Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder

by Chris James

  ‘To a Spanish nobleman, apparently.’

  Chapter 23

  Although Rebecca returned to the art gallery with the Masquerade – Penelope horror portrait, on the twenty-eighth of September, intent on telling the gallery owner what he could do with it, Jean-Louis put a proposal to her.

  ‘I was under the impression, madame,’ he began, ‘you were hoping this might frighten some old letch to death?’

  ‘And your point is, Monsieur St Clair?’

  ‘Well, if the gent was taken by Penelope, I wouldn’t be opposed to a little incentive, if you get my drift, for you to flog him the full set.’ He pointed at the matching portraits of Leticia and Isadora hanging in the window, a ticket for three hundred guineas swinging from each. ‘Shall we say fifteen per cent?’

  ‘Twenty,’ Rebecca said, thrusting out her hand. ‘I’ll bring the gentleman next week,’ she told Jean-Louis as he shook her hand to seal the deal. She then headed towards Jacob’s home, with the Penelope portrait.

  It was to become a very prosperous day for Jean-Louis St Clair and Jacob Silver. Their pockets would soon be lined with gold as an unexpected course of events unfolded at the gallery. Unfortunately, Jacob would never have the opportunity to enjoy his fortune.

  Adjacent to Jacob’s Masquerades of Letty and Nora, a lesser Emily remained on the easel in the window, exactly where the Count of Catalonia’s agent had left it, albeit pushed to the side to give way for more fashionable blood and lust. The price tag of twenty thousand guineas from the prized Emily, remained attached to it. Jean-Louis had yet to catch any unsuspecting buyer calling in from the Savoy, or passing blind man.

  Dusting a Monet hanging on the back wall, Jean-Louis was not pleasantly surprised when an entourage of six scarlet-and-yellow-uniformed guardsmen in big feathered hats entered his emporium, clearing the way for their leader, the most colourful of all.

  ‘Juan-Carlos Fernando Frederik Geraldo Francisco Laurencio heir to Juan-Carlos Fernando Frederik Geraldo Francisco Laurencio the Fifth, esteemed and noble Count of Catalonia,’ an equerry announced as the similarly-clad heir breezed in through their midst.

  Trembling, Jean-Louis bowed low, staring at the floor, hoping the gentleman’s Toledo-steel sword hanging from his belt might await his execution until he summoned an excuse to explain the missing prized Emily. But the god’s, from Spain and elsewhere, appeared to align in his favour, as he kissed the nobleman’s hand.

  ‘In your window, squire, the Emily my noble father so dearly needs,’ the heir began, Jean-Louis standing and brightening considerably. The nobleman approached the painting. ‘This is the one my father chose?’ he asked disapprovingly.

  ‘I believe he marked it with some secret code,’ Jean-Louis replied.

  The young heir eyed the frame closely and finally nodded his approval. An attendant approached the nobleman with an embroidered leather bag bearing the same crest as that emblazoned on all their backs. Its draw-strung mouth was yanked open. ‘I will pay in gold, if that is acceptable?’ the nobleman announced.

  Four other attendants knelt down before him on all fours; a fifth, set a small crested table top upon their backs, upon which the sixth poured the glittering contents of the leather bag – Spanish gold coins.

  ‘Fernando VI doubloons,’ the count’s heir explained, ‘been in my family a hundred and fifty years.’

  ‘I’m sure that will be satisfactory, my lord,’ Jean-Louis gushed and assisted the attendants to bag the portrait off the easel. Jean-Louis felt he must ask, ‘El Cont de Catalonia’s agent, noble lord, you know of his whereabouts? I needed to ask him about a certain missing painting.’

  ‘The scoundrel disappeared with my father’s twenty thousand guineas. If you should lay eyes on him again, do let us know. There will be a handsome reward,’ the young heir declared.

  ‘Well, my lord, you should know that he stole a work of art from this emporium of extraordinary value – making off with it into the night.’

  Stepping back, the nobleman swiped his sword from its scabbard, startling Jean-Louis, who fell to his knees, pleading for mercy. The six attendants fell to one knee, removing their tri-cornered feathered hats.

  ‘I beg you noble lord, not my head. I knew it was–’

  ‘Jean-Louis St Clair, I, Juan-Carlos Fernando Frederik Geraldo Francisco Laurencio, heir apparent to Juan-Carlos Fernando Frederik Geraldo Francisco Laurencio the Fifth, esteemed and noble Count of Catalonia,’ the nobleman announced, tapping both Jean-Louis’ shoulders, ‘anoint you with the Order de Santa Maria de Montesa y San Jorge de Alfama for your chivalry and services to Juan-Carlos Fernando Frederik Geraldo Francisco Laurencio the Fifth, esteemed and noble Count of Catalonia.’

  Jean-Louis wept in appreciation of keeping his head.

  ‘Arise noble knight,’ the young count decreed, hanging a huge gong over Jean-Louis’ neck and kissing both his cheeks.

  The cockney Frenchman felt a sudden urge to use the lavatory.

  The son of the fifth count of Catalonia, and his entourage, duly arrived in Barcelona where the ailing count was ready to receive them, eager to set eyes upon the prize.

  The painting was selected by the count when visiting Queen Victoria. His carriage had passed the gallery in the Strand and he caught his first glimpse of the masterpiece – a portrait of his beloved granddaughter, Isabella Maria Katrina Madalena Anna Christiana of Catalonia – hanging in the window. His granddaughter, with whom he sang and danced every day, had sadly died from diphtheria just days before, at the tender age of fifteen. The count was heartbroken and bitterly regretted not having commissioned any portraits of her. Discovering this remarkable likeness, in a foreign land just days after her demise, moved him beyond measure and he immediately set in motion steps to make it his own.

  Finding the work was part of an exhibition, a series of twelve paintings by a relatively unknown artist, the count had agreed to wait until the exhibition was over before taking delivery, appointing an equerry to look after the matter in his absence.

  To avoid any doubt, the count marked the label on the frame of the precious painting with a red dot, above the letter i in Emily. Of the twelve portraits, only that one, which hung at the end of the line, interested him, but he gave no explanation as to why the others did not.

  Unfortunately for the count, but fortunately for the gallery owner, the label on the frame that his son had just purchased, still bore the little red dot.

  Proudly, the count’s son led his entourage into his father’s bedchamber. Both father and son were reduced to tears as the portrait, covered with the scarlet-and-yellow-striped flag of Catalonia, was mounted at the foot of the bed. Mopping his tears, the son blew his nose sufficiently hard and loud to cause the pigeons to fly from the roof, servants would tell the press later.

  Attendants hauled the count up upon five silk pillows that he might enjoy a better view, and firstly, inspect his little red dot, above the i. And there it was – the genuine article. He waved his hand for his son to proceed, and smiled for the first time in months.

  The portrait was dramatically unveiled to a herald of trumpets.

  All eyes were upon the count – to witness his pleasure, a pleasure he had told them that would make his life worth living again.

  But it was not to be.

  What they actually witnessed was a look of horror on his face as he threw his head back violently against the wooden bedhead, his fists clenched, bony knuckles as white as marble.

  A finale of gurgling and spluttering confirmed their worst fears – and the count was pronounced dead.

  The Trial: Day 6

  As poor Mrs Muxlow stood in the witness box in tears staring at the prized Emily painting, I was astonished by the row of other portraits alongside it. The first, and only the first, was a splendid portrait indeed, full of beauty and character and love, a portrait any person would be proud to own. It was a masterpiece. But as the eye travelled along the row of accompanying portraits, a noticeable deterioration was
apparent in what they portrayed. Yes, it was the same girl. Yes, it was the same setting; the same room; the same chaise longue and even the same open window with the curtain billowing in the wind.

  But the subject’s face, her skin and eyes in particular, dramatically changed with each subsequent portrait. The first, the prized Emily was magnificent. The second showed a girl suffering, in pain. The third, deformities that made her appear quite ugly.

  By the eleventh painting, Emily’s face was no longer recognisable, eaten by gangrene and raw sores, dripping with puss. What the Spanish nobleman would have seen in the twelfth painting left me shuddering in my seat.

  Emily was dying and decomposing, before our eyes.

  I squeezed Papas hand. I owed him an apology, for there was far more to Jacob’s madness than I had ever imagined.

  As Mrs Muxlow left the witness stand, she went up to the prized Emily and reached up, touching Emily’s face, tears streaming down her face. An usher looked up to the judge, wondering what to do about this woman holding up proceedings. The judge shook his head – to leave her a few moments – after which many handkerchiefs touched many a tear-filled eye in the public gallery. Finally, the old lady turned to the judge and bowed respectfully, a hint of contentment on her face as she took a seat at the back of the court along with other witnesses.

  Ushers cleared all the paintings on display and Mr Ponsonby called his next witness.

  ‘Delores Dunne, college secretary, Greenwold College,’ the elderly lady announced quietly as she accepted the judge’s offer to sit while she gave evidence. Dressed in shades of grey, she wore a thin veil beneath a neat, rounded felt hat.

  ‘Miss Dunne,’ Mr Ponsonby began, ‘were you the college secretary at the time Jacob Silver was admitted to Greenwold?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been there thirty-two years,’ she said proudly.

  ‘So not much would go on without your knowing about it,’ Mr Ponsonby continued, rhetorically. ‘Would you please describe briefly Jacob Silver’s progress at the college.’

  ‘He was a genius, according to all those that tutored him. But because of his… his background, he was treated abysmally by the other pupils.’

  ‘By background, you mean because he was poor?’

  ‘Poor, a cripple, mother in prison, and Jewish – none of which suited the elitist bigots that thought they ran the college – and the country, for that matter. Barely a day passed when we didn’t learn Silver, and any that dared to befriend him, had received a beating of one kind or another.’

  ‘And so I gather special steps were taken to ensure his safety?’

  ‘To ensure he didn’t outshine any of them, more like. Their parents had threatened to withdraw their children since they regarded Silver as unhealthy competition. And so the headmaster made arrangements for Silver to be tutored alone.’

  ‘And out of harm’s way?’

  ‘Yes. That gave him some respite. The bullying almost stopped then – and stopped altogether after the unfortunate death of one particular bully.’

  ‘A certain gentleman by the name of Bradley Bateman, the Earl of Burrington?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The science professor who taught Silver, do you–’

  ‘We don’t teach science. And never have, to my knowledge.’

  ‘He taught me for two years! In the catacombs!’ Jacob yelled from the dock.

  I was stunned. Of course they taught science.

  ‘Silence!’ the judge ordered, frowning over the top of his glasses. ‘Continue Mr Ponsonby.’

  ‘Is it possible, madam, that Silver could have been receiving personal tuition in science without your knowledge?’

  ‘I don’t see how. Tutors needed to be paid. And none claimed expenses for teaching Silver science.’

  ‘Is there a classroom in the catacombs? A science laboratory perhaps?’

  ‘I hadn’t been down there for years. It’s a storeroom of sorts. After Sir Robert Weston visited the school recently I went there with him. It was full of old furniture we no longer had use for, and such. And rats and spiders.’

  I looked at Papa in astonishment. I had no idea he was so involved. Was this why he was so certain Jacob was guilty?

  ‘There were a thousand experiments going on there, you fool!’ Jacob yelled again, attempting to get to his feet before being slapped down by his jailer.

  ‘Any more and I’ll have you removed!’ the judge shouted at the accused. ‘D’you understand?’ Jacob glared back at the judge, then nodded.

  ‘You saw no evidence of experiments being carried out there?’

  ‘None,’ said Miss Dunne.

  Why would they not believe Jacob? He learned so much from the professor.

  Mr Ponsonby passed the old lady a drawing. ‘Exhibit 35, m’lud. Do you recognise this caricature, Miss Dunne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where have you seen it before?’

  ‘It was shown me by Sir Robert Weston during his visit.’

  ‘And the subject of the sketch? Do you recognise him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Passing the sketch to the jury, Mr Ponsonby continued, ‘This sketch was drawn by the accused whilst he was in custody and was offered to the police to help trace the professor. It is apparently a good likeness of the gentleman, whom, he claims, taught him science at your college.’

  Miss Dunne tutted. ‘Firstly, I have to say it is a good likeness but not of any person that taught science at this college or any other. He was a Frenchman and benefactor of the Greenwold Estate.’

  ‘Benefactor? And when did you last meet him?’

  ‘I’ve never met him. He disappeared in 1679 and has not been seen since.’

  I looked at Papa with incredulity. He looked back at me through an embarrassed smile. Gasps rose from those around me and Mr Ponsonby had to wait to be heard.

  ‘Since 1679? Over two hundred years! You are sure?’

  ‘It is a matter of public record. After he disappeared, the estate was gifted to the state. Thereafter, to us.’

  ‘So how would Jacob Silver ever have known what he looked like – in order to make such a good likeness, as you confirm?’

  ‘His portrait hangs in the Corridor of Alumni, sir. Jacob Silver spent many an hour observing it – talking to it. I saw him myself, quite often, in the middle of the night.’

  ‘So who did teach Jacob Silver science at Greenwold College?’

  ‘As I said, we don’t teach science. And never have. There are no facilities.’

  Oh dear, Jacob. It does seem your imagination had run wild.

  If the professor did not exist then this could only mean my poor Jacob had lied, or imagined him. Whichever it was, my passion for his innocence was waning. We returned to the courtroom in the afternoon, and I particularly hoped to hear anything that would support his story – that the professor existed. The appearance of the next witness did give me a little hope.

  ‘Helen Carol Bates, waitress at the Savoy Hotel,’ the young lady said firmly.

  ‘Miss Bates, were you on duty in the orangery on the day of a certain incident concerning Lady Jayne of Sherston?’ Mr Ponsonby began.

  ‘Yes. I remember it well. That young man,’ she said, pointing to Jacob in the dock, ‘insulted Lady Jayne good and proper.’

  ‘Describe for us, if you will, the events leading up to the alleged insult.’

  ‘That young man came in…’

  ‘You are referring to the accused, Jacob Silver?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know his name, but he was a reg’lar. Always left a good tip.’ A titter rose in the gallery. ‘I showed him to a table and he ordered tea and cucumber sandwiches for himself and his friend, the professor, he called him.’

  At last. Proof that the professor exists.

  ‘So, you saw this professor?’

  ‘Well, actually I don’t recall seeing any other gentleman. I assumed he was joining him later.’

  Oh dear. Maybe she saw him later?

  ‘A
nd then something happened concerning Lady Jayne?’

  ‘The young man, Mr Silver that is, was sketching and chatting the whole time and Lady Jayne objected. The Head Waiter went and asked him to leave. As he left he presented Lady Jayne with a caricature. It was very good. Funny, you know. Dripping in diamonds she was. But it upset her.’

  ‘And what else do you remember?’

  ‘After the commotion, when I went to clear the table, only one cup had been used. The other was still full. And the cucumber sandwich was left on the plate.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Oh yes. I shared it with my friend, Mavis.’ The court laughed as she added: ‘It’s not stealing or nuffink. We’re allowed.’

  ‘And you cannot describe the mysterious guest who neither ate nor drank?’

  ‘No, sorry. There was such a commotion by the time he left, I didn’t even notice whether his friend had turned up or not.’

  ‘No further questions, m’lud.’

  The waitress was allowed to leave and I was still concerned that the professor had yet to be seen by other witnesses, when the prosecution called their next witness.

  ‘Herbert Charles Wheeler, Director of Calligraphy, Victoria and Albert Museum,’ said the bald-headed gentleman, clutching a pair of half-moon spectacles.

  ‘Mr Wheeler, would you please explain the area of your expertise to the court,’ began Mr Ponsonby.

  ‘My life’s work has been the study of handwriting and signatures for comparative and authentication purposes.’

  ‘And how long have you been involved with such work?’

  ‘Thirty-five years. I was with both Sotheby’s and Christie’s documents and art departments for a total of twenty-three years and spent the last twelve years at the Victoria & Albert Museum.’

  Mr Ponsonby passed the witness a piece of paper on which there was a handwritten note.

  ‘Mr Wheeler, would you please read this note out to the court.’

  Mr Wheeler slid his spectacles onto his nose before quoting:

  ‘ “I love you so much – let us privately celebrate and become man and wife. Emily.” ’

  ‘Exhibit 36, m’lud.’ Mr Ponsonby turned to the jury. ‘The note the accused alleges was written by Emily Muxlow, and addressed to him, on the twelfth of March, 1893 – four years after the alleged writer had died.’ Turning to the witness, Mr Ponsonby continued, ‘Mr Wheeler can you confirm this is an original piece?’