Lizzie

10: New Bedford — 1893

It often seemed to Lizzie, sitting in this courtroom, listening to the witnesses and the contending attorneys, that she was as much a prisoner of a relentlessly unwinding fate as she was of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. This crowded, humid, cramped and swelteringly hot room had become a battlefield upon which both sides fought unremittingly, one hoping to condemn her, the other to exonerate her, but both — it seemed to her — oddly removed from the reality of her predicament.

In the way that soldiers had no true vocation until a war was declared, so had the attorneys here — and she included her own among them — been without meaningful occupation till they’d responded to a battle cry they might have heeded regardless of the cause. She sometimes felt that none of them recognized the fact that they were here neither to defend nor attack some lofty ideal, but instead to persuade a jury of twelve men that they should vote in favor of or against the hanging of a human being.

The newspaper reports maintained that she was not an adventuress. Yet this was surely the greatest adventure in her life, a life more dear to her than to any of the warriors who daily fought over it, a life that in the welter of claim and counterclaim had become increasingly more cherishable. She had lived that life, the newspapers wrote, without making any other history than that which came to the ordinary New England girl who lived in the home of her parents and busied herself from morning till night to add to its comforts. But yet another history was being made in this time, in this place, an intensely personal history that could end abruptly with a verdict of guilty. For the attorneys the history was only of the moment. The warlike outbursts from each side would undoubtedly culminate in handshakes and accolades of “Well done, comrade, well fought,” once the verdict was in. The field of battle would be cleared, and the only true casualty — if history went against her — would be she herself.

The newspaper reports claimed she was not handsome nor did she look particularly refined, little realizing what pain those words caused even when the criticism was tempered with the observation that there was a certain old-fashioned simplicity in her countenance and an absence of anything that implied the ferocity, at once calm and audacious, that must have moved her if the prosecution’s story was to be believed.

The prosecution’s story.

Ah, yes.

And the defense’s story.

The relating of events in what must appear but a fanciful fiction to those twelve solemn jurors, an entertainment contrived for the pleasure of men with nothing to do but while away time on a hot June day.

It was all very real and immediate to her.

Every bit of it.

But here were the generals in command again, and here again came the parade of foot soldiers to tell of their derring-do, lost in their memories of events long past, mindless of how great a loss she might suffer, depending on whether their tales were believed or not.

It is my life we are quarreling over in this room, she thought fiercely.

Mine!

My name’s Everett Brown, I’m eleven years old.

I live at 117 Third Street in Fall River. I was in Fall River on the day of the Borden murder, down there at the Borden house. Went down with Thomas Barlow. Walked down Third Street from my house, over Morgan, and down Second. I don’t know whether it was before eleven or after eleven when I left. I couldn’t say if it was nearer eleven or twelve that I left the house, because I didn’t notice the time. When I went down Second Street, I saw Officer Doherty come out of the yard, run across the street and down Spring Street.

So I went in the Borden yard.

Went into the side gate and went up along the path to the door, tried to get into the house, and Charlie Sawyer wouldn’t let us in. I asked him to let us in, but he wouldn’t. So the party that was with me, Thomas Barlow, said, “Come on in the barn, there might be somebody there.” We thought we would go up and find the murderer. I didn’t open the door, Thomas Barlow did. I don’t know if the pin was in the hasp. I didn’t open the door. We stood a minute to see who’d go up first. Who would go upstairs first. He said he wouldn’t go up, somebody might drop an ax on him.

So we went upstairs and looked out of the window on the west side, and went from there over to the hay, and was up in the barn about five minutes. Upstairs.

My name is Thomas Barlow, I’m twelve years old.

I work for Mr. Shannon, the poolroom on the corner of Pleasant and Second streets. Clean up around there and set the balls up. On the day of the murder, I wasn’t working then. I wasn’t doing anything then. I’ve been working there now about a month.

I got to Everett Brown’s house about eleven o’clock. He lives at number 117 Third Street, a little ways up from my house, it ain’t very far apart. He’d had his dinner when I got there. We left about eight minutes past eleven. I know because I looked at his clock when we left his house.

“What time is it now?” Knowlton said. “Don’t look at the clock.”

“I can’t say.”

“What time was it when you came up here to testify?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you noticed the time today at all?”

“No, sir.”

“And yet you did look at the clock just when you were going out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And remember it was eight minutes past eleven?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you go right down to the Borden house?”

“We took our time.”

“How far was it down to the Borden house?”

“I can’t say. I never measured it.”

“Well, how many squares is it?”

“About three, I should say.”

“You walked three squares?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t stop?”

“Oh, we stopped, Fooling along, going down.”

“What do you mean by ‘fooling along’?”

“Playing. Going down.”

“What do you mean by ‘playing’?”

“He was pushing me off the sidewalk, and I was pushing him off.”

“How long do you think it took pushing him off the sidewalk, and he you?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes, I should say.”

“How do you fix that time?”

“I don’t fix it. I say it was about between ten and fifteen.”

“Wasn’t it twenty?”

“No, sir.”

“When you arrived near the Borden house, did you see any person leave the yard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was it?”

“Officer Doherty.”

“Do you know what part of the yard he came out of?”

“I should say the front gate.”

“Where did he go to?”

“Across the road, over toward Spring Street.”

“What did you do then?”

“We went in the side gate.”

“You say ‘we’. Who?”

“Me and Brownie.”

“Well, tell us what you did now.”

“We went up to Mr. Sawyer, he was on the back steps, and asked him to let us go in the house, and he wouldn’t let us in, so we went in the barn and went right up to the hay loft.”

Lizzie understood exactly what Knowlton was attempting.

She had been warned by her attorneys that the testimony she’d given at the inquest in Fall River could — in the hands of the skillful Government team — be turned against her if the transcript was admitted in evidence. Part of that testimony detailed what she had told Knowlton about her visit to the barn. She’d said she had gone there shortly after her father returned to the house. She’d said she had remained upstairs in the barn loft for twenty minutes.

She did not need her attorneys to tell her now that Knowlton’s interest was exceedingly keen as concerned who — if anyone — had visited that barn loft before and after the murders. He had spent a great deal of time on the barn when he’d repeatedly battered her with questions last August. He seemed prepared to use the same tactics now — on a twelve-year-old boy.

She listened intently.

“How did you go into the barn?”

“Through the door.”

“Did you open the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it locked?”

“It was... kind of a thing. Pin like.”

“Was it fastened?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What made you go into the barn?”

“Why, to see if anybody was in there.”

“Did you go anywhere else except up into the barn loft?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you look around downstairs in the barn?”

“No, sir.”

“The place you went up to was up in the barn loft.”

“Yes, sir, on the south side of the house. I went over to the front window on the west side and looked out the window. Then we went and looked in under the hay.”

“How was the heat up in the barn compared with it out in the sun?”

“It was cooler up in the barn than it was outdoors.”

“What do you suppose made that so much cooler than the rest of the country?”

“I couldn’t say. It’s always warmer in the house, I should say, than outdoors.”

“And you should think the barn loft was cooler than any place you found that day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You mean that, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has anybody told you to say that?”

“No, sir.”

“And you went up there to see if you could see a man up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Walked around up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because it was cool?”

“No. We went up to see if anybody was in there.”

“Did you look for anybody after you got there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thought perhaps the man might be hidden in the hay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Weren’t afraid of him?”

“No, sir.”

“Was there any officer there at the side gate when you went in?”

“No, sir.”

“Any on the walk?”

“No, sir.”

“Any on the steps?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know Officer Medley?”

“No, sir.”

Officer Medley, she thought.

Whose testimony — when it came, and if it were believed by the jury — would make what she’d said at the inquest seem untruthful. Her mind circled back to the inquest testimony. Her attorneys were fearful of its admission and were proceeding under the assumption that it might be admitted. In which case they were carefully preparing the ground for all she’d said about her visit to the barn. The ground Officer Medley could overturn as if with a shovel — if he were believed by the jury.

When Medley took the stand and when either Knowlton or Moody put him through his carefully rehearsed paces, would it matter who had seen what at the barn or who had gone into the loft before Medley? Whether it had been she alone, or half a hundred men, would it matter? If the jury believed him, would any of this matter to the hangman adjusting her noose?

Nervously, she waited.

My name is Walter P. Stevens. I was a reporter for the Daily News at Fall River at the time of the Borden murder. I arrived there with Officer Mullaly. There were several people in front of the house. I didn’t see Officer Medley when I arrived. I went around the front of the house and yard between the Kelly yard and Borden house. Looked out through the grass and along the fence. Then I went to the rear fence and looked over it into the Chagnon yard, along the length of the fence, following it to the corner. I didn’t spend very much time in the yard before I entered the house. I was standing in the side entryway when Mr. Medley passed me. Going in. Very shortly after he came in, I went out to the back of the house again, and went back as far as the fence. I think I looked over the fence again. Then I went into the barn.

When I went into the barn there was nobody downstairs. While I was in there, I heard somebody go upstairs. I think I heard at least three people going upstairs. I heard them going upstairs, and they had disappeared when I turned.

This couldn’t have been many minutes after I saw Mr. Medley in the house.

“Your name is William H. Medley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are at present doing special work on the Fall River police force?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Under the title of what is called inspector?”

“Inspector.”

“And last year you were a patrolman?”

“Patrolman.”

“Did you act in any special capacity last year?”

“From the fourth day of August afterwards. I’ve not returned to patrol duty since.”

“Upon the fourth day of August, did you obtain any knowledge of a homicide at the Borden house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you when you obtained it?”

“Near the North Police Station — or rather in the North Police Station.”

“From whom did you obtain the information?”

“The city marshal. By telephone.”

“What time was it at that time?”

“About twenty-five minutes after eleven o’clock.”

I stopped a team that was going by the police station and rode in the team to the city marshal’s office. A sort of grocery-order wagon with a cover on it. I couldn’t say as to the gait of the horse, but it was quite fast, as fast as I could get the man to urge the horse. It took six or seven minutes to get to the city marshal’s office. I delayed there long enough to get a message from Marshal Hilliard, and then I walked to 92 Second Street, arriving there at about twenty or nineteen minutes to twelve.

The first person I saw when I got to the Borden house was Mr. Sawyer, a man at the door. I inquired for Mr. Fleet, but he did not get there until a minute or two later. After Mr. Fleet came, I went round the house, and walked round part of the way to the back door, and tried a cellar door. The cellar door was fast. I went in the rear of the house and saw Mr. Fleet again, and Mr. Mullaly, and Miss Russell, and Mrs. Churchill, and one or two doctors, and Miss Lizzie Borden. I asked her if she had any idea as to who committed the crimes, and she didn’t have the remotest idea. I asked her where Bridget had been, and she told me that Bridget had been upstairs in her room.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Upstairs in the barn,” she said. Or “up in the barn.” I’m not positive as to the “stairs” part. She said she was up in the barn. I talked with her only that one time. She was upstairs in her room, at the head of the front hallway stairs.

There were quite a number of officers there — seemed to come very rapidly — and they were searching everywhere. And I came downstairs from there and went through the room where Mr. Borden lay, and went out of the house. Mr. Sawyer was outside of the door, outside of the house, standing on the step, as I recollect it. There were quite a number outside in the yard, one or two officers, Mr. Sawyer, and Mr. Wixon and someone else. I couldn’t recall them all. I went to the barn. The barn door was fast with a hasp over a staple and an iron pin in it. By a hasp, I mean a piece of metal that goes over the staple and is held in place by a pin.

I went upstairs until I reached about three or four steps from the top, and while there, part of my body was above the floor — above the level of the floor — and I looked around the barn to see if there was any evidence of anything having been disturbed, and I didn’t notice that anything had or seemed to have been disturbed.

I stooped down low to see if I could discern any marks on the floor of the barn having been made there.

I did that by stooping down and looking across the bottom of the barn floor.

I didn’t see any.

I reached out my hand to see if I could make an impression on the floor of the barn, by putting my hand down so, and found that I made an impression on the barn floor. I could see the marks that I made quite distinctly when I looked for them in the accumulated dust.

I stepped up on the top.

It was hot in the loft of the barn, very hot. You know it was a hot day.

There’s a little door on the side of the barn upstairs — I think it was on the south side of the barn — which they used for putting in hay. There was two windows, one on each side of the barn. The door and the windows were closed.

I took four or five steps on the outer edge of the barn floor, the edge nearest the stairs that came up, to see if I could discern those — and I did.

I discerned those footprints that I’d made by stooping and casting my eye on a level with the barn floor.

And could see them plainly.

I saw no other footsteps in that dust than those which I’d made myself.

Lizzie looked at the jury box.

The faces of the twelve jurors were impassive.

My name is Michael Mullaly, I’ve been a Fall River police officer for something over fourteen years. On August fourth, last year, I first went to the Borden house when Officer Allen went back there. It was he who gave me the news at the patrol-wagon house on the corner of Rock and Franklin Streets. I went from there to the station house and then to the Borden house. Officer Allen and I went in the door on the north side of the house. There was quite a number of people around the house, out at the gate, outside the fence. I didn’t notice anyone inside the fence.

I told Mrs. Churchill that I’d come there for a report, and she told me that I would have to see Miss Lizzie Borden. I went to Miss Borden and told her that the marshal had sent me there to get a report of all that had happened to her father, that is, he who laid dead on the sofa at the time. She told me that she was out in the yard, and when she came in she found him dead on the sofa. I then inquired of her if she knew what kind of property her father had on his person, and she told me that her father had a silver watch and chain, a pocketbook with money in it, and a gold ring on his little finger. About that time, Officer Doherty came back in...

“Now Mr. Doherty, when you returned to the house the second time, did you see anybody you hadn’t seen before?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Churchill and Miss Russell and Miss Borden.”

“Where did you see her?”

“In the kitchen, I think.”

“Can you give any description — and if so, do it the best you can — of the dress that she had on when she was downstairs in the kitchen?”

“I thought she had a light blue dress with a bosom in the waist, or something like a bosom. I have a faint recollection; that is all I can say about it.”

“Any figure on it? Do you remember any figure?”

“I thought there was a small figure on the dress, a little spot like.”

“What color was the figure?”

“Something... I can’t tell exactly.”

“Did you have any talk with her at that time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you be kind enough to state what that was?”

Miss Borden told me that Bridget would show us where the axes were. When we started to go downstairs, I told Bridget what I wanted to find, that we were going for axes and hatchets in the cellar. Bridget led the way for me and Officer Mullaly. We went into two or three dark places, wood or coal rooms or something. We separated. I got over near the sink and I noticed a pail and some towels...

“Pass from those,” Knowlton said quickly. He had no desire to have the thrust of Doherty’s testimony detoured by any talk of the menstrual towels in the pail under the sink.

“Mr. Mullaly was looking at something,” Doherty said. “I came and looked over his shoulder. He had a hatchet in his hands.”

My name is William A. Dolan. I’m a physician, been in practice eleven years at the Fall River Hospital. I was educated at the University of Pennsylvania, Medical Department. I’ve been engaged in general practice, including surgery as well as the practice of medicine, more surgery than anything else. I’m also the medical examiner for the county of Bristol, have held that office for two years next month. I was in office for a year when this thing happened.

I first went to the Borden house that day at about a quarter to twelve. I happened to be passing by the house, and I fix the time because I was in there about ten to fifteen minutes when I heard the City Hall bell strike twelve. The first person I saw was Charles Sawyer. He was at the door. And the next person I saw, I think, was Dr. Bowen, who met me at the kitchen door. I saw also, I think — in the kitchen — Bridget Sullivan and Mr. Morse. I’m not sure about Mr. Morse, but I think so. Mrs. Churchill and Alice Russell were in the dining room.

I went in the sitting room and saw the form lying upon the sofa. The sofa was placed against the north wall of the room, running east and west with the head toward the parlor — that is, toward the east — and the feet toward the west, the kitchen. The end of the sofa was flush with the jam of the dining-room door. The body was covered with a sheet. Dr. Bowen was with me when I looked at the body.

I took hold of the hand of the body and found it was warm. The head was resting upon a small sofa cushion that had a little white tidy on it. The cushion in turn, I think, rested on his coat — his Prince Albert coat — which had been doubled up and put under there, and that, I think, rested upon an afghan, or sofa cover... a knitted affair. The lowest of the three was the afghan, then came the coat, and then the sofa cushion.

The blood was of a bright red color and still oozing from the head. At the head, it was dripping on the carpet underneath, between the woodwork, the head of the sofa and the sofa body. It was not coagulated. The blood that was on the carpet had been soaked in. There was no blood, really, on top of the carpet. I should think there were two spots soaked with blood. I should judge eight inches in diameter. Right under the head of the sofa. That is, practically underneath where the head of the sofa joins the body of the sofa. I made an examination and found that there were from eight to ten wounds — I wasn’t positive at that time — on his face.

I observed the position of the body, and the clothing he had on. On the outside, he had on a cardigan jacket — that is, a woolen jacket — black vest and black trousers, and a pair of Congress shoes. He had a watch and pocketbook. I examined the pocketbook and found some money in bills and some in specie. I couldn’t tell the exact figure, I have it here in my notes — he had $81. 65.

I think that’s all that was in the pocketbook, possibly some specie in his pocket. The largest portion of that was bills. The sixty-five cents was in change. I didn’t find anything else in his pocketbook. The watch and chain were in his upper vest pocket, the watch. He had a ring on his left hand — I’m not quite positive as to that, I forget really. A gold ring, if I remember correctly.

Upstairs, Mrs. Borden was lying between the dressing case, which was on the north side of the building, and the bed. She was lying with her back exposed, and also the right back of the head exposed, and her hands were something in this position. That is, just around the head. Her head was not resting on them. Her hands didn’t touch. They came very near to each other, but they didn’t touch. The face was resting in such a position that the right back of the head was exposed. Turned to the left. Probably a more convenient way to express it would be to say that she was lying on the left side of her face. That is, the left side of her nose and eye were resting upon the floor. Her clothing was bloody — the back of her clothing, that is. The upper part of it. Her waist.

I felt the body with my hand, touched her head and her hand, and found it was warm. I could not say the temperature, but a warm body. I had a clinical thermometer with me, but I didn’t use it. When I use the word warm, I don’t quite mean the warmth of life. I’m referring to the warmth as distinguished between the warmth of life and the coldness of death. I’m using it in the medical sense, the word warmth. The body was much colder than that of Mr. Borden. Her blood was coagulated and of a dark color. The blood on her head was matted and practically dry. There was no oozing from it as in Mr. Borden’s. I counted the wounds, and lifted the body with Dr. Bowen’s assistance, in order to get at the wounds more quickly.

Then, in consequence of what had been told me, I collected a sample of that morning’s milk, and a sample of the milk of the previous day. Bridget Sullivan gave me those samples. I sealed them up hermetically, put them in separate jars, and marked them according to the day on which the milk was sampled. I think I put something like this: “Sample of milk of August 4th”... “Sample of milk of August 3rd.” Then I put them in charge of a policeman to keep, and sent them later to Professor Wood.

I went with the officer then, through the lower floor and through the cellar. In the cellar, we saw some axes and hatchets that were there. I think there were two axes and two hatchets. I made no examination at the time, other than just to look at them. I used no glass or anything of that sort. But I noticed that one of them — the heavy claw-hammer hatchet — looked as if it had been scraped. When I went again to look at Mr. Borden a second time, Mr. Fleet was just coming in...

I should say I got the information about twenty-five minutes to twelve. A driver for Mr. Stone, stablekeeper in Fall River, brought it. I was at my residence, number 13 Park Street. I put on my coat and hat, or cap, and went to 92 Second Street.

I was then, as I am at present, assistant city marshal of Fall River.

I went there in a police-department buggy, arrived there at about fifteen minutes to twelve, I should say. As I approached the house, I first saw Mr. Manning, reporter for the Fall River Globe. I saw Officer Medley outside of the house, had some words with him and then went into the house. Mr. Morse and Bridget Sullivan were in the kitchen, and I think Mrs. Churchill. I went through the kitchen to the sitting room, and saw Dr. Dolan standing or leaning over the body of Mr. Borden. Andrew J. Borden. I found that the blood was on his face and ran down onto his shirt, his clothing, and also went through the head of the lounge and on the floor or carpet. There was quite a little pool of blood there.

I then went upstairs to the front bedroom — or spare bedroom, so-called — and saw Mrs. Borden laid dead between the bed and the dressing case, face downward, with her head all broke in or cut. She was covered with blood, and there was considerable blood under her head, and the blood was congealed and black. That is, of a dark color. The blood about Mr. Borden’s head was of a reddish color, and much thinner.

I came out the head of the stairs, and then went into the room where Miss Lizzie Borden was, sitting down on a lounge — or sofa — with Reverend Mr. Buck, Miss Russell being in the room.

I told Miss Borden who I was, made known who I was — I was then in citizens’ clothes, as I am now — and I asked her if she knew anything about the murders. She said that she did not. All she knew was that Mr. Borden — her father, as she put it — came home about half-past ten or quarter to eleven, went into the sitting room, sat down in the large chair, took out some papers and looked at them. She was ironing some handkerchiefs in the dining room, as she stated. She saw that her father was feeble, and she went to him and advised him and assisted him to lay down upon the sofa.

She then went into the dining room to her ironing, but left after her father was laid down and went out into the yard and up in the barn. I asked her how long she remained in the barn. She said she remained in the barn about a half hour. I then asked her what she meant by “up in the barn”. She said, “I mean up in the barn. Upstairs, sir.” She said after she had been there about half an hour, she came down again, went into the house, and found her father on the lounge, in the position in which she had left him.

But killed.

Or dead.

“Who was in the house this morning or last night?” I asked her.

“No one but my father, Mrs. Borden, Bridget, Mr. Morse and myself,” she said.

“Who’s this Mr. Morse?” I asked.

“He’s my uncle,” she said. “He came here yesterday, and slept in the room where Mrs. Borden was found dead.”

“Do you think Mr. Morse had anything to do with the killing of your parents?” I asked.

She said no, she didn’t think he had, because Mr. Morse left the house this morning before nine o’clock, and didn’t return until after the murder. I asked her if she thought Bridget could have done this, and she said she didn’t think that she could or did.

I should say here that I didn’t use the word Bridget at that time, because she’d given me the name as Maggie; I should say Maggie.

I asked her if she thought Maggie had anything to do with the killing of these. She said no, that Maggie had gone upstairs previous to her father’s lying down on the lounge, and when she came from the barn she called Maggie downstairs.

I then asked her if she had any idea who could have killed her father and mother.

“She’s not my mother, sir,” she said. “She’s my step mother. My mother died when I was a child.”

That’s about all the conversation I had with her at that time.

I then went downstairs in the cellar and found Officers Mullaly and Devine down there. When I got there, Officer Mullaly had two axes and two hatchets on the cellar floor. I looked around in the cellar to see if we could find any other instrument that might have been used for the purpose of killing, but failed to find anything. The two hatchets and axes were left there that day.

The largest hatchet, the claw-hammer hatchet — with the rust stain on it, and the red spot upon the handle that apparently had been washed or wiped — was placed behind some boxes in the cellar adjoining the wash cellar. I put it there, separating it from the other hatchet. I went out in the yard then, and instructed some of the men — who’d been sent by the marshal to me — to cover the different highways and depots, and then I went upstairs, the front hallway upstairs.

I went to Lizzie’s door and rapped on it.

Dr. Bowen came to it, holding open the door — opening the door, I should say — about six or eight inches, and asked what was wanted. I told him that we had come there as officers to search this room and search the building. He then turned around to Miss Borden and told me to wait a moment, and closed the door. He then opened the door again and said that Lizzie wanted to know if it was absolutely necessary for us to search that room. I told him as officers, murders having been committed, it was our duty to do so, and we wanted to get in there. He closed the door again, and said something to Miss Borden, and finally opened the door and admitted us.

We proceeded to search, looking through some drawers, and the closet and bedroom. While the search was still going on, I said to Lizzie, “You said that you were up in the barn for half an hour. Do you say that now?”

She said, “I don’t say half an hour. I say twenty minutes to half an hour.”

“Well, we’ll call it twenty minutes then,” I said.

“I say from twenty minutes to half an hour, sir,” she said.

I then asked her when was the last time that she saw her stepmother — when and where. She said that the last time she saw her was about nine o’clock and she was then in the room where she was found dead, and was making the bed.

That is to say, at nine o’clock she was making the bed in the room where she was found dead.

She then said that someone brought a letter or note to Mrs. Borden and she thought she had gone out and had not known of her return.

As we continued to search Lizzie Borden’s room, she said she hoped we should get through with this quick, that she was getting tired, or words to that effect — it was making her tired — and we told her we should get through as soon as we possibly could. It was an unpleasant duty — that is, considering that her father and stepmother were dead. We searched that room, and then we went to the room where Mrs. Borden was found dead.

I saw a door there which would lead into Lizzie Borden’s room and on Lizzie Borden’s side was a bookcase and, I think, desk combined. This was situated directly in front of the door, or in back of the door leading from where Mrs. Borden was found dead. The door was locked. I’m not sure on which side, but I think upon Lizzie Borden’s side.

I searched a clothespress that was in the room directly in front of Lizzie’s room, and then I searched Mr. Borden’s room, and went up to the attics and searched Bridget’s room, and the closet, together with the room adjoining the other rooms, and the west end of the attics. Then I came downstairs, went down in the cellar again, saw Dr. Dolan, saw Officer Mullaly, and asked where he got the axes and the hatchets, and he showed me.

I found — in a box in the middle cellar, on a shelf or a jog of an old-fashioned chimney — the head of a hatchet.

“Is this the hatchet you found?” Moody asked.

“This looks like the hatchet that I found there. Pretty sure that that’s the one. This piece of wood was in the head of the hatchet, broken off close.”

“Broken off close to the hatchet?”

“Very close to the hatchet.”

“Mr. Fleet, will you describe everything in respect to the appearance of that hatchet, if you can?”

“Don’t want anything but just what the hatchet was at that time,” Robinson said. “Don’t want any inferences.”

“I think he’ll be careful,” Moody said. “Any appearances that you noticed about the hatchet, you may describe.”

“Yes, sir, I don’t want to do anything else, Mr. Attorneys. The hatchet was covered with a heavy dust or ashes.”

“Describe the ashes as well as you can.”

“It was covered with white ashes, I should say, upon the blade of the hatchet. Not upon one side, but upon both.”

“Could you tell anything about whether there were ashes upon the head of the hatchet?”

“I don’t think you should make any suggestions,” Robinson said. “I object to that style of question.”

“Well,” Moody said, “describe further.”

“I should say that upon this hatchet was dust, or ashes as though the head...

“Wait a moment!” Robinson said. “I object to that!”

“Describe on what parts of the hatchet,” Moody said.

“On both the faces and all over, the hatchet was covered with dust or ashes.”

“Was that fine dust...?”

“Wait a moment,” Robinson said. “The witness didn’t say fine dust. We object to that.”

“Describe the dust there,” Moody said.

“The dust, in my opinion, was ashes.”

“According to your observation, what did it look like?”

“I object to it,” Robinson said.

“Describe it,” Mason said. “Whether he recognized it as ashes or any particular substance, he may say.”

“I recognized it as ashes.”

“Can you tell me how fine or coarse the ashes were?”

“They were fine.”

“Did you notice anything with reference to the other tools in the box at the time?”

“Yes, sir. There was dust upon them.”

“The same as upon this?”

“No, sir.”

“What difference was there, if any?”

“The dust on the other tools was lighter and finer than the dust upon that hatchet.”

“At that time, Mr. Fleet, did you observe anything with reference to the point of breaking of the hatchet?”

“The only thing I recognized at the time was that this was apparently a new break.”

“I object to that answer,” Robinson said. “That this was a new break.”

“At that time,” Moody said, “did you observe anything, with reference to the ashes, upon the point of the break upon the handle, upon the wood where it was broken?”

“There seemed to be ashes there like the other.”

“Now Mr. Mullaly,” Robinson asked, “when did you see the one that has no handle?”

“When Mr. Fleet called my attention to it.”

“Well, how was that? What was the condition of that?”

“That had ashes, what I call ashes, on each side of it. The handle was broken and it looked fresh, fresh broken.”

“I haven’t asked you about that just now. I am asking you about the hatchet part, the metal. How did that look as compared to today?”

“It looked different.”

“How?”

“That is, it was covered with ashes.”

“And those have been removed since that time?”

“There is none on there now that I can see.”

“And do you know where that has been since?”

“I do not.”

“And that piece of the handle — which is now out of the eye of the hatchet — you think does not look so new as it did at that time?”

“It don’t to me, not now.”

“Did you afterwards look in the box?”

“I did not. As I remember of, I didn’t look in it.”

“Do you know anything of what became of the box?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing else was taken out of it while you were there?”

“Nothing but the hatchet and parts of the handle.”

“Well... parts? That piece?”

“That piece, yes.”

“Well, that was in the eye, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Then there was another piece.”

“Another piece of what?”

“Handle.”

From where Lizzie sat, she saw Robinson’s back stiffen, as though he were a hunting dog catching the scent of an elusive quarry. In the same instant the jury became suddenly alert, the bearded and mustached faces seeming to come alive all at once. From the spectators’ benches at the back of the courtroom, she heard a murmur like a single exhalation of breath, and then all was silent again. At the prosecutors’ table, both Moody and Knowlton were frowning.

“Where is it?” Robinson asked.

“I don’t know,” Mullaly said.

“Don’t you know where it is?”

“No, sir.”

“Was it a piece of that same handle?”

“It was a piece that corresponded with that.”

“The rest of the handle?”

“It was a piece with a fresh break in it.”

“The other piece?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see it after that?”

“I did not.”

“Was it a handle to a hatchet?”

“It was what I call a hatchet handle.”

There was the same murmur at the back of the courtroom. One of the justices, looking annoyed, glared toward the spectators’ benches. The twelve jurors, to a man, were leaning forward, listening intently now. Lizzie searched their faces, and then turned her attention back to Robinson.

“I want to know how long it was,” he said.

“Well, I couldn’t tell you how long it was. I didn’t measure it.”

“Well, did you take it out of the box?”

“I did not.”

“Do you know where Mr. Fleet is now, this minute?”

“I do not.”

“Is he below?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you seen him since this morning?”

“I saw him downstairs.”

“You mean before the adjournment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would like to have Mr. Fleet come in,” Robinson said. “I would like to have him sent for.”

She welcomed the respite.

The day, which had begun so uncomfortably hot and humid, had turned considerably milder. Aware of the spectators’ eyes upon her, she walked nonetheless to one of the open windows, the deputy sheriff at her side like a shadow, and glanced down at the grass growing on the courthouse lawn. She took in a deep breath. Giant elms arched their branches over the walk below, their leaves moving gently in the new breeze. Sparrows sang in the capitals of the great Grecian columns. The flowers in the little plots on the lawn and in the big boxes on the courthouse portico bloomed red, white and yellow. She longed to be there in the warm sunshine, free for a moment from the strain of this confined room and the tensions it contained.

There were crowds outside even now.

This morning, as she’d made her way up the path to the Court House entrance, escorted by the deputy sheriff, the crowds had jostled and shoved beyond the erected fences, and many of the women had called out taunts and jeers to her. She could not understand why her own sex had turned against her, but their enmity was so positive and manifest that even in the courtroom the female spectators looked disappointed whenever a witness said anything to her advantage. She suddenly wondered, and this was a prospect she had never before considered, what her life would be like if and when the jury found her innocent. Would she ever again be able to enjoy in peace and privacy the harmless beauty of a June morning?

Someone in the crowd below had spied her at the open window.

She turned abruptly away.

Fleet was being led back into the courtroom.

“Mr. Fleet, returning to the subject we had under discussion this morning, about what you found in that box downstairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you state again what you found there at the time you looked in?”

“I found a hatchet head, the handle broken off, together with some other tools in there and the iron that was inside there. I don’t know just what it was.”

“Was this what you found?” Robinson asked, and showed him the hatchet head.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find anything else? Except old tools?”

“No, sir.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was with you at that time?”

“Michael Mullaly.”

“Anybody else?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you take this out of the box yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mullaly didn’t?”

“No, I don’t think he did.”

“Now, if I understand you,” Robinson said, showing him the small section of wood, “this piece was in the eye of the hatchet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That has been driven out since.”

“By somebody.”

“Yes, not by you. And taking those two together, that was all you found in the box, except some old tools which you did not take out at all. Is that right?”

“That is all we found in connection with that hatchet.”

“You did not find the handle? The broken piece? Not at all?”

“No, sir.”

“You didn’t see it, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Mr. Mullaly take it out of the box?”

“Not that I know of.”

“It was not there?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You looked in so that you could have seen it if it was in there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have no doubt about that, have you at all?”

“What?”

“That you did not find the other piece of the handle that fitted on there?”

“No, sir.”

“You would have seen it if it had been, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, it seems to me I should.”

“There was no hatchet handle belonging to that picked up right there?”

“No, sir.”

“Or anywhere around there?”

“No, sir.”

“Or any piece of wood — beside that — that had any fresh break in it?”

“Not that came from that hatchet.”

“Or in that box, anyway?”

“No, sir, not in the box.”

“Or round there anywhere?”

“No, sir, not that I am aware of. I did not see any of it.”

“What did you do with the hatchet head, Mr. Fleet?”

“I put it back in the box.”

My name is Philip Harrington. I’ve been on the Fall River police force ten years last March. My rank is captain. My position in August of last year was patrolman. I was at dinner, had just finished dinner when my attention was called to the trouble on Second Street. I immediately put on my coat and hat and took a horse car. I got to the house between fifteen and twenty minutes past twelve. That’s my judgment, I did not consult a timepiece. I was led to think so by the time the car arrived at City Hall. It was what was known as the “quarter-past-twelve” car.

I went in the front gate, walked along the yard front of the house to the north side, along the north side to the north door on the side. Mr. Sawyer was at the north door. I went into the house and saw Officer Devine on the ground floor. Miss Lizzie Borden was not there. I saw several ladies there, I didn’t know who they were. I asked a question or two, and I was directed to Miss Borden’s room. In that room, I saw Miss Borden and Miss Russell. Miss Lizzie Borden, I mean, of course.

I stepped into the room, and taking the door in my right hand, I passed it back. Miss Russell stood on my left, and she received the door and closed it. There was no one except Miss Russell and Miss Borden there at the time, not outside of myself. Miss Russell stood in front of a chair which was at the north side of the door which I entered. Miss Lizzie Borden stood at the foot of the bed, which ran diagonally across the room.

The dress she had on was a house wrap, a striped house wrap, with a pink and light stripe alternating, the pink the most prominent color. On the light ground stripe was a diamond figure formed by narrow stripes, some of which ran diagonally or bias to the stripe, and others parallel with it. The sides were tailored, fitting — or fitted — to the form. The front from the waist to the neck was loose and in folds. The collar was standing, plaited on the sides and closely shirred in front. On either side, directly over the hips, was caught a narrow, bright red ribbon, perhaps three-fourths of an inch — or an inch — in width. This was brought around front, tied in a bow, and allowed to drop, with the ends hanging a little below the bow. It was cut in semitrain or bell skirt, which the ladies were wearing that season...

“Don’t go quite so fast. Cut in what?” Robinson said.

“A bell skirt.”

“Bell skirt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You usually called that kind of a dress a bell skirt, did you?”

“The cut of the dress. Not that kind of a dress.”

“That was your description of it? As you spoke in conversation about it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nobody told you that?”

“No, sir.”

“What has been your business before you became a policeman?”

“I was in the painting business.”

“What before that?”

“I was in the book business before that.”

“Prior to that?”

“Wood business.”

“Were you ever in the dressmaking business?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you ever in the dry-goods business?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever have anything to do with colors except as a painter?”

“Nothing any more than to admire them.”

“You admire them. But did you admire a red ribbon on a pink wrapper?”

“Well, I am not speaking of my taste, sir.”

“Go on, then.”

I told Miss Lizzie I would like to have her tell me all she knew about this matter.

She said, “I can tell you nothing about it.”

I asked her when she last saw her father.

She said, “When he returned from the post office with a small package in his hand and some mail. I asked him if he had any for me, and he said no. He then sat down to read the paper, and I went out in the barn. I remained there twenty minutes. I returned and found him dead.”

“When going to or coming from the barn,” I said, “did you see anybody in or around the yard? Or anybody going up or down the street?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Not even the opening or closing of a screen door?” I said. “Why not? You were but a short distance, and you would have heard the noise if any was made.”

“I was up in the loft,” she said.

I was silent a moment, and then I said, “What motive?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Was it robbery?”

“I think not, for everything appears all right, even to the watch in his pocket and the ring on his finger.”

I then asked her if she had any reason to suspect anybody, no matter how slight. “No matter how insignificant it may be,” I said, “it may be of great moment to the police, and be of much assistance to them in ferreting out the criminal.”

“No,” she said. “I... have not.”

“Why hesitate?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “a few weeks ago father had angry words with a man about something.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know, but they were very angry at the time, and the stranger went away.”

“Did you see him at all?”

“No, sir, they were in another room. But from the tone of their voices, I knew everything wasn’t pleasant between them.”

“Did you hear your father say anything about him?”

“No, sir.”

About here, I cautioned her of what she might say at the present time. “Owing to the atrociousness of this crime,” I said, “perhaps you are not in a mental condition to give as clear a statement of the facts as you will be on tomorrow. By that time you may recollect more about the man. You may remember of having heard his name, or of having seen him, and thereby be enabled to give a description of him. You may recollect of having heard your father say something about him or his visit. By that time you may be in a better condition to relate what you know of the circumstances.”

To this, she made a stiff curtsy, shaking her head, and she said, “No, I can tell you all I know now, just as well as any other time.”

“Mr. Harrington,” Moody said, “without characterizing, can you describe her appearance and manner during the conversation?”

“Wait a moment,” Robinson said. “What she did and what she said!”

“If the witness observes the question carefully,” Mason said, “he may answer it.”

“Your Honor very properly says if he discriminates carefully, he may answer properly,” Robinson said. “The difficulty is he may give his judgment upon her state of mind from what he saw. That’s the difficulty with it.”

“The question doesn’t call for it,” Mason said, “and the witness appears intelligent. Having his attention called to it — that he is to do nothing but to answer the question — he may answer it.”

“I’ll ask a preliminary question,” Moody said. “Do you understand the distinction that I intend to draw?”

“Well, I would like to have the question read.”

“Without characterizing,” the stenographer read, “can you describe her appearance and manner during the conversation?”

“She was cool—”

“Wait!” Robinson said, leaping to his feet.

“Well, that’s the difficulty,” Moody said.

“Well,” Harrington said, “it’s rather a difficult thing to get at, sir.”

“By leading a little,” Moody said, “perhaps I can get at it.”

“It should be stricken out,” Robinson said. “It’s not a completed answer.”

“It’s not completed because you stopped him,” Knowlton said. “I suppose what he said — ‘She was cool’ — is an answer strictly within the rule.”

“If you’re content to have the answer stop there, it may stand,” Mason said.

“I’m content to have it stop there,” Moody said.

“I’m content if it stays there,” Robinson said.

“During any part of the interview, was she in tears?” Moody asked.

“No, sir.”

“Did she sit or stand during the talk with you?”

“She stood.”

“Was there any breaking of the voice, or was it steady?”

“Steady.”

“Now will you state anything more that was said while you were there?”

... I then spoke to her again about the time that she was in the barn. She said twenty minutes. I asked her wasn’t it difficult to be so accurate about fixing the time, to fix the time so accurately. “May you not have been there half an hour or perhaps fifteen minutes?” I said.

She said, “No, sir, I was there twenty minutes.”

I went out the door, downstairs, through the front hall, and passed through the sitting room into the kitchen. There were quite a number of people there, among whom I noticed — or recognized — Dr. Bowen and Medical Examiner Dolan, Assistant Marshal Fleet and the servant girl, whose name at the time, I did not know.

Just as I went to pass by Dr. Bowen, between him and the stove, I saw some scraps of notepaper in his hand. He was standing a little west of the door that led into the rear hall or entryway. I asked him what they were, referring to the pieces of paper, and he said, “Oh, I guess it’s nothing.”

So he started to arrange them so as to determine what was on them, or to learn their contents. They were very small, and it was rather difficult. But on one piece, on the upper lefthand corner, was the word Emma. And that was written in lead pencil, as well as other pieces I saw. I asked him again what they contained, and he said, “Oh, I think it’s nothing. It’s something, I think, about my daughter going through somewhere.” He then turned slightly to his left and took the lid from the stove and threw the papers in — or the pieces in.

I then noticed the firebox.

The fire was very near extinguished. On the south end there was a small fire which I judged was a coal fire. The embers were about dying. It was about as large as the palm of my hand. There had been some paper burned there before, which was rolled up and still held a cylindrical form. I should say it was about that long. Twelve inches, I should say, and not over two inches in diameter...

“Had you paid any attention to that stove before?” Robinson asked.

“No, sir. Any more than to see it as I passed by.”

“And then Dr. Bowen took off the cover in the ordinary way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And put those papers in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he take off the cover over the little spot of coal you said was there?”

“No, sir.”

“Took it off at the other end?”

“At the other end.”

“So he threw it right down in where there wasn’t any fire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And upon some embers of burnt paper?”

“No, sir. It went down between that burnt paper and the front part of the firebox.”

“That is, that was a piece of burnt paper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rolled up?”

“Completely carbonized.”

“About a foot long?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I think you said about an inch or two inches.”

“I thought about two.”

“Lying there all charred and burned?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Bowen, did you subsequently see Miss Borden in her room upstairs?”

“Miss Lizzie? Yes, sir. Sometime between one and two o’clock. At that time, I gave her a preparation called bromo caffeine. For quieting nervous excitement and headache.”

“Did you give any directions as to how frequently that medicine should be given?”

“I left a second dose to be repeated in an hour.”

And here, again, Lizzie understood exactly how carefully her attorneys were preparing the ground for the possible admission of her inquest testimony. The government would without question attempt to introduce into the record all that she’d told Knowlton in Fall River last August. Her own attorneys had asked her repeatedly why her testimony had sounded so confused and contradictory, and she had told them it had naturally been a shocking time, a bewildering time — and then she had remembered that Dr. Bowen had prescribed drugs for her. Robinson had seized upon this immediately.

“The poor girl was drugged!” he’d said to Jennings.

This, now, was the first mention of any medication given by Dr. Bowen in the days immediately preceding the inquest. She knew there would be more. Whatever might be said of Robinson’s sometimes bombastic courtroom tactics, she knew he was a fastidious man who would layer in — as meticulously as an expert mason spreading mortar between bricks — a solid precautionary defense against the possible admission of the inquest testimony.

“Edward S. Wood is your name?”

“Edward S. Wood.”

“You live in Boston?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At present, what is your occupation?”

“I am a physician and chemist — professor of chemistry in the Harvard Medical School.”

“How long have you held that position?”

“As an assistant professor of chemistry from 1871 to 1876, and professor of chemistry since 1876.”

“Have you given special attention to any particular branch of science?”

“To medical chemistry.”

“Does that also include what is also called physiological chemistry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you had experience in that sort of work? In medical or physiological chemistry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To what extent?”

“To a very great extent in medicolegal cases, poison and bloodstain cases.”

“Have you been called upon as to that branch of science in the trial of cases?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To what extent?”

“I don’t know, sir. Several hundred, I should think.”

“Large number of capital cases?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When was your attention, professor, first called to this matter?”

On the fifth of August last year, I received by express a box which was unopened. I opened the box and found in it four preserve jars, one of which was labeled Milk of August 3rd, 1892; the other, the second, was labeled Milk of August 4th, 1892; the third tag was labeled Stomach of Andrew J. Borden; the fourth was labeled Stomach of Mrs. Andrew J. Borden. These tags were tied closely about the neck of the bottles, with strings, the strings being sealed. I opened the jars simply by cutting the strings, leaving the seals intact.

I first examined the jar marked Stomach of Mrs. Andrew J. Borden. The jar was opened and the stomach removed. I found what was apparently a stomach — so far as the external appearance was concerned — of perfectly normal appearance. And it was unopened, a ligature, or string, a cord being tied about the upper and lower end of the stomach. Surgically unopened, I mean. I cut the ligatures and opened the stomach myself while it was fresh, shortly after I received it, and removed the contents into a separate vessel and thoroughly examined the inner surface of the stomach which I found to be, so far as I could determine, perfectly healthy in appearance. There was no evidence of the action of any irritant whatever.

The contents of the stomach were then examined and their quantity noted to be about eleven ounces. It was of semisolid consistency, consisting of at least four-fifths solid food and not more than one-fifth — I should say probably not more than one-tenth — of liquid, of water. And upon examination of those contents of the stomach, I found them to consist of partially digested starch, like wheat starch such as would be found in bread or cake or any other food in the making of which wheat flour is used.

There was also a large quantity of partially digested meat — muscular fiber — with the food and a considerable quantity of oil and some pieces of bread and cake. Some of the pieces of meat were quite sizable pieces — as large, for instance, as a whole pea. And one or two pieces were larger than that — as large as the end of my forefinger — so that their nature was very readily determined.

In addition to this, there was a large number of vegetable pulp cells which resembled those of some fruit, or a pulpy vegetable such as boiled potato. Or an apple or pear. And there was also an undigested skin of a vegetable or of a fruit, one piece of which I have here. It looks like the red skin of an apple or pear.

So far as anything could be determined from the appearance of the food, it was undergoing the normal stomach digestion. And from the quantity of the food in the stomach, it would — if the digestion had progressed normally in the individual before death — indicate a period of approximately somewhere from two to three hours of digestion from the last meal taken, possibly a little longer than that.

That was the stomach of Mrs. Borden.

The character of the food found in the stomach of Mr. Borden differed from that in the stomach of Mrs. Borden in that there was very much less of it, and that it consisted mostly of water and contained only a very small quantity of solid food. This would indicate that the digestion — had it gone on normally, at the normal rate — in the stomach of Mr. Borden was much further advanced than that in the case of Mrs. Borden, since nearly all of the solid food had been expelled from the stomach into the intestine. It would make it, therefore, somewhere in the neighborhood of four hours, say from three — anywhere from three and a half to four and a half hours, the digestion.

Both of those contents of the stomachs were immediately tested for prussic acid. Because prussic acid — it being a volatile acid, it is necessary to make an immediate test for it as it would escape very shortly after its exposure to the air, and escape detection therefore. Therefore, those were both tested for prussic acid, with negative results. Afterwards they were analyzed in the regular way for the irritant poisons, with also a negative result.

I found no evidence of poison of any kind.

Both jars of milk were also tested in the same way, and without obtaining any evidence of poison in either the milk of August third or the milk of August fourth.

Assuming that the two persons whose stomachs I had under examination ate breakfast at the same table and time and partook of the same breakfast substantially, the difference in the time of their deaths — assuming the digestion to have gone on naturally in both cases — the difference would be somewhere in the neighborhood of an hour and a half, more or less.

Digestion stops at death. It stops so far as the expulsion of food from the stomach is concerned. There is a sort of digestion that goes on after death in which the stomach wall itself is partially digested. Taking all the facts as I’ve heard them and also the examinations that I made myself, taking all those circumstances that I regard as important — the difference in the period of digestion, both stomach and intestinal, the drying of the blood and the temperature of the body — I should think that one corroborated the other, that they all tended to the same conclusion as to the difference in time of death of the two people.

And that conclusion is an hour and a half, more or less.