Lizzie

2: Fall River — 1892

And of course the townspeople were crying for blood.

Blood insisted on more blood. Five full days since the murders, and even yet the crowds continued to gather in the dust, expecting a lightning bolt from above to dissipate the stifling heat together with the horror of what had happened. Murder and heat, Knowlton thought, a fine, shimmering pair.

He looked down at the square below.

The watering carts had already passed this way twice today, but there was no way of properly laying the dust in the summertime when the westerly wind drove it roiling up the hillside. In the spring, when there was rain in abundance, Fall River’s roadways turned to dust to mud to dust again within hours. Today he would infinitely have preferred rain. Rain would have kept down the dust — and the crowds outside.

From where he stood at the open, second-story window of the old courthouse, Hosea Knowlton could smell the dust and hear the murmurings of the crowd below. The people had begun gathering before ten this morning, awaiting the arrival of the servant girl — he would have to remember to refer to her as “Maggie,” the way the sisters did. This morning, when he’d questioned her, it had been Bridget Sullivan. Miss Sullivan this, or Miss Sullivan that. This afternoon, it would be Maggie. The previous servant girl had been a Maggie, apparently, and both sisters — either through indolence or indifference, he knew not which — preferred calling this one by the same name. Rather like replacing a beloved pet who’s wandered off or died, he thought, and looked off to the south, from which direction the carriage would come. Masses of people were standing along the curbing for as far as he could see, thronging the approach streets to Court Square, waiting. For what? he wondered. For deliverance, of course. God give us some answers this afternoon.

He could remember a time when things seemed so much simpler. He had spent his boyhood in Maine, moving with his family to New Bedford when he was nineteen years old and his father, the Reverend Isaac Case Knowlton, accepted the position of pastor at the Universalist Church in that city. A scarce ten miles apart, Fall River was as familiar to him as was his adopted city of New Bedford. The courtroom in which he stood today might have been the sitting room of his own house on Cottage Street, so many times had he appeared here since his appointment as district attorney three years ago. The building itself never failed to please his eye: a stately piece of architecture it was, the entrance flanked with somewhat Grecian pillars supporting the pediment, the whole fashioned entirely of native granite. He felt at home in this building, in this room. If only there were not the baffling murders to contend with. If only the townspeople did not expect a hero today.

He scarcely thought of himself as a hero. He was, in his own eyes, a man of not more than medium height, somewhat portly at the age of forty-five, his sandy hair graying at the temples and receding somewhat higher on his forehead with each passing year, strands of gray threaded through his close-cropped beard as well. The beard felt decidedly uncomfortable on a day like today; the temperature at noon had stood at only seventy-nine degrees, but combined with the humidity that was enough to cause distress. Sweltering in black English worsted, high linen collar and black silk scarf, Hosea Knowlton, the people’s hero, district attorney for the Second District, waited for Lizzie Borden — and perhaps a ray of hope.

There was an expectant hush from the crowd below. Knowlton looked toward South Main. Not a sign of the hack yet. The city marshal had served the summons this morning, and she was scheduled to appear at two. It was now almost that. He expected her attorney would arrive at about the same time; Jennings had already made it known that he intended to apply for permission to be present at the inquest. The Borden house on Second Street was less than an eighth of a mile away. The hack, when it came, would undoubtedly avoid Main Street, preferring instead to cross Pleasant and approach the courthouse by the easterly side of Market Square.

Someone had sighted the hack. There! Drawn by two horses, with two ladies on the back seat and two police officers in civilian clothing up front. Men, women and children began scurrying for the narrow alleyway, choking the square. The driver laid his whip on the horses. The crowd cleared a way, and the hack veered in toward the curb in front of the courthouse. The two officers stepped down first, Marshal Hilliard and another he did not recognize. He heard someone shout, “Stand back, stand back!” and then she stepped down out of the carriage, and Knowlton had his first glimpse of her.

She was wearing a blue dress of some sort, a blue hat. Her hair was as red as the heat itself, caught in a bun at the back of her head, stray ringlets spilling from beneath the wide brim of the hat. Odd that she isn’t in mourning, he thought. Head held high as she moved through the silent crowd, followed now by the other woman who’d been in the hack, a friend, no doubt. He had heard them speak of Lizzie Borden’s eyes. Gray, they had said. Steady, they had said, almost staring. Cold, they had said. Penetrating. He could not see her eyes from where he stood above. Nor could he any longer see her as she passed between the pillars and into the building.

God give us answers this afternoon, he thought.

Andrew Jackson Jennings had celebrated his forty-third birthday on the day before the murders; Knowlton could just imagine what a joy it had been for him, as the Borden attorney, to be summoned to the family’s aid almost immediately afterwards. He listened to Jennings’s argument before Judge Blaisdell, knowing full well his plea would be denied but nonetheless admiring the man’s talent and tenacity. Although he was not very much taller than Knowlton himself, Jennings somehow affected the bearing of a man of considerable height, the impression fortified by a bristling gray mustache and a silvery mane of receding hair. Knowlton’s notes told him only that the man was a graduate of Brown University — where he’d pitched for the Varsity baseball team — and later of the Boston University School of Law. Knowlton’s observation told him that the man was skilled in the law and would be a formidable adversary should his client be charged with the murders and the case eventually come to trial. But his request for attendance at the inquest was argued to no avail. Judge Blaisdell listened soberly, intently and patiently, and then ruled against it.

On this Tuesday afternoon, August 9, there were only six people in the courtroom. The wooden doors were locked on the inside and guarded on the outside. The judge sat behind his bench, chin resting on his left hand, his right hand holding a large straw fan he moved occasionally in defense against the heat, his left hand now moving from his chin to seat his pince-nez more securely on the bridge of his nose. Before the bench sat Clerk Leonard, balding head and weary eyes, looking much like Father Time himself with his long white beard spilling over the front of his suit jacket, a Bible on the desk before him. To the right and somewhat apart was City Marshal Hilliard, sitting erect and attentive, shoulders back, his hand reaching up now to touch his handlebar mustache and then to run his fingers over his sloping forehead and short-cropped hair. Sitting near the witness chair, sharpened pencil poised over her open pad, was the court stenographer, Miss Annie White.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Borden,” Blaisdell said. “You understand, do you not, that we are here today only to make inquiry into the terrible tragedy that overtook us this past Thursday, and neither to accuse nor to incriminate.”

Lizzie Borden said nothing. She sat quite still in the wooden chair, her hands clasped in her lap. She was still wearing hat and gloves. The courtroom shutters had been drawn against the glaring afternoon sun, but the room was still unbearably hot, and yet she had not taken off her gloves and, indeed, looked cool and implacable. Knowlton saw her eyes as she raised them to meet Blaisdell’s. There was, indeed, something unsettling about her steady gray gaze, her stony silence now in response to the judge’s placating words. She might have been attractive, Knowlton thought, were it not for a plumpness about the jaw, only partially hidden by the ruffled collar about her neck. A good mouth, with a firm upper lip and a somewhat pouting lower, grimly set now as she continued to stare silently at the judge, not a trace of nervousness about her, sitting rather like a member of royalty called to account by her own retinue.

“Well, then,” Blaisdell said. “Mr. Leonard, would you administer the oath, please?”

Knowlton watched as Clerk Leonard rose from where he was sitting, the Bible in his hand, and approached the witness. Good, churchgoing woman, he thought. Member of the Central Congregational Church for the past five or six years, member of the Christian Endeavor Society, did charity work at the Fall River Hospital — a decent, upright woman. Could she have killed her own father and stepmother? The Reverend W. Walker Jubb, of her own church, had taken for his sermon this Sunday past the first chapter of Ecclesiastes, ninth verse. The thing that hath been is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun. Perhaps not, Knowlton thought. Perhaps there is nothing new under the sun.

At the end of his sermon, Mr. Jubb had stepped to the side of the pulpit, or so the newspaper account had reported, and said, “I cannot close my sermon this morning without speaking of the horrible crime that has startled our beloved city this week, ruthlessly taking from our church household two respected and esteemed members. I cannot close without referring to my pain and surprise at the atrocity of the outrage. A more brutal, cunning, daring and fiendish murder I never heard of in all my life. What must have been the person who could have been guilty of such a revolting crime? One to commit such a murder must have been without heart, without soul, a fiend incarnate, the very vilest of degraded and depraved humanity, or he must have been a maniac. The circumstances, execution and all the surroundings cover it with mystery profound.”

Lizzie Borden took off the glove on her left hand. She placed that hand on the extended Bible and then raised her right hand.

“I think I have the right,” Mr. Jubb had said, “to ask for the prayers of this church and of my own congregation. The murdered husband and wife were members of this church, and a daughter now stands in the same relation to each one of you, as you — as church members — do to each other. God help and comfort her. Poor stricken girls, may they both be comforted, and may they both realize how fully God is their refuge.”

She did not look too terribly stricken now, Knowlton thought, listening as she swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her God. She put on her glove again as Leonard went back to his chair before the bench.

“Mr. Knowlton?” Blaisdell said.

Knowlton rose. “Your Honor?”

“May we begin, please?”

He walked to where she was sitting.

On Saturday last week he had been summoned from his home in New Bedford for a meeting with City Marshal Hilliard, State Officer Seaver, Medical Examiner Dolan, and Mayor Coughlin. He had recognized from the start the need to proceed with extreme caution, and had voiced his feelings to the others even before they explained what they had done by way of interrogation and investigation. The marshal showed him all the evidence he had collected, spreading notes, papers and documents on the tabletop, reporting on the various conversations with those who had first arrived at the scene of the crime and — most importantly — detailing the conversations with Bridget Sullivan and Lizzie Borden, the only two people who had been in or about the premises when the murders were committed. By the end of their consultation, Knowlton was convinced that an inquest was in order, and he announced to the reporters gathered outside the Mellen House that such inquest would be held immediately before Judge Josiah C. Blaisdell of the Second District Court of Bristol, in Fall River.

This was that court; this was that inquest.

He had listened this morning to the testimony of the servant girl, Bridget Sullivan. He had made copious notes at the Mellen House meeting, and had carefully read Miss White’s transcript of the morning’s testimony. His notes and the transcript were on the table behind him. He did not think he would need to refer to them; the facts, as he knew them, were firmly rooted in his mind. He wanted to learn now, firsthand, exactly how Lizzie Borden’s version of what had happened differed from what he already knew.

He looked directly into her eyes.

“Give me your full name,” he said.

“Lizzie Andrew Borden.”

“Is it Lizzie or Elizabeth?”

“Lizzie.”

“You were so christened?”

“I was so christened.”

“What is your age, please?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Your mother is not living?”

“No, sir.”

“When did she die?”

“She died when I was two and a half years old.”

“You do not remember her, then?”

“No, sir.”

“What was your father’s age?”

“He was seventy next month.”

“What was his whole name?”

“Andrew Jackson Borden.”

“And your stepmother? What is her whole name?”

“Abby Durfee Borden.”

“How long had your father been married to your stepmother?”

“I think about twenty-seven years.”

“How much of that time have they lived in that house on Second Street?”

“I think... I’m not sure... but I think about twenty years last May.”

“Always occupied the whole house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Somebody told me it was once fitted up for two tenements.”

“When we bought it, it was for two tenements, and the man we bought it of stayed there a few months until he finished his own house. After he finished his own house and moved into it, there was no one else ever moved in. We always had the whole.”

He nodded. He walked deliberately and slowly away from her, back to his table, picked up a sheet of paper there and glanced at it, though he had no need to. On the day after the murders, Andrew Borden’s brother-in-law had said in an interview, “Yes, there were family dissensions, although it has always been kept very quiet. For nearly ten years there have been constant disputes between the daughters and their father and stepmother. It arose, of course, with regard to the stepmother. Mr. Borden gave her some bank stock, and the girls thought they ought to be treated as evenly as the mother. I guess Mr. Borden did try to do it, for he deeded to the daughters, Emma L. and Lizzie A., the homestead on Ferry Street, an estate of one hundred twenty rods of land, with a house and barn, all valued at three thousand dollars. This was in 1887.” Knowlton meant to ask her about this now. There are no murders without motives, he reminded himself, and put the sheet of paper back on the table again, and walked again to where she was sitting.

“Have you any idea how much your father was worth?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever heard him say?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever formed any opinion?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know something about his real estate?”

“About what?”

“His real estate.”

“I know what real estate he owned, part of it. I don’t know whether I know it all or not.”

“Tell me what you know of.”

“He owns two farms in Swanzey... the place on Second Street and the A. J. Borden building and corner... and the land on South Main Street where McMannus is... and then, a short time ago, he bought some real estate up further south that, formerly he said, belonged to a Mr. Birch.”

“Did you ever deed him any property?”

“He gave us, some years ago, Grandfather Borden’s house on Ferry Street. And he bought that back from us some weeks ago, I don’t know just how many.”

“As near as you can tell,” Knowlton said.

“Well, I should say in June, but I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean by ‘bought it back’?”

She turned from Knowlton and looked at the judge, as though questioning whether or not she had given her previous answer in the English language. Somewhat testily, she said, “He bought it of us, and gave us the money for it.”

“How much was it?”

“How much money?” she said, her voice still carrying a note of irritation. “He gave us five thousand dollars for it.”

“Did you pay him anything when you took a deed from him?”

Again she looked at the judge. “Pay him anything?” she said, and turned back to Knowlton. “No, sir.”

“How long ago was it you took a deed from him?”

“When he gave it to us?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t tell you. I should think five years.”

“Did you have any other business transactions with him besides that?”

“No, sir.”

“In real estate?”

“No, sir.”

“Or in personal property?”

“No, sir.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“No transfer of property one way or the other?”

“No, sir.”

“At no time?”

“No, sir.”

“And I understand he paid you the cash for this property.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and Emma equally?”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowlton nodded. He went back to his table, took what he hoped would seem a long time consulting the same sheet of paper, and then turned back to her. This time he held the paper in his hand. It was a transcript of the interview the brother-in-law had given last Friday. It read: “In spite of all this, the dispute about their not being allowed enough went on with equal bitterness. Lizzie did most of the demonstrative contention, as Emma is very quiet and unassuming and would feel very deeply any disparaging or angry word from her father.”

“How many children has your father?” Knowlton asked.

“Only two.”

“Only you two.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any others ever?”

“One that died.”

Knowlton nodded. Judge Blaisdell had begun fanning himself again. The court stenographer had caught up with the previous exchange. Her pencil stopped. She looked at the witness. Back to motive, Knowlton thought. On the day after the murders, Andrew J. Jennings had said that he had no particular desire to talk about the family affairs of the Bordens, but he admitted that as far as he knew, the murdered man had left no will. The estate would, as a matter of course, go to the daughters.

“Did you ever know of your father making a will?” Knowlton asked.

“No, sir... except I heard somebody say once that there was one several years ago. That is all I ever heard.”

“Who did you hear say so?”

“I think it was Mr. Morse.”

“What Morse?”

“Uncle John V. Morse.”

John Vinicum Morse, Knowlton thought. About whom lawyer Jennings, in that same interview, when asked about the possibility of the murders having been committed by a member of the family, said, “Well, there are but two women of the household, and this man Morse. He accounts so satisfactorily for every hour of that morning, showing him to be out of the house, that there seems to be no ground to base a reasonable suspicion. Further than that, he appeared on the scene almost immediately after the discovery, from the outside, and in the same clothes that he had worn in the morning. Now, it is almost impossible that this frightful work could have been done without the clothes of the person who did it being bespattered with blood.”

“How long ago?” Knowlton asked.

“How long ago I heard him say it? I haven’t any idea.”

“What did he say about it?”

“Nothing, except just that.”

“What?”

“That Mr. Borden had a will.”

“Did you ask your father?”

“I did not.”

“Did he ever mention the subject of will to you?”

“He did not.”

“He never told you that he had made a will, or had not?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he have a marriage settlement with your stepmother? That you knew of?”

“I never knew of any.”

“Had you heard anything of his proposing to make a will?”

“No, sir.”

Which, of course, was the proper answer if she’d murdered him. And if her motive had been to murder him before he could draw a will, thereby insuring that his estate would go to her and her sister, as her own attorney had pointed out. He reminded himself that this was an inquest, not a trial. An inquest — by definition and by law — was a judicial inquiry, an investigation. He was here today to make inquiry, to investigate — not to accuse, not to judge. Perhaps, as the Reverend Jubb had postulated, the murderer might, after all, have been some fiend incarnate, the very vilest of degraded and depraved humanity, a maniac.

“Do you know of anybody that your father was on bad terms with?” he asked.

“There was a man that came there that he had trouble with. I don’t know who the man was.”

“When?”

“I can’t locate the time exactly. It was within two weeks. That is... I don’t know the date or day of the month.”

“Tell all you saw and heard.”

“I didn’t see anything. I heard the bell ring, and father went to the door and let him in. I didn’t hear anything for some time, except just the voices. Then I heard the man say, ‘I would like to have that place, I would like to have that store.’ Father said, ‘I’m not willing to let your business go in there.’ And the man said, ‘I thought with your reputation for liking money, you’d let your store for anything.’ Father said, ‘You’re mistaken.’ Then they talked awhile, and then their voices were louder, and I heard father order him out, and went to the front door with him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that he’d stayed long enough, and he would thank him to go.”

“Did he say anything about coming again?”

“No, sir.”

“Did your father say anything about coming again? Or did he?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any idea who that was?”

“No, sir. I think it was a man from out of town, because he said he was going home to see his partner.”

“Have you had any efforts made to find him?”

“We’ve had a detective. That’s all I know.”

“You haven’t found him?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You can’t give us any other idea about it?”

“Nothing but what I’ve told you.”

“Beside that, do you know of anybody that your father had bad feelings toward? Or who had bad feelings toward your father?”

“I know of one man that hasn’t been friendly with him. They haven’t been friendly for years.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Hiram C. Harrington.”

The very man who, in last Friday’s interview, had said, among many other things, “Lizzie, on the contrary, was haughty and domineering, with the stubborn will of her father, and bound to contest for her rights. There were many animated interviews between father and daughter on this point. Lizzie is of a repellent disposition, and, after an unsuccessful passage with her father, would become sulky and refuse to speak to him for days at a time.”

“What relation is he to him?” Knowlton asked, though he knew full well.

“He’s my father’s brother-in-law.”

“Your mother’s brother?”

“My father’s only sister married Mr. Harrington.”

Which noble in-law had also said, “Her father’s constant refusal to allow her to entertain lavishly angered her. I’ve heard many bitter things she’s said of her father, and know she was deeply resentful of her father’s maintained stand in this matter.” A fine, true relative for a woman suspected of murder, Knowlton thought.

“Anybody else that was on bad terms with your father?” he asked. “Or that your father was on bad terms with?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You have no reason to suppose that man you speak of — a week or two ago — had ever seen your father before? Or has since?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know of anybody who was on bad terms with your stepmother?”

“No, sir.”

“Or that your stepmother was on bad terms with?”

“No, sir.”

“Had your stepmother any property?”

“I don’t know — only that she had half the house that belonged to her father.”

“Where was that?”

“On Fourth Street.”

“Who lives in it?”

“Her half sister.”

“Any other property beside that? That you know of?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ever know of any?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you understand that she was worth anything more than that?”

“I never knew.”

“Did you ever have any trouble with your stepmother?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you... within six months... had any words with her?”

“No, sir.”

“Within a year?”

“No, sir.”

“Within two years?”

“I think not.”

“When last? That you know of?”

“About five years ago.”

“What about?”

“Her stepsister. Half sister.”

“What name?”

“Her name now is Mrs. George W. Whitehead.”

“Nothing more than hard words?”

“No, sir, they were not hard words. It was simply a difference of opinion.”

“You have been on pleasant terms with your stepmother since then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cordial?”

Lizzie smiled. The smile quite transformed her face, startling him, the gray eyes softening, her mouth relaxing from its grim, set position of a moment earlier. “It depends on one’s idea of cordiality, perhaps,” she said.

Knowlton returned the smile. “According to your idea of cordiality,” he said.

“Quite so,” Lizzie said. She was still smiling.

“What do you mean by ‘quite so’?”

“Quite cordial. I don’t mean the dearest of friends in the world,” she said, and leaned forward a bit, as though taking him into her confidence, “but very kindly feelings. And pleasant.” The smile widened. “I don’t know how to answer you any better than that.”

“You didn’t regard her as a mother,” Knowlton said flatly, and the smile dropped from her face.

“Not exactly, no,” she said, and paused. “Although she came here when I was very young.”

“Was your relation toward her that of mother and daughter?”

“In some ways it was, and in some it wasn’t.”

“In what ways was it?” Knowlton asked.

“I decline to answer,” Lizzie said.

Knowlton looked at her as though he hadn’t quite heard her. He glanced at the stenographer. He looked at Blaisdell. Then he turned back to Lizzie.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I don’t know how to answer it.”

Knowlton kept looking at her. At last, he said, “In what ways was it not?”

“I didn’t call her mother,” Lizzie said.

“What name did she go by?”

“Mrs. Borden.”

“When did you begin to call her Mrs. Borden?”

“I should think five or six years ago.”

“Before that time you’d called her mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What led to the change?”

“The affair with her stepsister.”

“So then the affair was serious enough to have you change from calling her mother, do you mean?”

“I didn’t choose to call her mother,” Lizzie said.

“Have you ever called her mother since?”

“Yes, occasionally.”

“To her face, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“No, sir.”

“Seldom?”

“Seldom.”

“Your usual address was Mrs. Borden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did your sister Emma call her mother?”

“She always called her Abby. From the time she came into the family.”

“Is your sister Emma older than you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is her age?”

“She’s ten years older than I am. She was somewhere about fourteen when she came there.”

“What was your stepmother’s age?”

“I don’t know I asked her sister Saturday, and she said sixty-four. I told them sixty-seven. I didn’t know. I told as nearly as I know. I didn’t know there was so much difference between she and father.”

“Why did you leave off calling her mother?”

“Because I wanted to,” Lizzie said.

“Is that all the reason you have to give me?”

“I haven’t any other answer.”

“Can’t you give me any better reason than that?”

“I haven’t any reason to give, except that I didn’t want to.”

“In what other respect were the relations between you and her not that of mother and daughter? Besides not calling her mother?”

“I don’t know that any of the relations were changes. I’d never been to her as a mother in many things. I always went to my sister. Because she was older and had the care of me after my mother died.”

“In what respects were the relations between you and her that of mother and daughter?”

“That’s the same question you asked before,” Lizzie said. “I can’t answer you any better now than I did before.”

“You didn’t say before you could not answer, but that you declined to answer.”

“I decline to answer because I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowlton nodded. He moved closer to her chair, and — almost in a whisper, almost as though he were sharing a secret with her — said “You called your father... father?”

“Always.”

“Were your father and mother happily united?”

Lizzie did not answer for several seconds. Then she said, “Why, I don’t know but that they were.”

“Why do you hesitate?” Knowlton asked.

“Because I don’t know but that they were, and I’m telling the truth as nearly as I know it.”

“Do you mean me to understand that they were happy entirely? Or not?”

“So far as I know, they were.”

“Why did you hesitate then?”

“Because I didn’t know how to answer you any better than what came into my mind. I was trying to think if I was telling it as I should. That’s all.”

“Do you have any difficulty in telling it as you should? Any difficulty in answering my questions?”

“Some of your questions I have difficulty in answering. Because I don’t know just how you mean them.”

Knowlton paused as though trying to frame his next question so that she would understand completely and without doubt exactly how he meant it. Slowly and deliberately he said, “Did you ever know of any difficulty between her and your father?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he seem to be affectionate?”

“I think so.”

“As man and woman who are married ought to be?”

“So far as I have ever had any chance of judging,” she said, and lowered her eyes. He thought she was making reference to the fact that she was still unmarried at the age of thirty-two, and felt faintly reprimanded. For a moment, he was flustered. He said, as if in summary, “They were.”

“Yes,” she said simply.

Their eyes met, and held.

Abruptly, he asked, “What dress did you wear the day they were killed?”

“I had on a navy blue,” she answered without hesitation, “sort of a bengaline. Or India silk skirt, with a navy blue blouse. In the afternoon, they thought I’d better change it.” She paused. “I put on a pink wrapper.”

“Did you change your clothing before the afternoon?” Knowlton asked.

“No, sir.”

“You dressed in the morning — as you have described — and kept that clothing on until afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.”

A fly was buzzing somewhere in the courtroom above his head, near the gas fixture above his head. It distracted his attention. He looked up with some annoyance and recognized all at once how suffocatingly hot it was in this room. The heat still seemed not to affect her. She sat quite motionless, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her head erect watching him, waiting for his next question. For a moment he himself wondered what the next question might be. He had as yet uncovered no reasonable motive for her having committed the murders. As for the means, the only possible weapons found in the Borden house had not yet been delivered to Professor Wood of Cambridge for his examination and report. The only remaining avenue, for the time being, was to question her regarding opportunity. Her uncle, John Vinicum Morse, had unquestionably been away from the house on the morning of the murders. Had she known he would be gone? Had she indeed expected his arrival the day before?

The fly continued buzzing in the overhead fixture.

“When did Morse come there first?” Knowlton asked, rather more abruptly than he’d intended. “I don’t mean this visit. I mean as a visitor. John V. Morse.”

“Do you mean this day that he came and stayed all night?”

“No. Was this visit his first to your house?”

“He’s been in the East a year or more.”

“Since he’s been in the East, has he been in the habit of coming to your house?”

“Yes. Came in any time he wanted to.”

“Before that, has he been at your house? Before he came East?”

“Yes, he’s been here... do you remember the winter that the river was frozen over and they went across? He was here that winter. Some fourteen years ago, was it not?”

“I’m not answering questions, but asking them,” Knowlton said.

“I don’t remember the date,” Lizzie said, and in her voice there was as much ice as there must have been in that river fourteen years ago. “He was here that winter.”

“Has he been here since?” Knowlton asked.

“He’s been here once since. I don’t know whether he has or not since.”

“How many times this last year has he been at your house?”

“None at all, to speak of. Nothing more than a night or two at a time.”

“How often did he come to spend a night or two?”

“Really, I don’t know. I’m away so much myself.”

“How much have you been away the last year?”

“I’ve been away a great deal in the daytime. Occasionally at night.”

“Where in the daytime? Any particular place?”

“No. Around town.”

“When you go off nights, where?”

“Never unless I’ve been off on a visit.”

“When was the last time you’ve been away for more than a night or two before this affair?”

“I don’t think I’ve been away to stay more than a night to two since I came from abroad. Except about three or four weeks ago, I was in New Bedford for three or four days.”

“Where at New Bedford?”

“At Twenty Madison Street.”

“How long ago were you abroad?”

“I was abroad in 1890.”

Knowlton nodded impatiently. Her trip abroad was of absolutely no consequence to him, and he wondered why he’d even asked the question. He was determined to learn the whys and wherefores of John Vinicum Morse’s visit. Had it been expected? Had she known he’d be leaving the house on the morning of the murders? And had she seized upon this circumstance as the opportunity for bloody mayhem?

“When did he come to the house?” he persisted. “The last time before your father and mother were killed?”

“He stayed there all night Wednesday night.”

“My question is when he came there.”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t at home when he came. I was out.”

“When did you first see him there?”

“I didn’t see him at all.”

“How did you know he was there?”

“I heard his voice.”

“You didn’t see him Wednesday evening?”

“I did not. I was out Wednesday evening.”

“You didn’t see him Thursday morning?”

“I did not. He was out when I came downstairs.”

“When was the first time you saw him?”

“Thursday noon.”

“You had never seen him before that?”

“No, sir.”

“Where were you Wednesday evening?”

“I spent the evening with Miss Russell.”

“As near as you can remember, when did you return?”

“About nine o’clock that night.”

“The family had then retired?”

“I don’t know whether they had or not. I went right to my room. I don’t remember.”

“You didn’t look to see?”

“No, sir.”

“Which door did you come in at?”

“The front door.”

“Did you lock it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And went right upstairs to your room?”

“Yes, sir.”

He still had no information as to what she had known or not known of John Vinicum Morse’s comings and goings, projected or otherwise. He moved closer to her. He put one hand on the witness chair. He leaned into her.

“When you came back at nine o’clock, you didn’t look in to see if the family were up?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I very rarely do when I come in.”

“You go right to your room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you have a night key?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you know it was right to lock the front door?”

“That was always my business.”

“How many locks did you fasten?”

“The spring locks itself. And there’s a key to turn. And you manipulate the bolts.”

“You manipulated all those?”

“I used them all.”

“Then you went to bed.”

“Yes, directly.”

“When you got up the next morning, did you see Mr. Morse?”

“I did not.”

“Had the family breakfasted when you came down?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time did you come downstairs?”

“As near as I can remember, it was a few minutes before nine.”

“Who did you find downstairs when you came down?”

“Maggie and Mrs. Borden.”

“Did you inquire for Mr. Morse?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you suppose he had gone?”

“I didn’t know whether he had or not. He wasn’t there.”

“Your father was there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you found him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you speak to either your father or Mrs. Borden?”

“I spoke to all of them.”

“About Mr. Morse?”

“I didn’t mention him.”

“Didn’t inquire anything about him?”

“No, sir.”

And still not the trace of a hint that she’d known who would or would not be in that house on that fateful morning. Why hadn’t she gone to Marion as she’d planned? Had she stayed behind by design? To do the awful thing that had to be done in that house?

“Why didn’t you go to Marion with the party that went?” he asked aloud, surprised when the thought found voice.

“Because they went sooner than I could. And I was going on Monday.”

“Why did they go sooner than you could? What was there to keep you?”

“I had taken the secretaryship and treasurer of our C. E. society... had the charge... and the roll call was the first Sunday in August. And I felt I must be there and attend to that part of the business.”

“Where was your sister Emma that day?”

“What day?”

“The day your father and Mrs. Borden were killed.”

“She’d been in Fairhaven.”

“Had you written to her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When was the last time you wrote to her?”

“Thursday morning. And my father mailed the letter for me.”

“Did she get it at Fairhaven?”

“No, sir, it was sent back. She didn’t get it at Fairhaven. For we telegraphed for her... and she got home here Thursday afternoon... and the letter was sent back to this post office.”

“How long had she been in Fairhaven?”

“Just two weeks to a day.”

“You did not visit her in Fairhaven?”

“No, sir.”

“Had there been anybody else around the house that week? Or premises?”

“No, sir, not that I know of.”

“Nobody had access to the house — so far as you know — during that time?”

“No, sir.”

“I ask you once more how it happened that, knowing Mr. Morse was at your house, you did not step in and greet him before you retired.”

“I have no reason. Except that I wasn’t feeling well Wednesday, and so did not come down.”

“No, you were down. When you came in from out.”

“Do you mean Wednesday night?”

“Yes.”

“Because I hardly ever do go in,” Lizzie said. “I generally went right up to my room. And I did that night.”

“Could you then get to your room from the back hall?” Knowlton asked.

“No, sir.”

“From the back stairs?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not? What would hinder?”

“Father’s bedroom door was kept locked, and his door into my room was locked and hooked, I think. And I had no keys.”

“That was the custom of the establishment?”

“It has always been so.”

“It was so Wednesday? And so Thursday?”

“It was so Wednesday. But Thursday, they broke the door open.”

“That was after the crowd came. Before the crowd came?”

“It was so.”

“There was no access, except one had a key. And one would have to have two keys,” Knowlton said.

“They would have to have two keys, if they went up the back way, to get into my room. If they were in my room, they would have to have a key to get into his room, and another to get in the back stairs.”

Knowlton went back to his table. He sorted through the papers there and found the upstairs floor plan one of the police officers had made at the scene.

Studying the sketch, he walked back to the witness chair.

“Where did Mr. Morse sleep?”

“In the guest room, over the parlor in front of the stairs.”

“Right up the same stairs that your room was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far from your room?”

“A door opened into it.”

“The two rooms connected directly?”

“By one door, that’s all.”

“Not through the hall?”

“No, sir.”

“Was the door locked?”

“It has been locked and bolted, and a large writing desk in my room kept against it.”

“Then it was not a practical opening.”

“No, sir.”

“How otherwise do you get from your room to the next room?”

“I have to go into the front hall.”

“How far apart are the two doors?”

“Very near. I don’t think more than so far.” She spread her hands.

Knowlton nodded. He went back to his table and found the police sketch of the ground floor of the house. He carried it back with him to the witness chair.

“Where was your father when you came down Thursday morning?” he asked.

“Sitting in the sitting room in his large chair, reading the Providence Journal,” Lizzie said.

“Where was your mother?” Knowlton asked, and then immediately said,”Do you prefer me to call her Mrs. Borden?”

“I had as soon you called her mother,” Lizzie said, and looked him directly in the eye. “She was in the dining room with a feather duster, dusting.”

“When she dusted, did she wear something over her hair?”

“Sometimes when she swept. But not when dusting.”

“Where was Maggie?”

“Just come in the back door with the long pole, brush, and put the brush on the handle, and getting her pail of water. She was going to wash the windows around the house. She said Mrs. Borden wanted her to.”

“Did you get your breakfast that morning?”

“I didn’t eat any breakfast. I didn’t feel as though I wanted any.”

“Did you get any breakfast that morning?”

“I don’t know whether I ate half a banana. I don’t think I did.”

“You drank no tea or coffee that morning?”

“No, sir.”

“And ate no cookies?”

“I don’t know whether I did or not. We had some molasses cookies; I don’t know whether I ate any that morning or not.”

“Were the breakfast things put away when you got down?”

“Everything except the coffee pot. I’m not sure whether that was on the stove or not.”

“You said nothing about Mr. Morse to your father or mother?”

“No, sir.”

“What was the next thing that happened after you got down?”

“Maggie went out of doors to wash the windows, and father came out into the kitchen and said he didn’t know whether he’d go down to the post office or not. And then I sprinkled some handkerchiefs to iron.”

“Tell me again what time you came downstairs.”

“It was a little before nine — I should say about a quarter. I don’t know sure.”

“Did your father go downtown?”

“He went down later.”

“What time did he start away?”

“I don’t know.”

“What were you doing when he started away?”

“I was in the dining room, I think. Yes. I had just commenced, I think, to iron.”

“It may seem a foolish question,” Knowlton said, and smiled. “How much of an ironing did you have?”

“I only had about eight or ten of my best handkerchiefs.”

“Did you let your father out?”

“No, sir. He went out himself.”

“Did you fasten the door after him?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Maggie?”

“I don’t know. When she went upstairs, she always locked the door. She had charge of the back door.”

“Did she go out after a brush before your father went away?”

“I think so.”

“Did you say anything to Maggie?”

“I did not.”

“Did you say anything about washing the windows?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“I think I told her I didn’t want any breakfast.”

“You don’t remember of talking about washing the windows?”

“I don’t remember whether I did or not... I don’t remember it. Yes, I remember. Yes. I asked her to shut the parlor blinds when she got through. Because the sun was so hot.”

Knowlton nodded. The first question he had put to Bridget Sullivan this morning had been in regard to her whereabouts all through the morning of Thursday, August 4, up to the time of the murder. She testified that she’d been doing her regular work in the kitchen on the first floor. She had washed the breakfast dishes. She saw Miss Lizzie pass through the kitchen after breakfast time, and the young lady might have passed through again. She said she had finished up her work downstairs and resumed window washing on the third floor, which had been begun the preceding day. She might have seen Mrs. Borden as she went upstairs; she could hardly remember. Mr. Borden had already left the house.

“About what time did you think your father went downtown?” Knowlton asked.

“I don’t know. It must have been after nine o’clock. I don’t know what time it was.”

“You think at that time you’d begun to iron your handkerchiefs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long a job was that?”

“I didn’t finish them. My flats weren’t hot enough.”

“How long a job would it have been? If the flats had been right?”

“If they’d been hot... not more than twenty minutes, perhaps.”

“How long did you work on the job?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“How long was your father gone?”

“I don’t know that.”

“Where were you when he returned?”

“I was down in the kitchen.”

“What doing?”

“Reading an old magazine that had been left in the cupboard. An old Harper’s Magazine.”

“Had you got through ironing?”

“No, sir.”

“Had you stopped ironing?”

“Stopped for the flats.”

“Were you waiting for them to be hot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was there a fire in the stove?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When your father went away... you were ironing them.”

“I hadn’t commenced. But I was getting the little ironing board and the flats.”

Knowlton hesitated before putting his next question. This morning Bridget Sullivan had testified under oath that she’d heard Miss Lizzie on the stairs when she was letting Mr. Borden in after his walk downtown. Lizzie had just told him she was down in the kitchen when he returned.

“Are you sure you were in the kitchen when your father returned?” he asked.

“I’m not sure whether I was there or in the dining room.”

“Did you go back to your room before your father returned?”

“I think I did carry up some clean clothes.”

“Did you stay there?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you spend any time up the front stairs before your father returned?”

“No, sir.”

“Or after he returned?”

“No, sir. I did stay in my room long enough when I went up to sew a little piece of tape on a garment.”

“What was the time when your father came home?”

“He came home after I came downstairs.”

“You were not upstairs when he came home?”

“I was not upstairs when he came home. No, sir.”

“What was Maggie doing when your father came home?”

“I don’t know whether she was there or whether she’d gone upstairs. I can’t remember.”

“Who let your father in?”

“I think he came to the front door and rang the bell. And I think Maggie let him in. And he said he’d forgotten his key. So I think she must have been downstairs.”

“His key would have done him no good if the locks were left as you left them,” Knowlton said.

“But they were always unbolted in the morning,” Lizzie said.

“Who unbolted them that morning?”

“I don’t think they’d been unbolted. Maggie can tell you.”

“If he hadn’t forgotten his key, it would have been no good.”

“No. He had his key and couldn’t get in. I understood Maggie to say he said he’d forgotten his key.”

“You didn’t hear him say anything about it.”

“I heard his voice. But I don’t know what he said.”

“I understood you to say he said he’d forgotten his key.”

“No. It was Maggie said he said he’d forgotten the key.”

“Where was Maggie when the bell rang?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where were you when the bell rang?”

“I think in my room upstairs.”

“Then you were upstairs when your father came home.”

“I don’t know sure. But I think I was.”

“What were you doing?”

“As I say, I took up these clean clothes, and stopped and basted a little piece of tape on a garment.”

“Did you come down before your father was let in?”

“I was on the stairs coming down when she let him in.”

“Then you were upstairs when your father came to the house on his return.”

“I think I was.”

“How long had you been up there?”

“I had only been upstairs long enough to take the clothes up and baste the little loop on the sleeve. I don’t think I’d been up there over five minutes.”

“Was Maggie still engaged in washing windows when your father got back?”

“I don’t know.”

“You remember, Miss Borden — I will call your attention to it so as to see if I have any misunderstanding, not for the purpose of confusing you. You remember that you told me several times that you were downstairs, and not upstairs, when your father came home. You’ve forgotten, perhaps.”

“I don’t know what I’ve said,” Lizzie answered, shaking her head violently from side to side. “I’ve answered so many questions, and I’m so confused I don’t know one thing from another!” She took a deep breath. Her eyes met his again. “I’m telling you just as nearly as I know,” she said.

“Calling your attention to what you said about that a few minutes ago,” he said calmly, “and now again to the circumstance, you’ve said you were upstairs when the bell rang, and were on the stairs when Maggie let your father in. Which — now — is your recollection of the true statement of the matter? That you were downstairs when the bell rang and your father came?”

“I think I was downstairs in the kitchen.”

“And then you were not upstairs.”

“I think I was not. Because I went up almost immediately... as soon as I went down... and then came down again and stayed down.”

“What had you in your mind when you said you were on the stairs as Maggie let your father in?”

“The other day, somebody came there and she let them in, and I was on the stairs. I don’t know... whether the morning before or when it was.”

“You understood I was asking you exactly and explicitly about this fatal day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I now call your attention to the fact that you had specifically told me you’d gone upstairs, and had been there about five minutes when the bell rang, and were on your way down, and were on the stairs when Maggie let your father in that day.”

“Yes, I said that. And then I said I didn’t know whether I was on the stairs or in the kitchen.”

“Now how will you have it?”

“I think... as nearly as I know... I think I was in the kitchen.”

He knew he would not, at the moment, get more from her on that single important point. She seemed to have lost control back then, but only for the briefest instant, and she’d recovered again almost at once. The most telling thing about her testimony, he realized all at once, was that from the very start she had adopted an adversary position. Small wonder when Mayor Coughlin had bluntly and inadvisedly told her, on the very day they’d put her father and stepmother in the ground, that she herself was suspected of having committed the murders. But given this advance warning, as it were, should she not now have been more eager to assist, in every way possible, toward finding a solution that pointed to someone other than herself? Why had she adopted this oddly belligerent posture — the stubborn set of mouth and jaw, the pale fire in her gray eyes — unless she herself was indeed the “maniac” the Reverend Jubb had described?

“How long was your father gone?” Knowlton asked, his voice softer. There was no sense bullying her now. She was composed again, and she would only resist such an approach.

“I don’t know, sir. Not very long.”

“An hour?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“Will you give me the best story you can, so far as your recollection serves you, of your time while he was gone?”

“I sprinkled my handkerchiefs. And got my ironing boards. And took them in the dining room. And left the handkerchiefs in the kitchen on the table, and... whether I ate any cookies or not, I don’t remember. Then I sat down looking at the magazine, waiting for the flats to heat. Then I went in the sitting room and got the Providence Journal and took that into the kitchen. I don’t recollect of doing anything else.”

“What did you read first? The Journal or the magazine?”

“The magazine.”

“You told me you were reading the magazine when your father came back.”

“I said in the kitchen, yes.”

“Was that so?”

“Yes. I took the Journal out to read, and hadn’t read it. I had it near me.”

“You said a minute or two ago you read the magazine awhile, and then went and got the Journal and took it out to read.”

“I did. But I didn’t read it. I tried my flats then.”

“And went back to reading the magazine?”

“I took the magazine up again, yes.”

“When did you last see your mother?”

“I didn’t see her after... when I went down in the morning and she was dusting the dining room.”

“Where did you or she go then?”

“I don’t know where she went. I know where I was.”

“Did you or she leave the dining room first?”

“I think I did. I left her in the dining room.”

“You never saw her or heard her afterwards?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she say anything about making the bed?”

“She said she’d been up and made the bed up fresh, and had dusted the room and left it all in order. She was going to put some fresh pillow slips on the small pillows at the foot of the bed, and was going to close the room because she was going to have company Monday and she wanted everything in order.”

“How long would it take to put on the pillow slips?”

“About two minutes.”

“How long to do the rest of the things?”

“She’d done that when I came down.”

“All that was left was what?”

“To put on the pillow slips.”

“Can you give me any suggestions as to what occupied her when she was up there? When she was struck dead?”

“I don’t know of anything. Except she had some cotton-cloth pillowcases up there, and she said she was going to commence to work on them. That’s all I know. And the sewing machine was up there.”

“Whereabouts was the sewing machine?”

“In the corner between the north and west side.”

“Did you hear the sewing machine going?”

“I did not.”

“Did you see anything to indicate that the sewing machine had been used that morning?”

“I had not. I didn’t go in there until after everybody had been in there, and the room had been overhauled.”

“If she’d remained downstairs, you would undoubtedly have seen her.”

“If she’d remained downstairs, I should have. If she’d remained in her room, I should not have.”

“You didn’t see her at all?”

“No, sir. Not after the dining room.”

“After that time,” Knowlton said thoughtfully, “she must have remained in the guest chamber.”

“I don’t know.”

“So far as you can judge.”

“So far as I can judge, she might have been out of the house. Or in the house.”

“Had you any knowledge of her going out of the house?”

“No, sir.”

“Had you any knowledge of her going out of the house?” Knowlton asked again.

“She told me she’d had a note. Somebody was sick. And said, ‘I am going to get dinner on the way’. And asked me what I wanted for dinner.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Yes. I told her I didn’t want anything.”

“Then why did you not suppose she’d gone?”

“I supposed she’d gone.”

“Did you hear her come back?”

“I didn’t hear her go or come back, but I supposed she went.”

“When you found your father dead,” Knowlton said, and paused. “You supposed your mother had gone?”

“I didn’t know. I said to the people who came in, ‘I don’t know whether Mrs. Borden is out or in. I wish you’d see if she’s in her room’.”

“You supposed she was out at the time?”

“I understood so. I didn’t suppose about anything.”

“Did she tell you where she was going?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she tell you who the note was from?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever see the note?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know where it is now?”

“No, sir.”

“She said she was going out that morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

Judge Blaisdell cleared his throat. Knowlton turned toward the bench.

“Your Honor?” he said.

“Mr. Knowlton, the hour’s almost six, and Miss Borden appears a trifle weary. I wonder if we might continue this in the morning.”

“Yes, of course,” Knowlton said at once.

“Miss Borden?” Blaisdell said. “Would ten o’clock be a convenient hour for you?”

“Yes, sir,” Lizzie said.

“This hearing is adjourned till ten tomorrow morning,” Blaisdell said.