by Chris James
‘Does this explain why the police could find no trace of either the professor or the housekeeper?’
‘Absolutely. They don’t exist. To Mr Silver, they were as real as you and I. But Mr Silver himself could not tell us what they wore, what time they went to bed, what colour were their nightgowns, what they ate, why they never ventured outdoors, nothing of that nature – and yet he claimed he lived with them. I attended the house to completely satisfy myself, and could find no trace of either, or any sign that they, or any other person, had lived there with him since his parents left. He was completely alone. Sadly, so sensitive and vulnerable, we know now that he should never have been left alone.’
‘Accept for Emily’s head, of course. Can you explain a little about his believing he had concocted a potion he named Desire, and why he thought immortality was achievable?’ asked Mr Ponsonby.
‘In his experiment at the art gallery, Mr Silver thought all his twelve portraits were identical – but for one which had a coating of his miraculous potion: Desire. All delusional. People didn’t flock to that one painting because they were chemically induced. It was the only painting of the bunch that was any good! Look at them.’ He pointed to the line of portraits. ‘See for yourself. The first was, is, a masterpiece. But he believed it was only desirable because of this ridiculous potion – taken from his book: Alchemy. Add to this the fact that he then learnt that his lord and master: Leonardo da Vinci, endorsed the book, and he was certain, absolutely convinced without a shadow of doubt, that anything in Alchemy would perform exactly as described.
‘Then Emily goes and dies – in his shop. My explanation for that is that one of his characters had had enough of her decomposing in front of them and dropped her head in a jar of rat poison, before smashing it on the shop floor. It is no coincidence they chose the very poison she had used when she took her life all those years before. Mr Silver was mortified. Could not survive without her.
‘But he was aware, at that moment, that he had deciphered the code for immortality from his faithful manual of murder. He passionately believed he had the means of bringing Emily back to life at his disposal – he just needed those souls to complete the elixir. And so a plan was hatched. His evil personality, the professor, painted the Ripper paintings to persuade his kindly self that horror was a good thing. Their popularity, had him develop a taste for blood. And he developed quite an appetite for it – as his Masquerade portraits of headless models show. His evil side finally convinced his kindly side that after just a few distasteful acts, simply practising what the macabre paintings preached, and he could raise Emily from the dead. All he had to do was use the knife to free their souls – and not just frighten them with it.
‘Taking the lives of those poor women for such special ingredients was merely incidental – a means to an end. That they were his friends or loved ones, did not enter into it, was of no concern. They were gifting their souls for a higher purpose – the greater good.’
‘And what of poor Constable Everett, Sir Lionel?’
‘Sadly, he just got in the way. Mr Silver, or his evil professor, either one, had to dispose of him.’
‘And is it possible his other self, his kindly side, as you put it, would be completely unaware of this?’
‘Absolutely. Kindly Mr Silver was none the wiser – and probably can only recall innocently stepping over the body.’
Mr Ponsonby turned to the judge. ‘I have no further questions of this witness, m’lud,’ and sat down.
‘Mr Ecclestone?’ the judge asked, after defence counsel had not risen.
‘Yes, m’lud,’ was the response as the defence barrister rose to his feet and took some time to flick through extensive notes.
The judge was becoming impatient. ‘When you’re ready, Mr Ecclestone.’
Finally, ‘Sir Lionel,’ the cross-examination began, ‘you accept the accused’s story that he lived almost as man and wife with just the head of his former lover, Emily Muxlow?’
‘Yes, I do,’ replied Sir Lionel.
‘You accept that he loved her dearly, would you agree?’
‘Yes. He was morbidly infatuated with her.’
‘From your intensive questioning and his own admissions, he told you the truth that he was an addict, yes?’
‘Yes, he admitted he was addicted to mind-altering substances.’
‘He told the truth about co-habiting with what we know now to be a dead person; that he intended marriage to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why do you not believe him when he denies severing Emily Muxlow’s head, six years ago?’
‘He denies it because this dark event was blocked from his mind. Kindly Mr Silver was completely unaware of what the evil characters in his mind were doing.’
‘Would you agree with me that if a third party had severed Miss Muxlow’s head and delivered it to him, in his addicted state of mind, the strange and macabre behaviour he describes, could have been much the same?’
‘Yes. But who else could have, or would have, done that?’
‘So, your professional conclusion is that because the police can’t find anybody else guilty of grave-robbing, the accused should take the blame?’
‘Well, not quite…’
‘Not quite? But what evidence have you, or the eminent Doctor Freud, after numerous conversations with the accused, that he travelled to Miss Muxlow’s tomb and returned with her head?’
‘Er… Well, I… Er…’
‘I believe the word you are looking for is: none?’
‘He could not recall how the head reached him, and–’
‘And neither can you prove how the head reached him, is that not so?’
‘Yes. But it is more likely his evil persona did not disclose the fact to his kindly persona.’
‘You have no idea how that head reached him except this extraordinary hypothesis that he went and collected it?’
‘I believe that is what happened.’
‘There you go again! You believe! But there is no proof, no physical evidence, per se, that that is what happened. Is there?’
‘No. There is no physical proof.’
‘And if Mr Silver can prove he did not take Emily’s head, beyond all reasonable doubt, would you agree that your whole hypothesis about all these imaginary characters in his head, falls apart?’
‘Well, no. I would not. I mean, have you considered that perhaps he had someone go and obtain her head for him?’
Mr Ecclestone took a sip of water and studied his notes before asking the witness, ‘Proposing marriage to a severed head. Is it your professional opinion then, that this man must be insane?’
‘In that regard, yes.’
‘And yet this insane man is here on trial?’
Mr Ponsonby jumped to his feet. ‘M’lud–’
‘Precisely, Mr Ponsonby,’ the judge said, waving him to sit back down. ‘I will stop this line of questioning right there, Mr Ecclestone. And for the jury’s benefit I will say this: Direction was given before the beginning of this trial that the accused was mentally fit to stand trial. The reasons why are not open for discussion by you the jury. There is a precedent from 1843, that the defence has had to accept, which dictated the way we should proceed. You will be put in the picture before going off to decide the case.’ To Mr Ecclestone he said, ‘Please continue in a different direction, Mr Ecclestone.’
‘Sir Lionel, my understanding of cases concerning multiple personality disorder is that all the characters are reachable by their analyst. Did you at any time have a conversation with the illusive professor?’
‘No, sir. He would not manifest himself, however hard I tried.’
‘Betsy Pollock?’
‘No.’
‘Dead Emily?’
‘No, sir. No other characters manifested themselves.’
‘So how can you be so sure they don’t exist?’
‘But they do exist – in Mr Silver’s mind. Just not in the real world.’
&nb
sp; ‘You say you went back to his house and found no trace of this professor?’ continued the defence lawyer.
‘That is so.’
‘Did you search every cupboard and storeroom?’
‘I think so.’
‘There was one secret anteroom the police missed the first time, did you look for others?’
‘Yes, and found none; apart from the compartment in the studio cupboard where Emily’s head was found in a jar.’
‘And the housekeeper, Betsy Pollock. Where did you look for her?’
‘All over the house. There was no sign she ever lived there. Especially in the box room, which was empty.’
‘Did you speak to any customers of the apothecary’s shop?’
‘No. The shop was closed down as a result of the morbid discoveries there.’
‘So, you did not speak to a single customer of that thriving business to ask about the very stout, and very un-missable, Miss Betsy Pollock, who served everybody from behind the counter?’
‘No.’
‘I put it to you, sir, that if we can prove beyond all reasonable doubt that Miss Pollock existed, that would throw your whole hypothesis out of the window. Turn it to dust.’
‘Her role was not so vital in all this. Unless she could prove the professor existed, it would not change my mind about the professor being a figment of the accused’s imagination.’
‘I put it to you, Sir Lionel, that the professor’s accomplice, Miss Pollock, had done a very good job of clearing up nicely after her and the professor’s swift departure following these murders and because you were so convinced of your own theories as to what happened in that dreadful place, you, and the whole of the Metropolitan police force, did nothing more than take a cursory look around – already satisfied as to their non-existence.’
‘Had Mrs Pollock lived there I am sure there would have been more signs, more evidence. However, I still maintain the woman is a figment of Mr Silver’s imagination.’
‘And so you didn’t try hard to find her, did you?’ The witness did not think that question justified an answer. ‘No more questions, m’lud,’ Mr Ecclestone announced, sitting down sharply.
Mr Ponsonby bobbed to his feet, ‘That concludes the case for the prosecution, m’lud,’ and promptly sat down again.
‘I think this is a good place to adjourn. We will assemble tomorrow morning at ten to begin hearing the case for the defence,’ the judge announced and stood up.
Papa and I agreed that the last witness had not been as effective as the prosecutor had wished. The prosecution’s case relied on so much theory. Since neither the police nor the psychiatrist had done much to trace Betsy Pollock, I was confident that, although Jacob’s mind was obviously disturbed, he had been telling the truth. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, the college, Apothecaries Hall issuing her certificate to practice, and shop customers – all knew Betsy Pollock existed. Papa agreed that finding these other witnesses and proving she did – would carve a large hole in the psychiatrist’s theories and the prosecution’s case could falter. My one remaining hope was that the defence could find the lady herself. And she would surely lead police to the murderer responsible for these morbid crimes – the professor.
If neither the professor nor Miss Pollock were traced, I had little doubt that Jacob would be found guilty – as Papa had expected when he first saw the evidence against Jacob, he told me. With Papa’s blessing, I made up my mind to seek out Jacob’s lawyers and find out what progress they had made with tracing the pair, or at least, proving they existed and had fled.
Papa and I managed to catch Mr Ecclestone in a corridor, just as he left the courtroom. I was still wearing a cloak and bonnet. Taking him to one side, my father introduced himself and told him who I was.
‘Ah, the lady in the note,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘I do hope we dealt with your involvement in sufficiently confidential manner?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I told him. ‘I’m truly concerned for Jacob’s position. It would seem that without the professor and Miss Pollock being traced, he will be found guilty.’
‘Exactly, Miss Weston,’ Mr Ecclestone agreed, ‘but we do have three witnesses possibly four, shop customers, who can vouch for Betsy Pollock’s existence.’
‘That’s good. But is it not obvious to these psychiatrists that she and this professor have committed these crimes and Mr Silver will end up being blamed?’
‘Nothing so plain is obvious to the prosecution, Miss Weston. They are convinced of Mr Silver’s guilt – and the fact that this illusive professor and Betsy Pollock have not been traced suits their case enormously.’
‘Do you have any other witness that has actually seen the professor with Mr Silver?’ I pressed. ‘What about the gallery owner? Jacob took him there.’
‘The gallery owner is my last witness, although I have not been able to reach him these last few days.’
‘It’s imperative he gives his testimony,’ Papa added.
‘Yes, proof that the professor exists would be most inconvenient for the prosecution, and would dismantle their whole case. It would mean freeing Mr Silver. They would have to start their investigation all over again. They certainly won’t like that.’
‘From what these customers at the apothecary’s have told you, have you been able to trace Miss Pollock?’ Papa asked Mr Ecclestone.
‘No. They can prove Miss Pollock exists but nobody seems to know where she went. Disappeared into thin air, it seems.’
‘Well maybe I can help in that regard,’ I offered, ‘make some investigations of my own. But before I do, I must ask you, and you do not have to answer if that would be inappropriate, but now Mr Silver is sober, out of reach of his potions and drugs, how are his feelings towards his past behaviour – knowing he was living with just his mistress’ head?’
My question surprised Papa.
‘He suffered a great deal before every last trace of those obnoxious substances were removed from his body,’ Mr Ecclestone began. ‘He was in custody, and there are no easy solutions there. No facilities. We must consider it fortunate that his detoxification did not cost him his mind – as it does with many. No longer addicted, he finds it incredulous that he could not have known Emily was dead. He is horrified that he spent time with her in that condition. And more horrified that anyone suggest he went and stole her head in the first place. He is a healer and artist, he says, both skills familiar with the human body and its condition. Yes, he knew Emily was ill, Miss Pollock was for ever making excuses for her, he said. But dead? The woman he cared for and spoke with, and proposed to marry, was dead? He suffered a complete nervous breakdown in custody. After I read the psychiatrists’ reports and with the professor and Miss Pollock untraceable, I pressed Mr Silver to plead insanity – although we know now the prosecution would not have accepted that plea. They want him to hang. But Mr Silver would not go along with it, anyway. Whilst he admits his former addiction, he says he’s quite sane. Somehow, he thinks the jury will accept his side of things – that the professor and Betsy Pollock schemed and connived to make him responsible.’
‘And why does he think they did that? What had they hoped to gain?’ Papa asked, so sure the pair only existed in Jacob’s head.
‘Mr Silver is convinced the professor needed the completed elixir for immortality for a certain purpose. To use it to raise a certain person, perhaps, someone special to the professor. The old man was always going on about a time limit – it had to be done by such-and-such a date. It was imperative, apparently.’
‘Michaelmas Day, the twenty-ninth of September,’ Papa added.
‘And the day of Jacob’s arrest,’ I said.
‘Yes, coincidentally, it was,’ Mr Ecclestone agreed. ‘With the police no longer looking for them, Mr Silver believes that, if the elixir failed for any reason, the pair would go on to repeat the whole process – kill more women for their souls. Mr Silver said the professor spoke of many other students before him – all working on immortality
– and failing. We’ve tried to trace them, but no luck yet. Greenwold college protect their own, it seems. Won’t allow us anywhere near former students, children of the aristocracy.’
‘Michaelmas Day was the day the potion was completed; the last ingredient added. Rebecca’s soul. According to legend, for the first time in five hundred years it was viable. Perhaps it has already been consumed.’ I said.
‘Unfortunately, we have been unable to prove anything concerning the professor, or what was intended with the now-missing elixir,’ the lawyer said.
I asked Mr Ecclestone: ‘How is Mr Silver taking all these terrible things being said about him?’
A steel door slammed noisily behind us.
‘See for yourself, Miss Weston,’ Mr Ecclestone told me, turning me about to look into Jacob’s face. ‘They’re bringing him for an interview with me, before we commence with the defence. Would you care to join us?’
His head lowered, shackled between two jailers, Jacob looked beaten, avoiding eye contact with any passer-by. He did not see me as Papa and I followed the group to a dingy interview room. Jacob was sat down hard at a small table in the centre of the room, a chair either side. After telling the jailers that we were part of the defence team, Mr Ecclestone spoke softly to Jacob.
‘Mr Silver, Miss Weston will join us today,’ he said, placing his hand on Jacob’s manacled wrist. Jacob raised his unshaven face revealing bloodshot eyes buried deep in black sockets, under a mop of dishevelled hair. He appeared very frightened. ‘Are you happy for her to stay?’
Jacob said nothing and just stared in front of him.
‘Bring another chair, can you?’ Mr Ecclestone asked a guard. From the back of the room the guard placed another chair opposite Jacob. I took off my bonnet, sat and reached forward, placing my hand on Jacob’s clenched hands. He stared into my eyes and it was some moments before I detected a flicker of emotion upon his face. And then he smiled; a short, embarrassed smile. He had recognised me. We sat silently for a few moments, both my hands now held in his, until:
