Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  Letty, surprisingly nervous after she took off her clothes in front of this, her first disinterested man, felt forced to wave at Jacob to remind him she was there, posing.

  ‘Just getting some background in, my dear,’ Jacob offered, his hand flashing across the page. He pointed to a painting leaning against the studio wall, her friend, Polly. ‘D’you think you can take up that pose, for me?’

  Letty did as requested, cottoned on instantly; she leaned back in the chaise, one arm draped over the back, her dress draped across her lap. ‘Ain’t never done nuffink like this, mister.’ After Jacob didn’t answer, ‘Most men I know wanna get it over and done wiv, soon as yer like. Y’know what I mean, sir?’

  ‘Call me Jacob, please,’ then, after lifting his brush to arm’s length and peering past it at her, ‘So you’re Letty. Magnificent.’ He turned the brush horizontally, then vertically, then horizontally again. ‘So that you don’t get bored, why not tell me about yourself? I’d be interested to hear.’

  ‘I’s a widder,’ she began, as Jacob daubed paint on the canvas.

  ‘A widow? Oh, I am sorry,’ Jacob said with genuine dismay.

  ‘Accident, in the docks. They gave us five shillin’s, me and the kids. Compensation they says. Five bloody bob, Gawd luv us.’

  ‘My sympathies, my dear. Er, how do you feel about Leticia?’

  ‘Leticia?’

  ‘The name we’ll put on your painting. For one so beautiful I want your portrait to have an extraordinary name.’

  ‘Not back luck, is it? Changin’ a name? Didn’t I hear it said…’

  ‘Ships, Letty; bad luck for ships, apparently. But for a beautiful woman? I see no harm.’

  ‘I dunno, I…’

  ‘Women are changing their names every day, aren’t they? When they marry? Or when they elope with the gardener and stay at a shady hotel, perhaps. Lady Belcher of Belchington suddenly becomes Mrs Smith of Rotten Row when Mr Smith picks up the bill.’ Jacob laughed. ‘Trust me, there’s no harm in it. And if Leticia becomes famous, I will see to it that you and your family share in the profits. How’s that?’

  Letty’s eyes welled. She dabbed them dry on the cotton dress draped across her lap. ‘You’s a kind one, for sure, sir.’ She tutted. ‘Jacob.’

  Letty could not have known then, just how famous her portrait would become – as an exhibit in her murder trial.

  After another four sittings, making Letty five shillings better off, Jacob declared her portrait was finished.

  ‘You’ve paid me same what I got for the ol’ man,’ Letty announced sadly, pocketing the day’s payment. She stood clutching her dress to her bosom and, stepping towards the easel, asked, ‘Can I see it? That be all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jacob waved her towards him behind the easel. ‘I hope it’s to your liking.’ He introduced them formally, bowing deeply to the portrait like she was royalty. ‘Lady Leticia of Lexington meet milady Letty, my new acquaintance.’

  Letty giggled, curtsied and looked up at the portrait – then burst into tears. She threw her arms around Jacob’s neck, dropping the dress and blubbering. ‘So… So bleedin’ gorgeous. That really me?’

  Jacob comforted her for a few moments, patting her naked back gently, and then finding his hands smoothing the cheeks of her bottom. Snapping out of it, he held her at arm’s length, snot running from her nose as she wailed some more. Jacob pulled out a handkerchief. ‘Wipe your nose, dear. Can’t have you leaving here looking like that.’ He laughed. ‘They’ll think I’ve been beating you.’

  Letty laughed with him and blew her nose, handing the handkerchief back to him. Jacob folded it gently, popped it back into his pocket. ‘I shall treasure it.’

  Letty smiled, kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, sir, for making me…’

  ‘Jacob touched her lips gently, with his finger. ‘Shhh. I didn’t do anything.’ Gesturing to the painting, ‘That is what you are to me. I can never thank you enough. We shall offer it for sale – but only to someone who deserves it.’

  Jacob could not, at that precise moment, have known where Emily was in the house – Betsy, or he, choosing to move her from time to time to give her a better view, or a warm by the fire. While Betsy and the professor were both certain Emily was a preserved piece of animal matter in a jar, Jacob had insisted they treat her as one of the family – as he fully intended she would become after their concoction for immortality had been mastered and he had resurrected her. And regardless of her being inanimate, to Jacob, Emily was as good as alive and well, due to his continued consumption of the elixir he and she shared. And she was very much back in control. Had he known she was within earshot, he would not have given the delectable Letty so much attention, nor stroked her curvaceous rump. In this house, Emily’s house, there were rules – rules that had to be obeyed. Jacob had never contemplated disobedience; hell had no fury anything like this reborn woman now ruling his life – be she in a jar, or no.

  But within earshot, she was. And those fingers caressing the girl’s bottom would not go unnoticed.

  When the professor and Betsy sat down at the dinner table that night and Betsy began to serve, Jacob startled them with his shouts and screams, upstairs.

  ‘In the doghouse again?’ the professor smirked, well aware that Emily was getting far more attention than she deserved.

  ‘ ’E’s been confessing, I ’spect. Can’t keep anythin’ quiet, that one,’ Betsy replied, spooning cabbage onto the professor’s plate. ‘Probably had his hands on the stock.’

  ‘The stock?’ the professor questioned. Then, chuckling into his beard: ‘Ah. The fair stock.’ Impatient to start his meal, the professor added: ‘Was a widow, that one.’ A thump and the sound of breaking glass caused them both to stare at each other.

  ‘Think he’ll be all right? All that medication…’

  ‘It’s never done anybody any permanent harm,’ the professor assured Betsy. ‘Anyway, we’re nearly there. Just a couple more steps.’

  When Nora threw her clothes off, Jacob was entranced.

  ‘Extraordinary, your freckles,’ he remarked, running his finger down her back, tracing the freckles to yet another delightful rear. ‘You’re completely covered.’

  ‘My lucky charm, me mum says,’ Nora giggled. ‘She’d read ’em, like they was tea leaves.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Jacob said, holding up Letty’s portrait. ‘D’you think you can take up this pose?’ She nodded, sat down on the chaise and prepared.

  With a more rounded face and fuller figure than slender Letty, Nora was still an extremely pretty lady. Her dark brown eyes sparkled in her freckled face which gave her a child-like, impish look. Shapely cupid’s bow lips enclosed teeth that were as straight as a die.

  Betsy knocked and entered carrying a silver tray. ‘Tea, sir,’ she said. ‘There’s milk, cream or lemon, whatever madam prefers.’ She tapped a small bottle and smiled. ‘And don’t forget your medicine, master.’ Betsy averted her eyes for fear of causing either herself or the naked girl embarrassment.

  ‘Thank you, Betsy,’ Jacob said from behind the easel.

  ‘If you’re havin’ a cup, duck,’ Nora said to Betsy, ‘I’ll do your fortune, if you like.’

  ‘I’ll be taking mine downstairs,’ Betsy said, smiling. ‘But if the master doesn’t mind, the opportunity to have one’s fortune told is too good to lose. I’ll see you in the parlour, shall I, miss?’

  ‘Nora, duck,’ she said, smiling at Betsy. ‘Just leave the dregs in the bottom of your cup and I’ll take it from there.’

  At the end of Nora’s first sitting, Jacob cleaned his brushes in turpentine.

  ‘Gonna ’ave a very long life, Jacob,’ Nora said, reading his tea leaves after he obeyed the instruction to swirl the dregs in his cup three times clockwise, then three anticlockwise, and upturn the cup into the saucer. She then took hold of his hand and studied his palm. ‘Straight as a rod, that lifeline. ’Ere,’ she said. ‘Never seen such a long ’un, I really ain’t.’r />
  ‘And does it tell you anything else?’ Jacob sat on the chaise, his hand in hers. ‘Will I have children?’

  Nora dropped his hand suddenly, fluttering her eyelids, like she had something in her eye. She reached out for her bag. ‘Summink in me eye,’ she complained, and suddenly stood up. ‘Gotta go now. I’ll be late.’

  ‘So, will I, Nora? Will I have children?’ Jacob called after her as she flew out of the door.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ Nora said, hurrying to the stairs.

  Nora was halfway down when Jacob leaned over the landing banister. ‘Is something wrong, Nora? Something I said?’

  She stopped on the stair, looked up.

  ‘Just me. Ain’ feeling no good. Bedder get meself ’ome.’

  Jacob studied his palm, sure that Nora had seen something there – something sufficiently bad to frighten her away. He returned to the studio and closed the door, searching his palm again for evidence.

  Soon after, Betsy knocked and entered. ‘She was going to tell my fortune,’ she said, a little dismayed. ‘I was all prepared. Did you have cross words?’

  Jacob shrugged. ‘She just ran off. Perhaps she can do it at her next sitting, in a few days.’

  Nora duly returned but there was something different about her demeanour. A little nervous, she stripped and sat on the chaise and continually touched a silver crucifix hanging from her neck on a thin chain, moving her lips as if muttering a prayer.

  Jacob was quick to notice – he was a portrait painter after all – and silver objects reflecting light do get noticed next to pretty breasts.

  ‘The necklace?’ he asked. ‘Something new?’

  ‘I… I’d like to keep it on if I may, sir?’

  ‘Of course, Nora. That won’t be a problem. I’ll ignore it.’

  After that sitting Nora called on Betsy on her way out and did tell her fortune.

  ‘There’s two men in your life, Betsy, and one what’s up to mischief,’ she said, pulling a solemn face, looking from all angles inside the cup at the scattered tea leaves. ‘You’ve just gotta work out which one it is, duck.’

  Serving more tea in the parlour, Betsy quietly began to pry. ‘And er… his nibs,’ she raised her eyebrows, signifying him upstairs. ‘Anything fascinating, dare I ask?’

  Unconsciously, Nora gripped the crucifix on her necklace.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell?’ Nora asked, awaiting Betsy’s solemn nod. ‘His lifeline’s longer than Soufend Pier. Goes on forever,’ she said, checking over her shoulder lest they be overheard. Nora leaned in close to Betsy’s ear. ‘But ’e’s gonna have a lot of tragedy in his life. Gonna bury everyone he ever loved.’

  Betsy gasped. ‘I must warn him before–’

  Nora grabbed her arm. ‘You can’t. Breached his confidence ain’ I. Besides, things get worse, you interfere. Mark me words, stay well out o’ it.’

  The line of three beautiful portraits of Polly, Letty and Nora, leant against the studio wall. Each showed a startlingly attractive girl, seductively laid back on the chaise, naked, with her dress draped over her lap, an arm over the back of the chaise. Each pair of attractive eyes showed the minutest detail and followed any observer from whatever angle, luring, beckoning – come sample my wares.

  Jacob angrily swigged back the last of a large glass of port, standing Penelope on his easel. The professor sat on the chaise, sipping his.

  ‘My best yet and he refused them all. The man has no taste! Damn him!’

  ‘But we haven’t the money to pay these girls. And the whole purpose of painting again was to enable us to buy chemicals, Master Jacob, was it not?’

  ‘Of course it damn well was,’ Jacob shouted disrespectfully. ‘He gave me another hundred, for three lesser Emily’s he just sold. You’ll have to make do.’ Jacob threw his glass, smashing it in the fireplace.

  ‘Just a hundred for three masterpieces?’ the professor asked meekly. ‘I thought they were selling for thousands.’

  ‘Only the one. Some collector wants to buy all the others. A job lot.’

  ‘From your experiment?’ the old man asked. Jacob didn’t answer. ‘And what of the prized Emily? Why hasn’t that been sold? People were fighting over it.’

  ‘He couldn’t even show it to me. Said it was away being appraised. Soon as he gets it back I’ll take it somewhere else. He doesn’t deserve it. He just wants blood and guts plastering his walls. Torture and pain seem to be the current fashion. Pleasure is very much out of vogue, according to Jean-Louis.’

  ‘Thanks to Monsieur De Sade, no doubt,’ the professor added. ‘So what is it exactly that disturbs you about painting horror, Master Jacob, like he suggests? It’s not as though we don’t need the money.’

  ‘Does one have to shock to survive? Paint like a sheep after the herds of perverts copying these… these sadists and masochists?’

  The professor stood and approached the portrait on the easel, stroking Penelope’s face with the knuckle of his bony forefinger. ‘Here you’ve captured beauty and emotion, a dazzling smile, a twinkle in her eye, desire and passion. In life, she’s offered a shilling for the pleasure of a few moments. A pleasure that, in private, takes a lonely man’s breath away.

  ‘You on the other hand, a master craftsman, you are denied even that shilling, offered not a penny for a masterpiece that’ll bring pleasure and public applause, not just for moments, but for a thousand years – and take everybody’s breath away.’

  The professor went to the studio window and pointed down into the street. ‘And what is the difference, pray, between the pleasure she brings down there in the street, and the fear, dread, terror and horror that the gallery clientele demands? Purely shapes on a face, is it not?’ Jacob did not answer. ‘How many guineas, I wonder,’ the professor continued, picking up and dashing a huge butcher’s knife across Penelope’s throat, ‘to frighten her a little?’

  Fumbling in his pocket, Jacob came across the business card Jean-Louis had given him – the gentleman wishing to commission him to paint a portrait of his daughter. Using the card just like the professor had used the butcher’s knife, Jacob ran it across Penelope’s throat in the portrait.

  ‘Jean-Louis would love me to paint her head on a plate, ready for lunch. I wonder if Sir Robert would agree to his daughter being portrayed like that?’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘I’ll make arrangements to see the old boy before we all starve to death.’

  Chapter 14

  At the gallery, a dignified and upright gentleman introduced himself to me as Sir Robert Weston. I recalled his profession: By Royal Appointment, Psychologist to Her Majesty Queen Victoria; but with his weather-beaten face, wide handle-bar moustache and a neatly trimmed, grey goatee beard, one could easily mistake him for an explorer or adventurist. He was well over sixty but there was still a sparkle of youth in his eyes.

  ‘I need an artist, young sir, and you come highly recommended,’ he said. ‘I was here some months ago and Monsieur St Clair showed me your exquisite painting: Emily. I was hoping you would agree to paint my daughter?’

  ‘I would be honoured, Sir Robert,’ I told him, producing my three latest and rejected works: portraits of Polly, Letty and Nora.

  ‘My goodness, they are wonderful,’ Sir Robert exclaimed, ‘I can see why the gallery are so proud to represent you as an artist.’

  Jean-Louis, who, from a distance, had watched their proceedings thus far, suddenly concealed himself behind a curtain.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur St Clair truly does appreciate my work,’ Jacob said loudly, to ensure the scoundrel had heard.

  ‘Congratulations. You have the kind of talent I seek. But some decorum would be necessary, sir. Clothes would be essential.’

  ‘My apologies, sir. I meant no impertinence. I show them purely to give you the confidence I am able enough for the task.’

  ‘My daughter is very special to me. I want you to capture her. . . before…’ he was suddenly overtaken with grief and obviously in great distress. Tears rolled down hi
s face into his whiskers. He regained his composure and blurted out:

  ‘She’s dying, Mr Silver.’

  Chapter 15

  I knew it would cause me much discomfort but I hoped I could manage to sit the hours required without spoiling the occasion, as it did mean so much to dear Papa. The last thing I wanted was to have to sit as rigid as a post, smile and make small talk with some crotchety old gentleman smelling of linseed and turpentine.

  And then a carriage arrived, bringing Jacob Silver.

  Well, as he took my hand and looked into my eyes I became overwhelmed by his innocent beauty. I was quivering, stuttering and stammering like I could never recall. His eyes, the colour of steel; hair, jet-black and swept back; angled features as perfect as I have ever witnessed. And then he smiled. I felt alive once more, shaken from the slumber I had been driven into by remedies for this wretched disease.

  ‘Millie,’ Papa called to my maid, pulling my hand from the young visitor’s. Millie appeared and curtsied to our guest. ‘Show Mr Silver upstairs. Jacob, I’ll leave you with Lizzie just a few moments to introduce yourselves.’ Papa whispered something to Millie – probably a command not to leave me alone with our delightful visitor. I wasn’t sure whether that was to stop him devouring me, or vice versa. ‘And then perhaps we can all agree on how you would best like to proceed.’

  I knew exactly how I wanted Jacob to proceed – but Papa would surely not approve. I watched the artist’s every move as he unpacked his tools in the upstairs drawing room, a sketchbook and a few crayons, and then he erected an easel before facing me on the chaise.

  ‘May I ask how old you are?’ I asked him. My chaperone, Millie, giggled. ‘My father spoke of your success but I was expecting someone. . .’

  ‘Someone older? A wrinkly old sage, perhaps? Taking snuff and sneezing all over you?’ he laughed. ‘I’m twenty-four, Miss Weston. And you?’

  Being so carefree, he was obviously unaware of the poor manners in asking any lady her age. Was he showing off his modernism or just being impertinent, I wondered?