Lizzie

4: Fall River — 1892

Six witnesses were to be examined at the inquest on this Wednesday morning, August 10, and Lizzie Borden was to be the first of them. The clock on the wall read ten minutes to ten. Knowlton sat alone in the courtroom, a copy of the Springfield Republican open on the table before him. The editorial read:

Well that, Knowlton thought. The fact that there had been no visible blood on the girl when the police arrived. True enough. But was it actually so improbable that she might have had opportunity to cleanse herself after the gory acts? To hide, perhaps to destroy, the garments she’d been wearing? Beyond reasonable doubt, he reminded himself. What might have happened was nothing for him to ponder. He was here this morning to inquire again into what had happened, to ask Lizzie Borden again for a recital of the events as she had experienced them and perceived them on that fatal morning.

As for the police, he had no doubt but that they were performing their duties as diligently and as carefully as was within their power. Only yesterday afternoon, after it was reported that a paperhanger named Peleg Blightman had found a bloody hatchet hidden in a laborer’s house on one of the Brayton Farms, close by one of the two farms Andrew Borden had owned in South Somerset, Marshal Hilliard had immediately dispatched Officer Harrington to the scene.

The policeman had arrived there at about four-thirty in the afternoon while Knowlton was still questioning Lizzie, and had talked first with a Portuguese woman who understood English only sparingly, and next to her husband, who was called in from the fields. The man said he knew nothing of such a hatchet, and when the officer searched the house, he found on the kitchen shelf only a hatchet without any blood stains. That very night, an order was adopted by the Fall River Board of Aldermen, stating, “Inasmuch as a terrible crime has been committed in this city, requiring an unusually large number of men to do police duty, it is hereby ordered that the City Marshal be — and he is hereby — directed to employ such extra constables as he may deem necessary for the detection of the criminals, the expenses to be charged to the appropriation of the police.”

The police were doing their job; of that, Knowlton felt certain. He closed the newspaper and looked up at the clock. It was five minutes to ten. Professor Wood was still at the Borden house, he imagined, examining the premises again, after which he would go to the police station to receive a trunk from Dr. Dolan. The trunk would contain, among other things, the two axes and the claw-hammer hatchet that had been found in the cellar of the house. Knowlton wished he were already in possession of the results of the professor’s examination, now, before he questioned the witness again, but that was impossible. He glanced toward the door as Clerk Leonard shuffled into the courtroom. The men exchanged morning greetings. Annie White came in a few moments later, followed by City Marshal Hilliard. If Knowlton had come to know anything at all about Miss Lizzie Borden, it was that she would arrive promptly at the stroke of the hour.

“I shall have to ask you once more about that morning,” he said. “I want you to tell me just where you found the people when you got down. That you did find there.”

“I found Mrs. Borden in the dining room. I found my father in the sitting room.”

“And Maggie?”

“Maggie was coming in the back door with her pail and brush.”

“Tell me what talk you had with your mother at that time.”

“She asked me how I felt. I said I felt better than I did Tuesday, but I didn’t want any breakfast. She asked me what I wanted for dinner. I told her nothing. I told her I didn’t want anything. She said she was going out, and would get the dinner. That’s the last I saw her, or said anything to her.”

“Where did you go then?”

“Into the kitchen.”

“Where then?”

“Downcellar.”

“Gone perhaps five minutes?”

“Perhaps. Not more than that. Possibly a little bit more.”

“When you came back, did you see your mother?”

“I did not. I supposed she had gone out.”

“She did not tell you where she was going?”

“No, sir.”

“Now I call your attention to the fact that yesterday you told me, with some explicitness, that when your father came in you were just coming downstairs.”

“No, I did not. I beg your pardon.”

“That you were on the stairs at the time your father was let in, you said with some explicitness. Do you now say you did not say so?”

“I said I thought first I was on the stairs. Then I remembered I was in the kitchen when he came in.”

“First you thought you were in the kitchen. Afterwards, you remembered you were on the stairs.”

“I said I thought I was on the stairs. Then I said I knew I was in the kitchen. I still say that now. I was in the kitchen.”

“Did you go into the front part of the house after your father came in?”

“After he came in from downstreet, I was in the sitting room with him.”

“Did you go into the front hall afterwards?”

“No, sir.”

“At no time?”

“No, sir.”

“Excepting the two or three minutes you were downcellar, were you away from the house until your father came in?”

“No, sir.”

“You were always in the kitchen or dining room, excepting when you went upstairs.”

“I went upstairs before he went out.”

“You mean you went up there to sew a button on.”

“I basted a piece of tape on.”

“Do you remember you didn’t say that yesterday?”

“I don’t think you asked me. I told you yesterday I went upstairs directly after I came up from downcellar, with the clean clothes.”

“You now say — after your father went out — you didn’t go upstairs at all.”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“When Maggie came in there washing the windows, you didn’t appear from the front part of the house?”

“No, sir.”

“When your father was let in, you didn’t appear from upstairs?”

“No, sir. I was in the kitchen.”

“After your father went out, you remained there either in the kitchen or dining room all the time.”

“I went in the sitting room long enough to direct some paper wrappers.”

“One of the three rooms.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So it would have been extremely difficult for anybody to have gone through the kitchen, and dining room, and front hall without your seeing them.”

“They could have gone from the kitchen into the sitting room while I was in the dining room. If there was anybody to go.”

“Then into the front hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were in the dining room. Ironing.”

“Yes, sir. Part of the time.”

“You were in all of the three rooms.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A large portion of that time, the girl was out of doors.”

“I don’t know where she was. I didn’t see her. I supposed she was out of doors. As she had the pail and brush.”

“You know she was washing windows?”

“She told me she was going to. I didn’t see her do it.”

“For a large portion of the time, you didn’t see the girl?”

“No, sir.”

“So far as you know, you were alone in the lower part of the house a large portion of the time. After your father went away, and before he came back.”

“My father didn’t go away, I think, until somewhere about ten... as near as I can remember. He was with me downstairs.”

“A large portion of the time, after your father went away and before he came back, so far as you know, you were alone in the house.”

“Maggie had come in and gone upstairs.”

“After he went out,” Knowlton persisted doggedly, “and before he came back, a large portion of the time after your father went out, and before he came back, so far as you know, you were the only person in the house.”

“So far as I know, I was.”

“And during that time, so far as you know, the front door was locked.”

“So far as I know.”

“And never was unlocked at all.”

“I don’t think it was.”

“Even after your father came home, it was locked up again.”

“I don’t know whether she locked it up again after that or not.”

“It locks itself.”

“The spring lock opens.”

“It fastens it so it cannot be opened from the outside.”

“Sometimes you can press it open.”

“Have you any reason to suppose the spring lock was left so it could be pressed open from the outside?”

“I have no reason to suppose so.”

“Nothing about the lock was changed before the people came.”

“Nothing that I know of.”

One of them was lying; either the servant girl or the woman who now sat watching him, her gray eyes unreadable. Bridget Sullivan had testified under oath that Lizzie had been upstairs when she’d let Andrew Borden into the house. Either in the entry or at the top of the stairs. She had specifically stated that she’d had difficulty unlocking the door, and had said “Oh, pshaw,” and had heard Lizzie laughing, upstairs. Lizzie herself had yesterday claimed she’d been upstairs when her father came back to the house. She was now claiming she’d been in the kitchen. Why the lie, if indeed it was a lie? And if it was not a lie, he wanted all the details.

“What were you doing in the kitchen when your father came home?” he asked.

“I think I was eating a pear when he came in.”

“What had you been doing before that?”

“Reading a magazine.”

“Were you making preparations to iron again?”

“I’d sprinkled my clothes and was waiting for the flats. I sprinkled the clothes before he went out.”

“Had you built up the fire again?”

“I put in a stick of wood. There were a few sparks. I put in a stick of wood to try to heat the flat.”

“You had then started the fire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The fire was burning when he came in?”

“No, sir. But it was smoldering and smoking as though it would come up.”

“Did it come up after he came in?”

“No, sir.”

“How soon after your father came in before Maggie went upstairs?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”

“Did you see her after your father came in?”

“Not after she let him in.”

“How long was your father in the house before you found him killed?”

“I don’t know exactly. Because I went out to the barn. I don’t know what time he came home. I don’t think he’d been home more than fifteen or twenty minutes. I’m not sure.”

“When you went out to the barn, where did you leave your father?”

“He had laid down on the sitting-room lounge. Taken off his shoes and put on his slippers. And taken off his coat and put on the reefer. I asked him if he wanted the window left that way.”

Now surely, she knew that her father had been wearing Congress shoes at the time of his murder, and not slippers, as she now claimed. But why lie about so inconsequential a matter as what the man had been wearing on his feet? Unless, of course, she was determined to weave reality and invention into a web that would totally obscure the truth. Meticulously relate detail after detail, some of them true, some of them false, until it would become impossible for him to distinguish fact from fancy.

“Where did you leave him?” he asked.

“On the sofa.”

“Was he asleep?”

“No, sir.”

“Was he reading?”

“No, sir.”

“What was the last thing you said to him?”

“I asked him if he wanted the window left that way. Then I went into the kitchen. And from there to the barn.”

“Whereabouts in the barn did you go?”

“Upstairs.”

“To the second story of the barn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long did you remain there?”

“I don’t know. Fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“What doing?”

“Trying to find lead for a sinker.”

“What made you think there’d be lead for a sinker up there?”

“Because there was some there.”

“Was there not some by the door?”

“Some pieces of lead by the open door. But there was a box full of old things upstairs.”

“Did you bring any sinker back from the barn?”

“I found no sinker.”

“Did you bring any sinker back from the barn?”

“Nothing but a piece of a chip I picked up on the floor.”

“Where was that box you say you saw upstairs, containing lead?”

“There was a kind of a workbench.”

“Is it there now?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“How long since you’ve seen it there?”

“I haven’t been out there since that day.”

“Had you been in the barn before?”

“That day? No, sir.”

“How long since you’d been in the barn before?”

“I don’t think I’d been into it... I don’t know as I had in three months.”

And, of course, it was entirely possible that she had been to the barn, as she claimed, and that someone had stolen into the house to commit bloody murder while the servant girl lay on her bed in the attic room. In which case, the door...

“When you went out,” he asked, “did you unfasten the screen door?”

“I unhooked it to get out.”

“It was hooked until you went out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It had been left hooked by Bridget? If she was the last one in?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know.”

“Do you know when she did get through washing the outside?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you know she washed the windows inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you sec her washing the windows inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know whether she washed the dining room and sitting room windows inside?”

“I didn’t see her.”

“If she did, would you not have seen her?”

“I don’t know. She might be in one room and I in another.”

“Do you think she might have gone to work, and washed all the windows in the dining room and sitting room, and you not know it?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure, whether I should or not, I might have seen her, and not know it.”

“Miss Borden, I am trying in good faith to get all the doings that morning of yourself and Miss Sullivan, and I have not succeeded in doing it. Do you desire to give me any information, or not?”

“I don’t know it... I don’t know what your name is!”

He was confused for a moment. Surely, she knew what his name was. And then he realized she was making reference to his barrage of questions, telling him, in effect, that he had her head in such a whirl she no longer could even remember his name. He debated for a moment whether he should soften his tone and his stance. He decided against it.

Flatly, deliberately, accusingly, he said. “It is certain beyond reasonable doubt she was engaged in washing the windows in the dining room or sitting room when your father came home. Do you mean to say you know nothing of either of those operations?”

“I knew she washed the windows outside — that is, she told me so. She didn’t wash the windows in the kitchen, because I was in the kitchen most of the time.”

“The dining room and the sitting room, I said.”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you give me any information how it happened — at that particular time — you should go into the chamber of the barn to find a sinker to go to Marion with to fish the next Monday?”

“I was going to finish my ironing. My flats weren’t hot. I said to myself, ‘I’ll go and try and find that sinker. Perhaps by the time I get back, the flats’ll be hot.’ That’s the only reason.”

“Had you got a fish line?”

“Not here. We had some at the farm.”

“Had you got a fish hook?”

“No, sir.”

“Had you got any apparatus for fishing at all?”

“Yes, over there.”

“Had you any sinkers over there?”

“I think there were some. It’s so long since I’ve been there. I think there were some.”

“You had no reason to suppose you were lacking sinkers?”

“I don’t think there were any on my lines.”

“Where were your lines?”

“My fish lines were at the farm here.”

“What made you think there were no sinkers at the farm? On your lines?”

“Because some time ago, when I was there, I had none.”

“How long since you’d used the fish lines?”

“Five years, perhaps.”

“You left them at the farm then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you haven’t seen them since?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It occurred to you, after your father came in, it would be a good time to go to the barn after sinkers. And you had no reason to suppose there was not abundance of sinkers at the farm. And abundance of lines.”

“The last time I was there, there were some lines.”

“Did you not say before you presumed there were sinkers at the farm?”

“I don’t think I said so.”

“You did say so. Exactly. Do you now say you presume there were no sinkers at the farm?”

“I don’t think there were any fish lines suitable to use at the farm. I don’t think there were any sinkers on any line that had been mine.”

“Do you remember telling me you presumed there were lines, and sinkers, and hooks at the farm?”

“I said there were lines, I thought. And perhaps hooks. I didn’t say I thought there were sinkers on my lines. There was another box of lines over there beside mine.”

“You thought there were not sinkers?”

“Not on my lines.”

“Not sinkers at the farm?”

“I don’t think there were any sinkers at the farm. I don’t know whether there were or not.”

“Did you then think there were no sinkers at the farm?”

“I thought there were no sinkers anywhere, or I shouldn’t have been trying to find some.”

“You thought there were no sinkers at the farm to be had.”

“I thought there were no sinkers at the farm to be had.”

“That is the reason you went into the second story of the barn. To look for a sinker.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You went straight to the upper story of the barn?”

“No. I went under the pear tree and got some pears first.”

“Then went to the second story of the barn, to look for sinkers for lines you had at the farm, as you supposed, as you had seen them there five years before that time.”

“I went up to get some sinkers, if I could find them. I didn’t intend to go to the farm for lines. I was going to buy some lines here.”

“You then had no intention of using your own line and hooks at the farm.”

“No, sir.”

“What was the use of telling me, a little while ago, you had no sinkers on your line at the farm?”

“I thought I made you understand that those lines at the farm were no good to use.”

“Did you not mean for me to understand one of the reasons you were searching for sinkers was that the lines you had at the farm, as you remembered them, had no sinkers on them?”

“I said the lines at the farm had no sinkers.”

“I did not ask you what you said. Did you not mean for me to understand that?”

“I meant for you to understand I wanted the sinkers. And was going to have new lines.”

“You had not then bought your lines?”

“No, sir. I was going out Thursday noon.”

“You had not bought any apparatus for fishing?”

“No hooks.”

“Had bought nothing connected with your fishing trip?”

“No, sir.”

“Was going to go fishing the next Monday, were you?”

“I don’t know that we should go fishing Monday.”

“Going to the place to go fishing Monday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This was Thursday, and you had no idea of using any fishing apparatus before the next Monday.”

“No, sir.”

“You had no fishing apparatus you were preparing to use the next Monday until then.”

“No, sir. Not until I bought it.”

“You had not bought anything.”

“No, sir.”

“Had not started to buy anything.”

“No, sir.”

“The first thing in preparation for your fishing trip the next Monday was to go to the loft of that barn to find some old sinkers to put on some hooks and lines that you had not then bought.”

“I thought I would find out whether there were any sinkers before I bought the lines. And if there were, I shouldn’t have to buy any sinkers. If there were some, I should only have to buy the lines and the hooks.”

“You began the collection of your fishing apparatus by searching for sinkers in the barn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you look upstairs?”

“On that workbench, like.”

“In anything?”

“Yes, it was a box. Sort of a box. And then some things lying right on the side that wasn’t in the box.”

“How large a box was it?”

“I couldn’t tell you. It was probably covered up with lumber, I think.”

“Give me the best idea of the size of the box you can.”

“Well, I should say... I don’t know... I haven’t any idea.”

“Give me the best idea you have.”

“About that large,” she said, and extended her gloved hands, measuring out the distance between the forefinger of each hand.

“That long?” Knowlton asked.

“Yes.”

“How wide?”

“I don’t know.”

“Give me the best idea you have.”

“Perhaps about as wide as it was long.”

“How high?”

“It wasn’t very high.”

“About how high?”

Lizzie again extended her hands.

“About twice the length of your forefinger?” Knowlton said.

“I should think so. Not quite.”

“What was in the box?”

“Nails... and some old locks... and I don’t know but there was a doorknob.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t remember anything else.”

“Any lead?”

“Yes. Some pieces of lead, like.”

“Foil? What we call tin foil? The same as you use on tea chests?”

“I don’t remember seeing any tin foil. Not as thin as that.”

“Tea-chest lead?”

“No, sir.”

“What did you see in shape of lead?”

“Flat pieces of lead, a little bigger than that. Some of them were doubled together.”

“How many.”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Where else did you look? Beside in the box?”

“I didn’t look anywhere of lead except on the workbench.”

“When you got through looking for lead, did you come down?”

“No, sir. I went to the west window, over the hay. To the west window. And the curtain was slanted a little. I pulled it down.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“That is all you did?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is the second story of the barn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was the window open?”

“I think not.”

“Hot?”

“Very hot.”

“How long do you think you were up there?”

“Not more than fifteen or twenty minutes, I shouldn’t think.”

“Should you think what you’ve told me would occupy four minutes?”

“I ate some pears up there.”

“I asked you to tell me all you did!”

“I told you all I did!”

“Do you mean to say you stopped your work, and then — additional to that — sat still and ate some pears?”

“While I was looking out of the window, yes, sir.”

“Will you tell me all you did in the second story of the barn?”

“I think I told you all I did that I can remember.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I told you I took some pears up from the ground when I went up. I stopped under the pear tree and took some pears up. When I went up.”

“Have you now told me everything you did up in the second story of the barn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I now call your attention and ask you to say whether all you have told me — I don’t suppose you stayed there any longer than necessary?”

“No, sir. Because it was close.”

“I suppose that was the hottest place there was on the premises.”

“I should think so.”

“Can you give me any explanation why all you have told me would occupy more than three minutes?”

“Yes, it would take me more than three minutes.”

“To look in that box — that you have described the size of — on the bench, and put down the curtain, and then get out as soon as you conveniently could — would you say you were occupied in that business twenty minutes?”

“I think so. Because I didn’t look at the box when I first went up.”

“What did you do?”

“I ate my pears.”

“Stood there eating pears, doing nothing?”

“I was looking out of the window.”

“Stood there looking out of the window, eating the pears.”

“I should think so.”

“How many did you eat?”

“Three, I think.”

“You were feeling better than you did in the morning?”

“Better than I did the night before.”

“That is not what I asked you. You were — then, when you were eating those three pears in that hot loft, looking out of that closed window — feeling better than you were in the morning? When you ate no breakfast?”

“I was feeling well enough to eat the pears.”

“Were you feeling better than you were in the morning?”

“I don’t think I felt very sick in the morning, only... yes, I don’t know but I did feel better. As I say, I don’t know whether I ate any breakfast or not. Or whether I ate a cookie.”

“Were you then feeling better than you did in the morning?”

“I don’t know how to answer you, because I told you I felt better in the morning, anyway’.”

“Do you understand my question? My question is whether, when you were in the loft of that barn, you were feeling better than you were in the morning, when you got up?”

“No. I felt about the same.”

“Were you feeling better than you were when you told your mother you didn’t care for any dinner?”

“No, sir. I felt about the same.”

“Well enough to eat pears, but not well enough to eat anything for dinner.”

“She asked me if I wanted any meat.”

The answer hardly seemed responsive, but he decided not to pursue the matter of her comparative health any further. The eating of the pears, he reasoned — and, he thought, correctly so — was simply an attempt on her part to explain what had taken her so long up there in the barn. Her trip to the barn, of course, if she was lying, had been invented to place her at some distance from the house where the murders had taken place. If she had not been in the house at the time, she could not have committed the murders. But why choose the barn? Why not the front walk? Or a neighbor’s fence? Or indeed the shade of the pear tree? Knowlton walked back to his table, picked up a drawing of the house and yard, and carried it with him to the witness chair.

“I ask you, ” he said, “why you should select that place, which was the only place which would put you out of sight of the house, to eat those three pears in?”

“I cannot tell you any reason.”

“You observe that fact, do you not? You have put yourself in the only place, perhaps, where it would be impossible for you to see a person going into the house.”

“Yes, sir, I should have seen them from the front window.”

“From anywhere in the yard?”

“No, sir. Not unless from that end of the barn.”

“Ordinarily, in the yard, you could have seen them. And in the kitchen, where you’d been, you could have seen them.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“When you were in the kitchen, you could see persons who came in at the back door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you were in the yard, unless you were around the corner of the house, you could see them come in at the back door.”

“No, sir. Not unless I was at the corner of the barn. The minute I turned, I could not.”

“What was there?”

“A little jog, like. The walk turns.”

“I ask you again to explain to me why you took those pears from the pear tree.”

“I didn’t take them from the pear tree.”

“From the ground, wherever you took them from, I thank you for correcting me. Going in the barn, going upstairs into the hottest place in the barn, in the rear of the barn, the hottest place, and there standing and eating those pears that morning.”

“I beg your pardon. I was not in the rear of the barn. I was in the other end of the barn that faced the street.”

“Where you could see anybody coming into the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you not tell me you could not?”

“Before I went into the barn. At the jog on the outside.”

“You now say... when you were eating the pears, you could see the back door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So nobody could come in at that time without your seeing them.”

“I don’t see how they could.”

“After you got through eating your pears, you began your search.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you did not see into the house.”

“No, sir. Because the bench is at the other end.”

“Now. I’ve asked you over and over again, and will continue the inquiry, whether anything you did at the bench would occupy more than three minutes.”

“Yes, I think it would. Because I pulled over quite a lot of boards in looking.”

“To get at the box?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Taking all that, what is the amount of time you think you occupied in looking for that piece of lead which you did not find?”

“Well... I should think perhaps I was ten minutes.”

“Looking over those old things.”

“Yes, sir. On the bench.”

“Now can you explain why you were ten minutes doing it?”

“No. Only that I can’t do anything in a minute.”

Except perhaps commit murder, Knowlton thought, and sighed heavily. She was watching him, a somewhat smug expression on her face now, as though her previous answer had been irrefutably logical. How could anyone be expected to do anything in a minute, least of all a woman intent on finding sinkers for a fishing trip she was to take on the Monday following the murders?

“When you came down from the barn,” he asked, “what did you do then?”

“Opened the sitting-room door, and went into the sitting room. Or pushed it open. It wasn’t latched.”

“What did you do then?”

“I found my father. And rushed to the foot of the stairs.”

“What were you going into the sitting room for?”

“To go upstairs.”

“What for?”

“To sit down.”

“What had become of the ironing?”

“The fire had gone out.”

“I thought you went out because the fire wasn’t hot enough to heat the flats.”

“I thought it would burn, but the fire hadn’t caught from the few sparks.”

“So you gave up the ironing and was going upstairs.”

“Yes, sir. I thought I’d wait till Maggie got dinner, and heat the flats again.”

“When you saw your father, where was he?”

“On the sofa.”

“What was his position?”

“Lying down.”

“Describe anything else you noticed at the time.”

“I didn’t notice anything else, I was so frightened and horrified. I ran to the foot of the stairs and called Maggie.”

“Did you notice that he’d been cut?”

“Yes. That’s what made me afraid.”

“Did you notice that he was dead?”

“I didn’t know whether he was or not.”

“Did you make any search for your mother?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I thought she was out of the house. I thought she’d gone out. I called Maggie to go to Dr. Bowen’s. When they came, I said, ‘I don’t know where Mrs. Borden is.’ I thought she’d gone out.”

“Did you tell Maggie you thought your mother had come in?”

“No, sir.”

“That you thought you heard her come in?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you say to anybody that you thought she was killed upstairs?”

“No, sir.”

“To anybody?”

“No, sir.”

“You made no effort to find your mother at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Who did you send Maggie for?”

“Dr. Bowen. She came back and said Dr. Bowen wasn’t there.”

“What did you tell Maggie?”

“I told her he was hurt.”

“When you first told her.”

“I said, ‘Go for Dr. Bowen as soon as you can. I think father is hurt.’ ”

“Did you then know that he was dead?”

“No, sir.”

“You saw him...”

“Yes, sir.”

“... you went into the room...”

“No, sir.”

“Looked in at the door?”

“I opened the door and rushed back.”

“Saw his face?”

“No, I didn’t see his face. Because he was all covered with blood.”

“You saw where the face was bleeding?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see the blood on the floor?”

“No, sir.”

“You saw his face covered with blood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see his eyeball hanging out?”

“No, sir.”

“See the gashes where his face was laid open?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing of that kind?”

“No, sir,” she said, and covered her face with both gloved hands, as though trying to hide from her eyes the images he had conjured for her. She sat that way for what seemed an eternity, motionless, her hands covering her face. He thought she might be weeping behind those hands, but he heard no sound from her. He waited. At last, she lowered her hands. The gray eyes were dry. They met his own eyes unwaveringly.

“Do you know of any employment that would occupy your mother for the two hours between nine and eleven,” he asked. “In the front room?”

“Not unless she was sewing.”

“If she had been sewing you would have heard the machine.”

“She didn’t always use the machine.”

“Did you see, or were there found, anything to indicate that she was sewing up there?”

“I don’t know. She’d given me, a few weeks before, some pillowcases to make.”

“My question is not that. Did you see, or were there found, anything to indicate that she had done any sewing in that room that morning?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t allowed in that room. I didn’t see it.”

“Leaving out the sewing, do you know of anything else that would occupy her for two hours in that room?”

“No. Not if she’d made the bed up. And she said she had when I went down.”

“Assuming the bed was made?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Did she say she’d done her work?”

“She said she’d made the bed, and was going to put on the pillowcases. About nine o’clock.”

“I ask you now again, remembering that...”

“I told you that yesterday.”

“Never mind about yesterday. Tell me all the talk you had with your mother when you came down in the morning.”

“She asked me how I felt. I said I felt better, but didn’t want any breakfast. She said what kind of meat did I want for dinner. I said I didn’t want any. She said she was going out, somebody was sick, and she would get the dinner, get the meat, order the meat. And... I think she said something about the weather being hotter, or something. And I don’t remember that she said anything else. I said to her, ‘Won’t you change your dress before you go out?’ She had on an old one. She said, ‘No, this is good enough.’ That’s all I can remember.”

“In this narrative, you have not again said anything about her having said that she’d made the bed.”

“I told you that she said she’d made the bed!”

“In this time saying, you didn’t put that in! I want that conversation that you had with her that morning. I beg your pardon again. In this time of telling me, you didn’t say anything about her having received a note.”

“I told you that before.”

“Miss Borden, I want you now to tell me all the talk you had with your mother when you came down, and all the talk she had with you. Please begin again.”

The gray eyes flared. Her gloved hands tightened on the arms of the witness chair; for a moment, she seemed about to rise. He was suddenly aware of a thin sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. She took a deep breath. Her hands relaxed. Her eyes met his again. The anger was gone now. She stared directly into his face, and began speaking slowly, monotonously, almost hypnotically.

“She asked me how I felt. I told her. She asked me what I wanted for dinner. I told her not anything... what kind of meat I wanted for dinner. I told her not any. She said she’d been up and made the spare bed, and was going to take up some linen pillowcases for the small pillows at the foot, and then the room was done. She said, ‘I’ve had a note from somebody that’s sick, and I’m going out, and I’ll get the dinner at the same time.’ I think she said something about the weather, I don’t know. She also asked me if I would direct some paper wrappers for her, which I did.”

“She said she’d had a note?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You told me yesterday you never saw the note.”

“No, sir, I never did.”

“You looked for it?”

“No, sir. But the rest have.”

“Did you have an apron on Thursday?” Knowlton asked, abruptly shifting his line of questioning.

“Did I what?”

“Have an apron on Thursday?”

“No, sir, I don’t think I did.”

“Do you remember whether you did or not?”

“I don’t remember sure, but I don’t think I did.”

“You had aprons, of course?”

“I had aprons, yes, sir.”

“Will you try and think whether you did or not?”

“I don’t think I did.”

“Will you try and remember?”

“I had no occasion for an apron on that morning.”

“If you can remember, I wish you would.”

“I don’t remember.”

“That is all the answer you can give me about that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, he thought, so much for any garment she might have been wearing over her dress to shield her from the almost certain torrent of blood caused by the butchering wounds. For surely, if an ax or a hatchet had been the murder weapon...

“Did you have any occasion to use the ax or hatchet?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Did you know where they were?”

“I knew there was an old ax downcellar. That’s all I knew.”

“Did you know anything about a hatchet downcellar?”

“No, sir.”

“Where was the old ax downcellar?”

“The last time I saw it, it was stuck in the old chopping block.”

“Was that the only ax or hatchet downcellar?”

“It was all I knew about.”

“When was the last you knew of it?”

“When our farmer came to chop wood.”

“When was that?”

“I think a year ago last winter. I think there was so much wood on hand, he didn’t come last winter.”

“Do you know of anything that would occasion the use of an ax or hatchet?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know of anything that would occasion the getting of blood on an ax or hatchet downcellar?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t say there was, but assuming an ax or hatchet was found downcellar with blood on it.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know whether there was a hatchet down there before the murder?”

“I don’t know.”

“You aren’t able to say your father didn’t own a hatchet?”

“I don’t know whether he did or not.”

“Did you know there was found, at the foot of the stairs, a hatchet and ax?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Assume that is so... can you give me any explanation of how they came there?”

“No, sir.”

“Assume they had blood on them... can you give any occasion for there being blood on them?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you tell of any killing of an animal, or any other operation, that would lead to their being cast there, with blood on them?”

“No, sir,” Lizzie said, and hesitated. “He killed some pigeons in the barn last May or June.”

“What with?”

“I don’t know, but I thought he wrung their necks.”

“What made you think so?”

“I think he said so.”

“Did anything else make you think so?”

“All but three or four had their heads on. That is what made me think so.”

“Did all of them come into the house?”

“I think so.”

“Those that came into the house were all headless?”

“Two or three had them on.”

“Were any with their heads off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cut off? Or twisted off.”

“I don’t know which.”

“How did they look?”

“I don’t know. Their heads were gone, that’s all.”

“Did you tell anybody they looked as though they were twisted off?”

“I don’t remember whether I did or not.” A faraway look came into her gray eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was uncommonly low. “The skin was very tender. I said, ‘Why are these heads off?’ ” She paused. The eyes snapped back into focus. “I think I remember telling somebody that he said they were twisted off.”

“Did they look as if they were cut off?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look at that particularly.”

Did you look at your stepmother particularly? he wondered. Did you look at your father particularly? Did you wonder why their heads were off, or virtually off, after you butchered them to death with a sharp weapon, hatchet or ax, whatever you used? He realized all at once that he was sweating profusely. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

“Is there anything else besides that,” he asked, “that would lead in your opinion, so far as you can remember, to the finding of instruments in the cellar with blood on them?”

“I know of nothing else that was done.”

Judge Blaisdell cleared his throat. “Was there any effort made by the witness,” he asked, “to notify Mrs. Borden of the fact that Mr. Borden was found?”

“Did you make any effort to notify Mrs. Borden of your father being killed?” Knowlton asked.

“No, sir. When I found him, I rushed right to the foot of the stairs for Maggie. I supposed Mrs. Borden was out. I didn’t think anything about her at the time, I was so—”

“At any time, did you say anything about her to anybody?”

“No, sir.”

“To the effect that she was out?”

“I told father when he came in.”

“After your father was killed.”

“No, sir.”

“Did you say you thought she was upstairs?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ask them to look upstairs?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you suggest to anybody to search upstairs?”

“I said, ‘I don’t know where Mrs. Borden is.’ That’s all I said.”

“You did not suggest that any search be made for her?”

“No, sir.”

“You did not make any yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“I want you to give me all that you did, by way of word or deed, to see whether your mother was dead or not. When you found your father was dead.”

“I didn’t do anything, except what I said to Mrs. Churchill. I said to her,”I don’t know where Mrs. Borden is. I think she’s out, but I wish you’d look.”

“You did ask her to look?”

“I said that to Mrs. Churchill.”

“Where did you intend for her to look?”

“In Mrs. Borden’s room.”

She had told him yesterday that the last time she’d seen her stepmother alive was at about a quarter to nine in the morning when she’d come downstairs to find her dusting in the dining room. Was it conceivable that someone had somehow found his way into the house, killed Mrs. Borden, hidden himself somewhere on the inside, and then waited for Mr. Borden’s return to kill him with the same weapon in the same manner?

“Will you give me the best judgment you can as to the time your father got back?” he asked. “If you haven’t any, it’s sufficient to say so.”

“No, sir, I haven’t any.”

“Can you give me any judgment as to the length of time that elapsed after he came back and before you went to the barn?”

“I went right out to the barn.”

“How soon after he came back?”

“I should think not less than five minutes. I saw him taking off his shoes and lying down. It only took him two or three minutes to do it. I went right out.”

The shoes again. Why this idiotic insistence that the man had taken off his shoes, when for certain he was found wearing his shoes? Was her memory on this point simply faulty? Then why did it persist so strongly? Had he taken off his shoes, and then put them on again? Or was the remembered removal of his shoes only another attempt to account for lapsed time? “It only took him two or three minutes to do it. I went right out.”

“When he came into the house,” Knowlton said, “didn’t he go into the dining room first?”

“I don’t know.”

“And there sit down?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“Because I was in the kitchen.”

“It might have happened? And you not have known it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You heard the bell ring...”

“Yes, sir.”

“... and you knew when he came in...”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t see him?”

“No, sir.”

“When did you first see him?”

“I went into the sitting room, and he was there. I don’t know whether he’d been in the dining room before or not.”

“What made you go into the sitting room?”

“Because I wanted to ask him a question.”

“What question?”

“Whether there was any mail for me.”

“Did you not ask him that question in the dining room?”

“No, sir, I think not.”

“Was he not in the dining room, sitting down?”

“I don’t remember him being in the dining room sitting down.”

A direct contradiction of Bridget Sullivan’s sworn testimony. Knowlton decided to pursue it.

“At that time, wasn’t Maggie washing the windows in the sitting room?”

“I thought I asked him for the mail in the sitting room. I’m not sure.”

“Wasn’t the reason he went in the dining room because she was in the sitting room, washing windows?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he not go upstairs to his own room before he sat down in the sitting room?”

“I didn’t see him go.”

“He had the key to his room down there...”

“I don’t know whether he had it. It was kept on the shelf.”

“Don’t you remember he took the key, and went into his own room, and then came back?”

“No, sir. He took some medicine. It wasn’t doctor’s medicine, it was what we gave him.”

“What was it?”

“We gave him castor oil first, and then Garfield tea.”

“When was that?”

“He took the castor oil sometime Wednesday, I think, sometime Wednesday noon. And I think the tea Wednesday night. Mrs. Borden gave it to him. She went over to see the doctor.”

Again the welter of meaningless detail, as though she hoped by sheer accumulation to bury the truth under an obfuscating mountain of trivial information.

“When did you first consult Mr. Jennings?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you that. I think my sister sent for him. I don’t know.”

“Was it you or your sister?”

“My sister.”

“You didn’t send for him?”

“I didn’t send for him. She said did we think we ought to have him. I said do as she thought best. I don’t know when he came first.”

Not fair, perhaps, he thought, to use an old lawyer’s trick, leading the witness down the garden path, causing her to expect a line of questioning for which she would prepare her defense, and then going off on an entirely different tack, as he was about to do now.

“Now, tell me once more, if you please, the particulars of that trouble you had with your mother four or five years ago.”

“Her father’s house on Fourth Street was for sale...”

“Whose father’s house?”

“Mrs. Borden’s father’s house. She had a stepmother and a half sister, Mrs. Borden did, and this house was left to the stepmother and a half sister, if I understood it right. And the house was for sale. The stepmother, Mrs. Oliver Gray, wanted to sell it, and my father bought out the Widow Gray’s share. She didn’t tell me, and he didn’t tell me, but some outsiders said that he gave it to her. Put it in her name. I said if he gave that to her, he ought to give us something. Told Mrs. Borden so. She didn’t care anything about the house herself. She wanted it so this half sister could have a home. Because she’d married a man that wasn’t doing the best he could. And she thought her sister was having a very hard time, and wanted her to have a home. And we always thought she persuaded father to buy it. At any rate, he did buy it, and I’m quite sure she persuaded father to buy it. I said what he did for her people, he ought to do for his own children. So he gave us grandfather’s house. That was all the trouble we ever had.”

“You haven’t stated any trouble between you and her.”

“I said there was feeling four or five years ago, when I stopped calling her mother. I told you that yesterday.”

“That’s all there is to it, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had no words with your stepmother then?”

“I talked with her about it, and said what he did for her he ought to do for us. That’s all the words we had.”

“That’s the occasion of his giving you the house that you sold back to him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did your mother leave any property?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your own mother.”

“No, sir. Not that I ever knew of.”

Knowlton nodded and walked back to his table. Still standing at the table, hoping to surprise her with a sudden shift of questioning, he turned to her abruptly and asked, “Did you give to the officer the same skirt you had on the day of the tragedy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know whether there was any blood on the skirt?”

“No, sir.”

“Assume that there was... do you know how it came there?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any explanation of how it might come there?”

“No, sir.”

“Assume that there was... can you give any explanation of how it came there? On the dress skirt?”

“No, sir.”

“Assume that there was... can you suggest any reason how it came there?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you offered any?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever offered any?”

“No, sir.”

He hesitated before asking his next question. In addition to the witness who — if she had committed murder — might not prove squeamish about discussing the loss of blood experienced during a woman’s menstrual flow, there was nonetheless another woman in the courtroom, busily taking her stenographic notes, and he had no wish to offend her sensibilities. Nor had he any idea where or when the expression “having fleas” had originated as a euphemism for menstruation, but such it was, and the question had to be put because blood was a matter of some keen interest in this case.

“Have you said it came from flea bites?” he asked.

“On the petticoats, I said there was a flea bite. I said it might have been. You said you meant the dress skirt.”

“I did. Have you offered any explanation how that came there?”

“I told those men that were at the house that I’d had fleas. That’s all.”

“Did you offer that as an explanation?”

“I said that was the only explanation that I knew of.”

“Assuming that the blood came from the outside... can you give any explanation of how it came there?”

“No, sir.”

“You cannot now?”

“No, sir.”

“What shoes did you have on that day?”

“A pair of ties.”

“What color?”

“Black.”

“Will you give them to the officer?”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“At home.”

“What stockings did you have on that day?”

“Black.”

“Where are they?”

“At home.”

“Have they been washed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you give them to the officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

Judge Blaisdell suddenly asked, “Was this witness — on Thursday morning — in the front hall, or front stairs, or front chamber? Any part of the front of the house at all?”

“What do you say to that?” Knowlton asked.

“I had to come down the front stairs to get into the kitchen.”

“When you came down first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you afterwards?”

“No, sir.”

“Not at all?”

“Except the few minutes I went up with the clean clothes, and I had to come back again.”

“That, you now say, was before Mr. Borden went away.”

“Yes, sir.”

He was, in a way, grateful for the judge’s interruption; he could think of nothing further to ask Lizzie Borden, could conceive of no ground they had not already covered. “Your Honor,” he said, “there are other witnesses waiting to be heard, and I do not wish to overly tire Miss Borden. I have no further questions at this time, and I wonder if we might excuse her for the present, to recall her sometime tomorrow should the need arise.”

“The witness is excused,” Blaisdell said. “Mr. Leonard, would you call the next witness, please?”

And so, yesterday afternoon, after all the witnesses had been heard, Knowlton had issued a simple bulletin that stated only, “Inquest continued at ten today. Witnesses examined were Lizzie Borden, Dr. S. W. Bowen, Adelaide B. Churchill, Hiram C. Harrington, John V. Morse, and Emma Borden. Nothing developed for publication.”

And earlier this afternoon, the eleventh day of August, he had questioned a drugstore clerk named Eli Bence, and several witnesses who had testified to the whereabouts of Andrew Borden on the morning he was killed, and lastly Bridget Sullivan again, who had left the Borden house to take up temporary residence at 95 Division Street, a mile from the courthouse. He considered it an oversight that a hack had not been sent for her and that she’d had to walk that distance in the interminably persistent August heat.

The heat did nothing to still the temper of the crowd outside. For two days now the officials had been promising an imminent verdict, but the bulletin boards outside the courthouse revealed no such definitive action. The crowd knew only that witnesses came and went; police officers were sent scurrying in every direction at the slightest rumor of a new clue; doctors and professors secretly guarded their learned opinions, if indeed they had reached any opinions at all concerning the murders and the weapon or weapons presumably used. Knowlton knew that a decision, one way or the other, would have to be made today.

The Borden carriage, carrying the two Borden sisters and their friend Mrs. George Brigham had arrived not ten minutes ago, the driver cracking a whip to herd the milling crowd back. Knowlton had watched from the upstairs window of the courtroom, estimating the crowd to consist of at least two hundred men, women and children; remarkable the way they gathered so rapidly the moment the closed carriage came into view. One moment there would be only a handful of idlers in the street outside; the next moment a crowd would appear as if by magic, waiting for the decision that would either exonerate Lizzie Borden or cause her to be charged with the crime of murder.

He looked up at the clock.

It was getting late.

He sighed heavily.

“Is there anything you would like to correct in your previous testimony?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

He nodded, went back to his table, picked up a slip of paper, consulted it and walked back to where she sat in the witness chair, watching his every move.

“Your attention has already been called,” he said, “to the circumstance of going into the drugstore of Smith’s...”

Her pale eyes narrowed warily.

“... on the corner of Columbia and Main Streets — by some officer, has it not? — on the day before the tragedy.”

“I don’t know whether some officer has asked me. Somebody has spoken of it to me. I don’t know who it was.”

“Did that take place?”

“It did not.”

“Do you know where the drugstore is?”

“I don’t.”

“Did you go into any drugstore and inquire for prussic acid?”

“I did not.”

“Where were you on Wednesday morning, that you remember?”

“At home.”

“All the time?”

“All day. Until Wednesday night.”

“Did you go into the drugstore for any purpose whatever?”

“I did not.”

Eli Bence, the drugstore clerk he’d examined earlier today, had positively identified her as the woman who’d come into the shop asking to buy prussic acid. Knowlton looked at her. She returned his steady gaze.

“Was the dress that was given to the officers the same dress that you wore Thursday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The India silk?”

“No, it’s not an India silk. It’s silk and linen. Some call it bengaline silk.”

“Something like that dress there?” he said, and gestured toward Annie White, who was wearing a silk pongee with a knotty weave. The stenographer looked up from her pad, startled to find herself the sudden center of attention.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Lizzie said.

“Did you give to the officer the same shoes and stockings that you wore?”

“I did, sir.”

“Do you remember where you took them off?”

“I wore the shoes ever after that, all around the house Friday, and Saturday, until I put on my shoes for the street.”

“That is to say, you wore them all that day, Thursday, until you took them off for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

He felt suddenly weary. He had asked all the questions there were to be asked; what further question remained? His future course of action seemed unavoidable, nay, inescapable. And yet, if only she would...

“Did you tell us yesterday all the errand that you had at the barn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have nothing to add to what you said?”

“No, sir.”

“You had no other errand than what you’ve spoken of?”

“No, sir.”

Please, he thought. Won’t you give me something? If you did not do this terrible thing, help me to believe you did not. Please.

“Miss Borden,” he said, “of course you appreciate the anxiety that everybody has to find the author of this tragedy...”

Lizzie nodded.

“And the questions that I put to you have been in that direction.”

She nodded again.

“I now ask you if you can furnish any other fact, or give any other, even suspicion, that will assist the officers in any way in this matter.”

Lizzie considered this for several moments. Then she said, “About two weeks ago...”

“Were you going to tell the occurrence about that man who called at the house?”

“No, sir. It was after my sister went away. I came home from Miss Russell’s one night, and as I came up — I always glanced toward the side door as I came along by the carriage way — I saw a shadow on the side steps. I didn’t stop walking but I walked slower. Somebody ran down the steps, around the east end of the house. I thought it was a man, because I saw no skirts. And I was frightened, and of course I didn’t go around to see. I hurried to the front door as fast as I could and locked it.”

“What time of night was that?”

“I think about quarter of nine. It was not after nine o’clock, anyway.”

“Do you remember what night that was?”

“No, sir, I don’t.” She hesitated, thinking, and then said, “I saw somebody run around the house once before. Last winter.”

“One thing at a time,” Knowlton said. “Do you recollect about how long ago that last occurrence was?”

“It was after my sister went away. She’s been away two weeks today, so it must’ve been within two weeks.”

“Two weeks today? Or two weeks at the time of the murder?”

“Isn’t today Thursday?”

“Yes, but I thought you said she was gone two weeks the day of the murder.”

“Isn’t today Thursday?” Lizzie said again.

“Yes, but that would be three weeks. I thought you said the day your father was murdered she’d been away just two weeks.”

“Yes, she had.”

“Then it would be three weeks today. Your sister went away... a week has elapsed.”

“Yes,” she said, and again that faraway look came into her eyes, as though she were suddenly transported to some distant place he could not hope to reach. “I’d forgotten that a whole week has passed since the affair.”

He watched her in silence for several seconds. He was suddenly aware of the ticking of the big clock on the courtroom wall.

“Different from that,” he said, “you cannot state?”

“No, sir. I don’t know what the date was.”

“This... form... when you first saw it was on the steps of the back door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Went down the rear steps?”

“Went down toward the barn.”

“Around the back side of the house?”

“Disappeared in the dark. I don’t know where they went.”

“Have you ever mentioned that before?”

“Yes, sir. I told Mr. Jennings.”

“To any officer?”

“I don’t think I have. Unless I told Mr. Hanscomb.”

“What were you going to say about last winter?” he asked.

“Last winter, when I was coming home from church one Thursday evening, I saw somebody run around the house again. I told my father of that.”

“Did you tell your father of this last one?”

“No, sir.”

“Of course, you couldn’t identify who it was either time.”

“No, I couldn’t identify who it was. But it wasn’t a very tall person.”

The clock on the wall ticked persistently. The courtroom was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Time was running out. Beyond this afternoon meeting, if he did not grant her time now, there would never again be opportunity for her to tell her side of the story; Jennings would never allow her to take the stand if this case came to trial. Now was the time, the one and only time. He granted her time.

“Have you sealskin sacks?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Lizzie said.

“Where are they?”

“Hanging in a large white bag in the attic. Each one separate.”

“Put away for the summer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you ever use prussic acid on your sacks?”

“Acid? No, sir, I don’t use anything on them.”

And again, he granted her time. Allowed her at least the small courtesy of time because there was little else he could offer her now. Desperately, recognizing the note of desperation in his voice even as the words left his mouth, he said, “Is there anything else that you can suggest that even amounts to anything whatever?”

“I know of nothing else. Except the man who came and father ordered him out. That’s all I know.”

“That you told about the other day?”

“I think I did, yes, sir.”

“You haven’t been able to find that man?”

“I haven’t. I don’t know whether anybody else has or not.”

“Have you caused search to be made for him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When was the offer of reward made for the detection of the criminals?”

“I think it was made Friday.”

“Who suggested that?”

“We suggested it ourselves, and asked Mr. Buck if he didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“Whose suggestion was it? Yours or Emma’s?”

“I don’t remember,” Lizzie said. “I think it was mine.”

In his mind the clock abruptly stopped ticking, though surely it had not.

“I have no further questions,” he said.

Their eyes met.

“No further questions,” he said again, and turned away from her steady gaze.

He found her later in the matron’s room across from the courtroom entry. She was sitting there with her sister, her friend Mrs. Brigham and her attorney. He asked Mrs. Brigham to leave. He turned to Marshal Hilliard, who had entered the room together with Detective Seaver. The marshal was holding a sheet of paper in his hand.

“I have here a warrant for your arrest,” Hilliard said, “issued by the judge of the District Court. I shall read it to you if you desire, but you have the right to waive the reading of it.”

She looked at Jennings.

“Waive the reading,” Jennings advised.

Lizzie turned slightly in her chair. Her eyes met Knowlton’s momentarily — he would never forget the glacial look in them — and then she turned stiffly to the marshal.

“You need not read it,” she said.