Alchemy: an historical psychological suspense thriller of perfect murder Read online

  ‘Swing the cow,’ one bereaved woman shouted.

  ‘Murdered me ma!’ yelled a docker I’d often served.

  ‘Poison the bitch, like she did our gel,’ a mother shouted.

  The judge called for order. The clerk bade the jailers make the accused stand.

  ‘Ethel Agnes Silver, you have been found guilty of eight charges of manslaughter. Claiming your husband died only the day before was preposterous and you have shown no remorse. You are evil, madam, and caused many a premature death. You’ll go to prison for the rest of your natural life.’

  Apparently, it was only because malice aforethought could not be proven, that Mama escaped the death penalty.

  I remained alone at home for a few weeks until my teacher, Mrs Seagal, came calling, concerned by my absence from school. Seeing my condition, she sent word to my Aunt Alice. I don’t recall a lot of what happened afterwards, except that I was confined to bed and instructions were given that no outsiders were to call. During the contagious stage, every bone in my body felt like it had been put through a mangle.

  Six months passed before the pain subsided and some sort of normality returned. I couldn’t wait to return to school.

  ‘Jacob needs your help now, children,’ Mrs Seagal told them. ‘Who would like to sit next to him?’

  I could tell from the look on their faces that not one of them would volunteer for fear of catching whatever it was that had deformed my legs and knees so. How my friends had changed in those few months. It broke my heart. As I staggered out into the schoolyard later, a novice on my clanking leg irons, the ridicule and abuse was too much to bear and I begged to stay inside and study rather than play with my peers. I owed much to Mrs Seagal. She forwent morning and afternoon breaks to provide me with additional personal tuition that served to keep my mind off my infliction. After school, she escorted me to the British Library where, she claimed, everything she had been unable to answer, from my intense questioning, would be explained in every detail. Papa had enrolled me at the library the day I was born.

  But when left to my own resources, my iron legs and knees so ravaged by polio set me wondering if the girl with the blue-and-white parasol would fight over me now.

  Chapter 2

  Northamptonshire, 1886-1888

  Greenwold Hall, amid five thousand acres just to the east of the Spencer’s Althorp estates, was once home to a mysterious French aristocrat who was gifted the magnificent house by Cromwell after betraying and handing over King Charles I who had sought refuge with him. In appreciation of the hospitality granted by the English, upon the Frenchman’s demise the house was bequeathed to the state to benefit youth education. A secret elite order won possession for a peppercorn rent, converting the house into a college to educate their offspring and opened enrolment to anyone with the ability to pay their extortionate fees. It would be later forced upon them to offer a scholarship, limited to one place each year. Females were deemed unfit for consideration, regardless of fees or bribes offered.

  Headmaster Harold Fellows stood in front of his board of governors one winter’s evening in early 1886 dreading the task before him; persuading this group of aged men and one woman, all of upper class, that what had been good for Greenwold for almost two hundred years was not good enough now. His hawk-like demeanour that commanded instant obedience from every boy attending this college for the privileged counted little with the governors. Many a headmaster attempting to change their ways in the past had simply been replaced, including the one who presented a cast-iron case for Queen Victoria’s niece to be taught there.

  But Fellows stuck to his principles.

  ‘It’s not a case of take them or leave them. It’s quite clear.’ He held up the letter from the county authorities that had caused so much concern. ‘Admit one less-privileged child every year or we lose our charitable status, and pay higher taxes.’

  ‘We took one. I remember. Cost us the earth,’ objected an octogenarian near the front.

  ‘Barely came up to the mark,’ yelled another.

  ‘We choose our pupils, not the government,’ the elderly woman whined.

  ‘But we’ve no choice in the matter, unless you agree to forego the tax allowances,’ Fellows continued, causing many a groan.

  ‘We took two last Christmas,’ a clergyman threw in.

  ‘Because we took none the year before, Reverend,’ Fellows pointed out. ‘I have–’ He waited until the dissenters quietened, then tried again. ‘There’s one boy, particularly bright...’

  ‘Special is he?’ from a long grey beard at the back.

  ‘Well, yes. He is special.’ Fellows held up a list. ‘Highest score on the scholarship list, and by a substantial margin.’ That held their attention. ‘Highest in English, mathematics, geography, biology and science; fluent in six languages including Latin and classical Greek, and a brilliant artist, according to his teacher.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Fellows,’ from the front now, ‘but what breeding does he have? Who’s his father?’

  ‘Far more important,’ a colonel with a waxed moustache agreed.

  Fellows waited for the chants of hear, hear to diminish.

  ‘Gentlemen, please! This is someone able to shine. The boy could be a credit to us. Someone we should be proud to shape in the Greenwold mould.’

  ‘But is he a man of God, a Christian? The place might go to ruin if we carry on like this,’ the clergyman again.

  Louder hear, hears to that.

  ‘The boy–’ Fellows stopped, turned to the cleric. ‘Is that so important, Reverend? We have a Hindu. And doing very well, I might add.’

  ‘But the son of a Raj, for heaven’s sake. Highly acceptable,’ the colonel offered.

  ‘I would remind you that our benefactor didn’t have too good a reputation so far as God was concerned. The boy is–’ Fellows hesitated, unsure they were ready for this. ‘The boy is–’

  ‘Spit it out, man!’ the colonel demanded.

  ‘Devil got your tongue, Fellows?’ from the reverend.

  ‘The boy is...’ Fellows looked around the room. ‘Jewish.’

  ‘He’s what?’ they yelled in unison.

  In torrential rain a carriage turned into the extensive grounds and four sweating horses pulled-up in front of the historic oak doors. The solitary passenger disembarked.

  ‘Jacob Silver, sir.’

  Outside the open doors, Jacob stood in the porch; dripping wet, a sodden satchel sloshing at his hip and his leg braces vibrating noisily as he shivered.

  Lofty Housemaster Williams, aghast at the new boy’s appearance, summoned two boys of Jacob’s age and barked orders without so much as look at the new arrival.

  ‘He’s in your dorm, Muxlow. Show him around, clean him up and feed him. He learns the rules before lights out, reports to me at nine tomorrow sharp.’ Williams left them to it.

  A pug-nosed, spotty-faced boy, standing a good foot taller than Jacob, stood menacingly close to him.

  ‘I’m Bateman. You call me sir.’

  Jacob held out his hand. Sneering, Bateman ignored it.

  ‘I’m Jacob. Jacob Silver. Pleased to–’

  ‘You’re yid here. Geddit? Baggage?’

  Jacob nodded to the satchel hanging from his shoulder.

  ‘No, your stuff, idiot. You’ll be living here, remember?’

  Embarrassed, Jacob touched the satchel again, nodded.

  Muxlow, a much smaller and friendlier boy smothered in freckles, shook Jacob’s hand. ‘Hello, Jake. I’m Muxlow. Let me help you.’ He grabbed Jacob’s satchel. ‘Ignore Bateman, he’s an arsehole.’

  Jacob laughed.

  Bully Bateman grabbed Muxlow around the neck and the smaller boy began to tremble.

  ‘Another word, poop-face–’

  Thwack! A leg brace in Bateman’s crotch. He yelled as he toppled over. Jacob steadied himself on the now grinning Muxlow.

  ‘We’ll be great friends, Jake. Come on.’ Muxlow led him upstairs, Bateman stil
l rolling on the floor groaning, his hands between his legs.

  At breakfast Jacob ate alone in a corner but could feel a hundred pairs of eyes drilling into him from the other boys, all silent and rigidly sitting up straight. A master prowled covertly with a cane.

  Thwack! As it dealt with elbows on tables.

  Jacob held his knife and fork left-handed.

  Thwack! The cane smashed across his knuckles. Jacob winced in agony as the tip of the cane guided the cutlery into the correct hands. Hand swollen, Jacob struggled to eat as Bateman sniggered behind him, urging others to ridicule him.

  Housemaster Williams took a book from hundreds lining his office, opened it and passed it to Jacob. ‘Aloud,’ he ordered.

  Jacob studied the page, stammered and stuttered, until...

  ‘They said you knew Greek,’ the teacher said.

  Jacob went to a shelf, pulled out a book, then two others. Opening a book entitled: Ancient Greek and with its script in Cyrillic, Jacob recited lyrically in English.

  ‘ “I don't need a friend who changes when I change and who nods when I nod. My shadow does that so much better.” ’ He turned a page. ‘ “Youth is the best time to be rich,” ’ and choked, ‘ “and the best time to be poor.” ’ Opening a second book entitled: Hebrew Philosophy at a random page printed in Hebrew: ‘ “The commandment thou shalt not kill, confirms we are descended from generations of murderers–” ’

  ‘You read Yiddish?’ interrupted the housemaster.

  ‘Hebrew, to be exact, sir.’

  ‘You practise your faith?’

  ‘Since my father died, sir, and this…’ Jacob looked down at his leg irons, ‘I’m finding it difficult to believe in any god.’

  ‘We don’t have the facilities here. You would have to find a synagogue nearby, if there is such a thing.’

  ‘My mother was Catholic. I’d like to explore that further, if I may?’

  ‘There are many Catholics here. Muxlow’s Catholic. I’m sure they’ll make you feel most welcome. Do you have any other languages?’ his tutor asked.

  ‘Six, sir.’

  Jacob Silver was a star pupil, as far as the tutors were concerned. Unfortunately, the crippled poor boy in their midst only highlighted the inadequacies of most other pupils who had always felt that their titles and family wealth meant they never had to try very hard to succeed. The sons of warmongers and the aristocracy, feeling humiliated by young Silver, found their parents more supportive in arranging for the boy’s removal rather than attempt an academic battle they would only lose. Threats of removing their darlings and the consequential loss of income, had the school agree to Master Silver receiving private tutorship together with sworn assurances that their boys’ performances would not be compared to his.

  Jacob’s separation did spare him the ridicule and often physical abuse he had received from his peers when entering or leaving classes, reducing it only to occasions when their paths crossed, in the bath house or on the way to the dormitories or dining hall. That wasn’t often enough for Bateman, who organised night raids on Jacob’s dormitory, when anything of any importance was stolen or damaged and anyone in the way throttled. Fortunately, Jacob’s one treasure, Alchemy, remained unharmed, being well concealed beneath his mattress.

  Lying awake from a particularly severe beating after being ambushed by Bateman’s boys in the middle of the night, Jacob went in search of his one and only ally, Muxlow. Finding his friend stripped, gagged and tied to a tree in the grounds, Jacob vowed the culprits would pay, but Muxlow’s subsequent pneumonia and delirium wiped their names from his memory, he told Jacob. The truth was that the boy feared for his life and could name every boy who laid into him. The two never spoke of the lack of supervision, and the convenient absence of the duty master during often outrageous disturbances. Their fathers’ were neither lords nor leaders, and ordinary Tommy Muxlow and Jacob Silver accepted this was their lot, that the pain would get easier once their bodies grew accustomed to it or when the bullies finally left the college.

  Jacob sat on the edge of Muxlow’s bed in the sickbay, sketching. When he’d finished he showed his friend the caricature he’d made of Bateman. Muxlow was cheered. He loved the finishing touch and Jacob left him with it before going back to the dormitory.

  Neither of them noticed little Rachman, a timid boy who looked no older than twelve or so but was in fact their age, and a follower of Bateman. Rachman appeared at sleeping Muxlow’s bedside soon after Jacob left and found the drawing of Bateman. After laughing at it, he put it in his pocket, certain it would earn him more respect from Bateman, after he’d shown it to him. It then struck Rachman that Muxlow would be beaten harder, as a consequence. The timid boy couldn’t stomach that and so kept the drawing hidden. It was to have a profound effect on the little man and he kept it for years, never dreaming it would become evidence in a murder trial.

  Muxlow lost many a night’s sleep concerned that the missing drawing might get back to Bateman.

  Back in the dormitory, Jacob, too, was about to have a profound experience, his affecting the rest of his life.

  In the early hours, Jacob awoke and saw an elderly cloaked figure hovering over his open book: Alchemy, with a lantern. Standing next to him was a woman as round as she was tall – the school matron, Betsy Pollock. The old man turned pages and tutted and cursed before walking off, his cane tapping his way out of the dormitory, Betsy following in his wake. Bearded and walking with a stoop, Jacob had a strong feeling he recognised the man, and slipped out of bed to see what had annoyed him.

  The book was open at a chapter entitled: Desire. Scattered on the floor were ten of Jacob’s drawings – each depicting a girl with a striped parasol in a different pose, the girl from the National Gallery.

  Jacob gathered up the drawings, shoved them back in the book and crept out of the dormitory with it under his arm. He caught up with the pair just before they turned a corner into the Corridor of Alumni. As Jacob turned the same corner the man was nowhere to be seen; Matron waddling away down the long straight corridor, alone. Jacob passed under the portraits of earls and generals, prime ministers and the aristocracy, pressing himself against the oak panelling for fear of being seen.

  When he was directly under the portrait of Greenwold Hall’s original owner, the illusive Frenchman who had betrayed King Charles, the panel gave way and Jacob fell into a cobwebbed stone stairway. The panel slammed shut behind him. Down in the distance he could make out a lantern flickering as it moved away. He quickened his pace. The stench of dank walls. Water dripping. Mice scurried, frightening him. Black fungi shapes reached out from the walls as if to grab him. He was becoming more anxious and about to turn back when the stairs opened into a labyrinth of cavernous tunnels bathed in flickering candle light, with shadows blacker than black cast in every alcove and up onto the high vaulted ceiling.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out, nervously. ‘Is there anybody there?’

  Jacob peered into the caverns, but could neither see nor hear a thing, until... Voices. Whispering. Echoing and laughing.

  ‘Find the secret. I will, Papa. I promise. A tanner to smile. Imagine bottling that.’

  Jacob squeezed his eyes closed, stood perfectly still. The voices faded away.

  Then, breathing. Behind him. He turned. Startled. The old man’s huge wrinkled nose an inch in front of his own.

  Alchemy crashed onto the flagstone floor.

  ‘I’m... I’m sorry, sir,’ Jacob stammered, staggering backwards. ‘I didn’t...’ He scrabbled on the floor, picking up his scattered drawings for a second time this evening, shoving them back in the book.

  ‘What is it you’re trying to bottle, young man?’ the old man said.

  ‘There’s a secret, sir. I promised my father I would find the secret,’ Jacob responded nervously. ‘How the old masters found immortality.’

  ‘And you believe there is such a secret?’

  ‘My father was seldom wrong, sir. He said Newton was on to it.’


  ‘Indeed he was. But Newton wouldn’t listen, would he? Not to Da Vinci, nor anybody else,’ the old man said, extending his bony hands to take the book from Jacob. He opened it on a low wall that resembled a sarcophagus.

  ‘Newton met Da Vinci, sir?’ Jacob questioned, but it wasn’t answered. After turning a few pages the old man swung back round to Jacob.

  ‘Well, come back next Thursday and we’ll get started, shall we?’ He touched his nose then ran his fingers through his ragged beard. ‘Our little secret, mmm? Not a word to anybody, eh?’

  Jacob picked up the book.

  ‘The girl’s a distraction. Come back without her.’

  Jacob turned but the old man had gone. He called out, ‘Hello?’ Then louder, ‘How should I address you, sir?’

  Out of the shadows, ‘Professor would be appropriate. Same time next Thursday, Jacob?’

  ‘Have we met before, sir? Are you the gentleman from the Institute?’

  The sound of water dripping was the only response as the light from the professor’s lantern faded in the distance.

  In moonlight, as boys slept in a line of beds, Jacob crept in and fell onto his bed. It was after two in the morning.

  Muxlow sat up and wiped his eyes. ‘Heavens, Jake. Thought you’d bunked off back to London.’

  ‘No. I’m starting to like it here,’ Jacob said happily. He undressed, took off his leg braces and crawled into bed.

  ‘This came for you,’ Muxlow said, passing Jacob a letter.

  ‘It’s from my aunt,’ Jacob said, opening it enthusiastically by the window. Tears welled in his eyes within an instant. Muxlow quietly waited until his friend composed himself. ‘My mother passed,’ Jacob finally whispered.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Muxlow said, placing a hand on his arm. ‘You must take some time off. I’ll let your tutors know in the morning.’

  Mother’s remains were collected from the prison by his aunt and Jacob had two days off school to travel, attend the funeral, and return. During the journey back to college, he contemplated the meaning of religion in his short life. The ill-attended church service that preceded the burial of his mother had affected him, so much so that he vowed to worship only one god in the future – science. Saying a last goodbye to his mother, he opened his loyal companion, Alchemy, and looked forward to his first lesson with the professor.