then she announced:

  ‘Master Jacob, a surprise for you!’

  It was like a dream. A nightmare. She seemed to glide across the room to the door and open it – wheeling in a wicker bath chair. Betsy then dashed out of the door, slamming it closed behind her. No sooner had my eyes fallen upon the occupant of the wheelchair, my heart was in my mouth.

  I screamed.

  The room closed in about me; bile filled my mouth as the floor rose up and sucked me down into a disturbing, bottomless void.

  Smelling salts, waved under my nose by Betsy, caused me to regain consciousness. I was still on the floor; with Betsy’s aid, I sat up. Vaguely, I recalled what had happened. The bath chair. It was horrific. But I couldn’t remember why. I became frightened again. Trembling, gibbering:

  ‘Make it go away! Send it away!’

  ‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to, Master Jacob,’ Betsy said softly. She handed me another glass of her distasteful nectar, refusing to move away until I drank it all. Again I waved it away but she insisted, forcing me to drink the vile potion. Finally, she took the empty glass from my hand.

  ‘Shall we try again?’ She reached behind me. I turned my head slightly and was startled upon noticing the wickerwork edge of that wretched bath chair again, so close to me. I crawled away to take refuge behind the sofa, my head throbbing from what appeared to be my own boiling blood pulsing through my brain. But then everything began to change – for the better. The ceiling gaslight transformed into a thousand twinkling stars; every corner of the room lit up with coloured light, pulsating, floating on a gentle breeze about the room. My head no longer throbbed and a glorious feeling of euphoria came over me. I was happy. I wanted to laugh. I had to laugh; share the happiness of my elation.

  The sofa moved away and the wicker wheelchair gently rolled up to me. I kneeled to look inside again.

  And there she was.

  Emily.

  And I laughed out loud, joyously. Emily looked radiant in a long evening gown, a glowing aura about her. Her eyes were not as bright as I once knew – but bright enough to bring me inward happiness again. Her hair was different, lighter and thinner; and her face… I noticed she had succumbed to the latest fashion of a tinted foundation. She had matured somewhat, but she was absolutely beautiful, as magnificent as when I’d last seen her.

  There was music, a huge orchestra played a waltz – its elevating spirit matching my own. I cannot recall how Betsy had arranged everything – but it was a wonderful reception. Of a sudden, at least a hundred guests arrived, smiling, applauding and congratulating me. Half the aristocracy was there, thrilled by Emily’s presence. And no sooner had we gone through to the ballroom there was Her Majesty, patting a seat for Emily to sit beside her. It was glorious. Emily was the centre of attraction – their new princess. Everybody rejoiced.

  At breakfast the following morning, my recollection of the night before was far vaguer than I would have wished – but my throbbing head forbade me to dwell on it. Betsy served another glass of her mysterious and revolting nectar before attending to Emily. It lifted my spirits immediately – I felt I could float on air. She had persuaded me of the necessity to imbibe in the nectar frequently, to avoid dangerous ill-effects.

  I recalled that Emily hadn’t spoken that first evening; she was surely as shocked as I was, the sheer surprise of our meeting up like that. Betsy impressed upon me that Emily would need time to adjust; she was in a delicate state – hence the wheelchair.

  ‘But cheer her enough,’ Betsy said, ‘and she’ll be all you ever expected.’

  At last, Betsy brought my love into the breakfast room – and my headache vanished. I felt complete again.

  ‘My dear, it is so wonderful to see you again,’ I told Emily, as I kissed her cheek.

  Emily stared at me, not saying a word – but her look was all I needed. She needed time. She had to adjust. I pledged solemnly to myself that I would give her all the time she needed. Although I hadn’t imagined it would be quite that long.

  Day after day we sat together at every opportunity, until Betsy determined Emily was too tired and needed to rest. And still she was not back to her old self – the gaiety and spontaneous sense of fun that I had known in her, so distant. But I said nothing. I waited – waited until, finally, she came out of herself.

  The sun was streaming through the windows one morning about a month later, after I had finished breakfast as well as my regular glass of nectar, and Betsy brought Emily down to join me.

  ‘Good morning, Jacob,’ Emily said calmly, the first words she had spoken to me since her arrival. I was elated. ‘As it’s such a beautiful day, I thought perhaps we could go sit in the garden?’

  ‘Of course, my darling,’ I said enthusiastically, ‘of course. But why don’t we stroll along the Embankment?’

  ‘Good heavens, no, master,’ Betsy interrupted. ‘Madam’s nowhere near well enough for that.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘Then it’s the garden. But will you not eat something first, Emily?’

  ‘I’ve not the appetite to eat right now,’ she said. ‘Maybe later.’

  It was a glorious May morning and I prepared to wheel her chair out into the garden when Betsy came fussing with an extra blanket. ‘You must stay warm, madam,’ Betsy said, tucking the blanket tightly around her and affixing a bonnet. ‘Don’t keep her out too long, master,’ Betsy told me, opening the back door, and assisting me to lift the wheelchair down the two steps into the garden. ‘I’ll come and fetch you later.’

  In the garden, spring was under full swing. A cherry tree was in blossom and other shrubs were beginning to bud. Birds of all description chirped in the warm sunshine. Although Emily didn’t have much to say, she seemed content staring up at the odd cloud floating by.

  ‘So, you got my message from your brother?’ I asked Emily under the cherry blossom. She didn’t answer. ‘Tommy? How is he?’ I asked. Again, she said nothing and continued to stare skyward. ‘Do you see him?’ I pressed. ‘I do miss old Muxlow. We were best friends.’ After another long pause I asked, ‘How are your family?’

  Emily stared and said: ‘We don’t have much to do with one another any longer. Everybody has grown up, gone their separate ways.’

  After a long silence, I felt I must ask: ‘And Rebecca?’

  ‘I want nothing more to do with her,’ Emily said, after another long silence. ‘She seemed to think you were her property,’ she snarled.

  ‘I thought it was a misunderstanding,’ I tried, but Emily was furious.

  ‘You would rather it was my sister sitting here, is that it?’ she snapped, angrily, her eyes piercing through me like a knife to my heart.

  I didn’t answer. After what seemed far too long, I put my hand on her wheelchair and made my confession:

  ‘You know, Emily, you are the only person in the world I care about. The only woman I have had affection for. I missed you terribly after leaving college. It broke my heart. And when you nearly died…’ I couldn’t speak for a few moments, but then ranted on: ‘You do know it was I who saved you, do you?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Nobody could love you as I do; I will do anything and everything to see you fully well again. You mean the world to me. You are my world. I’ve been so miserable without you. Please, please, trust me. Allow me to be as close to you as we once were. For without you I am nothing. Nothing. I would not wish to go back to that loneliness again, and–’

  ‘I trust you,’ she interrupted. ‘But you have to accept I’m no longer the young girl you knew. I’m not well. I will need a lot of looking after.’ She took a long deep breath and sighed. ‘You must love me. Always love me. You must care for me and give me time.’ She took another deep breath. ‘I’ll then be yours – completely. But hear this now, Jacob Silver – never neglect me, you hear? Never turn
your back on me for another. Never fail to be there when I need you; come when I need you. It is important to me. It means everything to me.’ And then she fell silent, a fan covering her face from the bright sun.

  ‘I hear you, my darling,’ I told her, solemnly, ‘I hear you and will do what you ask and so much more.’ Laying my hand on her blanket, I assured her: ‘I will always love you.’

  ‘I need you to come inside now,’ Betsy called out as she ran down the garden and took control of Emily’s chair. ‘Emily you’ll catch your death out here.’ And as Betsy passed: ‘Your medication is on the kitchen table, master,’ she whispered to me, referring to the potent nectar she was so sure I needed.

  I grew used to Emily’s condition. Precisely what was ailing her, she would not say and forbade me to investigate. After reminding her of the cures I had discovered for others and the huge medical resources I had at my disposal, she still would not let me concern myself with what was troubling her. Others had prescribed what was good for her – she told me sternly – and I was not to interfere.

  ‘Let me speak to those fools,’ I told her, ‘and I’ll soon have you cured.’

  ‘Make one move toward diagnosing my ailments, and I will leave you,’ Emily warned me, ‘in an instant.’

  Frustrated that I could not intervene, no one was more surprised than I as to how willingly and lovingly Betsy took care of Emily and saw to all her needs. The one odd thing that I never got to the bottom of, was that whenever I suggested showing off Emily to the shop customers or taking her for a walk in her wheelchair, Betsy declined to let her go, for one reason or another.

  Betsy also mixed Emily’s various medications, my being banned from the laboratory when she did so. Together, we endeavoured to give Emily all the joy possible. I was delighted to find that after I introduced her to my father’s library, she found much consolation in reading, and set out to read almost everything on the shelves. She digested literature like an industrial machine. Soon after I had left her with a fresh volume to read, Betsy would come and complain she had finished it and needed another. And she learned languages quicker than I ever thought possible. Soon, we were gabbling on in a multitude of languages exchanging views on the works of Anton Chekov, Pushkin, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Leo Tolstoy, Emile Zola and Victor Hugo, among others. Emily could quote verbatim, eleven of Lord Byron’s poems – as I could. Her favourite book was War & Peace by Leo Tolstoy and often, just before she went to sleep, she would read it to me, softly, her voice as hypnotic as a songbird’s.

  Although I had held back one portrait of Emily that I held dear, my prized Emily, I called it, completed from the sketches I had made of her at Lady Bedford’s over four years earlier, it had been at least a year since I had taken any newly completed work to the gallery. Jean-Louis had become quite annoyed that I had cut him off so, he said. Had I found another gallery? I explained that my attention had been fully absorbed in science, and all the experimentation going on in the laboratory proved that. But Jean-Louis was sure that I had obtained a better price for my art, elsewhere. Eventually, I promised him I would work on some portraits, telling him Emily had come to stay.

  Having Emily around me did give rise to a new passion to paint her and I was soon sketching her at every opportunity. She enjoyed the attention and would chat away about everything and anything, from the stench of the horse manure left in the street below her window to the sounds of the bargemen calling across the Thames, plying their trade. I found it exciting to be putting oil on canvas again, and what better subject than Emily herself.

  ‘I just want to paint you,’ I told her on one of her brighter days, ‘so that all of London can enjoy your beauty and feel my appreciation for you.’ But she declined to show much of her body, however much I urged, drawing the line at anything suggestive of eroticism.

  She looked at me – puzzled. ‘Let’s hope all of London agrees with your perception of beauty,’ Emily said, ‘otherwise you could end up penniless.’

  Each portrait took three weeks to complete, and I took them to the gallery no sooner they were finished. Jean-Louis seemed as enthusiastic as ever, initially, although this enthusiasm did wear thin when not a single one featured a naked breast. And none had sold.

  ‘They’re different, I give you that. But they’re all of the same subject, Jacob, in the same boring pose,’ Jean-Louis complained. ‘You must have her do things with her body or find other women to pose – and more provocatively, I would suggest, if you have any hope of attracting regular buyers.’ But I had no intention of insulting my dear Emily in such a way.

  It was December before I took the eleventh portrait to the gallery – and still none of the others had sold. Embarrassed, I offered a proposal to Jean-Louis to help clear the lot.

  ‘What if I bring in the most beautiful Emily of all – one that is certain to sell, and we display them all together at a reduced price?’ I suggested, ‘Like a series of Hogarth’s lithographs. Everyone will want one, and they can help themselves.’

  ‘Since they will be of the same subject, Jacob,’ Jean-Louis considered, twiddling with the end of his waxed moustache, ‘I suppose it could catch on.’ After more thought he added, ‘An edition limited to twelve, I could inform patrons accordingly. Yes, that could work. Bring it in.’

  And so later that day, I delivered to the gallery my prized Emily. The only difference between all twelve was that the prized version had a topmost coat of varnish laced with my Desire potion.

  After eight months of our being together, at Christmas, 1892, so contented and so in love, I felt it only proper that I put a serious question to Emily during the festivities.

  ‘You’ve made me so content, my darling,’ I told her Christmas evening in the drawing room, passing her a package of hand-made chocolate from her favourite chocolatier in Regent Street. I knelt beside her bath chair and held her face between my hands. ‘I would be the happiest man in London if you would consent to marry me.’ Inside the chocolate I had concealed a modest diamond engagement ring. But she did not get to open the chocolate.

  She seemed surprised. Startled. She immediately called for Betsy, tears streaming down her face. I laughed, so sure she was overcome with joy. But I was mistaken.

  It was an hour or so later, after being settled in her room, that Betsy returned to the drawing room, barely able to compose herself.

  ‘She’s not herself, master,’ Betsy said, screwing a handkerchief in her hands. ‘She loves you, I know she does. With all her heart. But marriage…’ Betsy blew her nose. ‘Marriage and all those people coming to the church, gawping… The last thing madam wants is to become a spectacle.’

  As Betsy cried and left the room I was deeply saddened. Our love for each other was of the purest kind. Marriage was inevitable, I had imagined. Was Emily happy to continue as a mistress? Her possessiveness had me think otherwise. I was confused and took the chocolate with the ring away, locking them in my writing bureau. I was devastated as I turned the key in the lock. Heartbroken. Perhaps she needed more time? Time for us to grow closer – if that were possible. But how long? How long was I to wait to make our lives whole?

  For fear of upsetting Emily again, I kept my distance – and she didn’t complain. Jean-Louis, constantly pestered me from the gallery to sell the prized Emily – as nobody had any interest in the other eleven – and I vowed not to paint anything else until some of that collection were sold. I instructed the gallery not to sell the prize, my favourite work of art, at any price. With the success of Desire so well proven, I confess I was seriously considering slipping Emily similar potions, something that might change her mind. But I never had cause to. Two months had passed since my spurned proposal of marriage, when Emily made a proposal of her own:

  ‘I see no reason why we cannot live together as man and wife,’ she said calmly, not raising her eyes from the book she was reading. I was even more shocked when she added: ‘The commoners do it all the time – without ceremony. So, why shouldn’t we?’

 
I sat quite still for a few moments, with mixed feelings, for I had hitherto been the subject of rejection – rejected by a dear one living in the same house. For two months I had felt unloved. Unneeded. I had contemplated leaving; getting away from her, sure that that was what she required. And now, with this simple statement, Emily suddenly declaring that she fully accepted me, I realised I had been completely wrong. She had wanted me. She did love me. My heart thumped with excitement.

  ‘Well?’ she pressed.

  ‘Er, yes. That… That would be wonderful,’ I finally blurted out, grinning at her.

  ‘Then I’ll have Betsy re-arrange things,’ she said matter-of-factly, like it meant less than changing the laundry. ‘Have Betsy take me up now, will you,’ she continued. ‘I need to rest.’

  After I was alone again, I felt cross. When would Betsy be asked to re-arrange things? I wondered if I had heard Emily correctly. Had she asked me – or more accurately: told me – to become her husband, or not? Was she expecting me to rush up there in hot pursuit, or wait until she was asleep? Her manner had me favouring the latter. Let her be asleep and only find I had not slept in her bed the next morning, when she awoke. Perhaps she might then appreciate me more, appreciate what being a loving wife entailed. The least I had expected was an invitation to jump over a broom with her. And jolly soon. I couldn’t stop thinking how so much more joyous it would all have been, and emotionally comforting, if Emily had simply told me that she, too, was in love and wanted to marry me.

  And to my immense surprise, that was what the note said, brought to me on a silver platter the following week, the twelfth of March, 1893:

  I love you so much – let us privately

  celebrate and become man and wife. Emily.

  But before that happy occasion, a visitor arrived who would change everything – and kill my darling bride.

  The Trial: Day 3