by Chris James
‘Lizzie?’ he whispered.
I nodded enthusiastically, gripping his hands tightly. ‘Jacob, I’m here to help. Help find the other people involved.’
He sat stiffly while his eyes welled and then tears trickled freely down his face.
‘They’re saying… They’re saying I killed my girls,’ Jacob said softly, squeezing my hands. He broke into sobs that racked his body, placing his head down on my hands.
‘I’m here,’ I breathed, ‘here, my love. I’ll help you.’
Jacob suddenly sat up straight, thrust my hands away and yelled at Mr Ecclestone.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ referring to me. ‘This is a trick, isn’t it? Lizzie’s dead! You want to prove I’m mad!’ He stared into my eyes. ‘GET HER OUT OF HERE!’
‘Well, I do believe him. And I’m not content to sit idly by while Mr Silver is measured for the rope, for something he so obviously did not do,’ I later told Mr Ecclestone in the corridor, dabbing my eyes. ‘The madness and addiction that had him accepting Emily as being alive, has left him. He’s obviously ashamed and embarrassed. But that’s all in the past. He’s cured. Is that right, Papa?’
Papa nodded. ‘He does appear to have his wits about him, now.’
‘Obviously, my presence upsets him at the moment,’ I said. ‘I was dying when we last met. He knew that.’
‘Ah, I see. That explains his outburst,’ said Mr Ecclestone.
‘I must break it to him gently. I’ll write to him. Explain everything. He’ll become used to the idea. I’ll do anything to help.’
‘But we have so little time. The defence case opens tomorrow. If you are so adamant that those two characters exist, the best way forward is to prove it. And that they set out to cause Mr Silver harm. Either one of them could do it – prove that the prosecution have got it wrong. I will need whichever one you find to be brought here – if we are to save him.’
‘How long can you delay things,’ I pressed.
‘I can stretch it out to four days – at the most. I’m sorry. That’s all we have. Find them – or he’ll hang.’
Chapter 24
I had attended Jacob’s trial against my father’s specific instructions not to do so. But I had not known of his close involvement. He was only trying to protect me, he had said before the trial began, since he was aware of my impression that the extremely mad Jacob Silver was completely innocent. Papa’s mind appeared a little more open now. On the way home from the trial, having learned Betsy was a real person, thanks to Mr Ecclestone finding shop customers who knew her, I had Papa’s blessing to help Jacob all I could. I had my footman acquire a train ticket to Northampton to journey the next day. I was sure that Greenwold College would reveal more about the illusive professor and Jacob’s housekeeper, than anywhere else.
‘There’s a possibility they’ve now lost an important defence witness – the gallery owner,’ I said to Papa on the way home.
‘My darling, I sympathise. But I can see no other outcome, whatever the gallery owner had to add. At best, he might have confirmed the Ripper paintings were not painted by Jacob. But what difference will that make? Jacob needs someone to find the professor. That is all.’
‘The gallery owner met the professor. He can confirm, like Betsy, that the professor does exist! Don’t you see, this professor committed perfect murder? Poor Jacob took the blame for everything. They drugged him into oblivion and brought Emily back into his life. They made him their perfect scapegoat; their perfect madman. All they had to do was disappear and Jacob would be left as the only person under suspicion. It was perfect. And from the evidence piled up against Jacob, they’ll likely get away with it.’
‘I had no idea you were covering the trial so closely.’
‘I couldn’t just watch that beautiful man suffer. Someone had to believe him, Papa.’ And then I confessed. ‘I attended every day of his trial.’ Papa looked stunned. ‘But I can’t describe how badly I felt today, believing in his innocence when the evidence against him became so overwhelming.’ Then I broke down.
‘I was unaware you had such feelings for the man, my dear,’ Papa said, as I sobbed my heart out. He leaned over me and spoke solemnly. ‘And if all goes badly, my darling, you should consider this episode in your life over. It’s probably too late now for you to change anything. The defence will submit what they have and if…’ He let out a long sigh. ‘My advice is that you must forget Jacob and move forward, enjoy your life and your new-found health to the full. Promise me, that is what you’ll do.’
I promised – just to placate him. But if things went badly for Jacob, this was one promise I knew I would be unable to keep.
First, I had to prove the existence of the illusive professor. Under the pretext of considering a donation, I had telephoned the college and made an appointment to visit Miss Dunne, the secretary who had just given evidence.
‘The college boasts a sparkling alumni over its two centuries,’ boasted Miss Dunne as she led me past the historic portraits of noblemen, statesmen and military leaders hanging in the panelled Corridor of Alumni.
I felt I should call out ‘and Jacob Silver, of course’ but that might have warned her as to my real purpose for being there.
‘Our benefactor,’ she said, stopping at the portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman, a brass plate underneath declaring his name. The name meant nothing to me – at that moment. His white hair and beard covered a skeletal face that carried an oddly-wrinkled nose. His eyes were dark and piercingly sharp, following one when moving past. The caricature Jacob had drawn, produced at the trial, and later reproduced in newspapers nationwide, bore a remarkable likeness and looking up at the old professor now was like greeting an old acquaintance. His was the face of someone interesting, someone one would like to meet, engage in conversation perhaps. ‘Born in Paris,’ Miss Dunne said as she moved towards her office. ‘Early seventeenth century, it is believed.’
‘Has any record of his life survived?’ I asked nonchalantly.
‘We have a Thank You note signed by Oliver Cromwell himself, in appreciation of him handing over Charles I, who had taken refuge here. And a document from 1679, recording his last wishes upon his demise, that the splendid house and grounds be donated to the government of the day for, I quote: providing amenities that would promote youth education.’
Once we were seated comfortably in her office, Miss Dunne confided in me that former students had referred to their benefactor as Old Nick, and it was rumoured that his ghost toured the dormitories after lights out to frighten the life out of anyone found awake.
‘And was anyone so frightened?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘It did ensure quiet after lights out although Old Nick did get blamed for anything and everything that went wrong; every lost or stolen possession and any bruised or broken limbs, from bullying and the like.’
‘And no one ever met his… ghost?’
She tittered. ‘Well, maybe.’ I spilt my tea. ‘On All Hallows Eve the older boys would terrorise the youngest. Sheets over heads and wicked laughs echoed from every nook and cranny in the old place. It was the only day of the year when the lights out rule of silence was not observed.’
‘You speak as though this no longer occurs today?’
‘No,’ she replied, suddenly becoming more serious, distracting herself with a ledger. ‘Er, you came to discuss a donation?’
But she had been about to tell me someone met the ghost. I was determined to find out more. ‘Did something happen?’ She acted as though she hadn’t heard. ‘Was someone hurt?’
She pushed the ledger aside and removed her glasses. Staring out of the window, she said, solemnly, ‘They never got to the bottom of it. Of the various students admitting they played ghosts that night, none confessed to being in the same place as the… the incident.’ A tear welled in her eye.
‘Something serious?’
‘Someone died,’ she said softly, catching the tear with her knuckle. ‘Heart at
tack they said.’
‘But young men don’t die of heart attacks,’ I suggested.
‘Oh, no. This wasn’t a student. This was a master.’
‘And had he suffered a heart condition?’ I pressed.
‘That’s just it. As well as teaching French, he taught games and physical education. Of all the masters, Mr Beauchamp was probably the strongest and most fit.’
‘Beauchamp? That’s French isn’t it?’ She nodded, tearfully. ‘When was this?’ I asked. Miss Dunne was obviously distressed and I knew she would soon cease to continue, finding it all too much. I was convinced this master had not died of a heart attack, and something far more sinister was involved.
Finally, ‘Fifteen years ago or more,’ she whispered.
‘And where, precisely?’ After she didn’t answer, ‘Where in the college, Miss Dunne?’
A carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed midday, loudly, the interruption giving Miss Dunne the opportunity to change the subject. Pulling the ledger towards herself again and appearing to snap out of her misery, ‘Now, about your donation?’ she asked.
We then attended to business and it was only after she wrote down my name that Miss Dunne connected me with my father.
‘Sir Robert came regarding that dreadful Silver matter, you may have read about it in the papers? I’ve just got back from testifying.’
I pretended to have no knowledge and spent another hour discussing the college prospectus and how I was so sure that it was ideal for my imaginary cousin to attend after his sixteenth birthday, all the while hoping Miss Dunne would drop her guard and tell me more of the incident with Mr Beauchamp. I promised I would recommend the donation to my father. And if the day’s events were sufficiently fruitful, I was determined the college would get it.
‘My own interest is in the architecture of this magnificent estate,’ I lied, standing and indicating our discussion in that office should come to an end. ‘My father mentioned that you took him down into the catacombs. Is it possible I could have a quick look around? There was evidence down there, he told me, that the hall dates back far earlier than the façade would have one believe.’
‘Yes. A gentleman from a new organisation interested in preserving Britain’s heritage was interested to make a donation to help us maintain the roof. It’s falling into disrepair. After looking in the cellars, he sent a couple of specialists in historic buildings recently and they were quite intrigued with some of the history. They thought they could dig up some more information from old government papers on Greenwold.’ She stood and went to the window. ‘It’s very dirty down there. Are you sure you want to see it? So much mess.’ I assured her it was of great interest to me. ‘All right, then,’ Miss Dunne replied, ‘I’ll get a lantern and we can go there directly. I’ll find you something to cover your bonnet. And you’re not afraid of spiders, I hope?’
Spiders were by no means my pet subject. I was afraid to ask How big? The answer might have frightened me off.
She took me outside to an ancient flight of stone steps at the rear of the hall which led down to double, heavy oak doors with huge locks. Adjacent was a well maintained playing field with rugby posts erected and I could not help but notice a huge puddle, some twenty yards in diameter, centred around the posts nearest to us.
‘Is it always as wet as this?’ I joked, feeling sorry for those who would be sprawling knee-deep in mud.
‘Something wrong with the drainage,’ Miss Dunne explained as we went down the steps. ‘Would you believe we brought in fifty tons of topsoil to level it out again, two years ago. Volunteers, the students, spread it and rolled it – they worked through the night and were exhausted. But it made no difference, as you can see. Puddles galore.’
The doors were unlocked by a groundsman she had summoned to assist us, armed with two more lanterns.
I followed them into the black hole to find a cavernous labyrinth of supporting brick foundations rising to a magnificent vaulted ceiling. More stone steps led down even deeper, forming a space of some twenty feet between floor and ceiling, causing our voices to echo. After only a few steps we were prevented from going any further by mounds of old furniture and farm equipment piled precariously to the roof. Cobwebs as thick as muslin tied the furniture to the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. It was obvious that what was down there had not been moved for decades.
‘Them ploughs was put in here when I first came,’ our elderly groundsman assistant, Mr Atkins, declared. ‘And I been here fifty years, ma’am.’
A small brick tunnel by the stone steps led off somewhere else. ‘Any idea where that leads to, Mr Atkins?’ I said.
‘Dead end. Nought going on up there,’ he replied.
Without waiting for permission, I stooped and scuttled through the tunnel, the kerchief over my head snatching cobwebs all the way through, thicker than I had ever seen before. The back of my throat was irritated by the dust.
‘Don’t go far, Miss Weston,’ Miss Dunne called out behind me. ‘If you don’t mind I’d rather remain here.’
I didn’t mind at all, finding the tunnel suddenly blocked by a rusting iron grille, a locked gate with a padlock and chain that appeared centuries old. Beyond, I could see that the tunnel widened into a larger, completely clear space with a flagstone floor and even more ornate vaulted ceiling. It was like a tiny cathedral in there. Remarkably, it was free of cobwebs and the floor was black. But there was something else about this wide-open void that I found odd, something strange, although I could not fathom quite what it was that puzzled me. Something looked out of place. And there were no cobwebs. Had I found it? The laboratory that never existed?
I kicked at the gate. To my complete surprise the whole grille creaked open with the padlock still attached; the old iron fixings into the wall had rotted away to nothing. The hinges barely held the gate upright as I edged by.
The faint noise of Miss Dunne calling wafted on a draught of fresh air, but she was now a long way behind me. I crossed the open space and followed more steps leading up, this time. These were also relatively cobweb free with what looked like candle holders set in hollowed-out sections of the ancient stone walls.
And then, the dead end. This must have been what Mr Atkins was referring to. But it was no ordinary dead end. It was entirely built from oak panelling. And light shone around the crack of what could only be a doorway.
I banged on the panelling. ‘Is there anybody there?’ I shouted. There was no answer. But I was determined to find out what was on the other side. I took a hatpin and wedged it high into the lighted crack in the frame.
Then I heard something behind me in the dark. I turned. All I remembered was his piercing eyes in the light from the lantern, his face covered in cobwebs. It was horrible. Frightening. I could taste bile in my mouth. My heart thumping. A chill on the back of my neck.
I screamed – and that was when I passed out.
I awoke spluttering in retaliation to smelling salts being waved under my nose. Attended by Mr Atkins and Miss Dunne, I was stretched out on the groundsman’s jacket on the grass, near the rear entrance to the catacombs where we had first gone in.
‘We were worried,’ Miss Dunne said, ‘I sent Atkins to get you.’
Still shaking, I began to cry, until I heard, ‘I’m sorry I frightened you, Miss,’ Mr Atkins said, wrenching his cloth cap in his fists. ‘You screaming like that gave me quite a turn.’ Miss Dunne pulled thick strands of cobwebs off his hair.
Then I began to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Atkins’ I said, ‘I thought it was… Well, no harm done, then?’ He helped me up onto my feet and dusted off his jacket. Miss Dunne took my arm and seemed to be pulling me to one side, for some reason. I looked down and realised I had been standing on a brass plaque, let into the grass.
So, that’s where it had happened one dark Halloween, only five feet from the entrance to the catacombs. The polished plaque read:
‘In loving memory of Rene Beachamp ~ 31 October, 1879’
What,
or who, had he seen to frighten him to death?
After assuring Miss Dunne in her office that I was completely recovered, I made excuses to leave. The way out, fortunately, led along the corridor of portraits I had seen earlier – the splendidly oak-panelled Corridor of Alumni. Using idle chit-chat to slow Miss Dunne down, I was able to examine closely the length of the corridor, from floor to ceiling. It wasn’t until we reached the very last portrait, that of the college benefactor, that I found what I was searching for, high up, between the panels – the sharp point of my hatpin protruding only inches away from Old Nick’s portrait.
For the first time, I took notice of his name, inscribed on a brass plate: Nicolas Flamel.
In the bottom corner of his portrait was a faded, and very long signature. The name meant nothing to me, but I wrote it down anyway. It was Italian.
Before I left Greenwold, conscious that it no longer mattered if Miss Dunne knew the real purpose of my visit or not, I enquired about another of their illusive characters: Betsy Pollock.
‘She left, rather abruptly,’ Miss Dunne advised. ‘Didn’t leave a forwarding address.’
‘Would you happen to have a record of any other address for her?’ I asked, hoping there would be something listed in her old employment records. ‘A relative or next of kin, perhaps?’
Miss Dunne promised to search for me and we exchanged telephone numbers.
‘And what was the name of the organisation you said were interested in making a donation?’ I asked.
‘Well, they haven’t actually formed it yet, they’re seeking other donors for a non-profit company that they’ll call The National Trust. Sir Robert Hunter was the gentleman who came here. He was frightfully interested.’
On the train back to London, I excitedly summed up my discoveries.
Could there have been a laboratory in the catacombs? Absolutely yes. One area had been completely cleared and there hadn’t been time for the spiders to reclaim possession.
