The Literary Hatchet, Special Edition #1

Transcription

Literary
Special Issue #1
ISSN: 1547-5957
Literary
M ASTHEAD
publisher/executive editor
stefani koorey
production/design
stefani koorey
design consultant
michael brimbau
contributing writers
richard behrens
douglas walters
denise noe
david marshall james
vicki jo indrizzo-valente
sherry chapman
eugene hosey
michael brimbau
daniel krentzman
kat koorey
shelley dziedzic
larry allen
stefani koorey
grim k. de evil
photography
michael brimbau
stefani koorey
shutterstock.com
print on demand partner
lulu.com
publisher
PearTree Press
The Hatchet has evolved over its existence—starting
out as a bimonthly in 2004 and moving to a quarterly
in 2006, springing to life with a focus on the
Borden murders of 1892 and eventually including
articles and essays about Fall River, Massachusetts,
Victorian interests, poetry, prose, short stories, and
humor.
This special issue marks a new watershed—The
Hatchet is launching a twice-yearly edition with
the express concentration of literary creations
thematically tied by the new subtitle: murder,
mystery, and Victorian history. Yes, you will find
stories and poetry about Lizzie Borden and Fall
River, but not exclusively those motifs.
For instance, by broadening our scope, we are able
to publish new works that succeed in making us
fear more than a flesh and blood hatchet-weilding
murderer, but those terrible inner demons and
abstract horrors that reside inside the human
psyche, waiting for the proper amount of gentle
pushing or pulling to squeeze to the surface and
smother us in its leviathan grip.
You will see new writers here, those who may not have
a single Lizzie thing to say but can still chill us with
their insight into the human condition. They come
from all over the United States—Missouri, Florida,
Ohio, Michigan, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New
York, New Jersey, South Carolina, Mississippi, and
Georgia!
It is with great pleasure that we offer these original
works for your reading enjoyment. If you like
what you see, tell your friends and family, let your
writer friends know about us and invite them to
submit new material for future issues. We welcome
contributions!
Stefani Koorey
www.hatchetonline.com
the literary hatchet is published twice a year as a supplement to the hatchet:
lizzie borden’s journal of murder, mystery, and victorian history (issn 1547-3937),
by peartree press, p.o. box 540052, orlando, florida, 32854-0052, hatchetonline.
com. contents may not be resproduced without written permission of copyright
holder. the opinions expressed are of the artists and writers themselves and do
not necessarily reflect the opinions of peartree press. copyright © 2008 peartree
press. all rights reserved.
2 The Literary Hatchet
The Literary Hatchet 3
TABLE OF CONTENTS
SHORT STORIES
the case of the melancholy scion
by richard behrens
boy’s monster by eugene hosey
the maple wears a gayer scarf
by david marshall james
the spurned lover by denise noe
the rime of edwin porter
by douglas walters
6
44
50
56
66
2008, APRI L 4
HUMOR
dead letter office
by sherry chapman
top 40 hits of the summer, 1892
by sherry chapman
48
62
POETRY
do come in
by larry allen
who i am
by vicki jo indrizzo-valente
dear abby (borden)
by denise noe
buried bodies; sweet lizzie
by grim k. de evil
travesty and tragedy
by daniel krentzman
together again by larry allen
try it yourself by larry allen
the darkness by michael brimbau
lizzie on trial by larry allen
august names by grim k. de evil
waiting by michael brimbau
ode to domestic harmony
by shelley dziedzic
lizzie did you do it?
by kat koorey
42
43
47
55
60
65
86
87
88
89
90
“ Let t he stor y be arr anged like
t his: Let t he evide nce not all
be t hrown at us in a lump, wit
comme nt s before hand; but let
it grow up as a stor y unfolds ,
so t hat e ach new turn is a surprise to us as it w as to t hose
who s aw it happe n. Let t here be
no nods or elbow- jog ging s from
t he aut hor, no hint s , no specul ations . B ut let t he clues be sc attered shrewdly, for t he re ader
to f ind if he c ares to do so. Let
t here be half a doze n per sons ,
e ach suspec ted in turn , and e ach
in turn proved innoce nt . Let
t here be a spice of terror, of
d ark sk ies and evil t hing s . A nd
at inter v als , over our pipes and
gl asses , let us discuss t he evi de nce .”
John Dick son Carr :
The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey
[short story]
The Case of the
Melancholy Scion
a lizzie borden girl detective mystery
by richard behrens
1. Pressed In Lavender
1927. Fall River. The Hill.
For Lizzie Borden, Andre de Camp will
always be the Poet.
In all her sixty-six years on earth, she
had never been known to pay such reverence, silent or otherwise, to any member
of the male sex, whether to applaud virtue
or to praise physical elegance. But Andre
de Camp, scion of a wealthy French family
that had relocated to Fall River in the summer of 1877, a tall, brooding, and decidedly
handsome bachelor of nineteen years, the
product of private civilized education, brilliant and concisely intelligent, fastidious
in his manly dress, and precise in his manners, held a special place in Lizzie’s estimation of the masculine half of humanity.
She first glimpsed him at a midsummer charity event in the church hall
of the First Congregational. Standing with
his illustrious family—the father proudly
wearing a decorated uniform, the mother
and sister standing upright with pious concentration—Andre bowed his head towards
Lizzie, just once, as if in humble supplication before a higher power. The gesture sent
a chill through Lizzie’s being.
She quickly became impressed with
how the de Camp men were so very dif6 The Literary Hatchet
ferent from the money-driven barons who
banked her city, the uncultured factors and
industrialists who would never design a
cathedral or build an opera hall lest they
consider it “a foolish dollar spent.” Andre
de Camp may have been spawned from that
same society class, yet he brought with it all
the cultured elegance of Paris and the dark
mysteries of the southern Languedoc, faroff locales that Lizzie had admired through
sepia photographs of the mountainous
region, with its lush outcroppings and
deep-veined soil—a land she thought only
existed in her dreams.
Andre was a graceful aristocratic youth
who, like herself, was more comfortable
with the personal passions and the aesthetics of every day life than with the complexities of commerce. She saw in him not the
proud Marshals and Presidents of France’s
dusty past, nor the great Sun King in his
splendid palace, but the simple shepherds
from the paintings of Poussin, the noble
musketeers of Dumas, and the provincial
people of the tales of Flaubert. He embodied in his presence all the excitement, adventure, and beauty that she had admired
in the great French paintings and novels
that made their way to various Fall River
parlors for her viewing admiration. In her
opinion, he far outpaced in every manner
the grown men of his generation.
But for the rest of her days she would
never speak his name aloud. Even as an
aging woman of the Hill, secluded in her
summer bedroom in the rambling Maplecroft, her manse and hermitage, alone as
she looked back upon a dark and hidden
life, she would only speak of Andre as the
Poet, and then briefly, and then only to a
chauffeur or a domestic who was not of her
generation, who would never have heard of
the de Camp family, or would never repeat
her words to anyone in town who may have
known them, and then only when she was
caught off guard with some seizure of nostalgia for a Fall River that had once been
and now was no more.
But when the glimmer came in her
aging eyes, and she spoke of the Poet, when
she made oblique references to faces and
places now lost to time and memory, when
she hinted that once she had loved and felt
within her breast a singular passion the
likes of which had never been repeated, it
was the summer of 1877 and the Case of
the Melancholy Scion where her thoughts
took her. Back to a time before she was
the secluded spinster on the Hill, before
she sat alone in church because no fellow
citizens would occupy the pews adjoining
hers, before she was accused of that terrible crime whose shadow she would never
escape, back when she was young and fresh
and alive; to the time when she walked the
streets of Fall River with Andre de Camp,
who also was young and fresh and alive,
and who, despite her unwillingness to let
her heart be so directly touched, had truly
loved her.
Back when she was Lizzie Borden, Girl
Detective.
/
2. Unsettling Revelations
1877. Fall River. South Main Street.
Andrew Jackson Borden took his predinner constitutional from the front of
his quaint Greek revival house on Second
Street towards the tonsorial parlor, the
post office, and the apothecary to respectively get a shave, check for his mail, and
to inquire about the gastro-esophageal
disruption pills his wife Abby needed for
her burning chest pains. Threading his way
through the narrow streets, surrounded by
the bustle of pedestrian traffic, the whinnying of nags, the clattering of buggies, and
the hawking of the fish mongers, Borden
turned to survey the town that had given
him birth and had nurtured him through
his rise to prosperity.
So many estate properties, he thought
to himself. So many empty lots. If only I
could possess them all, to have that locus of
power over the domestic and commercial
fate of every individual in Fall River. He
allowed himself this one pure moment of
magnitude, imagining an inflated likeness
of himself that lay unrealized by his business colleagues, and then, with a wistful
grin that barely moved the edge of his
mouth, pushed on towards the barber for
his weekly trimming.
At that very moment, a short, squat
man with a bulbous nose and bristling
mustache stopped in front of Andrew, ungraciously blocking his path.
“You’re A.J. Borden, I believe!”
Andrew lifted his chin proudly. “I do
have that honor.”
The man’s mouth made a strange
mumbling motion and then before Andrew could take refuge in flight, the man
bellowed an almost incomprehensible
“Feeeyaaaah!” and a large wad of saliva
came flying across the distance between
them, landing with sickening thwack on
Andrew’s cheek.
“Here’s for your thievery and your
damned Ullsworth!” the attacker shouted.
“Take a rest in one of your own flimsy coffins, why don’t you? Hang ye be to Arcady!”
Then the man was gone, leaving Andrew
to wipe away his indignity with a hastily
drawn handkerchief.
Ullsworth? Andrew pondered as a few
passers-by giggled and pointed. Could that
be the family he had driven from the Annawan Street property? Better for them,
they couldn’t afford the rent, not on the
cloth doffing salary that Tobias Ullsworth
had settled for after the end of his whaling
career. The wife and seven children were
much better off as wards of the city, where
at least they could be assured that they
would be fed every day. But who had been
his attacker? And what connection could
he have with this Ullsworth? Surely, it took
a dedicated passion to accost and insult a
prominent citizen in broad daylight before
gawking pedestrians.
Andrew turned to head home but was
surprised to see his young daughter Lizzie
standing on the street corner in a pretty
pink and white striped fantail skirt, fresh
from La Mode Illustre, topped off with a
cunning chip hat laden with silk pansies
perched high aloft her curly hair. She was
positioned by a lamppost with a far twinkle
in her wide blue-gray eyes.
“Daughter,” Andrew said, pointing in
the direction of the fleeing assailant. “I am
afraid you had to witness my unexplained
ignominy.”
“Father,” Lizzie said, her voice thinner
than usual. “I did not see anything, for I am
adrift in a waking reverie.”
“You are indeed adrift. I don’t think
that I have ever seen you in such ponderous daydreaming. What distracts you from
your daily duties?”
“I have been to the charity event this
very hour on Saturday past.”
“Yes, indeed. You accompanied Mrs.
Borden and me. Emma, I believe, was home
with a complaint.”
“And at the Church I had occasion to
see the party of Frenchmen who have recently joined our community from abroad.”
Borden nodded, his mouth clenched.
Rubbing his unshaven cheek, he explained,
“The de Camp clan . . . mighty proud people. They bought the Durfee Estate and are
in the process of establishing an importexport concern. The Comte de Rennes, the
father, is an enterprising gentleman, albeit a
bit taken with lofty matters such as art and
music, subjects not quite befitting a man of
his industrious character.”
“They are highly cultured then,” Lizzie
said, her eyes widening. “Oh Father, do tell
me that they are versed in all matters of
aesthetics. Poetries, romans-a-clef, sonnets
and concertos, painting, and architecture.
Tell me that young Andre can dance to a
rondo as easily as he can recite Shakespearian soliloquies, that as a family they have
that spark of creativity within that transcends the ordinary particulars of our daily
labors and occupations.”
Andrew heaved an unpleasant grunt.
“If you mean do they listen to operatic
clap trap, or read the ramblings of word
mongers, then yes, Daughter. They are aesthetes.”
Lizzie smiled, her face reddening in the
afternoon sunlight. “I am glad of it. Young
Andre has caught my fancy, but I think you
must tell not a one about my feelings.”
Andrew struggled to process this evidence of his daughter’s awakening womanhood. He knew in the past that boys had
distracted her, but she always maintained
a short temper and a feigned indifference,
perhaps to avoid complications. And she
had socialized with strange, undeveloped
male specimens like Homer Thesinger the
Boy Inventor, who presented himself more
as a child despite his recent attainment of a
height of six feet. But Andre, the handsome
youth who had been introduced as Jacques
de Camp’s scion, was altogether different.
He was stern and determined, calm and
centered. He was also two years Lizzie’s elder, and seemed strong enough to conquer
her coquettish behavior if such was his
will. No, this would not do. The de Camp
boy must be denied access to Lizzie, by any
means necessary.
“Daughter,” Andrew said, his mouth
tightening against the emerging words,
“need I remind you that the Comte is a
Roman Catholic? They attend Mass at St.
Anne’s, don’t you know?”
“Father,” Lizzie smirked. “By now you
should know that when it comes to spiritual
matters, I ascribe the choice of worship to
be up to each and every man’s conscience.
Besides, I am told that the Comte has a
Protestant mother.”
“Yes,” he grumbled. “Well, what then
would you say if I told you that there is
much scandal surrounding young Andre?”
“Scandal?” Her eyes peered purposefully, trying to discern his meaning. “Whatever could you mean?”
“Much has been discovered about the
family since their appearance in town. I
have already heard word from my fellow
stockholders at the Mill, who make it their
business to investigate the background of
newly-arrived immigrants, that Jacques de
Camp, the father of your beloved boy, has
cleanly sailed through their careful scru-
“Room 209,” she read, and then bade her father adieu with a tilt of her head. She headed for the
staircase, leaving Andrew Borden fish-mouthed.
tiny; but I fear to say that young Andre has
not fared as well. The boy is known . . . ”
Andrew paused for dramatic effect, “ . . . he
is known to frequent Houses of Assignation. He is a Sporting Boy.”
Lizzie felt the fluttering in her head
long before she could digest her father’s
statements. “Assig . . . ” she muttered.
“Sporting . . . ” then she lifted a hand to
her forehead and began her downward
spiral towards the sidewalk. Andrew leapt
forward and caught her in his arms. Her
eyes were shifting violently back and forth
under her lids.
A man in a bowler hat, with trim mutonchops, emerged from the moving traffic
of pedestrians and offered his services. “Is
this young lady a’right?” he asked. “I am
a doctor. Ah, Mr. Borden! I see Lizzie has
taken ill.”
Andrew recognized his Second Street
neighbor, Dr. Seabury Bowen, and watched
breathlessly while the doctor brought a
cracked tablet to her nostrils. She groaned,
showing signs of life.
“Will she live?” asked Andrew grimly.
“Examine her pallor,” said the doctor,
pointing. “She has merely fainted. Nothing
more.”
Andrew scratched at his beard. “I suppose you want some brass for your services,
Seabury.”
“I am in your service,” the doctor said,
trying to haul Lizzie to her feet and tip his
bowler simultaneously. “No coin required.
Let us just get the poor girl home.”
Andrew hesitated, assessing Dr. Bowen
carefully. “You do not mean to clap me with
a summation upon our arrival? I will not
honor it!”
Dr. Bowen took a patient breath. “You
need not fear any trickery from me. I am
concerned only for the girl’s health.”
Andrew huffed. “Be about your business, man. It is a harsh day when I confront
an honest doctor. I will tolerate your aid for
my Lizzie’s sake. Spring to it, man!”
As he helped Dr. Bowen carry Lizzie
the two short blocks to their home on
Second Street, Andrew pondered Lizzie’s
reactions to the revelations about the de
Camp boy. He felt a brief pang of guilt over
distressing his daughter to the point of
fainting.
“But my actions were all correct,” he
rationalized. “No good could come out of
Andre de Camp. Not for my daughter!”
/
3. A Desperate Visitor
Lizzie awoke in her cramped bedroom
on the second floor of the Borden’s modest
house. Fully clothed and reclining on her
bed, her forehead beaded with sweat, she
struggled to make sense of the tolling of the
church bell. The small walls and their flowered paper caved in on her as she fought for
her breath.
“Lizzie Andrew!” came a sharp cry.
Springing to her feet, she felt a disorienting rush of blood to her head as she
nearly fell back onto the mattress. Her
shoulders were caught fast by two hands
that emerged from below a thin and chinless face that was now coming into focus.
Lizzie’s elder sibling, Emma, was standing
before her, a frown upon her brow.
“My Sister,” Emma sighed. “Sometimes
I fear that you have the falling sickness.”
“No, Sister,” Lizzie said, bringing the
back of her hand to her forehead. “It is Fall
River that has the falling sickness!”
Emma waggled her head as if trying
to dislodge a disturbed thought. “I have
ceased to attempt understanding of your
inane ramblings. One would think that you
had been secretly dropped on your head
when you were a child.”
“Would that the act were repeated to
clear my mind of these worries.”
A flash of recognition came across
Emma’s face. “You are pursuing your consulting services again. I swear by all the
heavens, Lizzie, that is all nonsense. Pay
more attention to your proper duties.”
“Emma,” Lizzie said earnestly, “I have
heard this day that our town is host to
Sporting Boys. And where there is Sporting
Boys . . . ” Her eyes took a quick dart about
the room, “ . . . there are Fancy Girls.”
Her sister flinched with great discomfort at the phrases that she was hearing. “If
such matters go on in this town,” Emma
said with a shrug, “it is the province of the
law to sort it out and the mandate of the
Almighty above to judge their sins. For
now, all we can do is suffer our mundane
tasks upon the earth.”
“Mundane tasks?” Lizzie suppressed a
spontaneous chuckle.
“Yes, mundane. Mrs. Borden has some
paper wrappers for us to address. And I
believe there is a buggy to bring to Swansea
Farm. Do you not remember that today is
Wednesday? Now be downstairs in a few
moments, composed, and alert.” Emma
darted from the room, more frustrated
than concerned. Lizzie stood alone, staring
into space, thinking.
After changing her downstreet ensemble for a cotton calico and stout tie oxfords, clothing more suitable for scrambling
after eggs in a chicken coop, Lizzie came
down the front stairs of the house to find
her stepmother, Abby Borden, by the front
door. Abby was a plump woman of fortynine, with a dour and haggard face, as if she
had spent the better part of a lifetime trying
to feign cheerfulness with little reward.
“I am glad to see you well,” Abby said
cursorily, handing her a stack of paper
wrappers. “Mr. Borden is hiding in his
room fearing Dr. Bowen’s summation. One
day that man shall be the death of us.”
From the sitting room door emerged
a handsome man, his warm eyes twinkling
above his mutton-chopped mustache. “Miss
Lizzie,” he said, nodding his chin respectfully. “It is I, Dr. Bowen. I trust you are feeling much better?”
“Very fine, doctor. I have never felt better. Are you the man who aided me in my
time of distress?”
“I have that honor. Even I, a poor
medical man, attempting to establish himself with such modest resources, am happy
to be of service to the great Lizzie Borden,
Girl Detective of Fall River.”
Abby groaned, her hands fleeing into
her apron. “What nonsense! Girl Detective
indeed!”
“Your daughter is quite an accomplished woman, Mrs. Borden. I am pleased
to see her fine and healthy. Now it is for her
father I fear. He seems to be in a state of
apoplexy, as if something is weighing upon
his mind. He muttered about a man who
accosted him in the street.”
“I believe Father said something about
it,” Lizzie said, “but I do not think that I
remember.”
Abby sighed. “Your father does indeed
have many enemies since he has elevated
his station in life. No doubt many of them
wish him harm.”
“I believe it was an English bard,” Dr.
Bowen added, “who described the King
that must wear the crown as having an uneasy head. Sleep comes dear to such a man.”
“Amen,” Abby concluded. “Now, Lizzie
you have chores to run. Emma’s in the barn,
harnessing the rig. I suspect she’ll call for
you shortly.”
Dr. Bowen removed his bowler from
the standing rack, bid the ladies good afternoon, and took his leave. Abby bolted up
the door after him.
“There are some doctors in this town
who are decent at heart, Mrs. Borden,”
Lizzie said smugly. “Don’t let Father begrudge such a man.”
“To your chores!” Abby quipped.
“Don’t dally, there’s much to be done. It is
Wednesday you know!”
Lizzie took the wrappers and entered
the kitchen where the stove was ablaze
and some papers were already burning.
Staring into the grate, Lizzie could see
that they were legal documents touching
upon property estates. For a brief moment,
Lizzie thought she could discern the name
Ullsworth on one of the papers. Something
flickered in the back of her memory. Something she had heard while drinking her
Ayers’ sarsaparilla at the fountain with her
friends, something about a whaling man
who had vanished and his indigent wife
and children. She was about to reach in and
try to salvage the paper when she sensed
a fluttering in the air behind her. Spinning
about, Lizzie was facing her stepmother
who stood with her hands thrust into her
apron, a look of astonishment on her face.
“Lizzie Andrew,” Abby said, her voice
humbled. “There is a gentleman to see you.
I do believe he is a gentleman despite his
garish appearance. Although I doubt your
father would ever allow such a person into
his home.”
“Garish? Is he fancied up like a saloon
performer?”
“No, he is . . . well, perhaps you’d best
see for yourself.”
Lizzie came back to the parlor to find a
very tall man standing by the piano. He was
jowly and broad, covered in a red brocade
of fine military threads, his feet planted
firmly on the carpet, his strong arms bent
behind his back. A domino mask obscured
his eyes and nose, and a broad cape flowed
like a theatrical curtain behind him. His
mustaches extended below the mask and
stood firm and proud, like they were testifying a profound “Yes” to the vagaries of
life. And while his mustaches were displaying defiance against darkness, his jutting
chin was mastering the art of adjuration,
with an opulence that spoke of an abandoned country and a melancholy exile.
Here was a man that radiated energy, masculine and forceful. Lizzie felt self-secure
enough to stand firm before him, and to
extend her hand without diverting her eyes
from his piercing gaze.
He gave a brief smile. “Miss Lizzie Borden, the Girl Detective.”
Lizzie held out her hand and he gently
pressed his lips to it. “Forgive my forgery
of identity,” he continued, “for I have a high
position in this town’s industry and I must
keep it secret, even from you, my potential
consultant.”
“I am intrigued.” Lizzie waved towards
the pillowed sofa. “Please have a seat and
explain to me how I can be of service.”
“I prefer to stand,” the strange visitor
exclaimed. “It provides extra labor for the
legs, but my circumstance is such that at a
moment’s notice I must spring like a lion
for shelter. I cannot be too safe.”
“I see,” said Lizzie, occupying the sofa
with a coquettish descent. “Please explain
to me how I can be of service to you.”
He executed a hasty cough, his mustaches quivering, and then he began: “I represent a rather large number of Fall River
business men, many of whom are aware of
my identity but none of whom know that I
am consulting with you. Besides yourself,
your most polite mother, and the coachman
who is in my private employ, no one knows
of my visit here today.”
“That is Mrs. Borden,” Lizzie corrected
him, nodding towards the door that Abby
was, no doubt, pressing her ear against.
“She is not my mother.” Lizzie raised her
voice to proclaim, “My mother is dead.”
“Ah, I see. You must forgive my faux
pas.”
“No offense taken, Mr. . . . uh . . . ”
“You may call me Chace. Yes, that
name would be suitable. But I may resume
with the narrative of my situation. I am in
communication with a number of European concerns that are investigating the
Fall River market, primarily interested in
buying up stock in industry here. Some
of those concerns have ties with the royal
families of Eastern Europe. As you may
know, there is quite a fuss going on abroad
due to the conflicts with the Ottomans
over the Slavic lands. England and France
are quite busy with their espionage and
intrigue, both of them taking sides one way
or the other with the Russians over this terrible conflict in Bulgaria. The Russian army
has crossed the Danube and is laying siege
as we speak to the city of Plevna. The death
toll is mounting, and there are those who
wish to see a hasty end to this campaign.”
Lizzie nodded. “I read the Fall River
Herald on a daily basis, Mr. Chace, while I
heat my irons. I have perused some editorials about the affair with the Turks.”
“Then you are aware that Europe is
now a powder keg waiting for a match to
fall upon it. And when that happens, there
will be a conflagration such as the world
has never before seen.”
Lizzie sighed, meditating upon the
foolish games of powerful men and all their
silly armies and conflicts. “There does seem
to be quite a large amount of consternation. I can imagine the outcome of such
an imbroglio. But what has this to do with
anything I can help you with?”
Chace rocked on his heels. “A Russian
noble of some reputation has bought up
large amounts of textile stock in order to
raise funds for a private army to fight the
Turks. I was to be the liaison between the
Russian and a certain European government. He has sent an agent, an inventor, to
speak on behalf of Russian industry.”
“What could this Russian possibly have
to offer the foreign government that could
be so valuable?” asked Lizzie. “And why Fall
River?”
The eyes under the domino mask
darted from side to side as if scanning the
room for spies. “The Russian inventor has
laid out the plans for a new self-acting
Mule which, when it was combined with
the new Hayes and Drumpet Throstle Spinner and put into production at his test plant
in Moscow, quadrupled his yarn output and
tripled his pick per yard. We intend to sell
this patent for the self-acting Mule to the
highest bidder in Fall River while retaining
a commission on each yard spun using the
technology. This particular Mule technology will revolutionize the entire industry.
The first manufacturer who adopts it will
become wealthy beyond his imagination
and the Russian shall have his privatelyfunded army to fight the Turks and raise
the siege of Plevna.”
Lizzie shrugged. “Personally, I prefer
the simple pleasure of a summer’s afternoon eating pears in the yard, but I can see
that when money and power are involved,
men would do anything to exploit the common mill worker.”
“Yes, it is very true. But if Herr Marx
should have his way . . . well . . . ” Mr.
Chace raised a handkerchief to his sweating
brow. “That is a story for another time.” He
stared in reverie at the far wall, his mind
lost in some anguished internal debate.
“So you tell me that this Russian is in
Fall River with the plans for his invention?”
Lizzie asked, picking up the thread of conversation.
“Yes, but there is one particular person
who he did not count on. His plans have
been stolen!”
Lizzie raised her hand to her mouth.
“My Lord!”
“Yes, there has been perfidy of the
most sinister kind. This Monday last at ten
in the evening, while the Russian inventor
was asleep in his hotel, a scoundrel entered
the premises and stole the plans.”
“Did he not have them locked up
somewhere for safe-keeping?”
“Ah, that is the embarrassing part. He
had ingeniously stowed the plans inside a
medical . . . uh . . . how do you Americans
say it? a pessary? that he inserted into a
chamber of his own anatomy. Modesty forbids me to locate the particular chamber in
which the pessary was stowed.”
“I see,” said Lizzie, blushing slightly. “I
believe it is a suppository you are referring
to.”
“Mais oui! Yes, indeed. A pessary! The
fiend put him to sleep with liquid ether ad-
ministered with a cloth over his nose, and
then went to work extracting the container.”
“Such a hiding place would not easily
be accessed,” Lizzie sighed. “But when a
man is unconscious, all sorts of violations
are possible.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I said to the
foreign government. But they did not find
such comments amusing. They told me I
had twenty-four hours to find the plans,
and that if I did not produce them before
the arranged time for the meeting with the
mill owners on Friday afternoon, I shall be
removed immediately from my position as
liaison. In such a case, I shall return home a
ruined man, all my investments cancelled,
and my prospects in America reduced to
nothing. Hence the desperation with which
I approach you.”
“Time must be of the essence,” Lizzie
suggested.
“More than you can imagine, Miss
Borden,” Chace confirmed. “Even more at
stake than my own reputation is the fate
of Europe. If the patent negotiations break
down with the Russians, the balance of
power will shift to those nations backing
the Ottomans. All the stresses and tensions
that are holding Europe in check will unravel and there will be a violent and bloody
war amongst the nations. Shall I say, a
world war, to coin a phrase.”
The tall, mysterious man paused for
dramatic effect. Out in the street, a nearby
church was tolling the hour. The clopping
of horse hooves and the crying of the fishmongers lingered in the room. A darkness
came over Mr. Chace’s masked face as he
waited for her to respond.
Lizzie took a deep breath. “But why
come to me?” she asked. “I am merely the
youngest daughter of a furniture salesman.
I have no particular aptitude in dealing
with industrial politics, far less military
wars abroad.”
“But you are Lizzie Borden the Girl
Detective! Amongst the board members
of the leading mills, you are notorious for
bringing down Livermore, the mill owner
who killed his own plant manager. You
have shown fortitude, intellect, and powers
of detection that some consider uncanny.
I come to you as my last hope to save not
only my paltry self, but to help maintain
the balance of power in Europe.”
“Yes,” Lizzie shrugged. “I did perform
quite well during the Case of the Purloined
Curio, and I was commended by no less
than the Mayor himself for the Adventure
of the Antiquated Blunderbuss, but I still
don’t agree that you have to hide from me,
Monsieur Jacques de Camp, Comte de
Rennes!”
“Zut alors!” came the bellowing reply
from the sturdy giant. His cheeks went
slack, and his hands fell to his sides. “I am
undone! How did you know?”
“It is simplicity itself,” Lizzie proclaimed. “You are doing an appreciable
imitation of an American accent, but there
are certain nuances in your nasality that
bespeak of a French origin. Further, your
mustache is of a particular cut that I have
seen only in Daguerreotypes of gentlemen from the hills around Carcassonne
in the Languedoc. And I do believe I see
embossed on your forefinger’s ring the
characteristic coat of arms for the Merovingian lineage, long since vanished from
the Franco-Monarchial scene, but forever
bound with honor and respect within the
de Camp line, which I have studied at my
local lending library, exhausting its modest
resources on the topic.
“As for all your tales of Russian and
Turkish conflicts, one need not go further
than the few scraps of articles that can be
read while heating flats for a grand session of handkerchief-ironing to know that
England is attempting to stop the Russians
from going to war against the Ottomans,
while France is wholeheartedly backing the
Russians’ campaign. Further, the French
government has recently investigated land
grants in the Taunton River area for possible development of mills that would be
run by France’s own interests. One cannot
put all these facts together without deducing from them that you are indeed a French
investor recently imported into Fall River,
and the only French investor that fits that
description I know of is Jacques de Camp,
who I have scrutinized at a charity event
this Saturday past, and who has the same
hair styling as you, not to mention the same
mustache, jowls, and green-gray eyes. The
domino mask and the perfected American
accent did not fool me one jot, for I am a
Girl Detective!”
De Camp was thunderstruck. His
mustache puffed with his cheeks. “How
extraordinary,” he roared, his French accent
becoming more apparent. “And in one so
young! How can you doubt your abilities
after such a display? The Russians are almost assured that their precious self-acting
Mule plans will be retrieved. My commendations!”
He bowed low, almost to the ground.
Upon his upsweep, Lizzie said with
a wry smile, “How delightful that a cultivated man of such stature should bow to
me, a poor little girl in such a modest little
house.” She laughed and raised her hands to
her mouth. “Oh dear, that is precious! Well,
Monsieur le Comte, you may relax and
remove your disguise. How may I be of assistance to you in this very strange affair?”
With all pretense tossed to the winds,
the French aristocrat, with a sweeping gesture, removed the mask to reveal a handsome, if not rugged, face and deeply intelligent eyes. “I want you to find the Mule
plans,” he announced.
“But where do I begin? The thief must
be miles from Fall River by now.”
“No, I believe him still to be in this city.
The only clue we have is this signet that was
left behind at the scene of the theft, presumably by accident.” De Camp lifted up a
ring that glimmered in the sunlight shafting through the parlor window. Lizzie took
it for inspection and saw a crimson letter
“A” centered on the ring’s face.
“I have not seen this before,” Lizzie
said, a shudder coming over her.
“I have. It is the sign of a secret society
that operates right here in town. The Arcady Society. I’m not quite sure what their
objectives are, but it seems likely that they
are nihilists whose only goal is to topple the
Tsar from power and bring about a worker
state in Russia. They have a vested interest
in preventing the Russian expansion into
the Crimea and God alone knows what
their plans are for Fall River.”
“And this ring is a symbol of their
Brotherhood?”
“Yes, the letter “A” is a symbol of the
sudden violence that will erupt when the
common man is ready to rise above his
masters. They are, no doubt, influenced by
Bakunin and his lot. I do believe elements
of their society, inspired by the successful
assassination of your President Lincoln in
1865, are planning the same fate for the
Tsar. They are aware that my mission in Fall
River is an obscure but crucial step in the
Tsar’s plan to reinforce his military victories.”
Lizzie curled her fingers around the
ring and sighed. “I find this all most fascinating,” she said. “I would most heartily
love to work on the case.”
“I can reward you handsomely. Money
is not an object. My purse is open for your
use.”
“No need. My consulting services are
done purely for the good of all people everywhere. I have no material needs to compensate. I do, however, have a few questions
regarding the robbery. How big is this container?”
“About the size
of a peach pit. The
plans, which have
been printed on
delicate tissue paper, are folded very
tightly. But recall,
Miss Borden, that
the plans may no
longer be in the pessary.”
“I am aware of
that. Of what material is it made?”
“Solid iron, embossed with the Romanov coat of
arms, and with a hinge that opens unto its
cavity.”
“This Russian inventor, from where
does he hail?”
“St. Petersburg. He has been sent
straight by the Tsar himself to secure the
contracts with the Fall River businessmen.”
“Where did the theft take place?”
“At the Hotel Wilbur, not more than
ten minutes walk from this very house.”
“Do the textile men know of the unfortunate robbery?”
“Mon Dieu! That would mean disaster.
They are currently under the impression
that we will be presenting the plans for the
self-acting Mule by this time Friday morning.”
“That is most unfortunate. This ring
that you found in the hotel room of the
Russian, was it simply lying on the floor?
I find it unusual that a ring can so conveniently slip off an intruder’s finger.”
“Ah,” de Camp said, screwing up his
eyes as if trying to find the exact words.
“The ring was not exactly lying on the floor.
It had fallen off inside the Russian during
the process of extracting the pessary.”
“Oh,” Lizzie said with a shudder.
“Yes,” de Camp sighed. “Please do
not ask for details on how we discovered
it. I am not used to discussing such matters with a young lady. Needless to say, the
Russian is mortified beyond words and for
security purposes has been sequestered in a
safe place far from this town.”
“We shall save the details for another
day,” Lizzie agreed. “I would like to see the
hotel room where the Russian was
assailed.”
“By all means. Be
at the Hotel Wilbur
this very afternoon.
I must exercise
discretion and
disappear from the
scene. So you shall
rendezvous with my
son, Andre, who will
represent me in this matter.
Report to the lobby of the Wilbur at three on the clock.”
Lizzie’s chest tightened. “I don’t
believe I have had the honor to meet
your son.”
“Andre is a fine garcon, just turned
nineteen. He has a bit of a fiery disposition and he is very strong in his opinion
about foreign affairs. We often clash over
such matters, but he is loyal to our famille
Languedocienne. The bloodlines run very
deep and he is a proud scion.”
Lizzie rose to her feet. “I shall meet
your son then at three at the Wilbur Hotel.”
“Three o’clock!” The Comte de Rennes
bowed once more, tucked on his domino
mask, and ushered himself towards the
front hallway. “A bientot,” he said wistfully.
From up the hallway came Emma’s
thin voice. “Lizzie, I have rigged up the
buggy, with no help from you, thank you!”
Then she appeared in the parlor, dressed
in a flowery hat, just as the Comte spun on
his axis. Emma had barely caught a darting glimpse of the man in the cape and the
mask, when she let out with a bellowing
shriek. All the color drained from her face
and her hands raced towards her face.
“Emma!” Lizzie said, just as startled.
But it was too late. Lizzie’s older sister had
bolted for the front stairs and was stomping
upwards towards the safety of her bedroom,
making strange whimpering noises.
“I am profoundly apologetic,” de Camp
said, with a nod towards Lizzie. “If I had
known . . . ”
“It’s all correct, Monsieur le Comte,”
Lizzie said. “Emma is used to far worse.”
Lizzie stared at him through the window of the parlor as he descended to his
waiting carriage in the street. She sighed,
thinking of the boy she most dreaded, and
most wanted, to meet.
/
4. The Sporting Boys
The Wilbur Hotel was up North Main
at Granite Street. Lizzie managed to get
there without a buggy and arrived just before three, as a work team was unloading
water barrels from a horse-drawn cart. A
large banner straddling the main entrance
boasted of the hotel’s finer qualities:
FALL RIVER’S WILBUR HOTEL
An Ordinary of Most Excellent Attributes
Today: The Boston Barkeep Furniture
Corporation Conclave
Displays of Stools and Mirrors by Master
Craftsmen
Fine lodging for transients
and permanents
Beer, oysters, and horse-keeping
Elocution lessons by Professor Joseph
Maple, Esq. of New Bedford
Rooms Available
Restaurant Attached – Victuals At Most
Excellent Prices
King Darius Wilbur, Proprietor
Samuel Samways, Bar Keep
The lobby was bustling with an influx
of folk from as far as Providence, Boston,
and even from the wilds of northern New
Hampshire, for the Wilbur was playing host that weekend to a convention of
saloon-furniture salesmen. They paraded
around the lobby, these men of varnished
wood and beveled mirrors, their top hats
nestled in their forearms, their mustaches
glistening with wax, and their rattling wives
beside them. In the center of the lobby was
a large casket, presumably filled with beer,
and a burly bartender in a bleached cloth
smock was handing out samples in hardwood mugs.
Lizzie was surprised to see her father
wandering the crowd, not particularly connected to anyone, but occasionally giving
a grim nod to a passing gentleman. He
twitched imperceptibly as his daughter appeared before him, planting her parasol
firmly between her feet.
“Father, I did not think that you took
an interest in the latest fashions in bar
stools?”
Andrew twisted up his brows. “I am
merely memorizing the faces. They are
competition, you know. But what brings
you to the Wilbur, Daughter? Certainly
you have not been seized with the desire
to sample Master Samways’ Home-made
Hops?”
“No, Father. I am on a case.”
“That nonsense business you started. I
sincerely hope that you are being paid well
for your troubles. A penny worked for is a
penny in the pocket. I wouldn’t have it any
other way.”
Lizzie smiled as the nearby town hall
tolled three o’clock. A thin beardless bellboy
in a small hotel jacket approached Lizzie.
“Miss Borden?” he asked in a voice
crackling with adolescence as if he were
growing upwards before her very eyes.
He handed her a note that she unfolded.
Noticing her father staring at her intently,
she reached into her purse and pulled out a
coin that she tossed to the grinning bellboy.
“Here you are, my hard working lad—a
penny from my pocket.” He hopped away
merrily as Andrew scowled at her wasteful
habit.
“Room 209,” she read, and then bade
her father adieu with a tilt of her head. She
Lizzie was taken aback by his garish gesture. “But you didn’t answer my question,” she added.
“What did you hear and see?”
headed for the staircase, leaving Andrew
Borden fish-mouthed.
“My own daughter, not yet eighteen,”
he stammered. “Unescorted to an upstairs
room. What more horrors can this modern
world bring?”
As Andrew turned to leave, he spied
in the corner of the lobby three young boys
dressed in lean, long broad coats, watch
chains, and high boots, laughing and spitting their cigar smoke into the choked air.
Two of them were fitted out in bowler hats,
and the tall, lanky leader in the middle
was balanced under a high opera hat that
served to exaggerate his height. It was the
Sporting Boys, the nattering nabobs of Fall
River, grinning and roaring with chummy
ostentation. Andrew noticed that as Lizzie
ascended the staircase, the Sporting Boys
were poking each other and pointing in
her direction, their eyes filled with boyish
leers. They were commenting upon Lizzie’s
elegantly draped posterior as it sashayed up
the staircase, much to their amusement.
Their thin leader pumped his legs up
and down as if he were a strutting rooster.
“B’hoys!” he chortled. “Need we neglect
Miss Lizzie Borden of Second Street and
the fine young hams she’s leaving behind
for our viewing pleasure?”
The Boys roared. “Get out me tape
measure, my skenchbacks!” one of them
shouted. “My, what gazing stock!”
“She’d make a good Bowery G’al at
dragging time! I mind you!” the leader
shouted.
Andrew bit his lips and took a few
awkward strides across the lobby to where
the Sporting Boys were posturing, staring
them down as their laughter subsided. The
leader in the opera hat patted his chest.
“Andrew Borden, I believe,” he said
proudly.
“Who may you be?” Andrew bellowed.
“Your countenance is vaguely familiar.”
The boy tipped his hat and grinned.
“Frank Rivers, how may I be of service?”
“I have heard of you, Rivers,” Andrew
growled. “You and your associates here
are mere sensualists. But I’m not afraid of
your secret language and your fancy airs,
and I am appalled by your rendezvous with
women of fallen characters. Your libertine
antics may go over in fancy cities, but not
in Fall River: this town is full of respectable
folk! Be gone immediately and take your
rabble with you!”
The smile on River’s face was defiant.
He tossed a side-glance to his two companions who seemed to be hovering around
his facial expressions looking for guidance,
and then he plastered down his soap locks,
stepped forward, and leaned in towards
Andrew’s sinking eyes. “No time for curtain
lectures, I have a right to be in this public
place,” he said wickedly. “I paid my coins
for a room, and so did my B’hoys here. And
don’t go apple bonking our fuzzle talk. We
adopted it right from Paradise Square in
Manhattan Island and it’s proper for all my
skenchbacks.”
Andrew raised a straining fist. “No
matter where you obtained your wicked
speech, I cannot allow your vulgar remarks
touching my daughter.”
The thin wobbly-eyed boy next to
Frank Rivers stepped forward. “Hi hi,
cousin! Ol’ Frank here won’t be remarking
anything touching your daughter before he
can remark on anything worth touching.”
Andrew’s head went hot and he shook
a curled fist. “Don’t go near my Lizzie or . .
. ” His eyes turned red with anger as he bellowed, “Or I’ll twist off your heads!”
Then, having expended his courage
and energy, Andrew seemed to vanish into
the air, only to reform at the center of the
lobby, heading towards the street. Frank
Rivers turned to his chuckling companions and smirked. “Lam him, B’hoys!” he
howled. “I am trembling in my boots!”
At his lead, they broke into laughter as
Andrew disappeared between the endless
displays of bar stools and spittoons.
/
5. Deductions & Romance
At the top of the staircase, Lizzie found
herself looking down the end of a long
hallway that stretched southward between
two parallel rows of doors. Halfway down,
a man in a dark brown suit sat on a stool
slanting backwards, humming wistfully to
himself. As Lizzie alighted onto the landing, he straightened up, then scrambled
to his feet, and respectfully removed his
hat. He was a large bear of a man, middleaged and paunchy. A drooping mustache
obscured his mouth. He wore a long darkbrown greatcoat that seemed un-seasonal
and was stained with the dust of the road.
“Miss,” he said, blinking at her.
“Are you the detective from Pinkertons?” Lizzie asked.
“Pinkerton, Miss,” he said proudly.
“I don’t believe I catch your meaning.”
“The name’s Pinkerton, Miss. Fred
Pinkerton of Pinkerton Brothers Private
Security Firm.”
“I see, your name does ensure confidence,” Lizzie said, chuckling slightly into
her gloved hand.
“The French boy is waiting,” he announced.
On the door paneling behind him
were the gilt numbers 209. With a soft
touch, Lizzie pushed the door open and
stepped inside.
Inside it was dark and stuffy. Only a
few beams of sunlight slanting through the
closed shutters enabled her to see a shadowy man standing in the corner. At first,
she considered her situation to be one of
immediate danger, alone in a hotel room
with a stranger who had not yet identified
himself. After all, this was the room where
the Russian inventor had been scandalized.
But, trusting in the delicacy of the moment,
she swung the door shut behind her.
The shadow moved into a shaft of sunlight and Lizzie recognized immediately
the bespoken Saville Row suit jacket, the
youthful attempt at a military mustache,
the twinkling eyes. Even the West Indies
Bay Rhum that danced in the air between
them whispered the name and title: Andre
Louis Jacques de Camp, the Vicomte de
Rennes.
“I know you,” she said, remembering
her father’s ominous words about Andre’s
Sporting Boy life style. Why would the
Comte send her into such a dangerous position?
“I know you too, Lizbeth Andrew
Borden,” Andre said with a slight merri-
ment. “I assure you that there is no danger
here. Be at ease and join me in solving this
wretchedly-complicated and ever-deepening puzzle.”
Lizzie’s breathing came more easily. His
voice was fine and equally well mannered.
This comforted her. “The name is Lizzie,”
she corrected him.
“Then Lizzie shall it be.” He pointed towards the brass bed and the carpeted floor.
“Mais bien sur, this is indeed a strange field
upon which we are now treading. Here
we have a room where a crime took place.
A man was assaulted and something was
stolen from him. What do you see in this
room, Lizzie Borden? What scenarios can
you deduce from the remains that Monsieur Tchakorov left behind?”
With a daring flourish, Andre drew
back the shutters and let the bright sunlight
flood the room. Lizzie was suddenly overwhelmed with an intense amount of detail.
She paused, put fingers to her chin, and
peered about. Then, while Andre stood at
attention with a wry smile, she perambulated the length and breadth of it, peering
into corners, examining surfaces, bending
her knees to see beneath the furniture. She
picked up nothing, but examined everything, maneuvering her body to change her
line of sight before cuspidors, bedposts,
cabinets, and the writing desk. She sat in a
chair, smelled a bouquet of flowers in a vase
on the writing desk, cast a winking eye at
some framed pictures on the mantle, waved
her fingers over a clump of charred wood in
the fireplace, and pressed her shoes heavily against randomly-selected floor boards.
She nosed through the clothing laying on
the rumpled bed sheets and the heaps of
linen lying on the floor. A pile of papers
in the wastebasket occupied her attention
for several moments. Lastly, she inspected
a painting that hung upon the southern
wall, a copy of a rustic scene by Poussin of
several shepherds gathered about a stone
tomb. The painting stared back at her with
an unsettling feeling of mutual fascination.
She came back to the center of the
room and stood proudly before Andre.
“I have comprised a scenario,” she proclaimed. “For your amusement I shall state
it.”
Andre gave her a permissible wave of
his hand.
“I did not know the name of the Russian until you just uttered it,” she said. “But
I can say with confidence that he is a proud
man from a wealthy family that has recently
come upon hard times. He was forced into
the business of selling mill technology by
the unfortunate death of his wife which has
left him with two small children to support.”
Andre stared blankly at her. “Go on,”
he said.
“He was in this room for two days
before his unfortunate assault. During that
time, he indulged in real estate speculation. No doubt he felt that migrating to
America and bringing his children to Fall
River would provide them with a future
that cannot be realized in Tsarist Russia.
He also sees Fall River as an excellent town
for his new bride-to-be since her career as
an equestrian acrobat has come to a very
tragic end.”
“Excellent,” Andre said with a reserved
smile. “I can’t imagine how you perceived
many of the details in that portrait, but I
did witness you examining the postcard
upon the dressing table from the Louise
Soullier Circus with the inscription from
Marie confessing in French her deepest
love and the prospects that await her in
America.”
Lizzie nodded towards the dresser.
“Moreover, the clothing that you had laid
upon the bed and the charming but sad
bouquet of flowers on the writing desk have
provided me the opportunity to reconstruct his recent past. As for the clothing,
the fine quality of the suit shows a man
of some means, but it has in the past year
been washed so often its colors have faded,
showing a recent down turning of his luck,
no doubt happening simultaneously with
the passing of his dear wife.”
“What does the bouquet tell you?”
“Through a correspondence course
with the Ophelia Society of Boston, I had
the opportunity to study the fine art of floriography and floral management within
parlors and sitting rooms. After completing
the Home Guide To The Secret Language
of Flowers, I had trained my eye to perceive the elegant messages that were being
scripted within the combination of floral
arrangements. Tchakorov, being from St.
Petersburg, takes a very romantic European
approach to this art. In this bouquet, he
has blended together crimson tea roses that
show a melancholy loss, something that he
has vowed never to forget. The presence of
the scarlet nasturtiums led me to believe
that there was a military death, perhaps a
brother in the Bulgarian campaign, but the
nasturtium also symbolizes patriotism, perhaps reflecting a period after the profound
loss where he attempted to regain his emotional composure through world affairs.
The pheasant’s eye and blue periwinkles
that are so mournfully laced at the corners
show a sorrowful remembrance, that his
feelings once so potent and devastating
were mellowing into a sublime melancholy.
The white poppies whisper of a striving for
forgetfulness, a moving on, so to speak.”
“So far,” Andre confirmed, “this is ‘all
correct’ as you Americans are so fond of
saying. What about the equestrian brideto-be?”
“Ah, the full-blown white rose in the
center that blooms above the rest speaks
loudly of a return of hope and the dawning of a new happiness after a long sojourn
in a wilderness, no doubt a wilderness of
a mental nature. One can only guess that
Tchakorov has felt a new love dawn. The
enthusiastic postcard from the French
horse woman that bespeaks of a life together in America fulfills all my floriographic
interpretations.”
“And the real estate speculation?” Andre asked.
“The caked mud on his boots is peculiar to a lot that is being developed just
around the corner from Annawan Street,
one that Mister Southard Miller has put up
for sale. Near this lot is a tobacco shop that
sells the Louisiana Perique that has a moist
vinegary smell, the same smell that hangs
so pungent in the air about us. No doubt
the property came to his attention on one
of his trips to obtain his treasured tobacco
and he managed to get access to the property through the builder’s agent.”
“He may have been strolling for relaxation and entered the property out of mere
curiosity.”
“Ah, but his beloved Marie claims that
she will be very happy in America. There
are also the three books on the bureau,
clearly obtained from the City Hall lending library, one of them a French-English
lexicon, another a picture book of famous
horses of North America, and the last
a treatise on the domestication of the
recently-married couple by Professor Horatio Tiverton of Swansea. Finally, his waste
basket contains papers where he has been
practicing his English letters, writing out
phrases like, ‘My dear sir, which way are the
horse stables’ and ‘What are the most excellent children’s schools in this neighborhood?’ This shows me clearly that he was
contemplating the rebuilding of his family
with the French equestrian woman and his
orphaned children right here in Fall River.”
Andre clapped his hands in rhythm
to a hearty laugh. “I can tell you with great
confidence, Lizbeth—and may I be permitted to call you Lizbeth, it is far more suited
to your dignity and grace—that your portrait of Monsieur the Russian is perfection
itself, a small gem of analytical reasoning
that does you very proud. But, alas, such
details are despairing when it comes to
solving this riddle. For here we have a room
where no intruder entered before the infamous deed, and no intruder exited. It is as
if the Russian were attacked by une fantome
of his own imagination.”
“I don’t understand,” Lizzie frowned.
“Behold the testimony of the security
agent.” Andre went to the door and rapped
three times in quick succession. A moment
later, the large mustachioed man from the
corridor entered awkwardly with a glacial
pace, nodding respectfully at Andre and
Lizzie in turn.
“Miss,” he said.
“Mr. Pinkerton, I have a few questions
about the evening before last,” Lizzie stated.
“I believe you were on duty when this deplorable theft occurred. Would you mind
relating your version of the affair?”
He rubbed his chin as if trying to stir
memory. “I’m not a man of very many
words,” he said, “but I can oblige if it will
help bring about a conclusion.”
“There will most certainly be a conclusion, Monsieur Pinkerton,” Andre said defiantly. “By your leave . . . ”
“Well, it was before all this bar stool
nonsense. Hardly anyone was occupying
this second floor but them Sporting Boys
that make all the commotion a’nights with
their Fancy Girls about. I was at my post at
ten o’clock. I remember one of the girls yelling down the hall that her gentlemen caller
needed a bowl of hot water. Then all the
doors were shut and everything was quiet.
King Darius had turned down the lamps
and you could hear all that slumbered snoring along the corridor.”
“Fall River descending into twilight,”
Lizzie said softly.
“Yes, Miss. And that’s when I do
confess a profound lapse of character. I’m
almost a’feared to lose my commission if I
relate what I have to tell.”
“You need not, I can guess. You were
imbibing.”
“At my post, it is true. The intent was
to keep the fire going inside me, because
the dark night in a hotel corridor can be
mighty cold, despite the summer. I’m not a
vain man, but this drinking is one act I do
fear the judgment upon -- especially considering its sequel.”
Andre raised an assuring hand. “You
need not fear prosecution since my father did determine that the whiskey was
drugged.”
“Drugged it was. After just a few sips, I
felt myself slipping off. But I’m a stubborn
man as well. I fought it all the way. On the
exterior, you might have just witnessed a
big oaf of a man snoring in his boots. But
from the interior angle, I was wrestling
with mighty demons. And I do declare,
Miss, I won the battle. I forced myself
awake.”
“How long was your interval?”
“I can’t rightly say, but it seemed
enough for someone to have filched the key
in my jacket pocket, and then slip by me
into this here room to do his immoral deed.
When I realized what had been done I got
to my feet, roared almighty hellfire, and
ripped this door nearly off its hinges to find
the Russian fellow lying on the floor with
his southern exposure aiming out as bare as
a babe’s.”
“Did you raise an alarm to the desk
clerk?”
“Immediately, Miss! I figured the footpad was on his way out the front of the hotel so I bounded down the steps.”
“Are there any other steps down to the
lobby?”
“None, Miss. Those are the only ones
from the second floor, and I blocked it
with my girth the whole time. Then King
Darius called the constabulary and I went
upside to help preserve the Russian fellow’s
dignity.”
“How long before the police came?”
“About three minutes by my reckoning.
And they filled this room. They knew this
was an international affair, although none
of us, including myself, knows the truth
behind it. Something about foreign wars. I
don’t rightly care about those crazy tangles
as long as my pay is regular; I keep my nose
out of it. Leave it to the fancy politicos.”
“How long were the police here?”
“About an hour, and then my brother
Fred came to relieve me.”
“Your brother’s name is also Fred?”
“My daddy did have a hankering for
that name. And when we came out twins,
it seemed only right to consider us as one
unit.”
“I see. So Fred your brother took the
second watch?”
“Right so, and we have alternated since
at twelve-hour intervals. I told Fred to keep
a right smart watch and to take no drink in
fear it would mean the death of his ambitions.”
“What about the Russian? Where was
he taken?”
Andre answered, “Where no one can
get at him. Needless to say, he does not
wish to be interrogated. You can learn
nothing from him for he remembers nothing, but has a distinct soreness that may
take some time to overcome.”
Lizzie nodded. “I understand. Mr.
Pinkerton, are you absolutely sure you saw
no one leave this room?”
“None, Miss. Unless the fiend slipped
out before I had awoken myself. But no one
downstairs saw any man excepting myself
come down those stairs. It’s as if the assailant appeared from thin air and vanished
into likewise.”
“And the desk clerk, he saw no one go
up shortly before the striking of ten?”
“No one,” Andre added. “It seems as if
the Russian’s attacker was a passing shadow
of no substance.”
Pinkerton huffed. “No shadow could
have taken the key from my pocket or
pulled the Russian fellow off his bed to
separate him from his night pants. There
was flesh and blood involved, I assure you
of that.”
Lizzie put her two forefingers to
her chin and drew in a deep breath. She
glanced about the room, carefully examining the walls, and then before her silent
observers, walked up and down, counting
her steps. After a few perambulations she
turned to Pinkerton and said sternly, “I
must ask you to stand guard over this room
at all costs, to make sure that no one enters
or leaves without your awareness.”
His mustache dipped with his face in
agreement. “I shall, Miss. Excepting at various times of the day or night I may be my
own brother. We do take turns, and being
that collectively we look like one person
staring into a mirror, no one really cares if
we swap out to give each other a chance to
catch some snores, you understand.”
“Understood,” she concluded and
then darted for the door, exiting into the
hallway. Andre followed her out to find her
walking a straight line along the corridor,
pausing before each door. Then she turned
about and came back, carefully putting one
foot before the other.
“Curious,” she said, leaning over to
make sure the security guard had not followed them into the hallway. “Does he
know about the pessary?”
“Not a bit.”
“Does he know about the Arcady
ring?”
“Even less.”
“Good,” Lizzie said with a nod. “Let’s
keep it that way. What do you know about
this ring?”
“It is the signet of the Arcady Society.
According to the locals that I have interrogated, it is the secret club of the Sporting
Boys. Despite my father’s fears that they are
anarchists and assassins, I believe it merely
to be a small group of rowdy youths who
sample the opiates of the Orient and women of low character with equal impunity.”
Lizzie furrowed her brow. “The same
Sporting Boys who were present here at the
time of the affair?”
“The same. Do you wish to talk to
them yourself?”
“No, for now I’d like to see the desk
clerk, this King Darius that everyone is
talking about. He may hold an important
key to this puzzle.”
“I believe he is in the lobby tending to
the Conclave.” Andre pushed past her and
led her down the steps towards the lobby.
/
6. King Darius’ Secret Chamber
King Darius Wilbur was a man buried
under burdensome mustaches that demanded far more energy and labor to keep
in their pristine state than any one man
could be expected to produce. Nonetheless,
he wore his whiskers proudly and gave one
the impression, as one talked to him, that
his head was in the midst of being swallowed by them. Lizzie, facing him directly
across the main desk of the Wilbur’s lobby,
experiencing the full impact of his face in
the slanting sunlight, found herself visually
lost in his whiskers’ magnificence. It had
been observed by many that the Wilbur
hotel, a recently-prospering concern, was
growing in exponential proportion to King
Darius’ facial masterpiece and that local
speculators feared that the further expansion of his business would result in the
complete structural collapse of his head,
which was itself already buried under the
weight of his facial hair. Beyond this peculiar trait, he was jovial enough, and he
seemed eager to provide Lizzie with information.
“I am quite alarmed,” he confessed,
“that such intrigue would go on under my
roof. I did not think that the Russian would
be at such risk in my own establishment. I
dare say, I now do.”
“And you saw no one go up those stairs
at ten on the clock, or slightly before?”
His eyes hovered together near his
nose. “No, Miss Borden. I was keeping
watch, being mindful of that Rivers boy and
his shameless carryings on with the harlot
Miss Jewett. They’ve been keeping company
here for quite some time, and always in the
same room. God’s teeth, but I dare say Rivers was enraged when the Russian fellow
came to town.”
“Rivers? Why would he be upset about
the Russian?”
“Because he took his room, he did.”
Lizzie leaned forward, quite drawn in
by his statement. “You are telling me that
Room 209 is usually occupied by Frank
Rivers and his Fancy Girl?”
The mustaches bobbed with the face.
“Dare say, I do! And it was a mighty strange
manner in which it transpired. I had the
Russian fellow booked by order of the
French Count into a right proper room,
one that hadn’t been darkened in spirit by
these nattering nabobs. I had him in the
Commonwealth Suite and was prepared
to dandy him up with all sorts of linens
and soaps, but at the last minute a messenger boy comes from the Commons
House. Seems like there was a mix-up, a
right proper one, and personages unknown
have insisted that the Russian be lodged
into 209. Who was I to question it, I think
to myself, I did. The letter came with all
sorts of city seals. I don’t know this fellow’s
business, but I know if a French Count is
involved and orders come from the Commons House, then who am I, Darius Wilbur, who possess nothing but an humble
Ordinary of quality and stupefying face
brushes, to question the properly embossed
seals and signatures?”
“Do you have the paper?” Lizzie asked
anxiously.
King Darius poked his face about under the desk, pulling up some boxes and
peering into some sliding drawers. “God’s
wounds but I know it’s here somewhere.”
His eyes brightened and he brought up a
folded paper. After snapping it open, he
handed it to Lizzie, who took one quick
glance at it, then handed it dismissively
back.
“It’s a forgery,” she observed. “It’s not
from the Commons House. Look at the
paper: tan, mere butcher paper. And the
signature says Larson E. Whipsnade. Who
do you know in this city with the name
Whipsnade?”
King Darius’s mustaches were trembling as if they had their own nervous system. “I feel the fool, I do. Like if God has a
fool all His own, it would be me.”
Andre took the paper from Lizzie and
let out with a small chuckle. “Tchakorov
was being set up for thievery. They needed
him in that room.”
Lizzie peered up at the ceiling, measuring with her eyes. “Mr. Wilbur,” she asked,
stepping back to get a cleaner view of the
expansive molding. “Would you say that
Room 209 is just about . . . .there! Right
near that fancy plaster cornucopia coming
forth from the ceiling above?”
“Sounds about right.”
“And how many feet would you say between that cornucopia and the fancy swirls
by the southern face?”
“Looks to be about two or three feet,
no more or less. But I can’t reckon without
climbing up there with a mason’s rule.”
“Is there another room between 209
and the southern face?”
“Not that I know of, but I do believe
there’s crawl spaces all over the building.
That’s where the Weirds reside.”
“The Weirds?” Andre asked, puzzled.
“Ah, pay no attention to my fired imagination. It’s a folly of my besotted brain. Too
much mustache wax, I presume. But there
are strange noises a’nights, especially since
the Russian fellow’s been pinched. From my
post, I hear the thumping and the cursing.”
“Cursing?”
“More like the wailing of a lost spirit. I
can’t bring myself to go searching the corridors. Perhaps the night watch Fred would
be able to tell you. Perhaps it’s some suicide
from long ago who’s up there wandering to
find his closure.”
“Not being a spiritualist,” Lizzie announced, “I would sooner think it was just
an intruder walking about.”
“But the guests are all accounted for,
they are!” Darius said. “Believe you me!”
Andre produced a small calling card
that had a light trace of perfume. “King
Darius, you have given us valuable information.”
“Right so,” the bewhiskered manager
beamed. “When you decipher any of its
meaning, let me know what it was that I did
tell you, for I’ll be danged if it makes sense
to me right now.”
“We will. And if anything of interest
comes up, here is my card.”
Darius took the card just as a horde
of furniture men stormed the desk, all
demanding their telegrams and directions
to the nearest saloons. Lizzie and Andre
stepped to the side, her eyes practically
glued to the ceiling. Her lips were moving
silently as if she were counting.
“You think there’s an extra room,” Andre said. “But you can clearly see from the
corridor that 209 is at the southern end of
the building.”
She took her gaze from the ceiling. “Oh
Andre, this is foul play indeed. For now we
have to prepare ourselves for a most unpleasant encounter. Bring me to the Sporting Boys.”
Andre directed her towards the dining
room from where bellowed forth a loud
strain of youthful, impetuous voices.
/
7. Lizzie Gets Fuzzled
Frank Rivers and his Sporting Boys
were having their mid-afternoon cigars in
the attached dining hall behind the Wilbur’s lobby. They sat at their usual table
along the western wall before large paned
windows, Frank with his tall opera hat
flanked by two bowler-hatted youths, looking like a chimney rising above two slag
heaps. A flustered waiter was racing back
and forth bringing them victuals while they
stamped their firemen boots and howled
racy ballads.
A furniture salesman at a nearby table,
distracted by the boys’ obnoxious hoots,
boldly shouted, “Please be quiet! Decent
people are trying to digest!”
“Cheese it, B’hoys!” Frank said to his
crew. “They’re envious of us crapulous folk
who live by our own tables of morality. But
I say, stockjobbers be they!”
The salesman huffed and nervously
went back to his coffee just as Lizzie Borden
and Andre de Camp entered the hall. As if
on cue, the Sporting Boys quieted down,
stifling their laughs and straightening their
legs under their table.
“Frank Rivers,” Andre said with a bow.
“Miss Borden and I require a few moments
of your time, if you would allow.”
“Hi, hi!” the Sporting Boy proclaimed.
“It would be our honor to host such a fine
lady and her dandified beau at our table.
Chas and Buster here won’t mind, won’t
you my gutterbloods?”
“Nay,” Buster explained. “Ladies of
quality are always welcome to take mawwallop with us.”
Rivers raised his cane and waved it
delicately towards the two chairs opposite
him and his gang. As Lizzie and Andre
took their seats, Rivers stuffed his cigar into
his mouth, removing his hat to reveal garishly plastered soap locks running down
the sides of his scalp. He spat a wad of saliva into his hand and ran his palm along
the glistening locks. As he replaced his
hat, Lizzie felt a displeasing stirring in her
stomach.
“Have a go at us, Lizzie Borden of Second Street,” Frank said. “If we’re colt’s tooth
enough for you.”
“I could judge that a bit more for myself if I knew what ‘colt’s tooth’ was,” Lizzie
said smiling. “But for the moment, I’d like
to bring your attention to the evening before last.”
Chas let out with a rude laugh. “That’s
the night the Ivan sizer got bully-whacked
in the renterfuge.”
Frank grimaced. “Now, now, my
skenchback, don’t go quanking out our
guests with our fuzzle talk. For in her gumbling through, she may take beastly interpretations. Miss Lizzie, renterfuge is the
room I keep with my prancing pony. I got
tumbled by that mustached jarkman who
runs this hovel. One day I’ll divorce him
from his facial for that bumwush.”
“He gave the Russian your room,”
Lizzie said plainly. “The room you frequent
with your whore, Sarah Jewett.”
Frank jumped in his seat and glanced
about. “Don’t go speaking it plain-like,
there’s bound to be a bit of scandal-brothing by local malifuffs.”
Andre leaned in close to Lizzie. “From
the German words mal meaning ‘speech’
and pfuffen meaning ‘to blow’. Literally,
someone who blows speech. I suspect he
fears gossip.”
“My,” Frank chortled. “You are indeed
bent upon deciphering us, ain’t you?”
“Yes, Frank Rivers, we are,” Lizzie said,
her patience wearing thin. “You can hide
behind all your fuzzle talk, but you can’t get
away from suspicion. And when a crime is
committed within yards of your sleeping
quarters, indeed within a room to which
you have a key, your account is of great in-
“Right so,” the bewhiskered manager beamed. “When you decipher any of its meaning, let me know
what it was that I did tell you, for I’ll be danged if it makes sense to me right now.”
terest to those trying to find the conclusion
to this affair.”
A shadow fell across Frank’s face as a
cloud interrupts the sunlight. “You want to
know the unfarded truth,” he said calmly,
“unmistified by false beauties. Well, I’ll
be the first to admit I’m a scoundrel of a
carpet-knight. Many a Fancy Girl has fallen
under my glamour. But that doesn’t make
me a thief. One may hazard from my fuzzle
talk and sporting ways that I don’t have a
gall of bitterness within me, that I would
just as soon steal the metal from my dying
grandmother’s teeth for a few tankards and
a romp with a tweeny maid. Yes, I have my
own morality tables that I draw upon, but
I do have my limits. And I don’t go bullywhacking gentlemen even if they are Ivan
sizers. I don’t go filching and I don’t play
hunt-the-whistle, and I don’t send any old
rake juggler off to Fiddler’s Green for lampoons.”
“What do you know about that night?”
Lizzie said ignoring his obscurity. “What
did you hear and see that touches upon this
affair?”
“That Pinkerton flonker,” Frank spat.
“He was guzzled and fell to sonorating. We
heard his guzzle moans and then the next
we heard he was all in a twee over it and
went stomping to the jarkman. Next we
know the badgers are all about and there’s
talk of this Ivan sizer being glorged.”
“Yeah,” said Chas. “Glorged by the insensible. You ever hear such gruff?”
“So who you got testifying? Drunkard
pinks and bully-whacking ghosts?” Frank
asked with a gentle nod to his gutterbloods.
“You ever hear such mulch before?”
“So what do you think occurred that
night?” Lizzie asked.
“This is my reconstruction: the big
office pinks had some malifluffs trinkling
on the Ivan and knew his habits. So they
waited till after dragging time and all the
b’hoys and g’hals be in their stables for billy
winks, then they pulled a filch party on the
old pink and the sizer. They got more than
one maw-hole to climb in since the b’hoys
like to viz their sport.” He held up his left
hand, the thumb and forefinger tips pressed
together, poked his eye through the ring,
and grinned. “Who doesn’t like to viz a bit
of the acrobatics?”
Lizzie was taken aback by his garish
gesture. “But you didn’t answer my question,” she added. “What did you hear and
see?”
Frank leaned forward, his brows pressing together. “I was strumming a’loft at the
time and wasn’t quite paying apple bonkers
to an Ivan and a pink who was sonorating a
half hallway apart from my stable. Despite
what you may hazard in your think hole,
my ears ain’t quite that big and my eye
stalks ain’t that protruded. So you got a bit
of a problem distance-wise.”
There was a long pause while Frank
Rivers and Lizzie Borden sat locked in a
frozen state, their eyes pressed together
over the space between them. Then Lizzie
broke the moment with a small crooked
smile. “I think I’ve had enough information, Mr. Rivers. I take my leave knowing
that the prostitute Sarah Jewett is safe in
the custody of a boy who considers her a
‘prancing pony,’ and names the hour she
is taken to her ‘stable’ as ‘dragging time,’
and that courtship and courtesy must take
a holiday to ‘billy winks.’ I only hope that
when I am of age to take a husband, he
would use less flowery imagery to portray
his affections for me.”
Frank touched his cane handle to his
forehead. “Pleased to have educated you,
Miss Lizzie. Since we were educated at different high schools, I’m glad we can still
understand each other.”
Lizzie and Andre got to their feet.
As they were leaving the dining hall, they
could hear the snorts and sneers behind
them. The flustered waiter was just entering
with a full silver tray of maw-wallop.
“What did you divine from that parody
of a conversation?” Andre asked Lizzie as
they slowly strolled across the Wilbur’s
lobby.
Lizzie laughed nervously, “It is comforting to know that he draws the line at
playing ‘hunt-the-whistle.’ I was beginning
to fear for the female population of Bristol
County.”
Andre gave a dismissive wave. “They
are mere pretenders. Just wealthy children
who are too lazy to adopt their father’s enterprises. They fashion their life styles after
the New York City gangs who haunt Five
Points and the Bowery. There is much sus-
picion here.”
“Not necessarily,” Lizzie added dramatically. “I don’t suppose you noticed his
left hand. When the sunlight hit at the right
angle, I could clearly see the skin on his
fingers.”
Andre clicked his fingers. “The Arcady
Ring. I didn’t even think to look.”
Lizzie reached into her purse and
brought forth the signet that she held up for
Andre’s perusal. “Your father let me have
it. I was thinking of producing it for Mr.
River’s astonishment, but felt best to keep
it discreet. Nonetheless, there was no discoloration upon his fingers. I do not believe
this to be his ring.”
Andre stared at it, his jaw clenched.
“Does something strike you?” Lizzie
asked.
“No,” he said, rubbing his temple.
“Only a headache. Shall we promenade
down street? It is a striking August day, and
I would very much like to know you better,
Miss Lizbeth Borden.”
/
8. “Lizbeth of Light”
As the sun sank behind the gently rolling contours of Swansea, beyond the river
and the moving barges of bale, Lizzie and
Andre walked along the dockside by the
Troy Manufactory buildings. Already, stars
were beginning to appear in the firmament
as the sun lowered beyond the horizon.
“I am sorry,” Lizzie said humbly, “that
I am so flustered. Whenever I see those
youths, their futures filled with promise
and possibility, their family offering them
resources and capital, instead turn towards
a wasteful life of mere libertinage and sensuality, I cannot feel but despair for the next
generation.”
“I believe,” Andre said, “Frank Rivers is a nephew to Wellington Rivers, the
paper mill tycoon. Needless to say, he has
been disinherited. The boy is living upon
the good graces of an aunt who is too old
and senile to know what he is doing with
her money. I still declare that he is our most
likely suspect. It would explain why no one
saw the thief come or go from the lobby.
Rivers would have had to merely slip back
into his room after the robbery, thus giving
the impression that the thief had vanished
into thin air.”
“I cannot be fully sure, but the real
thief took great care to put suspicion on
Rivers and his boys. The ring was so placed
to further that suspicion.”
Andre shrugged indifferently. “What
about the Pinkertons? Although my father
puts enormous trust in them, there is no
working man that cannot be bought if the
price be high enough.”
“No man is above perfidy,” Lizzie
agreed. “But my instincts tell me that the
real culprit has yet to reveal his face to us.
Such a pity, since your father needs a conclusion by the day after tomorrow.”
Andre stopped and stared upwards
into the darkening horizon. “My father,” he
sighed. “For him, it is all about money, I believe. Don’t listen to his nonsense about the
balance of power in Europe and anarchists
lurking in the shadows. The man is merely
concerned for his own stock portfolio.”
“Is that such a crime?” Lizzie asked.
Andre was about to answer but then he
pointed towards a twinkling star. “When I
look upon that sky,” he mused, “I realize we
are but dust, mere motes of dust, compared
to the vast wheels of creation. As a small
boy, I would walk by twilight in the hills
by Rennes-La-Chateau, past the old castles
and the haunted graveyards, and watch
the stars appear one by one, like celestial
candles on some vast birthday cake. Then
I would lie on my back in the midst of the
field and let the great spiral move about
me. I would fix my gaze on one particular
star and throughout the night notice how
it would spin about as if on the rim of a
perfect wheel. And I would feel as if I were
pinned to the center, and that all of creation
was whirling about me. At moments like
those, my father and all his fortune would
seem so inconsequential, like a forgotten
dream that once had so much importance,
but now was just a shard of memory.”
Lizzie watched his face closely as he
spoke. “You certainly have your thoughts
lifted above the daily affairs,” she answered.
“I did not think a man of your means and
title would think of anything but commerce
and management of property.”
“Perhaps it is the soil of my native
land,” he said. “There is mystery in its deep
veins. It makes one yearn for something
beyond the thin veil of daily sorrows. I am
at heart a poet.”
Lizzie sighed. “You are so very different
from any man I have ever known. I have
only known men like my father, and he is
so very different from your own. My father
never had a title, and his wealth is so small
compared with your family’s grand fortune.
My father stands in relation to your father
as we all do to the big wheel you point out
in the sky. There is hierarchy indeed in this
vast creation.”
Andre’s voice grew thin and modest.
“But, Lizbeth, I see those stars reflected in
your eyes. So by mirroring the light from
above, you are becoming one with it. And
then the modest Lizbeth who feels so unimportant is now the most exquisite being
that exists.”
Lizzie blushed. “I wouldn’t go so far.
I’m just a girl from a small family. There’s
nothing special about me.”
“But we are all stars,” Andre announced, lifting up a hand towards the
heavens. “We twinkle on the great wheel of
life, and we all move together in a perfect
circle. I have written a poem to that effect. I
call my composition, ‘Lizbeth of Light.’ ”
A smile curled on her lips. “Why, that’s
my name.”
He nodded in the affirmative and began his recital:
I call these bold words to draw your breath
And to drum a beat on your warm heart
I call upon life and its handmaiden death
To give our child its earthborn start
This child formed from the air betwixt us
That takes a first cry from the sorrows of life
From the darkness of spirit that surrounds us
But mews a bold Yes in the face of the strife
Against gray evening, the dawn weaves its
charm
And something billows on the horizon’s lip
‘Tis the hope and the beauty and the inner
calm
That we have won and must never let slip
So if verse be the beating pulse that fashions
A heart that shall sing strong and bright
Let me sing on through the daybreak that
passes
Across my eternal Lizbeth of Light.
A paralyzed silence fell between them.
Andre stood by Lizzie’s side, his shoulder
barely touching her. She could feel the heat
through the fabric, and a chill transported
along the length of her trembling body.
“When did you compose this poem?”
Lizzie asked, her face turning red.
“After seeing you at your church this
Saturday past.”
“I did not think that you had noticed
me.”
“I asked my father who you may be
and he answered, ‘That is Andrew J. Borden’s younger daughter. She is a clever,
wise, and commanding girl. She runs her
own consulting business and has trapped
several wrong-doers and corrected many
harms to common people. She is indeed a
flower of a girl in the midst of a rough crop.’
And then I knew that I had found the one
girl in Fall River in whom I could find a
trustworthy soul.”
“I am flattered indeed,” Lizzie blushed.
She was about to say more but could not
find the words.
“Do you believe, Lizbeth Borden,” Andre asked, “that perhaps our ancestors, on
the lush fields of Carcassonne, enjoyed each
other’s company as we are enjoying ourselves on this most enchanted evening?”
She was stunned, standing frozen without speech, fearing to breathe.
“Perhaps they did,” Andre continued.
“And perhaps they partook of the dark
blood of the soil, tasting together the richness of the earth into which they were
born, and into which they shall pass. Perhaps a Bourdon and a Duchamps lay together under the mysterious stars and held
their hands as I hold yours.”
And she felt a soft fluttering about her
fingers, and then they were pressed together. Lizzie stiffened and found that she was
no longer breathing, which embarrassed
her, and Andre smiled. “You have nothing
to fear,” he said peacefully. “I am a perfect
gentilhomme.” And he lifted her palm into
the air and took a slight bow in her direction.
“There is beauty in you,” she said in
a bare whisper. Inwardly she blessed the
darkness for hiding her blushes.
In the long distance, the wail of a bale
barge sang across the cloudy darkness like
a leviathan of the deep calling for its home
waters. The hanging lamps only lightly illuminated Andre’s face, but she could see his
deep eyes sparkling with the waters below
as the moonlight reflected upwards towards
the pier.
There were never eyes more beautiful,
she thought, nor a face so noble.
Lizzie pressed her free hand to her
cheek to catch her tears.
“You are not a Sporting Boy at all, my
dear Andre,” she said. “You are a melancholy soul of light.”
/
9. A Sudden Revelation
At breakfast the next morning, Andrew
Jackson Borden sat with his family at his
dining room table nibbling on some leftover codfish balls, his bead-like eyes staring
towards the distance to the wallpaper as if
he were contemplating the insensible. Abby
Borden, seated near him, inhaling a cup of
coffee and chewing gustily on a molasses
cookie, seemed afraid to draw his attention
towards the present moment; while Emma
stirred restlessly upon some difficult secret
that was bubbling inside her, causing her to
shift her posture every few moments, a gesture accompanied by uncomfortable sighs.
Lizzie, like her father, sat in a grim trance,
her utensil barely grazing her dish. Only
the Irish maid showed signs of animation,
flittering in and out of the kitchen with the
various courses of their breakfast.
“What is this gloom that descends on
us today?” asked Abby finally. “It is like
being seated at a funeral viewing. My dear
Andrew, where is your mind wandering?”
“What?” he said, his eyes jerking back
to immediate. “My apologies, Mrs. Borden.
I was trying to remember Tobias Ullsworth.
I cannot imagine what ill tidings he harbors
towards me.”
“Ullsworth?” Abby frowned. “That’s
the cloth doffer that you evicted for nonpayment of rent. I can’t imagine what glad
tidings he would harbor towards you. I told
you that being so strict with him over one
month’s rent was not good for your reputation.”
“I was merely protecting my property
rights,” Andrew said with a start. “That
Ullsworth was particularly unsavory.” He
slurped at his stew, staining his beard. “I
cannot abide slackards and lay-abouts.”
“That slackard,” shouted Emma, rising
to her feet, “has disappeared from the face
of the earth!”
There was a harsh moment of silence
broken by Lizzie coughing delicately into
her hand. “It’s true, Father,” Emma continued. “I have heard word from my contacts
down street that Tobias Ullsworth has vanished. Last Monday morning he was seen
wandering down by the Durfee Mill and at
noon his boots were found by the side of
the Quequechan. His wife and her seven
children are living in a state of despondent
impecuniousness.”
“They should have considered themselves fortunate when they let the place!”
Andrew sputtered. “It is not my concern.”
“Heartless man,” Emma muttered.
“You don’t know their fortunes, both before
they let from you, and after their cruel eviction. You don’t know the vagaries that have
befallen them.”
“I do know,” Andrew said pointing a
spoon towards his elder daughter, “that I
have been fined by the bank for late payment of the mortgage. Ullsworth doesn’t
give a fig for that, nor should I care a fig for
his dilemma.”
“The man is dead!” Emma howled,
and then fled towards the door, her hands
moving towards her face. She collided
with the maid who was entering with a
tray of molasses cookies. “Out of my way,
Maggie.” she shouted, and a moment later
her feet were heard clomping up the front
stairs. Flustered, the maid ran back into the
kitchen.
Abby patted the table with her palms.
“Well, Andrew,” she said solemnly, “you
have certainly topped the program this
time. I have never heard such disregard for
another man’s plight.”
“Bah. I have my rights. Landlords have
rights.”
“But you have no poetry,” Lizzie said
suddenly.
“Eh? What?” Andrew spluttered.
“What kind of nonsense do you speak?”
“You see no lights in my eyes,” Lizzie
announced. “You see no great wheel in the
sky. There is only one letter separating your
name from his, but the other differences are
vast and deep. His blood runs with wine,
yours with sawdust!”
Andrew looked towards Abby as if
trying to find an anchor of sanity. “My
daughter is speaking like the inmates at the
Taunton Asylum.”
Abby’s face went slack. “I believe I
know what Lizzie is saying,” she said grimly.
“Ah, you are all insane,” Andrew stammered. “No one knows the humiliation I
felt! Spit at me in the street he did! In front
of my own people! In front of my own
daughter! Told me to go be hanged in Arcady, whatever the devil that means!”
Lizzie froze, her eyes widening. “What
did you say?” asked Lizzie.
“He told me be hanged in Arcady. I
suppose he thinks I would travel all the way
to Greece to dangle myself from some fruit
tree.”
Lizzie bolted to her feet, her arms
shaking. “Who was this man? Do you not
know? Oh, Father! I must know who he
was.”
“Tall, mustache and beard, spectacles.
I don’t care one jot who he is, as long as he
keeps his spittle away from my brow!”
Lizzie ran from her table, leaving
behind a full bowl of peccary stew. She
pushed her way violently past the Maggie,
who stood in the doorway staring at the
remaining Bordens sitting silently at their
table along the northern wall.
“For the love of Mike,” she said merrily,
“did your daughters not get seized by some
turned milk? You’re a right queer family, I
declare!”
/
10. A Clue In The Midden Heap
The stable yard behind the Wilbur
was filled with the whinnying and musty
smells of the clientele’s beastly transports.
The stable doors were wide open and the
rank odors overwhelmed Andre, forcing
him to hold a fine-clothed handkerchief to
his nose. Lizzie’s mysterious note had asked
him to meet her back there at noon, and
the eager anticipation that she had solved
some part of the affair kept him at attention
down wind of the stables’ midden heap.
Lizzie appeared as if from the cabinet
of a stage magician, her face bright and
cheery, with a calm and ease that had not
existed in her the day before. Andre greeted
her with a slight kiss to the back of her
hand.
“Lizbeth,” he said, which made her
smile.
“I have good news,” she announced.
“Another piece of this puzzle has fallen into
place, and I am ready to test a hypothesis.”
“I was hoping as such.” Andre gestured
towards the back door of the hotel. “Shall
we?”
As they started towards the olfactory
safety of the Wilbur’s interior, Lizzie’s eyes
narrowed in on the large and distasteful
midden heap upon which a dirty young girl
in a patchwork dress clamored with an iron
hook, digging into the tangled mass. The
girl looked up with ferocity in her hungry
face.
“Biddy Doren, if I am not mistaken,”
Lizzie exclaimed. “What are you doing far
from Bishop Street? And digging in filth,
no less.”
The girl lowered her iron hook and
stood erect. “The man said there’s gold in
here.”
“The man? What man?”
“The man with the funny hat. He told
me that I can stop my mommy being hungry if I can find her some gold.” She held
up an egg-shaped item that gleamed in the
sunlight. “He found this and said ‘Bah!’ and
threw it to me. He told me there’s more in
there if I were dog enough to scrounge for
it!”
“Bastard,” Andre whispered. He
reached forward and took the small ball
that the girl was holding. It was the size
of a walnut and looked like it had been
forged roughly from tin. A small, hinged
top swung open to reveal a folded piece of
paper inside. Lizzie reached in and grabbed
it, eagerly unfolding the paper. In childish
scrawl it read:
HANG BE YE TO ARCADY
ANDREW J. BORDEN
Without a moment’s hesitation, she
stepped back into the center of the horse
yard and started scanning the tall back wall
of the hotel, examining each and every window and small opening.
“You believe it was tossed from
above?” Andre asked.
“I have been a fool! Of course! The pessary did not make it to the master criminal
behind this. It is still in the hotel.”
“But this is good news. That means
there is a chance of finding it.”
“I wonder,” she said, with a curious
twinkle in her eye.
Lizzie unbuckled her purse and
reached in, pulling out a large silver coin,
and held it forth to the small girl. “Perhaps
this can help with your mother’s hunger.”
The girl stepped forward cautiously and
snatched the coin, her fingers trembling as
they wrapped around its circumference.
“Now run along and let your mother
have the coin,” Lizzie ordered. The girl sped
from the courtyard, dust rising behind her.
Lizzie held the tin pessary in her hand
and peered intently at the back wall of the
hotel. “This is far more than I could have
hoped for. Yes, I think I know what to do.
Andre, I must ask you to tell your father
that I have solved the case. But you must
gather together the following people: the
Comte de Rennes, Fred and Fred Pinkerton, King Darius Wilbur, Deputy Sheriff
Wixon of Bristol County, and Dr. Seabury
Bowen.”
“A doctor?”
“Unless I am horribly mistaken, I believe we may have need of a medical man
for a delicate procedure.”
“I trust your instinct, Lizzie Borden,
Girl Detective. Andre de Camp is at your
service.” And he gracefully withdrew from
the courtyard, leaving Lizzie to ponder her
thoughts over the odorous midden heap of
Biddy Doren.
/
11. The Weird in the Wall
An hour later, a small coterie gathered
in the lobby of the Wilbur, clustered about
their host, King Darius Wilbur, who twirled
his mustaches furiously. The Comte de
Rennes, clearly uncomfortable with such
a public appearance, glanced about with
suspicion as if he expected a bomb-hurtling
anarchist to be behind every pillar post.
One of the Fred Pinkertons stood like a
stone sentinel with his hanging whiskers
and dusty bowler. Deputy Sheriff Wixon
of Bristol County, looking very mystified,
tipped his cap to Lizzie Borden and asked
politely, “I don’t know what this is all about,
but I bet it’s a pretty how-dee-do.”
Lizzie laughed. “It is very simple,
Deputy Wixon. The Comte de Rennes has
had something stolen from him, and now
we are going to retrieve it. I shall want you
to arrest the culprit.”
“Then you have found it!” the Comte
said with bated breath. “Mon Dieu! You
must tell me where it is without delay!”
“I am waiting for one more personage
in our little drama, a man whose role may
turn out to be of great importance. Ah, I
see Andre, your jeune fils, has indeed located the good Doctor Seabury Bowen.”
Andre and Dr. Bowen came in through
the front door, the expression on the doctor’s face betraying as much confusion as
the deputy. “I have been informed you
require my services,” he said politely. “Is
someone ill?”
“That is yet to be seen,” Lizzie announced, then waved a gloved hand
towards the stairway to the upper floor.
“Gentlemen?”
A few moments later, they had all regrouped outside of Room 209 where the
other Fred Pinkerton, dressed in the same
brown suit and bowler hat as his twin,
stood by his wooden chair at attention.
King Darius peered at him with puzzlement. “Are you you?” he asked, “Or are you
your brother?”
“I’m the other one,” he replied.
The entire crowd moved into the room
that was exactly as Lizzie had last seen it
the previous afternoon, down to the flower
bouquet on the writing desk and the French
circus postcard on the dressing table.
“Gentlemen,” she said, clapping her
hands. “We are now in a room where four
evenings ago, a robbery of great ignominy
has taken place. A Russian inventor has
had a possession stolen from him as he lay
unconscious, the victim of etherization.
For the last twenty-four hours, I have been
greatly puzzled over this theft. For the thief
did not seem to have entered or exited the
room, or at least that was the impression of
the good Fred Pinkertons and King Darius
Wilbur, all three of whom I consider to be
men of impeccable reputation and honesty.
It vexed me greatly how the thief made his
escape, and I have torturously pondered
every possible solution. Then it occurred to
me that perhaps the thief never made his
escape at all. Perhaps—and I beg your indulgence for a moment—he is still here.”
Everyone in the room shouted out
with surprise, glancing suspiciously at their
neighbor. Lizzie raised her hands to quiet
them down. “And I am not suggesting that
any one present in this room is the culprit.”
“But it seems impossible,” King Darius
exclaimed. “Do you suspect supernatural
agencies? I have heard the Weirds and their
hideous calls in the night, I did.”
“Nay, Mr. Wilbur, one need not resort to supernatural explanations. I will
demonstrate the source of your nocturnal
weirding calls.” She reached into her purse
and produced several slips of paper on
which were handwritten phrases of varying
lengths. She began to distribute them to her
perplexed guests, keeping one for herself.
Then she turned and faced the southern
wall. The Poussin painting of the rustic
shepherds about their tomb now seemed a
bit crooked in the stark noon light. Everyone faced the wall with her.
“I may be wrong about this,” she said.
“But there is no other solution. Will everyone please be so kind as to read out the
phrases on the paper I have given each of
you? Read the phrase with a voice pursuing
dramatic emotional ranges, like an actor
upon a stage at a variety saloon.”
The Comte de Rennes looked down at
his assigned script. “But this is madness.
What manner of words are these?”
“Trust me,” Lizzie said.
Everyone stood staring at her, so she
pumped her hand in the air and demonstrated in a loud and boisterous outburst.
“It’s a spouter boys! Off the bow sprits!
Crank the boom lines!”
After an awkward pause, the rest of the
men followed her example in loud theatrical voices as if they meant to be heard by a
far-flung balcony of patrons.
“Abandon the house boys!”
“Come on, ye green-skulled dolts!
Make fire-flies to the booms!”
“Ignite the blubber works! There’s a
goodly trough of oil to be had!”
“The winds are crossing swords, o me
hearties!”
“Far to starboard the spermaceti
awaits!”
“Harpooners to the boats! There she
blows!”
For a few moments, the men in the
room raised this mighty cacophony so
much so that they began to hear feet stamping and the sound of alarm in the hallway
outside. As their fortitude and boisterous
cries started to wind down, Lizzie egged
them on. “Keep at it! Don’t mind the innocents! We’re almost there!”
Andre felt absurd and was the first one
to stop. Just as he was about to protest and
quiet the others, there was a horrific cracking noise, and the entire wall before which
they stood started to shake. The Poussin
painting crashed to the floor, revealing
more rose-flowered wallpaper, but dead in
the center of the faint rectangle, where the
color had been preserved from sunlight,
was a curious peephole, like a tiny eye in
the middle of a rose petal. Then a thin
crack appeared along the edges of a long,
thin painted vine, and there was the creak
of rusty hinges. Before everyone’s startled
eyes, a large section of the wall was pushing outwards. There was now a door where
previously there had been no door, and it
was swinging towards them to uncover a
man-sized opening behind.
The figure that bounded from the
newly-exposed orifice was thin, grimy, and
dressed in filthy rags. His hair was wild, his
eyes aglow with some feral madness. His
whiskers flared out at insane angles and
his cheeks puffed as he pumped against the
wooden floorboards. He tried to race towards the door, but Deputy Wixon stepped
forward and grabbed him.
“Lord salvage me!” the man was shouting in a creaky voice. “The spermaceti
is spouting and I’m below decks! Where
be my harpoon boys?! Spring, my lads!
Spring!”
“How? What’s this?” Wixon asked incredulously, holding fast to the man’s jacket
tails. “Confound it, but it’s our missing
man!”
“May I introduce,” Lizzie said, breaking
out with a prideful laugh, “Mr. Tobias Ullsworth of Annawan Street. Deputy Wixon, I
believe this is the man who has been missing for three days now?”
“Mon Dieu, je ne comprend!” The
Comte de Rennes shouted, twirling his
mustache. He stepped forward and peered
into the wall cavity. The rest of the men
stepped forward a pace to take a glance
over his shoulder. Inside the wall was a tiny
nest, about four feet by three feet, barely
enough for a man to lie down in. Its back
wall was exposed wood, through which
could be heard the sounds of animals in the
stable yard. On the floorboards lay a filthy
pallet and a kerosene lamp next to which
rested a plate covered with insects, which
had devoured what little morsels of potato
and beans had been there to sustain the
prisoner.
“You mean he’s been in there?” Wixon
asked, staring at the filthy crazy man in his
grasp.
King Darius let out with a howl that
was both amused and offended. “Indeed he
has! That’s the Sporting Hole I heard slip
from the skenchback Buster. Their way of
spying on their Fancy Girls. I wouldn’t have
believed it, but there it is as evidence. And
in my own ordinary, much to my chagrin.”
“Frank Rivers,” said Andre triumphantly. “This is proof conclusive. Shall we
arrest that rogue?”
“No,” Lizzie said. “We need to hear
from the thief himself.”
“Let go my arm so I can scratch
my beard,” Ullsworth shrieked. “I’m all
a’crawling with critters!” Wixon released his
grip, trusting that his charge wouldn’t bolt
for freedom, as the man savagely attacked
his own facial hair like they were bursting
into flames. “Oh, Flukes and Blubber! I ain’t
been so infested since I last went a’whaling!
Damn that Rivers! Promised me to send my
children to school with their betters! Promised me that Tobias will never have to go to
sea or work the cloth again! But he wanted
me to swap the egg, he did. Give him a tin
forgery, he said and let Borden take the
blame! I say, let him rot in his own blubber
works! Damn that Rivers!”
Lizzie nodded in silent agreement.
“Wellington Rivers, the bank manager and
paper merchant, is the mastermind behind
this affair?” she asked directly to the hairy
face before her.
Ullsworth snarled. “Aye, the ruffian! I’ll
savage his head, I will. He’ll not suffer more
in all his days!”
Andre raised an enlightened finger. “I
suspected as such. Rivers must be in the
employ of the British. They wish to prevent
the Bulgarian expansion. Perhaps they hope
to raise the siege of Plevna! Wellington Rivers is their puppet!”
King Darius snapped his fingers.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. “And this Wellington
Rivers was the investor behind this hotel.
During the construction, he must have
personally customized Room 209 for his
nephew Frank’s lurid frolics. Dare say, that’s
it!” Ullsworth focused his blood shot eyes
on the Pinkerton Brothers who stood glaring at him with blank faces. “Galloping
ghosts! Now he’s split in two he is! I waited
all these days for him to go away, now he’s
split in two!”
One of the Freds smirked, “That split
happened a long time ago, my friend.”
“But this is all getting us nowhere!
Where is the pessary?” Jacques de Camp
shouted. “Where are the plans for the selfacting Mule?”
Lizzie smiled and pointed a finger at
Ullsworth whose face was now bloated with
red swells. “Doctor Bowen,” she said, “I believe if you examine Mr. Ullsworth you will
find what you are looking for.” She leaned
over and whispered a word into Bowen’s
ear, after which a strange gloom passed
over the good doctor’s face.
“I will do what I can do,” he said resignedly, and then pulled Ullsworth across
the floor and into the hole in the wall.
The wallpapered doorway slammed shut
and for a few uncomfortable moments,
the occupants of Room 209 were treated
to a symphony of howls and curses, giant whoops and prayers to various North
Atlantic whales and their Leviathan god.
Then, after what seemed like an eternity,
the doorway opened once more and Ullsworth appeared, more disheveled than before, holding up his belt-less pants so they
wouldn’t plummet to his heels. He stepped
forward carefully with jack-knifing legs
giving the appearance that he was walking
over gravel.
“Flukes and Blubber!” he bellowed,
fleeing back to Deputy Wixon as if the
sheriff were some form of safe port in an
otherwise hostile ocean. At that moment,
the Deputy took out some metallic wristlets
to bind the whale man’s hands.
Dr. Bowen appeared back in the room
with his jacket removed and one sleeve
rolled up past the elbow. In his hand he
held a shiny metallic egg about an inch in
diameter. He held it aloft with delicacy.
“Careful,” he said. “It must be washed.”
“The pessary!” the Comte de Rennes
roared and raced forward to toss both his
arms about the befuddled doctor who
collapsed like a boneless fish between the
Frenchman’s mighty timber-like arms.
Lizzie stepped before Ullsworth who
quaked in his gumboots. “Aye lassie, you
may think me a filthy and despicable codger,” he groaned, “but I had my reasons.”
“Your family is starving,” she said in
a whispery and sad voice. “After my father
evicted you, you had no choice but to take
up River’s offer. You have been twice betrayed.”
A sparkle came into the man’s desperate eyes. “Here’s a girl who speaks righteous! You tell ‘em!” He tugged at his shackles. “You describe how a man’s beloved wife
and children can be tossed into the street
like so much offal! It’s not a sane world, is
it? Locked up in a disgusting hole for three
days! I was told what would be done to my
lads and lassies if I gave up the game, so I
hid. For many days now, I hid and saw the
sun go up and down through that accursed
broken board. My life has been darkness
and horse dung, I tell ye! And not even a
place to empty my slops. You can imagine
what I’m going to say to Rivers the next
time I sees him! Yes, I’ll walk right up to
his fancy house and knock on the door, and
when his high and mighty butler comes to
toss me by the seat of my pants, I’ll let loose
my slops all over his European carpets!
You’ll see how he stands up to that! Yes,
Mr. Rivers! Send me to do some bottom’s
up surgery on a poor defenseless Cossack!
We’ll see! Who’ll now take care of ol’ Tobias
Ullsworth’s poor starving lads and lassies?”
Lizzie gave a slight nod and the barest
trace of a smile.
“Justice shall be done,” she promised,
and startled the old whaler by taking his
hands in hers.
Everyone present stared in shocked
silence.
/
12. A Plot Revealed
Lizzie Borden held court at the same
table in the Wilbur’s dining room as had
been occupied the day before by Frank
Rivers and his two skenchbacks. Bar keep
Sam Samways, late of South Bethlehem,
PA, provided some hops and spirits for
the men while Lizzie drank a fresh cup of
Orange Pekoe. The Comte and Vicomte
de Rennes sat together, a large mountain
and his smaller, thinner copy, flanked by
the two Pinkerton Brothers, Fred and Fred,
who resembled each other in both countenance and attire down to the last link on
their watch fobs. Deputy Sheriff Wixon was
nursing a beer, having decided that being
off duty was a much better position to be in
than having to file all sorts of complicated
reports, or explain to his superiors that he
had solved a theft while making no arrests.
Doctor Bowen was off tending to the physically ailing Ullsworth whom they promised
to both morally reform and nurse back to
prime health, respectively. For those present, the relief of recovering the plans for the
self-acting Mule had unleashed a wave of
merriment that manifested much laughter
and friendly banter.
“Lizzie, you must tell us what led you
to discover the whaleman Ullsworth in the
wall?” requested King Darius, his mustaches bristling.
“As soon as I saw the tin pessary in the
midden heap,” Lizzie proclaimed, “everything was absurdly simple. The message
within the tin was an insult hurled at a man
in the back alley from a broken plank in the
outer wall of Ullsworth’s hiding place. At
that moment, I knew that the plans had not
only never left the hotel grounds, but no
doubt were still in the room from whence
they had been stolen. How that could be,
when the entire room had been thoroughly
searched, was still a mystery to me. But,
there was also this unnamed man, no doubt
a stooge working for Wellington Rivers,
who verbally and physically abused Andrew Jackson Borden on the street yesterday morning, believing my father to have
been behind the betrayal. Yet his assault
upon Mr. Borden provided the vital clue.”
Lizzie produced the folded paper from her
purse and held it up for all to read. “Hang
ye be to Arcady!”
“The whale ship Arcady!” Fred Pinkerton the Elder said with a start. “Sailed out
of New Bedford in August of 1875, went
down with all hands except for one whaler
who returned in disgrace to Fall River to
work as a cloth doffer to feed seven children.”
“Tobais Ullsworth,” Fred Pinkerton the
Younger concluded. “Vanished this Monday last and not seen in physical form again
until he emerged from a hotel wall this very
afternoon, turned into a gibbering lunatic
by his long ordeal.”
“The man who wailed in the night,”
King Darius said bemusedly. “The Weird
in the wall. Never again shall I ever suspect
supernatural agencies when there is always
a perfectly natural explanation. Indeed I
won’t!”
“It all does hang together,” said Lizzie.
“Wellington Rivers, President of the Tiverton-Rivers Paper Mill and co-chairman of
the Fall River First National Bank, was suspected of sabotaging the whale ship Arcady
to collect on insurance. It was his holding
company that was found culpable in the
sinking of the ship due to a faulty manufacturing of its hull planking, a finding that
was buried under graft and corruption and
never became public knowledge. Only insiders like my Father, who did not judge the
man, and even admired him for his thrift,
knew the circumstances. Tobias Ullsworth
must have felt the need for vengeance
against the man who destroyed his life.”
“And Rivers,” the Comte de Rennes
said with a chuckle, “was unsuccessfully
attempting to buy up stock in a certain unnamed textile mill that I was to negotiate a
technological contract with, one that would
seal the fate of the Crimea. Being a paper
pulper, Rivers was looked down upon by
those men of cloth who run the looms and
spindles of Fall River. He would have the
perfect motive to steal the plans. He would
have been able to open his own textile mill
and triple his wealth with his exclusive use
of a revolutionary new type of Mule.”
“Not to mention,” Andre said triumphantly, “he wanted to cast the shadow of
suspicion on his nephew Frank who had
taken to the Sporting Boy life, and so disgraced the family name.”
Deputy Sheriff Wixon breathed a deep
sigh. “I am hearing all that you folks are
saying, but I have a pretty predicament
here. I can’t just march into Rivers’ paper
mill and arrest him, don’t you know? What
crime has the man committed that we can
prove? Ullsworth can only be charged with
breaking and entering, and his ramblings
about Rivers will be dismissed by folk who
would sooner believe a man of wealth than
a common cloth doffer.”
“I’m afraid Wellington Rivers is untouchable,” Lizzie mused. “His only punishment shall be his failure to procure the
pessary.”
“And what about Frank Rivers?” King
Darius asked with an evil twitch in his eye.
“I can ban him and his likes and their libertine ways from under my roof, but they
shall continue to roam the streets of Fall
River, spreading their sensualist ways, and
provoking our finest women into lives of
wanton decline.”
The Comte de Rennes stood to his feet.
“The Rivers boy and his scurrilous gang
shall be dealt with accordingly. Perhaps I
can persuade some local men of substance
to form a committee to abolish this social
issue of Sporting Boys and their Fancy Girls
once and for all. Why Lizzie, I shall even
recommend that your father be appointed
as a committee member since he has confessed to me in confidence his outrage at
these acts of youthful folly.”
“I thank you on behalf of Mr. Borden,”
Lizzie said. “I’m sure he would be most eager to join your committee.”
“More appropriately,” the Comte said,
bowing politely in Lizzie’s direction, “I
must thank you, Lizzie Andrew Borden, on
behalf of the French government, as well as
the Royal Tsar of Russia, for the recovery
of our most valuable industrial asset. I will
apply to my superiors for a special rate of
compensation for you and your entire family, which will come from the sale of the
self-acting Mule technology.”
“Merci,” Lizzie said, winking at Andre
who smiled back at her.
Fred Pinkerton the Younger shrugged.
“If you fancy folk would only have told
us simple folk about all these Russian intrigues, foreign wars, and golden eggs from
the very beginning, perhaps the Pinkerton
Brothers would have been of more use. Perhaps we could have shared in the glorious
wealth of this Mule, whatever the blazes it
be!”
Lizzie laughed. “Have no fear, Fred
and Fred. Payment for your services shall
be paid liberally from my family’s profits.
And young Biddy Doren, the poor girl with
the consumptive mother on Bishop Street,
shall have a trust set up for her from the
Lizzie Andrew Borden Fund for Destitute
Children, as shall all seven sons and daughters of the lamentable Tobias Ullsworth.
Nor shall I forget the orphaned children of
Tchakorov, the poor Russian inventor, or
his lovely new equestrian bride, who yet
need the funds to travel to America. I shall
donate my entire share of the Mule plans to
that effect.”
“Here, here!” King Darius said, snapping his fingers in the direction of the
corpulent Samways, motioning for a round
of rice beer. “Let us all congratulate Fall
River’s most excellent Girl Detective!”
When the drinks had been brought, all
cheered and raised their tankards to Lizzie
Borden. “Hooray for Lizzie!” they shouted
as one.
Lizzie sat smiling against the whitewash of the tall dining hall windows, her
hands cupped around her warm mug of
coffee, being that she was of the temperance
and did not drink spirits.
The bellhop from the front desk
appeared holding a letter stick that he
extended across the table to Lizzie. She
jumped in fright at its appearance before
her nose, snatching the note while the bellhop receded back to the lobby. She read the
hastily-written words and then turned to
her assembled friends.
“You must forgive me, but a Mr. Butterworth of the Saloon Furnishing Corporation of Keene, New Hampshire is requir36 The Literary Hatchet
ing my presence in the horse yard. I suspect
he wants to engage me as a liaison between
him and my father’s business. Excuse me.”
Everyone continued to banter and
drink as Lizzie stepped from the room and
disappeared into the lobby. Andre, his instincts inclined toward her protection, eyed
her through the dining hall windows as
she turned the corner of the building, her
hat bobbing, and disappeared behind the
building.
A moment later, King Darius twirled
his mustaches, a sign that he was perplexed.
“Strange,” he muttered. “Mr. Butterworth
was representing a furnishing concern in
Boston. I think that he did leave early this
morning.”
“Butterworth?” Andre asked, lifting
himself from his seat.
“Exactly,” Fred Pinkerton the Elder
added. The man’s face leapt into animated
life. “By Jupiter, he did leave this morning! I
carried his baggage to the waiting coach!”
“Zounds!” Andre howled, and reached
behind his chair for his slender walking
stick. Before anyone could comment, Andre had bounded away from the table and
was sprinting towards the door of the dining hall, his cane swirling before him.
/
13. Kidnapped!
Upon entering the stable yard, Lizzie
immediately sensed an unusual quiet; only
the sounds of traffic and pedestrians from
the other side of the tall hotel broke the
stillness, but within the yard itself there was
a strange vacancy of sound. Her instincts
told her to run, that a horse yard was no
place for a furniture salesman to meet with
a lady of quality. She had encountered fake
notes before, why had her instincts failed
her on this occasion?
“Butterworth!” she shouted, hoping
that her voice would reach her friends
through the dining hall window.
“I’ll give you your worth of butter,”
came a familiar sneer. Out from behind a
lumber shack came a swaggering figure balanced under an opera hat, walking carefully
in stocky fireman boots. “Don’t be all in a
twee, my dear. This ain’t no dragging time,
I have arranged for safe transport to a place
where you can fuzzle with a man of great
import.”
Frank Rivers raised his arms above
his hat and upon this cue, the roar of a
thumping horse broke the yard’s stillness.
Before Lizzie could form any estimation
of her predicament, a large barouche had
entered the yard from the street, but unlike
any barouche that she had seen before. It
was an imposing four-wheeled high flyer
pulled by a feverish white quarter horse, its
nostrils blazing with wind. The bellowed
hood formed a self-enclosed space over
the carriage seats and draped black curtains hung down from exposed protruding
dowels to conceal those who sat within. A
pair of hands holding leather reins emerged
from the curtain that draped over the
outside box seat to drive the quarter horse
that thundered before it. The barouche
very quickly overtook Lizzie as she spun to
make her escape. Frank Rivers had raced
forward to grab her, and the flailing arms
of Sporting Boys emerged from the hidden
recesses of the concealed cabin to pull her
up towards the gaping curtains.
“Mercy!” Lizzie cried, her body flush
with panic. Before she knew it, she was
inside the shaky cabin surrounded by Chas
and Buster, their faces convulsed in vulgar
leers. The barouche was bouncing up and
down with ridiculous exaggeration as she
struggled. Surely, she reasoned, anyone
witnessing this from outside would think it
peculiar and raise an alarm. All she had to
do was to keep her limbs flailing.
Frank Rivers popped through the
curtain like he had been swinging on a
vine, his hat missing from his head and his
soap lock grease dripping down his cheeks.
“Quiet, my lamb,” he said. “I am playing
mere strumpet usher this afternoon. There’s
a man on the Hill. Yea, he’s got reason to
maw-wallop with you. Snaggle her to me,
he said. And so we snaggle you.”
“I’m going to scream,” Lizzie said. She
could feel the barouche starting to move
into the traffic of North Main. Knowing
that her chances to salvage her situation
were rapidly diminishing, she broke one
arm free from Buster’s grip and lashed out
at Frank Rivers, her fingernails, which had
been grown to a fashionable length, tore
across his cheek, slipping off his sweat and
soap lock. “Gaaaah!” he cried, raising a
palm to his slashed flesh that had started to
ooze blood. “You boggled dolly! You monster!”
“You’re the monster,” she said defiantly,
and feeling the barouche gallop into full
speed down North Main Street, she spat in
his face.
“For that,” he said, wiping at his nose,
“you will know a grand rib roasting.”
Lizzie closed her eyes, expecting the
worst, but was immediately surprised to
feel the entire balance of the carriage lean
backwards, as if it were tumbling over.
Sunlight splashed her face, and she opened
her eyes to see the vast expanse of the afternoon sky flanked by the moving tops
of buildings. Some one, or some thing,
was pulling back the collapsible half-hood
above her, ripping it aside as if it were made
of tissue paper, and the draped curtains to
her left and right were falling to the street.
All the grips holding her into her imprisoned posture were loosened. She fell back
as the barouche tipped and for a brief moment, she saw Andre de Camp, stripped
to his shift sleeves, locked in a tangle with
Frank Rivers against the clouds, then all
was a spiral towards the ground and she felt
the hard road beneath slamming her knees
and elbows.
Rolling over to prevent her face from
hitting the dirt, she saw the broken pieces
of the barouche and a sad image of the collapsed quarter horse lifting its whinnying
head upwards. It took but a moment for her
to realize that Andre de Camp had chased
the vehicle of her abduction and had overrun it on foot. Somehow, he had managed
to get on board and rip apart, seemingly
with his bare hands, the collapsible hood, at
the same time knocking the Sporting Boys
off the vehicle. She caught a brief glimpse
of Chas and Buster racing down the street,
limping and screaming, until they crashed
into a solid wall of Pinkerton Brothers.
“Apple bonkers!” Chas cried.
“Fancy some friendly fuzzle!” Buster
said in a panic.
“Let bygones be made,” Chas pleaded.
“No rib roasting for us, my skenchbacks!”
Within seconds, the Freds had chosen
their targets and the two Sporting Boys
were air bound, hurled, and twirled under.
They fell like lifeless lumps to the ground,
where heavy workman boots assaulted
them. Much to their humiliation, a crowd
was now gathering on both sides of the
street, full of respectable men and women
in their fine dresses and suits, all of whom
were cheering on the melee.
Then Lizzie saw Andre and Frank Rivers standing arm’s length apart from one
another in front of the barouche’s shattered
carriage, their feet in angry boxing stances,
their hands up and curling into fists.
The startled crowd was now frozen in
suspense as the two boys circled about an
invisible center between them. A woman
screamed, another fainted, dogs were barking, a gentleman cried out that someone
should call the police. Far in the distance
came the screeching of birds as they flew
their indifferent path against the clouds.
The entire scene was suspended in space as
if it were part of some famous painting, as
if Andre and Frank were two titans wrestling in some mythical moment that existed
outside of time.
“You think you know this stockjobber!” Frank Rivers snarled, and Lizzie realized to her horror that he was talking to
her. “Not in a sloven’s year! Let him tell you
the truth! Hang ye be to Arcady!” Then he
lashed forward violently, his arms swinging
in graceful and powerful arcs.
Andre stepped into the punches and
reached for Frank’s soap locks. At first
his grip slipped right off then, but in that
instant he managed to disorient the Sporting Boy. Lashing out again, he seized the
locks like they were horns on a rampaging
bull and pulled with all the full force of his
physical being.
“Yoiks!” Frank Rivers cried, then sped
forward, pulled by his own hair. Andre
brought a knee up into the boy’s abdomen, which brought another exclamation,
one that could not be represented by any
word, and then Frank Rivers was limp and
defenseless. Andre spun him about and
kicked him full in the seat of his trousers,
sending him in a comical arc over the
stunned quarter horse. Frank Rivers hit
the ground with a graceless thud, his face
landing in some equine feces that his own
animal had treasured the street with, and
then lay disturbingly still, the only sounds
being a very thin and listless muttering of
some random fuzzle talk: “Glorged I be . . .
gored to the bumwush . . . all in a twee, my
skenchback . . . ” And then he was silent.
Lizzie forced herself to her feet, which
turned out to be the easy part. Staying
upright was a task she started feeling was
beyond her capacity. Her pulled muscles
dragged her downward as a frightful state
of shock began to pass over her startled
body. Andre stood before her, his face
covered in dirt, his shirt torn, his body still
braced for action, not exhausted or weakened but strong and virile.
Warm waves spread downward from
her head into her limbs, a delayed reaction
to the fear, the anxiety, the deathly grip
that had been a hold of her body ever since
her ordeal had begun. But she was held together by the sight of her brave soldier, her
beautiful Vicomte, drenched in sweat, heaving with fear for her safety. Her feelings
were very shameful, but in Andre’s presence
she couldn’t but surrender to them.
She ran forward and into his arms,
her face trembling, her tears staining her
cheeks, her arms grabbing desperately at
him, begging to be embraced.
For a moment, there was warm comfort, like she was falling through soft down
in a summer’s breeze with no physical pain,
no fear, no danger. Her reverie was broken only by a startled yelp that dispelled
the waking dream. “Lizzie Andrew!” She
lifted her eyes from Andre’s shoulder to
see her sister Emma in an afternoon dress
at the periphery of the startled crowd, her
face aghast, her hands raised to her ovaled
mouth.
“It is all correct, Emma,” Lizzie said,
not even loud enough for her sister to hear,
“Andre is my skenchback.”
Then she fell into blackness, her last
impression being Andre’s arms catching her
as she plummeted.
/
14. Justice & Lost Love
The conclusion to the affair held little
comfort for Lizzie’s shattered heart. Despite
the justice that had been executed and the
financial reward reaped by the suffering
innocents who had been involved directly
and indirectly in the affair, there was still
the small matter of the signet ring with the
scarlet “A” embossed upon it.
All else was neatly concluded. The
treasured plans for the proposed textile
technology were returned to the Comte de
Rennes. A few months later, a new textile
mill owned and operated by a Russian industrialist became operational along the
banks of the Quequechan, to much ballyhoo and a titanic flood of profits due to
the introduction of a new self-acting Mule
that increased production and the pick of
the yarn. All who held stock in the venture,
including Lizzie Andrew Borden and her
father Andrew Jackson Borden, had more
money flow into their accounts than they
previously could have dreamed. Lizzie, in
turn, donated all her proceeds to a charitable fund for destitute children. The Doren
woman in Bishop Street was able to find
a proper home for her small child Biddy,
who Lizzie saw every Saturday afternoon
thereafter for iced cream down street, and
who eventually matured into a fine young
woman, the first in her family to study at a
university. In later years, Lizzie heard that
Biddy Doren wrote serialized novels about
social issues that gave Upton Sinclair a run
for his money in the literary market place.
Tobias Ullsworth was set up in a proper apartment and, much to her father’s disconcerted grumbles, given a job as a clerk
at Borden and Almy’s furniture concern
where he had responsibilities ranging from
taking warehouse inventory to swaying
customers’ buying instincts towards certain
preferred items. The more difficult concession that Andrew had to make was to allow
Ullsworth to hang the copy of Poussin’s
“The Shepherds of Arcady” that had been
salvaged from Room 209, the most enduring symbol of his long ordeal, on the store’s
back wall over a field of rose-colored wallpaper.
Frank Rivers and the Sporting Boys
were arrested and brought up on charges of
kidnapping and assault, plus the theft of a
barouche from a carriage yard in Tiverton.
Wellington Rivers attempted to persuade
anyone who would listen that his nephew
Frank had been under the spell of a charlatan mesmerist named Fuad Ramses, and
so, Rivers contended, could not be held
accountable for his deeds. However, Lizzie
came round to Rivers office one afternoon,
spending no more than one half-hour sequestered privately with the paper tycoon,
after which all claims of his nephew’s innocence were inexplicably dropped. Rivers
produced one statement to the local newspaper in which he said, “Frank is indeed of
bastard stock from a degraded branch of
the family. My sister found him on the steps
of a local saloon wrapped in fish paper. I
cannot with clear conscience defend his
kind.”
After serving a spell in prison, Frank
Rivers, along with his Bedford Street
B’hoys, effectively disappeared from New
England altogether. It was rumored that
years later Chas and Buster were hanged
at the Tombs, the large police dungeon in
New York near Paradise Square, where they
had been charged with “crimes of innumerable unpalatabilities.” It was believed that
Frank Rivers became the notorious Bowery
Boy Strangler who terrorized Mulberry
Street in the late 1880s, writing taunting
letters to the police with phrases like, “I
am only at my lick-for-leather for the last
was for colt’s tooth. The next one shall be
a grand rib roasting!” but that could have
been mere coincidence. The Strangler was
ultimately caught and strangled to death by
a vigilante mob, but the photographs then
taken by the New York Herald of his corpse
in an upright coffin are no longer extant.
As for Andre de Camp, Lizzie saw him
on a Tuesday afternoon one week after the
affair at the Wilbur. For several days, her
father had prevented the two from meeting,
for he was seized with a sudden suspicion
of the boy’s intentions towards his daughter, and also embarrassed by the publicity
that the public beatings had drawn to the
Bordens and the de Camps. Disregarding
the fact that Andre had quite possibly saved
his daughter’s life, Andrew bolted shut
his home and stayed indoors during his
normal business hours, just to make sure
that Lizzie sat in her room all day, alone
and despondent. He was hoping that some
sense could be driven into the French boy
who still, despite the father’s precautions,
insisted on calling at the Borden home every day at noon.
By the seventh day, Lizzie had howled
at her father to let him in, and Andrew reluctantly consented. “Ten minutes,” he said.
“I give you ten minutes with the boy and
then you are to forget you ever knew him.”
She found Andre in the parlor, standing near the piano. He looked as dashing
and well-kept as always, his facial scuffs a
mere phantom of the past. His eyes brightened when he saw Lizzie cross the floor. He
moved forward to embrace her but she held
her body back. She was giving the impression that there was an invisible line on the
floor between them beyond which he was
not allowed to cross.
“It is madness that we are kept apart
so,” he said, tears forming in his eyes.
“No,” she said, her face cold and blank.
“It is best.”
“Mais mon Dieu, what can you mean?”
“I know you have the best of intentions, and I do believe, Andre de Camp,
that you love me. I have never doubted it.
And I have committed your poem ‘Lizbeth
of Light’ to precious memory. But I can
never let you any closer than you are now.
Perhaps not even this. We shall see each
other in church, we shall see each other at
the board meetings for the textile concern,
but outside of indifferent and necessary encounters, we shall never talk again. Never,
do you understand?”
A dark shadow passed over his face.
“Pourquoi?” he asked.
“Because you lied to me. You deceived
me. In your attempt to save your father’s
reputation, you tampered with the truth.
That was your ring that was found in the
poor whaleman. The “A” on the signet stood
for Andre, not Arcady. It was you upon
which Wellington Rivers was attempting to
cast suspicion. In your clever machinations,
you conceived of this Arcady society, an anarchist cabal targeting Fall River, to divert
suspicion from your own guilt in the affair.”
He was horrified. His mouth trembled
as he struggled to find the words. “I was
only trying to retrieve the pessary. I didn’t
think that my father’s obsession with this
Arcady Society was of any consequence. In
France he saw them lurking everywhere,
and here in the wild land of America he is
even more fearful.”
“I do not even believe that this society
even exists.” Lizzie’s face went dark as she
contemplated something even more unthinkable. “Or perhaps you are the Arcady
Society. Perhaps you have attempted to
bring this French breed of political unrest
to our ordered community. Perhaps Rivers
was trying to wipe out this pestilent breed
of revolutionary activity before it could get
a foothold in our town.” She paused, trying
to read the shifting shadows on his face.
“Or perhaps I shall never know the truth.
Andre de Camp holds many secrets, and
this secret society that bears his initial is his
best kept.”
“I wish I could tell you the truth,” he
said, puffing up his chest. “But I am bound
by oaths. If you only knew, Lizzie Borden. If
you only knew.”
“It is best,” she replied, “that I never
know. For the past seven days, I have tormented myself over this decision, and I
must now reveal that I choose not to have
anything to do with you. I care not if the
Arcady Society is a mere figment of everyone’s suspicions and you are blameless. But
after your painful lie, I can never trust you
again.”
He lowered his eyes towards his feet.
Somewhere in the distance, a fruit peddler
was hawking his wares, and a bale barge
blew its horn across the deep waters of the
Taunton.
“I am sorry,” he said solemnly, “that
you feel that way.”
“But I shall never forget your kindness,” she said assuredly. “And I shall never
forget your poem. And I shall never forget
the melancholy boy who once upon a time
did indeed have love for me.”
Andre nodded, forcing back his anguish. He stared at her for a moment and
then spoke very lyrically: “ ‘Tis the hope
and the beauty and the inner calm/That we
have won and must never let slip.’ ”
She moved slightly towards him, as
if she were ready to embrace, but then
stopped. “Yes,” she said. “ ‘Never let slip.’
And I never shall.”
“I cannot live without you,” he said
languidly.
Her eyes widened as red came across
her face.
“Oh, yes you can!” she replied angrily,
and left the room as quick as a whirling
tornado.
On her way to the staircase, she met
with her father who stood broad-shouldered, his chin jutting forward, a look of
triumph on his countenance. “What did I
tell you,” he said smugly. “The boy is obviously a liar and a . . . ”
“Say nothing more, Father,” she cautioned him. “Do not talk to me for three
weeks or I shall twist off your head!”
/
15. Andre-Lude
It was not the last time that she would
meet with Andre de Camp, le Vicomte de
Rennes. Their paths were to cross again in
several more of her cases, most notably the
Adventure of the Phantom Thespian and
the Strange Affair of the Hottentot Venus.
And it was only a matter of time before
she had cracked the code of the dreaded
Arcady Society and discovered Andre’s true
role. In a strange tender way, he was eventually redeemed, but she would never again
open up her heart to him as she had done
the night that she first heard the words to
“Lizbeth of Light.”
Indeed, for all these long and sad years,
Lizbeth Andrew Borden kept the words
to the poem in a locket about her neck. It
stayed with her throughout many an adventure, kept her company at night in the cruel
days of her incarceration, provided inner
strength when all around was darkness.
And occasionally, when pressed by the rare
Fall River resident who was old enough to
remember the Comte de Rennes and his
daring son and the summer of 1877, she
found herself transported back again to that
time indelibly marked upon her inner soul
by Andre’s lyricism. As the sun descended
over French Street, and the sloping shadows amidst the elms reminded her of the
faded evenings of yesterday, all she could
do was to sigh and stare into empty space,
perhaps inwardly numbering the years to
see if it were even indeed possible that he
could still be alive and upon the earth, and
remark with confident melancholy:
“This coming summer I shall be sixtyseven, which means that he too is not yet
seventy. Perhaps there is a chance of walking by the river with him once more, and
remembering. To see that Great Wheel in
the sky and wonder . . . and wonder . . . for
we are but passing shadows and shall soon
be gone. To see him once more, before no
more. Yes.
“The Poet really did find a hope and
beauty that he wanted to share with me. I
turned my back upon it, and perhaps that
was the gravest mistake of my life. But I
have never let it slip. I have held it right
here, in this locket, for all these lonely
years.
“Perhaps it would be nice to see him
again. Very nice indeed. Yes.
“For I was very fond of him when I was
a Girl Detective.”
Finis
////
Author’s Note:
Great thanks is due to Shelley
Dziedzic, my very own Victorian
Historian and Lifestyle Consultant
who has helped to dress up the
imaginary Fall River of these tales
and lend to its inhabitants a loving
attention to detail that can only come
from such a wonderful time traveler as
Ms. Dziedzic.
Although this story is an
imaginative work of fiction, the most
seemingly implausible element, the
Fuzzle Talk of the Sporting Boys,
does oddly enough have an historical
basis. Many of the whimsical phrases
and portmanteau words come from
the diligent research of my most
excellent skenchback Jeffrey Kacirk
whose fascinating book The Word
Museum (Barnes and Noble Books,
2004) is a great source of what Mr.
Kacirk calls “abandoned expressions
and philological relics.” This gem of
a work has been most useful in the
composition of this Lizzie Borden Girl
Detective mystery.
[poetry]
Do Come In
Someone has served mutton broth
and over ripe bananas, again.
Someone has tried to buy prussic acid.
Someone has a blue dress to burn.
Someone has levitated in the barn loft
leaving no footprints in a search for sinkers.
Someone has eaten entirely too many pears.
Someone has hidden a hatchet in the chamber pot,
or down in the cellar covered with ash.
Someone has abused her stepmother in a most unseemly way.
Someone has worn a coat inside out,
or stood naked before him
with a flash of skin and blade.
Oh, do come in
someone has killed father.
—Larry Allen
[poetry]
Who I Am
My soul wanders within the secrets of the walls
Only I know what’s within them
Amazingly, I watch as each visitor seems to know
What happened on August 4, 1892
Each scenario having its own murderer
Anticipating the excitement of knowing
The truth within the secrets of these walls
Painfully being sought after
Obsessively captivating each visitor
I watch as they search out new discoveries
Interpretations of what may have been
All these visitors hoping to solve the crime
Watching as my soul wanders amongst the secrets of these walls
Only I know what’s within them
Will anyone ever know who I AM?
Reaching out, hoping to be heard
For once a secret is revealed
My feet will walk no more
And I will find my way into eternity
Once they know who I AM.
—Vicki Jo Indrizzo-Valente
[short story]
BOY’S
MONSTER
BY EUGENE HOSEY
There are tall dark figures and
fluttering shadows, voices rising together
and falling apart. Lamplight, smoky haze,
and couches and chairs—an island in a
wilderness of darkness. Sets of marble
eyes roll or stare, leathery faces grimace
and laugh at one another. Mouths writhe
around different sets of teeth—some
white and straight like piano keys, and
some jagged and dirty like rocks. Arms
grasp at the air and fingers point, heads
turn aside or shake. I can’t tell if they are
dangerous or just playing games. They
are mostly strangers. I don’t know what
to think.
“I’m not scared of it, myself. I don’t
care what anybody says.”
“You’ll be scared of it when you see
it.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve been through
those woods at night, and I’ve never
heard anything.”
“I thought I heard something one
night.”
“I’ll have to hear it with my own ears.”
“Are you calling me a liar or a fool?”
“All right, all right. There’s a sensible
approach to this. We’ll arm ourselves and
search the woods.”
“I heard it scratching on my window
screen one night.”
“I’ve heard that myself several times.
One night, I got up the courage to look,
and I saw a big furry animal slumped over
on two legs, staggering away.”
“Ridiculous.”
“I heard it coming after me one night
and just barely made it to the door.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I didn’t turn around to see, but I
heard it breathing.”
“Somebody with nothing better
to do told a story, and more talk and
imagination did the rest. That’s all there is
to it. The monster is in your minds.”
“And you’re going to get yourself
killed.”
“Even if there is a strange animal, why
should we believe it’s dangerous? No one
has been hurt.”
“That’s a silly way to look at it.”
“Don’t you remember that little
girl down the street who came home
screaming with cuts and bruises on her
legs and arms?”
“All kids hurt themselves falling down
playing.”
“There was more to it than that,
and you know it. The child described a
monster.”
“You’ve lost your minds.”
“If you men start prowling the woods
at night with guns, about half of you will
get shot.”
“Maybe you’re the monster.”
“You’re all a bunch of goddamn
monsters!”
“You’re scaring the boy. Put him to
bed.”
“You’d better make sure those
windows are shut and locked.”
Then they cackled with laughter.
Mother’s face is the only one I trust.
What choice do I have? It’s a young,
delicate pretty face. Her eyes are brown
and look deeply into me. They are like
bottomless pools of perfectly still water.
I feel that she loves me, but I worry that
she doesn’t see the dangers around me.
She doesn’t know much of anything. She
cries a lot. After my sister comes along,
she cries even more. I bring her tissues
to wipe her eyes, and she sort of laughs
at me. I can’t read her face. The strangest
thing she does is to take a thin, stretchy
stocking and slip it over her head and
make a growling sound through it. Did
she know how much it would terrify
me to see her face disappear? My heart
thumped so hard it shook my body and
my face went numb. Or, did she not know
what she was doing? My worst fear is that
one of those evil things took control of
her and made her do it. Daddy is usually
gone, but once I saw him do an awful
thing. I went out on the porch one day,
and there on the steps, he was cutting
up a small animal. Screaming red blood
was everywhere, and the animal’s face
was looking right at me with its eyes
open and glazed with pain. I knew it was
partially alive, even though I doubt daddy
understood it; and as he kept cutting with
the knife, the animal silently begged me
to save it. It was too mutilated to ever
live again, yet instead of just dying it was
holding on to this tiny thread of hope.
All I could do was scream and beg him
to stop, and mother came and took me
inside and told me to shut up.
I hate bedtime. Darkness of night,
when the sun leaves, is a mournful,
dangerous place. Wicked things are
always hiding and sometimes show
themselves. I lay there with my eyes open,
stiff with fear, the sheet tucked closely
around me, waiting for morning, trying
not to think because they are good at
reading minds. They are always after me,
even during the day—like the time they
made me pedal my tricycle off the steep
end of the porch—but at least the sun
gives me some protection, they can’t
stand the sun. But at night, I am helpless.
Everyday, it’s easy to mock the night.
The big cloud ships that float beneath the
kind blue sky are always crowded with
friendly souls inviting me to join their
happy journey, and I always say I would
like to go and someday probably will.
Knowing the invitation is always there lets
me know there is a different place, and
somehow this makes the waiting easier.
This is what all time seems to mean, day
or night. Always waiting and expecting
something.
But I never fail to underestimate the
grim authority of nightfall for as long as
there is a single hopeful ray of sunlight. I
cannot seem to remember the intensity
of the fear when blackness covers and fills
all things, and the voices come with their
tormenting familiarity; and the popping,
fizzling static in the darkness shapes itself
into monsters. They tell me I don’t belong
here and that I will be discovered as an
imposter and thrown out. This is always
their message. There is a special throb
in my heart (a feeling that started in me
with her birth) for my sister, who is in her
white crib there against another wall; and
they know this, and so now they are after
her as well. I watch something materialize
gradually from the floor upward, my
eyes stuck to it like glue and aching with
strain, burning with dripping sweat. Little
orange balls drop from the darkness and
take form as they accumulate and solidify.
It happens rapidly. First, there are two
simple, shoe-like feet and fatty legs; and
then the creature is complete, big and
tall, with long arms, broad shoulders, and
a small oval head with little yellow eyes. It
moves. The head turns to glance at where
my parents are sleeping; then it looks at
me; and then it creeps toward my sister’s
crib with its arms outstretched. It intends
to steal her. I scream. Immediately, I hear
feet hit the floor. Daddy is up and crossing
the room. The monster hears it too and
turns away from the crib, its eyes showing
fear. At first, it looks as if the monster
and daddy are going to collide, but the
monster avoids him at the last moment
and disappears through the wall. Daddy
swiftly picks me up and carries me to
his and mother’s bed, and I lay between
them. Creatures with hateful faces and
wings fly over the bed constantly through
the night, but I feel safe here between the
grown people who don’t fear them. I can
see my sister’s crib across the room; I keep
an eye on it. Every time I feel the tug of
sleep, she lets out a little moan, as though
she wants me to watch over her, and I do.
I will scream again, if necessary, but no
other monster appears tonight.
And when daytime returns, I find
myself digging a hole in the red dirt at
the foot of the red hill that my house sits
on. It is like a person, with the door for a
mouth and a window on each side like
eyes. Mother comes out on the porch and
calls me and says something else I can’t
hear, but I don’t care what she has said.
I’m watching for the monster. When it
shows up, I will yell and scream, and they
will come running and find it and kill it.
The ruddy sun starts falling. It gets
lost behind the trees and reemerges in a
gap as a clear star—a circle with needles
radiating from the center, like my tricycle
wheel. It falls lower and just above the
roof of the house and peeps through
the trees as a silver pinpoint. Sudden
argumentative voices from the house
worry me. It is almost dark, and the sky
is the color of flesh, and the green leaves
are turning gray.
A shrill laugh stings my ear. Again
and again, it has promised to get me,
sooner or later. I drop my hand-spade and
scramble up the hill, crying, “Monster!
Monster!” The monster growls behind
me. The noise of human voices comes
from the house, but nobody runs out
as I had expected. I run for the door,
hearing his lumbering chase and snorting
breath gaining on me. I make it up the
steps and to the door, but just as I reach
for the knob, a beautiful hand appears
behind the screen and latches the door
to prevent me from getting inside. It is
mother standing there holding the baby
in her arm, and smiling with playful red
lips and laughing eyes.
]
[poetry]
DEAR ABBY (BORDEN)
When you married at the age of thirty-seven
you may have felt you had escaped spinsterhood for heaven.
People would call your husband drab, stingy, and sour.
To you he may have seemed a pillar of strength and power.
You served and honored Andrew; he served and honored you. In privacy you ran a home and knew what was true.
Some would see you as dull, quiet as a mouse. You held your head high, the lady of the house.
You loved your home, your very own, and kept it clean,
for in the domestic sphere, you yearned to be keen.
To Emma and Lizzie, you could never quite be Mother. There was never a way to take the place of the Other.
Try as you might, the first would be loved most.
You could not wrest a halo from off a ghost.
So you searched for peace, sought tranquility
with your stepdaughters Emma and Lizzie. How you adored and cared for your half-sister, Sarah Gray, born when your own life was reaching the middle of its day. In time, Sarah Gray became Sarah Whitehead, and of new life was brought suffering to bed. To her precious little baby Sarah gave your name,
the honor lighting a joy in you like a flame. Full of warmth, you visited with happy frequency
your half-sister Sarah and growing niece, sweet Abby. You enjoyed seeing the loved child smile and skip, knowing she was delighted when you made a trip.
You looked forward to the light in Abby’s eyes, when she saw and smelled your freshly baked mince pies. There is always so much more than can be captured on a page. So much more to real life lived than can be expressed on the stage. But we can be sure you wanted always to live, that you had talents and feelings of which to give. We know that Abby and Sarah Whitehead, Deeply mourned when they learned that you were dead.
—Denise Noe
[humor]
fall river’s dead letter office
by sherry chapman
The Dead Letter Office was established in U.S. post offices in the
late 1800s, and Fall River was no
exception. Recently a sack of dead
letters were found in the basement
of deceased letter carrier, Mortimer
V. Annawan. They were given to the
Fall River Historical Society in February of this year. I was using the archives the day they came in and got
to see them being sorted and opened.
As of yet, no copies have been made
of them, but on some of the briefer
ones, after I got permission to do so
from one of the volunteers there, I
copied them word for word.
a
Dated August 1, 1892
From Andrew Borden
To Charles Cook
There was no stamp on this envelope. It looks like Mr. Borden tried to
draw one on.
Dear Mr. Cook,
I have decided to leave everything to
my daughters after all. I will be in to
start arrangements on Thursday afternoon. —Andrew J. Borden
a
Dated September 5, 1892
From Mrs. Judith Russell
To Hosea Knowlton
The name was misspelled (‘Hosea
Newton’)
Dear Sir,
I understand that you want my
daughter, Alice, to testify in the Lizzie Borden case. I think it is impor48 The Literary Hatchet
tant for you to know that Alice has
spent a few years in the Taunton
Insane Asylum with a diagnosis of
a “pathological liar.” As long as you
know this, you may choose to subpoena her or not. —Mrs. Judith Russell
a
From Bridget Sullivan
To Marshal Hilliard
“No Irish Letters Allowed” was
stamped on the envelope.
Dear Sirr,
I know where Miss Lizzie hid the
murderin’ hatchet. I saw her. Please
contact me at the Kelly house if you
are interested. —B.S.
a
From Lizzie Andrew Borden
To Mrs. Poole
There was no address on the envelope.
Dearest friends,
When I came home from my lovely
visit with you, I discovered that I
had lost the second page of my meat
loaf recipe. I must have dropped it in
the kitchen when I made dinner that
one night. If you should find it, please
send as it is no good without it.
—L.A. Borden
a
Dated May 10, 1893
From Dr. Seabury W. Bowen
To Hosea Knowlton
Dear Mr. Knowlton,
I expect that you will be calling me
through the phone to ask me to testify at the Borden trial, coming up
next month. You should know that
I suffer from color blindness, and I
caution you not to ask me anything
about the color of Lizzie’s dress, else
I could be taken as quite a blithering
idiot.
Yours sincerely, Dr. S.W. Bowen
a
Dated May 8, 1892
To Hosea Knowlton
From Attorney General Pillsbury
This envelope had the instructions
“Put in Dead Letter Office” in Pillsbury’s handwriting.
Dear Hosea,
I must admit to you that I am not really sick at all. I am feeling remorse
for sticking you with the entire burden of the Borden trial. I am just fine,
and if you want me to take over for
the prosecution I will gladly do so.
Just let me know by the fifth of May,
because otherwise I am going abroad
with my wife for the summer.
Yours truly, Att’y General Pillsbury
a
To Cousin Robert Morse, Hastings
From John Morse, Fall River, MA
“No state. It’s probably ‘Iowa’ and he
don’t know how to spell it.”
Greetings, Robert,
It looks like I am to be in Fall River
longer than the one month I had
planned. Please send clean underwear. One set is plenty; I already have
one on. I wouldn’t have written at all,
but niece Emma insists. We can call
it an early Christmas present!
Thank you, Johnny
Dated November 31, 1892
From William S. Bordon
To Lizzie A. Broden
“No such name”
Dear Sister,
I am sorry you are having to endure
being in jail and then go to trial,
where you may be hanged. Remember, one word from you that I was the
murderer and I shall have to tell that
it was you that took the last piece of
cake at the church social last summer. Well, time for meds.
Good luck —Billy
PS: Have you ever heard of an “Arnold Brown the Second”? He has
been trying to get the nurses here to
let him bunk with me. He isn’t another one of Dad’s kids, is he?
a
Dated June 4, 1922
From Lizbeth Borden
To Man Next Door
“Cannot deliver without name”
Dear Neighbor,
I have asked you in a nice note to
please keep your bird quiet. You have
still not done a thing about it. I am
writing to tell you to disregard the
request. Now the bird will be quiet
forever. —Lizbeth Borden
a
Dated July 1, 1893
From L.A. Borden
To Alice Russell, Fall River, Massachusetts
“’Refused’ scrawled across in a fine
hand”
Dear Alice,
Thanks for nothing. —Lizzie
a a a a a
a
[short story]
The Maple Wears a Gayer
Scarf
By David Marshall James
Indian summer reigned over the
mid October afternoon, although several
preceding weeks of increasingly brisk weather
had hastened the advent of autumn, most
notably upon boughs and branches whose
greenery proved a short-lived memory, with
the turning of the seasons.
The unanticipated warmth—and
a surplus of free time—had decided
the youthful Rev. Tradd Manigault on
journeying by foot instead of by streetcar.
Moreover, he had grown accustomed to
perambulating about Lower Manhattan—
and, before that, his home city of
Charleston—as a student at the General
Theological Seminary. His ordination had
transpired just the previous June, at St.
Thomas parish on upper Fifth Avenue,
no less. His blue-blooded roots, if not his
family’s somewhat diminished fortune,
commanded the interest of a sizable portion
of Mrs. Astor’s pet party guests.
Nevertheless, the Rev. Manigault was a
man without a parish, an Episcopal priest at
temporarily loose ends. More to the point,
he was unsettled on whether to remain in
the North or return somewhere closer to
home. Recently, he had been pondering on
relocation to a spot on the fringe of both
extremes—perhaps Maryland, or upper
Virginia.
If only a majority of Massachusetts’
afternoons proved so felicitously
accommodating to pedestrians, the issue
would be settled, once and for all. His step
livened as he strolled up High Street in Fall
River, his thoughts feasting upon a secret
mission—a private enterprise unbeknownst
to his genial host and fellow seminarian, Fall
River native Phineas Seabury, II, presently
in search of a church of his own. Most
fortuitously, Phinny had taken the train
down to Providence for the better part of
the day, being the principal candidate for a
vacancy at one of the city’s newer parishes.
Had the call to Providence not
corresponded so propitiously with Rev.
Manigault’s afternoon engagement, he might
well have been reduced to concocting a
falsehood, some pretense to account for his
absence from his host’s hospitable abode.
In spite of such good timing, as well as the
sunshine, he nevertheless felt as if he were
undertaking some clandestine activity,
akin to an otherwise respectable gentleman
slipping off for an assignation with his
inamorata.
However, Miss Lizzie Borden—her
personalized stationery and signature
proclaimed her “Lizbeth”—would hardly
qualify as such to him. Nevertheless, his
fascination with her could have been no less
had her surname been “Gish” or “Talmadge,”
or had she the golden tresses of Marilyn
Miller, his favorite star on Broadway. He
liked to place blame for his intense interest
in Miss Borden upon one of his instructors
at the Seminary, the Rev. Dr. Livingston
Vale, who—then only a reverend, and as
parish priest at Taunton, Massachusetts—
had called upon Miss Borden on numerous
occasions during her incarceration in the
vicinity, more than thirty years beforehand.
Together, they had read Scripture, or
he had recited chapters and verses while she
partook of her sewing or stitchery, her hands
being rarely idle, although her thoughts were
always keenly attuned to the Divine Word,
and her gratitude toward the attentions
of the Rev. Vale, unflagging. Beyond that,
their conversations centered about harmless
affairs, inconsequential matters, and mere
trifles. Miss Borden—doubtless under the
directives of her notable attorneys—would
not entertain a remotely personal question
concerning her past or future. When queried
regarding her present condition, she was
inclined to respond, “In the words of the
esteemed Dr. Samuel Johnson, ‘There is
much in life to be endured, and little to be
enjoyed.’ ”
On one occasion, she added, “Just
think, Rev. Vale, what Dr. Johnson might
have said had he been born female.”
Upon that utterance, the Rev. Vale
recalled a slight grin—he termed it “an
ironic smile”—crossing Miss Borden’s lips
as she succumbed to that brief excursion
into opinionated observation. Such
recollections tantalized the Rev. Manigault’s
imagination. A clerical collar could serve as
a mighty calling card. Emboldened by his
newfound station and its attendant garb, he
had corresponded with the most notorious
resident of Fall River, thereby securing his
present invitation to tea at Maplecroft, as
Miss Borden had named her French Street
mansion.
Indeed, the name was carved in stone, at
the head of the front steps to the impressive;
Victorian abode with a front turret, so
typical of the period’s architecture. After
turning the bell, the reverend was admitted
by a cheerful maid in standard black attire,
although cut after the latest fashion, with the
hem decidedly above the ankles. She took his
broad-brimmed felt hat, and then escorted
him to the main parlor at the front right of
the house, through pocket doors that rolled
aside to reveal his well-known hostess.
Had her attire not been of such bright
colors and had she not been wearing goldframed spectacles, she might have passed
for the older, widowed Queen Victoria,
such was Miss Borden’s diminutive stature,
accompanied by her ample girth, gray hair,
and otherwise grandmotherly appearance
and demeanor. A flowing, deep-pink silk
scarf embroidered in magenta and violet was
draped over her arms and shoulders. She
was otherwise outfitted, wrist-to-neck and
neck-to-ankle, in a polished cotton gown in
a lighter shade of pink, trimmed in many
folds of dyed-to-match lace running from
the neck down the bodice, as well as several
inches above the hem of the gown, and at
the sleeve cuffs. Low-heeled, richly brocaded
pink slippers completed the ensemble, while
her fingers glistened with several lustrous
diamond rings, and a solitaire tourmaline
brooch the size of a pullet’s egg was fastened
at her throat.
She rose from her overstuffed, maroonvelvet armchair close by an inviting fire,
then greeted him: “Welcome to Maplecroft,
Rev. Manigault. I realize it’s most unusually
pleasant out-of-doors today, but do come
warm yourself at the hearth. Katie will be in
with the tea things in a few minutes.”
After tugging on a bell pull near her
velvet armchair, she directed her guest to
a matching seat opposite her own. They
exchanged pleasantries regarding the
weather and each other’s general health
until Katie dutifully rolled in a mahogany
teacart topped with a Sheffield silver service.
Thereupon, Miss Borden poured out a most
flavorful tea—a blend specially prepared
for her by Mariage Freres in Paris—and
offered delicious, if slightly nontraditional,
comestibles.
“You must sample my cook’s freshbaked bread, with butter and our special
pear preserves. We flavor them with a hint
of lemon, and a bit of ginger. We’ve just put
up many dozens of jars from the autumn
harvest. I’m exceedingly fond of them, as
I am of these molasses cookies. I’m afraid
cookies have been an enemy of longstanding
of my waistline.”
At that, Miss Borden giggled, then
added, “I’ve always been partial to cookies at
breakfast time. Lunchtime and suppertime,
too, I fear,” and she laughed softly, once
again.
There began another round of light
banter—mostly consisting of the Rev.
Manigault’s responses to Miss Borden’s
questions pertaining to his recently
completed studies, along with his family
background—punctuated by both
conversationalists’ hearty indulgence in the
teatime offerings. Before long, the handpainted china plates were clear and the
silver teapot near empty. “I shall ring for
more,” the hostess stated, to which her guest
regretfully shook his head.
“Well, then, you’ll never become as
plump as I, at least not until you have settled
into a parish, and the good ladies therein
commence feeding you, also feeding no
doubt their hopes of matrimony. If not for
themselves, then for their daughters,” Miss
Borden smiled knowingly.
The reverend blushed, then recovered:
“I’m most envious of your minister, Miss
Borden.”
“And why is that?”
“Why, to be accessible and no doubt
accustomed to such hospitality. I should
hope he has the good sense to put in regular
calls.”
“I’m afraid I no longer attend church,
Rev. Manigault, and I can assure you the
minister hasn’t darkened the door,” Miss
Borden responded, brushing some stray
crumbs from her lap into her palm, then
emptying them upon one of the china plates.
The reverend adjusted his collar, then
spoke, “May I be so bold as to inquire of
the particulars attendant to this unfortunate
situation?”
A rueful smile shadowed Miss Borden’s
visage, then she spoke: “I’m certain you
couldn’t even have been born then. So many
years have come and gone. For so many
years, I’ve been—to put it bluntly—a social
pariah. So many have kept their distance,
even within the supposedly Christian
confines of the church.”
“It sounds to me as if you are being
overly harsh in your self-assessment,” the
Rev. Manigault consoled her.
“Good sir, I was arrested for murder,
was jailed for ten months, and stood
trial. Fall River has never forgotten those
particulars, and most of its residents have
either maintained their distance, or gaped, or
both. Surely, this is the reason you call upon
me today. By that I mean your interest in a
woman accused of such atrocities. Doubtless,
you seek either to hear my confession
thereto, or else to hear directly from my lips
my continued denial.”
“Curiosity killed the proverbial cat,” the
reverend responded too quickly to realize the
inappropriateness of his words.
“Satisfaction, however, brought him
back,” Miss Borden stated, leaning forward.
“There, now. I am pleased to have your
company, exclusive of why’s and wherefore’s.
I should be curious, too, if I were you and
you were me, though I certainly do not care
to play cat and mouse in my own parlor.”
“Are you bitter, Miss Borden, given the
state of affairs you describe?”
“I choose not to be,” she replied,
brushing back a wisp of hair that had strayed
upon her forehead.
“Were you ever so?” the reverend
pressed on, yet delicately at that.
“It is a waste of time,” Miss Borden
answered, adjusting her spectacles farther up
the bridge of her nose.
“You are not acrimonious at the loss of
so many former contacts?” he continued in a
sympathetic tone.
“I have had many years to ponder the
adversities of the situation,” she responded.
Miss Borden paused for awhile in the
ensuing silence, then reflected, “I felt the
deepest loss over a person I scarcely knew. I
am referring to my Mother. My life would
have been considerably different, I daresay,
had my dear Mother lived.”
“Yet, she was taken from you,” the
reverend tread cautiously.
“God saw fit to take her, yes,” Miss
Borden responded, almost accusingly to the
reverend’s mind, which he interpreted as a
directive toward himself, as an emissary of
the Almighty.
“Do you blame God, Miss Borden?”
“God has His Way of righting wrongs.
In my youthful arrogance and pain, I did rail
at God for my misfortunes. However, I’m
a firm believer in the adage that ‘The Lord
helps those who help themselves.’ ”
“Do you miss your Father as much as
you miss your Mother?”
“No. He was led astray, many years
before he died, by his second wife. He chose
poorly at that. My sister, Emma, recalls
our Mother with some clarity, and she has
assured me that Father would have been
a most different person had our Mother
survived, and especially had he not settled on
such a—an inadequate second wife.”
“I take it you do not miss your
stepmother.”
“In all honesty, no. She was a
manipulative fortune-seeker. She turned
our own Father against my sister and me.
She resented our presence in the household.
She desired that we be nothing more than
spinsters, shut away in our rooms, so she
could turn up her nose at us, then look
down upon us.” Miss Borden narrowed her
eyes, pronouncing, “She was a person of no
estimation, and she did everything she could
to lower our esteem in the community—in
the church, too—but most especially in the
eyes of our father.”
“To be frank, you do seem to harbor
some acrimony, insofar as she is concerned.”
“You are quite forward, Rev.
Manigault,” Miss Borden replied crisply,
then she sighed. “I am an old woman. It feels
good to talk with you here, by the fire,” at
which she rose from her chair, reached for a
highly polished brass poker from a stand on
the hearth, then stirred the embers, renewing
the blaze. “Where were we?” she inquired,
resuming her seat.
“If you don’t care to continue, I …”
“Please. There’s a bit more tea,” she
remarked, dividing what remained in the
silver teapot between their cups. “There.
Let’s see . . . my stepmother controlled
the household. She had to be queen of the
Borden household. Ha, come to think of it,”
and at this she seemed amused and surprised
at her self-revelation, “it was almost like the
Grimm Brothers’ tale of Cinderella. Except,
of course, that Father was present, although
he didn’t intercede on our behalf. Instead, he
only made matters worse, so it would have
been just as well had he not been there at all.
Is your tea too cold, reverend?”
“No, no—it’s fine. As you were—“
“Emma and I were Cinderellas. We were
not even allowed visitors downstairs, not able
to offer them refreshments from the kitchen.
We could only see guests upstairs, in our
rooms. The thought of giving a party—even
a meager one, with tea and cookies—was
out of the question. Why, I was not even
permitted to entertain my Sunday school
classes.”
“And there was no escape?”
“To what? A job in the mills? Teaching
school, perhaps?”
“You could have had your own life.”
“In a disagreeable flat, or in a
boardinghouse, much to my stepmother’s
satisfaction? I’ll tell you something else
about her. One would think she would have
done everything within her power to be rid
of us, to try to marry off my sister and me.
Father, however, scared off the few suitors
bold enough to cross the threshold. She did
nothing to stop him—absolutely nothing.
Doubtless she feared the dispensation of
some sort of dowry, of Father setting us up in
a household of our own, with a resulting loss
of monies to herself.” Miss Borden tossed her
head and pursed her lips, then commented,
“I am quite sure she was fearful that Emma
and I might well wind up living in a place
on the order of Maplecroft, while she—the
Queen Mrs. Borden—was left down on
Second Street. Why, she would have stewed
in her own bile if Emma and I had had
something grander than she did.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you
paint a rather mercenary, a rather avaricious
portrait of your father and stepmother.”
“Why should I mind your saying so?
It is the truth, plain and simple. They were
blinded by their greed.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, Rev. Manigault, that, if they
had opened their eyes to the insufferableness
of the situation that was of their own
devising, they would have seen themselves
free of Emma and me. All we desired was
what was fair, and they would have been well
rid of us.”
The reverend shifted uncomfortably in
his armchair, and then cleared his throat.
“Miss Borden, is there anything you wish to
confess, before the Almighty, to me?”
“I have said enough.” His hostess folded
her hands in her lap, and then gazed out
the bay window onto the yardscape on the
right side of the house. “Do you read Miss
Dickinson’s poetry, reverend? I mean Miss
Emily Dickinson, our native daughter.”
“She has supplied much with which we
clerics can wrestle.”
“I am most fond of one poem that
springs to mind today. It begins, ‘The morns
are meeker than they were.’ It concerns
the coming of autumn. ‘The maple wears
a gayer scarf,’ she observes. The maple is
most beautiful at the fall of the year. To
many persons, springtime is everything. Or,
summer is all. I prefer fall.”
“Being from Charleston, I’m most
comfortable during the winter.”
“A winter in Fall River would turn
you as bitter as you judge me to be, Rev.
Manigault,” Miss Borden observed, a twinkle
in her eyes.
“I wish you a warm winter, then.”
“I shall keep the fires lit.”
“I must be heading on my way. I
promised to meet Phinny at the station.”
“Phinny Seabury? I thought he was
dead.”
“Well, this is his living namesake. He
was at seminary with me,” Rev. Manigault
explained, mentally chastising himself for
making the slip in reference to his host, who
might therefore learn of his rendezvous at
Maplecroft.
“Phinny Seabury’s son in the ministry?”
Miss Borden clicked her tongue. “Well,
for heaven’s sake, don’t send him up here.
I’m not that starved for company.” At that,
she rose, smoothed her gown, and adjusted
her colorful scarf. She then removed an
elaborately carved ivory box from the
mantelpiece. Reaching inside, she extracted
a gold piece. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed
your visit, sir—I have enjoyed it immensely.
‘The soul selects her own society,’ as our dear
Miss Dickinson put it. I wish you well, Rev.
Manigault. Furthermore, I would like you
to have this small token of my best wishes. It
is not intended for either mission or parish,
but for something frivolous.”
“You are far too generous, Miss
Borden.”
“I am not, though I did learn a lesson in
acting opposite to my father’s ways. He was
most penurious and was generally despised
for it. But, enough of him. Should I tote a
wagon load of gold behind my hearse, or
should I make my own life happier, and the
lives of others?”
“I am most appreciative. Perhaps I shall
indulge in some theatricals up in Boston, or
back down in New York.”
“Oh, would you?” Miss Borden
exclaimed. “That would please me
considerably. I love the theatre; indeed, it has
been my salvation. I’ve had so many friends
who were on the stage, and I’ve entertained
quite a few of them here at Maplecroft. I
have been extremely close to one or two of
them.”
“They are a fascinating lot.”
“I am so delighted to end on this happy
note,” she enthused. “No need to summon
Katie. Here, I shall walk you to the door.
There, you mustn’t forget your hat.”
“Again,” he bowed to her, prior to
taking his leave, “I thank you, Miss Borden.
This has been an afternoon I shall long
remember.”
“May God shine His Light upon you,
Rev. Manigault, and on all those who strive
to make the World a brighter place.”
The scarlet, orange, and yellow leaves
blew across the yard, and he impulsively
stooped to collect a few. Although he did
not know it that afternoon, the winds of
fate would soon transport him back South
once more, where he would serve parishes
throughout the Deep South, several in large
cities, before he would retire to a seaside
cottage on a barrier island near his native
Charleston.
As Miss Borden predicted, he did not
lack for suitable marriage prospects, yet he
chose wisely and well, although the couple
was never blessed with children. Oddly
enough, her name was Emma Elizabeth
Andrews—“Andrew” being Miss Borden’s
father’s name. The reverend never spoke of
his visit with her, neither to his wife, nor to
anyone else. Nor did he ever again lay eyes
upon Fall River, although he and Phinny
remained close, as the latter moved farther
and farther South, with each change of
parish.
The meeting of that long-ago afternoon
remained a secret. Therefore, many years
later, the widowed Emma Manigault could
only guess at the meaning of the twentydollar gold piece and the pressed maple
leaves she discovered in a safety-deposit box,
along with an invitation to tea at Maplecroft,
signed, “Miss Lizbeth Borden.”
[poetry]
Buried Bodies
story of bad people getting away
with killing their inner demons
and burning the skeletons in
their closet
before anyone can say
“wait, wait, wait”
because this is no TV show
there’s no studio audience
to show their disapproval
and get the killing cancelled
it’s not bad writing
just writing bad
the cemetery is a garden
and the garden is a graveyard
stones are stacking up throughout the greens
words don’t mean anything
especially when written on stone
don’t be afraid
it’s just a hole in the ground
the absence of dirt
absence of a body
but there’s so much more
than you’ll never really know
Sweet Lizzie
it’s all up in the air—her face in
the clouds
floating away so far away
never to be seen again, by the
likes of us
so bring out the hatchet and cut
them to pieces
the shapes and colors—shades
of crimson
run down the wall as she walks
up the hall
cut your eyes out, so you can’t
see the truth
cut your tongue off—no truth to
speak—cut your hands up
never to write what’s true
she’s a-coming for you—coming
for you
the last time, you’d know
righteousness
you’ve seen her face—for the
last time
and she’s haunting . . . and
she’s infighting
away with you . . . away with her
too
go to the institution and get
better
only if you could feel better
locked way up in an ivory tower
feel nothing . . . say nothing . . .
see nothing
just dream of her—Sweet Lizzie
just hope for her hatchet . . . in
your head
but it’s all only in your head
—Grim K. DeEvil
[short story]
The Spurned Lover
by Denise Noe
I yearn for her. I am sick with
yearning. To look into her eyes is to an
awesome capacity for love. She is quiet,
very quiet, and that is part of what has
drawn me to her, drawn me so powerfully it
is like a physical force pulling at me. How
I want to undo that knot of dark hair and
watch it spill over the broad shoulders of
her generously endowed body! How I want
to feel those lips on mine, to know her
completely and in every way!
But she belongs to him instead: that
dour-faced and thin-lipped man. I wake
up in the middle of the night drenched in
sweat, imagining the two of them together .
. . I want to scream my rage to the world.
She was meant to be mine.
In the darkness, I make my way to my
chest of drawers and there I carefully open
up the first drawer, not making the slightest
noise as I don’t want to disturb my little
son who lies sleeping in the next room.
You’re as quiet as a mouse, my mother
used to say. Sometimes she would fondly
call me Mousy.
Gently, silently, I pull out my treasures.
My hands greedily caress a necklace, a ring,
and a bracelet. I fondle her pocketbook.
Even the trolley tickets that will never be
used are precious to me because she held
them and now they are in my hands. I
finger the coins I will not spend because
they connect me to her.
My breathing becomes deeper. I return
to bed. Close my eyes yet I still see her,
always her. I even smell her in the darkness,
her special clean scent.
She is a good woman. She will
not commit adultery. I understand
that and I respect that. Even with no
possibility of a baby, she will not break the
Commandments.
But she must love me.
She must.
Holding the covered mince pies, Abby
knocked on the door of her half-sister’s
home. She was especially pleased with the
way these pies had turned out. The smell
of freshly baked bread combined with
cherries and cinnamon made her hungry
even though she had already eaten a large
breakfast. She knew that she ate too much
but she just loved food.
The door opened. Sarah was wearing
a pale orange dress that Abby thought
complemented her complexion.
“Come on in, Abby,” Sarah said,
smiling broadly.
“That dress looks pretty on you,” Abby
said. “Did you just get it?”
“Thanks,” Sarah replied. “Yes, I did.”
Little Abby came bouncing into the
room. Her brown hair was in large ringlets
and she wore a softly pink dress with a
ruffled collar. “Aunt Abby, how are you?”
she asked.
“Just fine, my little precious,” Abby
Borden replied. Abby leaned over to give
her niece and namesake a hug. Little Abby
kissed her on the cheek.
“Ooooo,” she said, eyes wide with
anticipation. “You brought pies!”
Abby nodded and the trio went into
the dining room
It was a nice visit. Abby loved her
thirty-six years younger sister as she
imagined a mother would love her own
daughter. Sarah had always looked up to
her. Abby thought their relationship was
much like that between Emma and Lizzie.
A slight melancholy affected her whenever
she contrasted her own relationship with
Andrew’s daughters, especially Emma, with
that between herself and Sarah. But there
was no use dwelling on it and, anyway,
Lizzie and she were getting along well
these days even if Lizzie insisted on calling
her by that jarringly formal “Mrs. Borden.”
“Watch your manners, Abby,” Sarah
told her daughter who was enthusiastically
gobbling up the pie.
Little Abby giggled. “I just like it so
much!” she said. Sarah wiped the child’s
cherry-reddened chin.
“Thank you, Abby,” Abby Borden said.
Little Abby always made a visit to the
Whitehead house a joyous occasion. “You’re
as sweet as a pie yourself!”
The child blushed and put her hand
over her face.
Finished with pies and visiting, Abby
walked slowly but steadily along with
street. She hoped to catch the trolley soon.
Just as she approached the stop to wait for
it, a shudder went through her heavy body.
A sour taste replaced the sweet aftermath
of the mince pie.
She saw him. She did not even like to
think his name.
His skin was so white it reminded her
of paper. It also reminded her of someone
sick.
She looked away but he stepped right
in front of her.
“Abby, I have to talk with you,” he said
firmly.
“No, no sir,” she said, shaking her head
and looking into his blue eyes. “I can’t. You
know I’m a married woman. I have a trolley
to catch!”
“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll scream out
my love for you right here on the street,” he
warned.
The foul taste in her mouth worsened
and she shuddered once again but the
possibility of a public scene was intolerable.
She allowed him to lead her to a nearby
alley.
“Abby, I understand if we can’t have
relations,” he began.
“We can’t have anything to do with
each other,” she told him. “This is crazy.
You need one of those doctors, an alienist.”
“No, I’m not sick. Abby, I’m in love.”
Abby felt dizzy. “You’re a thief and
you’re crazy,” she told him. “My husband
and I know you robbed us.”
“Yes, I did,” he acknowledged. “I had
to have part of you with me.”
“Well, that’s all you’ll get,” she told
him and, despite her heavy weight, walked
away quickly, not looking back.
Trembling, Abby waited at the stop.
Seated on the trolley, she was still
sick with fear. Her hands were shaking
so she clasped them tightly together in
her lap, hoping no one would notice her
disturbance.
I cannot sleep. The rage inside me is
like a hammer but a hammer made of fire.
She hates me.
Everywhere I look, I see her eyes filled
with contempt.
Contempt for me. For me, who would
do anything for her.
She will be with him forever. Never
with me.
They must die!
Suddenly, unexpectedly, I am calm. The
knowledge of what I must do has quenched
the fire, stilled the hammer.
Coolly, I plan.
Abby was still light-headed from the
illness of the previous day but definitely
feeling better. It was a pleasant day for
August and she hoped she would be able to
enjoy it.
The knock at the front door sounded
oddly weak. She thought wryly that it
reminded her of how she felt.
When she went to answer it, she saw a
cute little boy in a cap and short pants. He
looked up at her without a smile and said,
“I’m supposed to give you this.”
She took the folded paper from him
and the lad scurried away.
As she closed the door, Abby read the
note: “You must see me. I am sick.” He had
signed it.
Abby closed her eyes and rested for a
minute against the door. Oh, what could
she do? She crumpled the piece of paper in
her hand. When she opened her eyes, she
saw one of her stepdaughters walking into
the room.
“Hello, Mrs. Borden, how are you?”
Lizzie asked with a smile. “I hope you’re
feeling better.”
“Just fine,” Abby said, perhaps too
quickly. She cleared her throat. “I’m going
to have to go out for awhile. I just got a
note from a sick friend.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Lizzie said.
Abby hoped Lizzie had not sensed
anything amiss. She would have to see him.
Stepping gingerly out the front door,
Abby spotted him on the sidewalk a few
doors down. She took a deep breath. She
had to tell him off, once and for all.
From the distance, his eyes met hers.
She looked at him and a wave of
loathing swept over her, making her as
nauseated as she had been yesterday. No.
No. She would not speak to him.
Turning back into her home, Abby
resolved to think no more of him. She had
a house to manage and work to do. After
all, John Morse was visiting and she did
not know how long he would be there.
Lizzie was preparing for her vacation
in Marian. Abby had things to do and
couldn’t be distracted.
She went into the kitchen and burned
the note in the stove. After it disappeared
into ash, she went to the sitting room and
found Bridget dusting furniture.
“Bridget, please wash the outside
windows today,” Abby told her.
“Very good, ma’am,” the maid replied,
a slight smile on her attractive face.
Abby headed up the stairs. She moved
slowly because of her weight but steadily.
In the guest room, Abby looked
around, thinking it was satisfactorily clean
and neat but the bed should be more
tucked in and the frame of that painting
might —
The sharp hard pain on her back
stopped her thoughts.
Automatically, Abby put her hands out
to stop herself as she fell to the carpeted
floor. Her knees locked as she tried to get
up but could not because pain pain pain
kept coming down so hard on the back of
her head.
I touch the hatchet I carry inside my
jacket.
I look around and see no one. Then I
go to the back of her house. That maid is
outside washing windows so I go around
the other side. Mousy, mousy. I hear my
dead mother’s voice whisper inside my
head and it seems like she is urging me on.
The screen door is unlatched and I enter.
She is not here. Not in the kitchen and
not in the living room. Carefully, despite
the heart in my chest that is pounding like
it wants to break through my skin, I walk
up the stairs.
I find her in the first room I come to.
The door has been left ajar as if waiting for
me.
Her back is turned so I do not have to
see her face.
I pull the hatchet out and do not
hesitate. Squish! The sound is like a knife
through a melon. She does not scream, only
gasps as she hits the floor.
I hit her again and again and again.
Suddenly I am exhausted. But calm.
All the anger drained out of me. I cannot
think what to do now. So I stand over her,
over what used to be her.
Staring, transfixed.
We are together now, I think. She
cannot leave me. She cannot even look at
me, loved but not loving.
Someone laughs. Outside the
door, I spy a woman. It is one of Abby’s
stepdaughters. Come any closer and you will
die. But she does not.
“Thank you, Bridget,” he says. It is his
voice. The rage attacks me again, a brutal
beating from inside my own chest.
Shuffling sounds, feet on stairs. Down
and then up. A door opens close by, on this
floor. Then a door shuts somewhere down
below.
I don’t give him time to scream. I bring
the hatchet down, splitting his face open as
his hand reaches upward. Again and again
I bring it down.
He does not have her anymore. He
will not live even to remember her.
Mousy, mousy. Silent and quick: mother
was right.
My pants are splattered with dried
blood; my jacket with his fresh red paint.
Calm now, I strip off my jacket. I take off
the pants I wear over another pair of pants.
I put the soiled clothes and the hatchet
into my black bag.
Down the street I walk, unhurried,
carrying my bundle.
“Papa, Papa, did you kill them?” my
son asks. His large blue eyes are blurred
with tears and full of fear.
We are in his room and he is in his
night garments.
“No, of course not!” I tell him firmly.
“People might think I did so you mustn’t
tell anyone about the note.” I put my hands
on his shoulders. “Please tell me you will
keep it a secret,” I say.
“But Papa, what if someone finds
out?” He is trembling. Tears spill down his
cheeks. “Will they hang you?”
“They won’t find out. I didn’t do it.
You’ve just got to not tell anyone so they
don’t make a mistake.”
“Oh, Papa!” He hugs me hard and
sobs.
Running my fingers through his hair,
I say, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. As
long as we don’t talk about the note.”
His crying continues but then gets
weaker.
“I did not do it. You know I couldn’t
do anything like that,” I tell him.
“Yes, Papa. Of course, Papa.”
“People know who killed the Bordens,”
I reassure him. “It was Lizzie Borden.
They’re saying she’ll be arrested soon.”
“But what about that reward for the
note?” he asks.
“That’s Lizzie trying to mislead the
police. We just mustn’t talk about it so the
police don’t get the wrong idea. You know I
couldn’t have done anything like that.”
“Yes, I know, Papa,” he says somberly.
After tucking him into bed, I kiss his
warm forehead.
Back in my own room, I go over my
actions again, wondering if I overlooked
anything. The clothes were burned. The
hatchet is down a well.
I am safe.
Then I remember the drawer full of
Abby’s things. Pulling the drawer open, I
look at them, hold them—and feel nothing.
They mean nothing now.
Suddenly I shake. I feel the emptiness
where lives ought to be.
And fear: what if they don’t hang her?
I feel as if a block of ice has settled
across my back.
[poetry]
TRAVESTY AND TRAGEDY
OUT IN THE BARN THAT FATEFUL DAY
YOU WERE JUST TRYIN TO GET AWAY
IT WAS DARK ‘N IT WAS COOL
PERFECT FOR A GIRL LIKE YOU
A PLACE WHERE YOU COULD BE ALONE
‘N DREAM ABOUT A HAPPY HOME
JUST PEOPLE AROUND YOU THAT YOU LOVE
‘N WANT YER WORLD TO BE PART OF
A SIMPLE QUIET KIND OF LIFE
MAYBE SOME GOOD MAN’S WIFE
IN A HOME WITH LOVE ALL AROUND
WHERE GOOD THINGS WOULD ABOUND
A BRIGHT RESOURCEFUL CLEVER GIRL
HAD BEFORE HER ALL THE WORLD
LEAVIN ABBY FAR BEHIND AS FROM THE NEST YOU’D CLIMB
LISBETH LISBETH ALL THE BIRDS KNOW YER NAME
LISBETH LISBETH (‘OH) AIN’T IT A SHAME?
THEY HAD NO ONE ELSE TO BLAME ALL YER DREAMS CAME CRASHING DOWN
THE MOMENT THAT YER DAD WAS FOUND
YOU WERE HANDY ‘N ALONE (‘N) NOT QUITE FULLY GROWN
IT DON’T SEEM RIGHT IT DON’T SEEM FAIR
TO BLAME YOU JUST CUZ YOU WERE THERE
THEY (JUST) DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO
WITHOUT A LEAD WITHOUT A CLUE
THEY HAD A KILLER ON THE LOOSE BUT THEY DIDN’T HAVE NO PROOF
THEY NEEDED SOMEONE TO TAKE THE FALL GUILT DIDN’T MATTER AT ALL
THEY’D FOUND A WAY TO SAVE SOME FACE
NOT CARIN BOUT THE LIFE THEY’D WASTE
BUT IN THE END THEY’D NEVER FIND
ANYTHING TO TIE YOU TO THE CRIME
LISBETH LISBETH THEY FILLED YER LIFE WITH RAIN
LISBETH (‘O) LISBETH YOU STOLE A FEW HOURS IN THE SHADE
‘N YER LIFE ‘L NEVER BE THE SAME
(SO) MASSACHUSSETTS PUT YOU ON TRIAL
‘N DID IT’S BEST TO RUIN YER LIFE
‘CEPT THE JURY DISAGREED NO WAY YOU’D HARMED YER DAD OR HIS WIFE
(AND) EVEN THO YOU WERE SET FREE
YOU WENT DOWN IN HISTORY
TIL TODAY IN THE MOUTHS OF BABES
YOU STILL CAN HEAR THEM WHEN THEY PLAY
SAYIN THAT HURTFUL LITTLE RHYME
THAT’S STOOD THE TEST ‘O TIME
‘CEPT I DON’T THINK THAT IT’S TRUE
WHAT’S SAD IS WHAT THEY DID TO YOU
LISBETH LISBETH I THINK OF ALL YER PAIN
LISBETH LISBETH FOR YOU JUSTICE NEVER CAME
(I HOPE) SOMEDAY SOMEONE WILL CLEAR YER NAME
© 2006 DANIEL KRENTZMAN
[humor]
This Just in: New Lizzie Rhymes Found!
by Sherry Chapman
Most of us think that the only song about Lizzie Borden was the tiresome “…took an
axe…” quatrain. Actually, there were many others making the rounds after that August
morn. Sadly, most of those never became very popular and were lost by the wayside.
But there are still some that have survived through the decades, thanks to the thoughtful
foresight of Fall River-ites of the past.
A FRENCH STREET HOUSE BUILT FOR
TWO
(Sung to the tune of “Bicycle Built for
Two”)
Lizzie, Lizzie
Give me your answer true
Are you crazy
And did you kill those two?
They had a sexless marriage
Their bed it got no wearage
LIZZIE
(Sung to the tune of “Dizzy”)
Lizzie!
Yes, It’s Lizzie makin’ your head hurt
Like a migraine, it never ends
And it’s you, Ab, makin’ me sin
You’re makin’ me dizzy.
But you’ll feel a thrill
Up on The Hill
Of a house that Pa ‘gave’ to you.
The first time that I saw you, cow,
your hoof holding onto my Dad
I knew that you replaced us
And that just made me very mad.
Mrs. B, I want you dead
Just lay down there on the bed
And you won’t have to run in circles all
the time.
KILL ME GENTLY
(Sung to the tune of “Rock me Gently”)
This can be sung by ‘Abby’ or ‘Andrew,’
but most persons sang it as Abby, since
Andrew probably didn’t know what hit
him.
I am Lizzie
And I will see him
When he comes home early from town
I will know him by his old frown
Soon he’ll be dizzy.
Kill me gently
Kill me slowly
Take it easy
Don’t you know
That I have never
Been
Mauled like this before.
The last time that I saw you I only needed
a dime
But it’s so hard to talk to you
With bankers hangin’ round you all the
time.
I’m so sick to hear you shout
I want to take your eyeball out
You won’t see nobody for some help.
(CHORUS)
NEW YORK CITY DREAMIN’
(Sung to the tune of ‘California Dreamin’)
HELP
(Sung to the tune of “Help”)
All the pears are brown
And my complexion’s gray
I’ve been locked up
For three hundred days.
Help! I have Abby upstairs.
Help! Is there no one that cares?
Help! You know she needs a hand here.
Help.
Walked into my church
On my first Sunday
Could not get down on my knees
Because of how much I weighed.
When she was thinner
Not much thinner than today
She never needed even Andrew’s help
on any day.
You know my old friends, they are so
cold
They know I’m going to stay
But New York City Dreamin’
Is on my mind today.
But now, she’s on the floor
And I know she’s very stout
If I can get her up
She only has passed out.
DO YOU KNOW THE WAY TO KELLY’S
YARD
(Sung to “Do you Know the Way to San
Jose”)
Do ye know the way to Kelly’s yahd
I took some pills
I may go wrong and lose my way.
Do ye know the way to Kelly’s yahd
I’m going there to find a outside house in
Kelly’s yahd.
This is a great big city
Put your sick head down and out, but far
In a week, maybe two they’ll give you a
jar
Look, there is Bill Borden, I must run past
And if I was in Borden’s yahd
No one would ever notice gas. (CHORUS)
HOW MUCH IS THAT ACID IN THE
WINDOW?
(Sung to “How Much is that Doggy in the
Window”?
How much is that acid in the window?
The bottle that shows a big skull
I would like that acid in the window
Prescription? That’s a load of bull.
Help her if you can, I’m going down
And I do believe it’s cause she is so
round
Help me get her men’s shoes on the
ground
Addie, please, please help us.
And now I see her head is crushed in oh
so many ways,
I think that I may faint – I only see a haze
But every now and then I feel I am secure
I know I see her like I never did before.
Help me if you can, in blood I kneel
And you can’t pick up a lump of oatmeal
I think that it is starting to congeal
It’s too late, but please help me, help
me, ooh.
IN THE GOOD HOUSE MAPLECROFT
(Sung to “On the Good Ship Lollypop”)
In the good house, Maplecroft
My coachman lives in the loft
And I don’t care
He can live with me anywhere.
Chandeliers are everywhere
Some say murder hangs in the air
And there you are
On my sidewalk like I am a big star.
See my sister do a huge eye roll
With outrage so it’d seem
If you look too much, ooh-ooh
You’ll awake with night bad dreams.
I enjoy old friends as they scoff
And run away
From the good house Maplecroft.
I like Ernest’s hands, they’re so soft
Sometimes we’ll play
Down by Handy’s house on Buzzard’s
Bay.
I can do things anywhere
No old father here that would care
But there I go
Looking back to that old murder show.
See my sister Em, the old maid hen
That never has been plucked
If she don’t shut up, oh, oh
I’ll tell her to go get
Buck!
I’ll live out my days, warm and soft
And entertain
In the good house, Maplecroft!
SOMETHING IN THE WAY SHE SWINGS
(Sung to “Something in the Way She
Moves”)
Somethin’ in the way she swings
Makes me want to run for cover
Somethin’ in the way she swings
I don’t wanna get too close
I don’t wanna become toast.
Yer askin’ me will I tell, Oh
I don’t know
I don’t know
They take her dress, and it may show
I don’t know
I don’t know
Somethin’ in the way she acts
And all I have to do is look at her.
Somethin’ in the threats she gives me
I don’t think I can leave now
Soon I will leave and how.
I’VE BEEN WAITING IN THE CLOSET
(Sung to “I’ve Been Working on the
Railroad”
I’ve been waitin’ in the closet
All the live long day
I’ve been waitin’ in the closet
Just to chop my folks away.
Can’t you hear Abby upstairs
Putting on the pillow shams
I will take her legs and make hams
“Lizzie? No, no no!”
“Lizzie don’t you whack, Lizzie don’t you
whack
Lizzie, don’t you whack me on the head.”
“It won’t take very long, my arms are
strong.
I’ll just do it till you’re dead.”
I’m still waiting in the closet
For my Father dear
Just like when he did my pigeons
He will get no warning fear.
Can’t you hear him up the sidewalk
Trying every door
He gives us no money
We might as well be poor.
“Is there any mail? Is there any mail?
“Is there anything for me, me, me?”
“No, what’s behind your back,
“Let me see.”
“Gladly, Father, Gladly.”
There were other songs that were out after
Lizzie’s trial, but they haven’t surfaced
yet. Keep on the lookout for hits like: “I
Fought the Law and I Won,” by Lizzie
Borden; “Sometimes I Wish I were a Boy,”
by Nance O’Neill; “Please Mr. Postman,”
by John Morse with the flip side “Engine,
Engine Number Nine (I Memorized You
All),” and many unknown others.
[poetry]
Together Again
They lie in a tight little family group
at Oak Grove cemetery.
Andrew and Abby and Emma and Lizbeth.
Surely the tensions have eased by now.
Andrew presides over periodic meetings
discussing his business dealings.
A small gold ring still clings to his bony finger.
Abby is planing another meal of cookies
and Johnnie cakes, mutton broth
and over ripe bananas.
Emma doesn’t say or do much of anything.
And Lizzie . . . Lizbeth, I mean,
that great American symbol of “breaking away,”
is still here, all mouth and ass
like a baby bird
who never really left the nest at all.
Try It Yourself
Try it yourself.
Use a rolled up newspaper
or a magazine
or even this book,
and strike the table
nineteen times . . . HARD.
Imagine the anger,
the wild eyed
drooling hatred . . .
the pee in your pants
ferocity
of blade biting bone.
Hard to imagine
the insanity
unless you
try it yourself.
—Larry Allen
[short story]
“News & Views That Wouldn’t Fit:
Notes From the Compositor’s Bench.”
By Douglas A. Walters
The Rime of Edwin Porter
Or
The Beast Within
Well, Reader, that season in which
we must prepare a fond adieu (or Goodriddance, I’m so glad you’re going) to the
twelvemonth soon-to-pass, while greeting the New Year with open and hopeful
embrace—it’s here at last. So I invite you
to fill a glass and raise it with ye humble
Compositor.
The late Dr. Beecher once observed
that, “every man should be born again on
the first day of January. Start with a fresh
page. Take up one hole more in the buckle
if necessary, or let down one, according to
circumstances; but on the first of January
let every man gird himself once more, with
his face to the front, and take no interest
in the things that were and are past.”
Now in ordinary course, Reader, I have
neither qualm nor quarrel with any word
Henry Ward Beecher ever spoke in public.
His repute for learned speech and thought
should, I think, speak for itself and be well
enough known and have sufficient high regard that I need not say much about it.
The last of his entirely sensible advice,
however, presents me some difficulty at
the present time; I must take at least some
small if fleeting interest in things past. I
can assure the good Doctor that the lapse
will be brief, and humbly beg his pardon.
Although admittedly some small time
has passed since the arrival of the New
Year 1894, I still find myself somewhat perplexed by events surrounding its dawn. For
I will say straight out that while I have seen
many a sunset of the old and dawning of the
new, none will ever dare to compare with
the arrival of the new year, 1894. Who’s
to blame? Well, now Reader, that is not a
question so readily answered, else I should
have mentioned this in a more timely fashion, and perhaps the more in keeping with
Dr. Henry Ward Beecher’s fine advice.
All I can do is begin at the beginning
and say that it was my custom to convene
a gathering of friends, in whose company
the evening would be spent, the old pass
out and the new come in.
The plans for said soirée had been in
place for at least ten days, the initial inquiries being made and invitations extended
shortly before the eve of Christmas. Invitees numbered some ten folks initially
and included: Captain and Mrs. Pat Doherty, Seamus and Alice Feeney, Postmaster John Whitehead, Mr. and Mrs. John
Gormley and youngster, the noted author
and intrepid Globe scribbler Ed Porter, and
Charlie Sawyer. It was to be a “pot luck”
sort of business, you might say, although
naturally a dish was not required for admittance. “Come as you’re able, bring what you
please, but let us gather together and be at
good ease” is how I look at it, personally.
The most I knew (being so informed by
Seamus Feeney on or about the 22nd of December) was that Alice wanted to make the
centerpiece dish—indeed would be most
proud and happy to do so.
I agreed, of course. “If the girl cooks
anything like she sings, it should make a
fine party. What’s she making, feller?”
Seamus grinned, shook his head. “I’d
be in the ground at Oak Grove by tomorrow if I told you that, sir. I can tell you this:
it’s one of the finest dishes she makes, and
is traditional. Marriageable girls at home
sometimes make it for their fellers.” Seamus winked at me and snickered.
“Now hold up there, feller, you and
I have had this discussion before,” I said,
laughing as I raised a staying hand in hopes
that the issue be taken no further. “I have
a fine and lovely girl already. In time you’ll
meet her, I hope—you’d have met her
sooner but her mother took sick late last
week, so she’s in Brockton attending to
things awhile.”
“Oh I know that, I do, sir. It’s only that
Alice—well, she is fond of you indeed.”
“As I am of her, Seamus. I’m amazed at
how well she’s—it’s like she’s flowering all
over again since that visit with Dr. Handy
awhile back. The plain fact is, feller, any
unattached man ought to be proud if she
cross his path and lucky should she choose
him.”
“Alice would be very pleased to know
you said that, sir.”
“So you aren’t going to tell the surprise?”
“Not me, sir. I don’t have the least desire for a view of the world from some box
six feet under, but like things just as they
are thank you! I’ve told all I might tell with-
out putting myself in a spot that would
probably get me whipped pretty good. She
did, though—Alice asked me to find out
how many folks though, so we might have
plenty for all.”
I ran down the intended list such as I
knew it, making a mental note for myself
of those folks I needed to get hold of yet,
and Seamus nodded, saying he would pass
that along to Alice.
“Oh . . . Seamus my good feller, is Alice still on that routine that Dr. Handy devised?”
Seamus nodded. “The single portion of
drink, you mean, right?”
“You have it, feller. I just had a thought:
if you would please, ask her to consider
modifying her activity for the night of the
party so she can have something with the
rest of us near midnight. I’ll see what I can
find in the way of soft drinks so as to have
them too. I know she likes her fizzes.”
“Actually, she’s begun to switch off the
fizzes with something else here lately just
for a variety,” Seamus replied after a few
seconds of thought. “She divides the . . . ”
“What else does she drink, Seamus,
sarsaparilla?”
“No, it’s not that sir—although she
tried that. It struck her as being too weak,
she said.”
“I can understand that. It is good stuff
though.”
“The stuff she likes, it has some root
extract in it. It’s an odd word. Is there such
a thing as a gentian root?”
“Seamus, are you thinking of Moxie? Is
that what Alice likes?”
“That’s it, sir—Moxie is what she swaps
off with the cherry fizz drinks.”
“Well, then feller, that question is answered. I’ll check my stock—I drink it myself—and lay in extra if need be.”
I caught up with Captain Doherty the
next day and gave him the invitation, adding that he should bring along Mrs. Doherty also.
“I thank you very much, sir. Nora and
I would be happy to come,” he said, but
added that it might be late, as the two desired to pay a visit elsewhere first. He did
not mention whom it was they intended
to call on, but from the sad twinkling that
came to his eye I suspected it might be the
widow of Captain Harrington, my former
neighbor down the way.
“Well, be there when you can, if you
please,” I said. “Alice Feeney has asked to
make the centerpiece dish of the evening.
Seamus mentioned that to me just yesterday. I have no idea what it might be,
only that it’s a surprise, the best thing Alice makes, and—well, he said something
about marriageable girls snaring fellers
with it back in Ireland. What exactly that
part means . . .”
Captain Doherty chuckled, nodding.
He hadn’t seen much of Alice, he said. “That
I know of, the last I ran into her in anywhere near an official capacity, I happened
to be in the station house. She strolled in
and asked to see Marshal Hilliard for a minute. I knew he was in, but went to see if he
might be disturbed. He was free and agreed
to see her, so I sent her in and stepped out.
The next thing I knew I heard Alice Feeney
singing her heart out—she really is a fine
singer:
The pale moon was rising
above the green mountain;
the sun was declining
beneath the blue sea
when I strayed with my love
to the pure crystal fountain
that stands in the beautiful
vale of Tralee.
“Then out she came a minute later,
grinned and waved at me as she walked out
the door.
I stepped back and peeked through the
doorway. The Marshal must have noticed
the wonder in my eyes. ‘How did that woman know that today was my wedding anniversary? She came in, bade me good morning, sang the song and whispered a happy
anniversary in my ear. Then she kissed me
on the cheek and left!’”
“Oh my . . . Did he take it sportingly?”
“Oh he did, yes. He was a bit in the
mist at first, but then I reminded him of
Alice’s history with us, you might say; I
then explained that we only see her very
rarely nowadays, usually for some special
occasion like a policeman’s birthday or the
like.”
“The sound of things, she’s been doing
right well,” I said, “nearly as dry as a new
bride’s meatloaf since Seamus got his promotion a few months back.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. You know, I
might just know what we’ll be eating!” Doherty said after a few seconds.
“You’re not going to tell me either, are
you?”
“No, I’ll keep the girl’s secret I think. I
will tell you this though: it is indeed a traditional dish—and if properly made is one
of the very best things you’ll ever eat. You
might look out for your teeth though, just
in case,” Captain Doherty said, chuckling.
“You’re not going to tell me that either,
are you, feller?”
“You’ll see in just a few days. Good day
to you.”
“Good day to you too, sir. My best to
Mrs. Doherty, if you please.”
So it was Reader that in good and due
time the guests were met and the feast was
set, as it were. Things held together pretty
well until the 28th, when I had an evening
call from Charlie Sawyer.
“Hello? Oh, it’s you, Charlie. You all set
for the party, feller? It’s sure—what, you
can’t come? ‘samatter Charlie, something—
nobody’s sick I hope? Oh well, that’s good!
Wait a minute, what do you mean you’re—
oh Charlie, you’ve got to be kidding me,
working on New Years Eve??!! What’s the
job? Oh, I see. But isn’t that a two or three
day—and they want it done by the first of
the month??!! Well, I know that, but crazy
is still crazy, feller. How do they expect you
to get that done in—you’re wondering that
yourself, huh? I would too, I must say. Well,
you take care, Charlie—and Happy New
Year to you, too. Right, thanks . . . goodbye,
Charlie.”
“Hello? Oh, hello Miss Fitcher. Did you
have a good Christmas? Wonderful! Yes, I
did, thank you. Could you ring the post office for me please? Yes. If Mr. Whitehead is
there, he’ll do. Yes, I’ll wait; thanks.”
“It sure is a good thing Miss Fitcher
is so crackerjack at putting voices with
people.” John Whitehead said, laughing.
“What did you need today, feller?”
“Just a small favor, if you please,
Whitehead. I don’t need to speak to him
myself, but could you tell Seamus please
that Charlie Sawyer won’t be at the party,
please? I just talked to Charlie a few minutes ago; apparently he’s booked up playing
Rembrandt that night. Tell Seamus though
not to worry about telling Alice. That way if
Ed Porter shows up and starts yammering
about the Bordens again, we can hand him
a plate and say ‘Eat this, feller, else the cook
will whip you but good.’”
“Good idea. But what do we do when
he’s finished?” Whitehead inquired, chuckling.
“We hand him another plate and say
‘Eat this, Porter, else the cook will whip you
but good,’ of course!”
“I’ll tell Seamus, don’t worry about it.”
Whitehead said when he finally regained
himself.
“I’ve got to go, feller,” he said. “I have
four folks here at the counter looking at me
funny on account of you. They haven’t the
slightest idea what I’ve been laughing at.
I’ll be sure to give Seamus your message.”
“All right, John—thanks. Goodbye.”
Well that was done. I must admit Reader, that I was actually joshing Whitehead
about keeping Ed Porter’s mouth full all
evening. I began to think that it might not
be a bad idea after all, however. He’d really
changed quite a lot the last while, from the
time The Fall River Tragedy was published.
For one or another reason, it has been vir-
tually all he talks about at any length—all
the time.
The initial hoopla is to be expected,
of course. When a man makes good, it’s
human nature that his friends ought to
shout hurrah and fuss over his accomplishments—and I’ll take my own just part for
adding to that egotistical stewpot.
Adulation earned is well and fine, but
it seems to me that there is (or ought to be)
some sort of statute of limitations on these
things that at least applies to his friends
and acquaintances—especially those who
have lived with or been otherwise affected
by events for nearly seventeen months.
I said my last on the subject to the
famed author some two weeks ago during
our monthly card game. We switched off to
monthly games not long back. Newfound
fame as a writer of “history” has made Edwin Porter a busy feller. While I found my
pockets lighter by $4-$6 per month—fame
has never done a thing to improve Porter’s
card play—it is a small price to pay for the
peace of mind that goes along without constant updates concerning the lives of Bordens living and past, No. 92 Second Street
or No. 7 French, wherein the sisters are
currently domiciled.
“Good grief Porter, where is your head,
feller?” I inquired. We’d been playing whist
for about 20 minutes, and Porter was already down by a quarter.
He muttered something about Miss
Lizzie Borden being a thief and an enemy
to prosperity—namely, his own.
“I’ll probably kick myself in the backside for asking this—but what in the name
of Patrick McGinty’s blue-ribbon goat are
you talking about, Porter?”
Porter proceeded to regale me with
all the finer details of an episode I already
knew of. It seems that Miss Lizzie (or an
agent acting for her) had managed to procure and permanently dispose of all copies
of The Fall River Tragedy then available in
local bookselling establishments.
“You know feller, the way you go on
and on about things here lately I’m not at
all surprised at this—and I’ll presume for a
minute that it did happen despite the fact
that I don’t believe such a thing would happen. You forget, Porter, that I have read
your little tome. Make no mistake that it is
a fine book. I don’t imply that it isn’t.
But knowing what’s in the book, and
setting that against the story being told by
you and the tongue-waggers about the caching and destruction of published copies, I
have to ask: ‘Why bother?’ The whole world
now knows the story whether they read your
book or not. It’s far too late for worry about
that. The harm was done the moment the
weapon fell upon its victims. Anything
else it seems to me is afterthought, or at
the very least an effort at damage control.
For the life of me though, Porter, I don’t
see even the point in that; the damage was
done seventeen months ago.”
Porter scowled at me.
“Now don’t look at me that way feller.
If you’re striking toward the ‘lean and hungry’ look, it’s not working a bit. You look
like nothing so much as a hematovoric
stoat who’s just finished gorging himself
on flesh and blood; so fat he cannot even
stand on his feet. All this carping and harping back and forth between you two in the
press of late reminds me of that day a couple years back when that restaurant feller
James Whitehead went at it publicly with
the Tripps over on Second Street. What he
had in mind exactly I don’t recollect, but he
put a large sign in front of his own eatery
with an appropriately pointed arrow. As I
remember it, the sign said:
‘Hurry this way to A. B. Tripp’s Hog
Trough! We’ll Serve No Swine Before Its
Time! Dinner from 11:00–1:00 — Supper
from 5:00-7:00. Feed Your Pigs Today!’
“Someone from the Tripp establishment complained to the police of course,
alleging defilement of reputation. James
Whitehead denied any malicious intent in
placing the sign, claiming, rather, that he
placed it merely in fun and hope of gaining
a bit more of a trade for himself. It actually
worked reasonably well after things blew
over if you remember, Porter. For several
weeks thereafter, folks who had passed by
Whitehead’s and seen the ‘Hog Trough’
sign that day stopped to inquire about it,
and folks coming down the street who remembered the sign stopped in at Tripp’s
asking about pork specials. So it worked
well for all concerned.
“Now, my good feller, it seems to me
that what you must do is hit upon some
equitable accommodation tailored to satisfy both parties. You have your right as an
author, but Miss Lizzie too has rights as a
private citizen now sufficiently moneyed to
have and do as she pleases.
“Whatever troubles she may have had
with authorities were settled nearly six
months ago at New Bedford. That’s the
only thing we really know for sure about
the matter, isn’t it Porter?
“Now then . . . for you Mr. Famous
Author Edwin Porter, I have three words:
Enough of this. You and I have known each
other quite some while now, and I have
great respect and genuine affection for you
as a person and also as a friend. What has
become of the old Porter, feller? The one
I’ve seen before me on occasion these last
many months seems less a human being
than some mythical beast of the ages fallen
prey to a malevolent force intent on destroying its soul. With luck, my good feller,
many more things will be said and writ of
the humble scribbler turned famous author
Edwin Porter. But I hope, feller, that when
the last is finally spoke it will say more of
you than
Here lies the humble scribbler,
recorder for the ages.
He earned his fame
(and all knew his name)
As the brightest of Buffinton’s bunch
Until one day some beast did come
And devour his soul for lunch.
Here lies the scribbler Porter,
Once a wise man good and true;
So talented, few could match it.
Here lies the scribbler Porter—
Third victim to mysterious hatchet.
“Here you are, Porter,” I said, sliding
the money he’d lost back in his direction.
“You get a reprieve today. There’s no joy
comes with emptying the pockets of a feller
who’s not all there.”
Porter looked at me, an odd and almost
misplaced gleam in one eye.
“There’s more to life than the Bordens,
Ed—especially when you’re not one of
them.”
As he rose to leave, I put a hand to his
shoulder. “Hold up a minute there Ed. I
want to remember this day—as you might
too. When was the last time you left here
after a card game with funds in your pockets, feller? You write that on your calendar
when you get home, because it may not
happen again!”
For the first time in my company that
day, Edwin Porter the newly-famous author actually laughed. “I don’t know why in
the world you’re laughing, feller. You know
it’s true just as I do!”
As he made his way to catch the cars
I remembered something. “You’re expected
for supper and merriment the last of the
month, feller—early evening, about six or
so!”
Porter turned about and waved, then
stepped aboard the horse car.
No, Reader. While I do confess some
hope that I’d gotten through to Porter on
some level, I still found myself feeling that
keeping Porter’s mouth full the night of the
party might be the best possible solution.
Virtually all hope for the original party
of ten went out the window only the day
before the onset of festivities. On my way
out from Hudner’s market I briefly encountered Mrs. John Gormley making her way
toward the market. We chatted just briefly,
long enough for Mrs. Gormley to apologize
and make her regrets, saying it looked as
though they would be unable to attend the
party after all.
“My child is ill, sir—came down with
a whooper of some sort just this morning.
Doctor Bowen has been by for a look, and
said that while the sickness does not appear grave, it’s a fine idea to stay in a day or
two until the child recovers.”
“Oh, bless your heart Mrs. Gormley!
Hopefully the youngster will get better in
good time. We certainly will miss you at the
party though. Let me leave you to things
then. Do take care please and have a Happy
New Year.”
“You too, sir!” Mrs. Gormley called out
before stepping into Hudner’s.
“Hello? Could you ring up the post office please, Miss Fitcher? Thank you. If he’s
available I need Seamus Feeney this time,
please.”
Seamus Feeney came on the line very
shortly thereafter.
“Seamus! Tell Alice, if you please, feller, that the ten folks expected for the party
is now less that by four. Right . . . nearly
half now. I just ran into Mrs. Gormley a few
minutes ago. No, unfortunately not. Their
youngster is quite ill, she said. Seabury Bowen has been by though. No, it’s not lifethreatening, thank goodness. But he did
recommend that the youngster be kept
indoors and—yes, that’s right. They’ll need
to keep close watch.
“Oh? What is it, Seamus? What??
That’s terrible! Well, tell Postmaster Whitehead—oh, you know what to tell him without me saying.
“I do have an ice box, yes—you know
that Seamus, you’ve run smack into it before, feller! It’s . . . well, you know very
well where it is, particularly since you’ve
run into it. What is it Seamus? Our dinner
is something that keeps right well when
it’s cold? Oh, that’s fine news feller. No,
there’ll be a fair bit leftover from the sound
of things but that’s all right. It’s better the
second day anyway, is it?
“Well, no Seamus, I have no idea. Captain Doherty thinks he knows what it is,
but he wouldn’t tell me. Yes, I mentioned it
to him just a few days ago, what you’d said
. . . yes, the traditional dish. He seemed to
get the best idea what it might be though
when I told him what you’d said about marriageable young ladies making it for their
fellers. Yes, I think he knows what it is, too.
No, he didn’t tell me, but said he’d keep Alice’s secret a surprise. Yes, Seamus, he is a
good feller, much like yourself.
“Oh, did you . . . oh good! That’s fine,
Seamus. This way we can all have a wee
nip together when the time should strike.
I have two dozen bottles of Alice’s favorite
swap-off drink, too. No, feller, I’ll be sure
it’s cold; I have a dozen bottles that already
are cold. No, Seamus, I wouldn’t dare give
Alice warm Moxie—she’d ring in the New
Year by christening me over the head with
the bottle! Yes, that is frightful stuff when
it gets the slightest bit warm. No, I don’t
think any fly worth his salt would go near
warm Moxie now that you bring the matter
up, Seamus.
“Listen feller, I need to get going here.
Yes, I know you do too. The way things
have developed I was just a little concerned
about Alice; I hate thinking that she went
to all the trouble and then to have so few
about to . . . right, exactly. All right Seamus—goodbye, feller.”
Now mind you, Reader, you may know
as well do I that when seeking entry into
some domicile within which walls sits a
friend or acquaintance, the most common and accepted method involves use of
a brass door-knock, one’s knuckles applied
to the door in a rapping motion, or perhaps
the ringing of a bell-hang set slightly aside
of the door’s exterior. Alice Feeney employed her own method of announcement
not long before six in the evening during
the final hours of the final day of the year
1893:
“Haroooo, ye handsome Divil, open the
door up before a lady freezes herself out here!”
This was followed by three discreet raps on
the door. The latter I suspected (correctly, I
soon discovered) was Seamus Feeney, mak72 The Literary Hatchet
ing his own formal announcement.
“Step in, step in!” I said, throwing the
front door open wide. “The night’s unfit for
man or beast. Here, Alice—give me that
pan if you will.” I said, taking the large pan
she cradled like a babe in her arms. “Seamus my good feller, step indoors here and
close the door firmly if you would please.
I’ll take care of your coats in a minute,” I
said as Seamus Feeney shut the door, “just
as soon as I settle this beast of a pot in the
kitchen.”
Alice Feeney trailed after me. “Mind
you keep your handsome nose out of that
pan, Mister!” she called out, laughing.
“There’s a surprise in there and I’ll whip
you right here the next minute if you so
much as even think of spoiling it!”
“Now Alice Feeney, behave yourself!” I
called out from the kitchen. “Captain Doherty’s the only one to be here thinks he
might know what it is—and he wouldn’t
tell me.”
“Oh he thinks he knows, does he? Well,
we’ll just see about that when he gets here,
we will.”
“Let me have those coats, and do sit
down—anywhere you please” I said. “I’ll
stow them away in a warm spot so they’re
dry by the time the New Year gets here.” I
stowed the garments away on hooks in the
next room. I noticed when I returned that
Seamus was yet laden with something-orother which appeared to be a roughly medium size rectangular box, but with a carrying handle on one of the long ends.
“Whatcha got there, Seamus?”
“This here, sir?” Seamus held up the
rectangular box. “Belongs to Alice, actually,
but she had her hands full when we came
in.”
I glanced over at Alice, who just looked
at me with a big smile on her face.
“Hand me that box, Seamus.” Seamus
handed over the medium size rectangular
box with a carrying handle on one of the
long ends.
“Turn about, please, ye handsome
host of the evening; no peeking neither.” I
turned round just as she asked.
Within not many seconds, another
revelation came to be: not only was Alice
Feeney a speaker of Irish, a fine singer
and cook—the latter which I knew only
by repute at that particular moment, but
she was also musically-inclined in more
ways than one. I turned about as she began to sing, surprised to discover that she
also played the dulcimer. A voice seeming
of the angels flowed from her in perfect
time to the tune woven by her fingers on
the strings. She’d brought a long-ago spirit
alive again it seemed, as she sang of Sweet
Molly Malone.
“We have many traditions in Ireland,
my handsome host,” Alice Feeney said even
as the last line, which told of Molly’s ghost
in the streets, still hung in the air. “One of
several would be that at holiday time them
who are willing and able must sing for their
supper.”
“Sing for their supper, eh? Well, I . . .
You did say ‘sing’?”
“That I did, Mister Handsome Host.
What’s got your tongue, man? You’ve
turned too quiet of asudden.”
“Well, it’s just that last I knew,” I said
rather haltingly, “I can’t carry a tune without a handle, nor even in a brand new beer
bucket.”
“Ha! Hogwash, Mister Handsome
Host, and don’t you tell me different!”
Alice Feeney was eyeing me in such way
it seemed as if she could see every pore in
the skin of my face. “I’ll tell you what Mister Handsome Host: if you will kindly fetch
me something cold to drink, we’ll give this
claim of yours a looking into. What say ye
to that?”
“ ‘This way to the fizzy bar’ is what I say
to that, Miss Alice Feeney. Actually, if you
will sit there and try to behave, I’ll go pop a
cork or two and serve us up something that
must be absolutely ice cold.”
“Seamus, what can I get for you, feller?
Better yet, come along with me and you
may pick your own libation from the stock.
That might work better, as I only have two
hands.”
“Oh . . . I’ll be . . . just fine . . . here . . . all
alone!” Alice Feeney cried out in a sudden
burst of melodramatics.
“Oh Mother Machree,” I said, playing
along in like fashion. “Your brother and I
are going over here for just a minute to pop
a few corks, Alice Feeney. Now, should we
take a notion to strike out for an expedition, we’ll let you know so you can pack up
your harpsichord and come along.”
Alice put upon her face at that instant
the look of an angel, tempered by the most
devilish grin; she batted her eyes as to emphasize the former.
“Psssssttt!! Seamus feller,” I whispered
whilst we worked over the corks.
“Yes, sir?”
“Shhhh . . . speak low, Seamus. Your
sister has ears.”
He said “Yes, sir?” once again, but this
time in a whisper.
“Much better, Seamus. Now then,
feller—I know of an Alice Feeney, an elder
sister to you; but who on earth is that girl
out there?”
Seamus snickered just as softly as he
could. “You’ve not seen much of Alice in a
while, have you?”
“Occasionally I have, yes, Seamus. But
I suppose not much after all.”
“That’s her, sir—the very same you did
know of before.” Seamus grinned at what
must have been a look of utter mystification on my face.
“Three ‘Our Father’s’ in the Irish, responsible for that?”
Seamus nodded. “It seems so. That,
and her own prayer for strength, I think.”
“What are you boys doin’ back there?”
Alice called out. “Do I get a fizzy drink before I die??” She coughed and spluttered
very loudly.
“Only if you’re good with corks, from
the looks of things, Alice!” I could play
along too. Alice burst into laughter. It was
an unexpectedly high-pitched laugh which
seemed to proceed up and down the musical scale. Piercing, yet not at all unladylike,
I thought.
“Seamus, I don’t know . . .”
“This, sir, is the Alice of my childhood
days. You’ve nothing to fear at all. She likes
you, and feels that she can be herself when
about you. It’s just that this is the first time
you’ve seen her true self, I think.”
“All right, Seamus my good feller. I’ll
take you at your word. The drinks are in
that box there out the back door. I have
ginger beer there too. Help yourself, feller.
When that’s gone, you come get another
just as you please, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir; thank you.”
“All right then,” I said, popping the
seals on the bottles of Moxie. “We have just
a matter of minutes. Warm this stuff much
and the only thing it’s good for is varnishing pigeons! Lead on, MacDuff!”
“It’s ‘Feeney’ sir.” Seamus snickered,
and we stepped at last back into my front
parlor.
“Alice, close your eyes please, then
stand and turn about to face me. Extend
your hand if you will.” Alice did so, whereupon I handed her the ice-cold bottle.
“You’ve a surprise for me, but I have a surprise for you, also. Now open your eyes.”
“I already opened my nose, Mister
Handsome Host. That’s all I need to know
what’s in this here bottle. You’ve got Moxie,
just for me. Pardon me in advance, if you
will.” Whereupon, Alice Feeney tipped the
bottle up and got Moxie for herself.
“Cold enough is it, Alice?”
“It is indeed, sir. I take it you’re familiar with the first rule of drinking this?”
“I am—learned it just once, the hard
way.”
She wrinkled her nose up and made a
sour face.
“Oh it was,” I said. “Positively the
worst!”
“Well, then we agree, Mister Handsome Host.” She was looking at me again
with that piercing gaze. I noted three
things in it which it seemed I had missed
before: an almost innate sense of curiosity,
the kindness of a child, and what seemed
to be a steel-backed faith or resolve. If one
took Alice Feeney, appraised her, found her
somehow worthy of friendship despite station, faults, foibles and failings, she in turn
would stand by faithfully, and walk thru
the fire pits of hell if it meant the serving
of a friend who be truly in need.
She looked down her nose at me, a
sparkle in her eyes. “Your attempt at plying
me with drink has failed, Mister Handsome
Host—although I must say I did enjoy it
and might have another just shortly. But
we had laid aside a matter before—what
was it you said, ‘I can’t carry a tune without a handle, nor even in a brand new beer
bucket’?”
“Yes . . . and you said that was hogwash.”
“Indeed I did say that—and that is hogwash, strong enough no doubt to put quite
the shine to even the filthiest of swine. Ha!
You don’t believe Alice Feeney, I can see
that in your face clear as the day.” She tried
her best to give me a hard, disapproving
look, but there was no mistaking the good
humor in her eyes.
I said nothing, mainly on account as I
found myself genuinely intrigued. For this,
Reader, was an Alice Feeney I truly had never laid eyes on before.
“I’ll make you a bargain here and now,
Mister Handsome Host: if you’ll be so good
as to pop me another cork, I’ll show you just
what I mean about the hogwash business
momentarily. Have we an agreement?”
She snickered at me, for I was already
up and fetching the bottle before her last
word had been spoken.
“Seamus, I’ll need your help in this.
Since two hands will be needed to put the
man’s notion to rest and I’ll have a bottle
to hold…”
I returned with the requested bottle to
find a surprise: Alice had transferred possession of the stringed instrument to Seamus, who held it in his lap, clearly at the
ready for events to come.
I handed Alice the bottle and sat down
opposite, taking a swallow from my own
bottle, opened just a short while earlier. It
was in grave danger of becoming too warm,
so I finished it off right quick, making a
sour face as I drained the last.
Alice grinned at me and turned to Seamus. “Brother o’ mine, does it look to you
as though our handsome host be a bit surprised?”
“He does look it, doesn’t he?” Seamus
snickered, apparently relishing his role.
“All right boy, let’s get those fingers
to workin’and show the good gentleman a
thing or two.” She nodded at Seamus, and
his fingers began to dance over the dulcimer strings, producing an unexpectedly
fine (thus so because I hadn’t any clue at
all of Seamus’s musical prowess) rendition
of what sounded like an Irish medley. Some
of the tunes I knew, while others were completely unfamiliar.
“Seamus, my good feller, you surprise
me no end. That was wonderful!” I cried
out as he finished. He bowed his head in
thanks, snickering at my surprise.
Alice tipped her bottle up then beckoned to me. “Come here and sit alongside
me if you please.”
I did so, and then she said, “Follow
along now and do as I tell you, best you
can.”
I nodded, and Alice hummed what
seemed to be a note.
“Alright my Handsome Host, you see
can you hum just like I did right then. As
you hum, count off up to four, to yourself.”
“The same way you—the same pitch,
you mean, Alice?”
“If you can, match it, yes.” She grinned
at me.
I did so, counting to four as instructed.
“Ha! Now do the same again, but leave
out the counting. When I raise my hand,
then you stop.”
I did so. Alice joined in the noisemaking not long in. I was surprised to notice
a not-at-all-unpleasant companionship
betwixt the sounds. She raised her hand,
whereupon we ceased.
“Now I’ll show you that you can sing!
Seamus, if you will, please bang the drum
slowly, but in normal time.”
Seamus nodded and began to play, and
as I listened, the tune sounded familiar. I
raised my hand.
“Alice, please don’t—not this one. If
you know the words that I know, the song
was written about twenty-five or so years
ago, not long after the war. The feller that
wrote the song wrote it after visiting a
young widow whose husband was lost. It
has several titles, but I know it as ‘Goodbye
To Ye Gallants of the Irish Brigade.’”
“I know the words—or part of them,
anyway. As for you Mister Handsome Host,
you may but listen.”
Then she nodded to Seamus that he
should resume the dulcimer. When he did,
Alice Feeney began to sing:
O, bang the drum slowly and play
the fife lowly—
But don’t tell her the soldier she
loves is no more.
Though in time she must know ‘tis
too soon for the blow;
May God bless her again with sweet
dreams of his smile.
Let her dream ‘til tomorrow, and
spare her the sorrow
To come when she finds that her
love’s gone away.
O ye fine Son of Erin,
You’d be proud how she’s farin’
In the days since she found that
Your heart beat no more.
She honors her man
Every way that she can,
Knowing one day that they will
meet once more
To walk hand in hand in Heaven’s
bright land,
Gazing on fine blue waters by celestial shores.
I do not, I can assure you Reader, shed
tears easily or at the drop of a hat. By the
time Alice Feeney finished her singing,
however, there wasn’t a dry eye to be found
in the house. I had asked that she not make
me sing that on account of an acquaintance
with at least four old veterans of “Irish
Brigades” which saw battle during the last
war.
“Give me a company of Erin’s Sons
armed with Henry repeaters and a double
ration of shot per man,” one commanding officer wrote not many years ago, “and
I wouldn’t hesitate one minute to invade
Hell by way of the River Styx and do battle
with the Devil himself. My boys would take
it, too!”
One veteran summed things up rather
well I thought when I visited with him in
the soldier’s home last year. Still young at
just past fifty but worn by the battle and
years of pain that followed, he pulled a
ragged forage cap down to shade his eyes
from the springtime sun.
“Young feller,” he said, looking straight
as an arrow down his nose at me, “they sent
me down to Sharpsburg many years ago. I
was happy to go and do such as I could to
whip the miscreants—because Irish I am;
yet this is now my home. I can have things
here that at home I could not. That’s what
brought me here to start with.
“Like any proud son of Ireland, I went
with a sprig of green tucked in my cap. Almost all the Irishmen in the company had
something green somewhere on their person that day, and a fair number still wore
that bit of green when they advanced toward the gates of Heaven by end of that
autumn day.
“I paid the bill for that Sharpsburg
jaunt as you can see with half a leg in the
bloody sunken road. But you mark my
words, young feller: I did not pay that bill
‘til after one hell of a fight!”
These then, Reader—these are the
sorts of men for whom I weep freely and
without reserve when spirit moves. These
good and true, who even as they might
walk through the valley of the shadow, do
serve equally as the finest examples to they
who may come after, but yet also them who
have come before.
I wish, Reader, that it were truly possible to convey to you the quality of Alice
Feeney’s singing. I have seldom if ever seen
anything quite like it save perhaps in the
musical theatres or concert halls up to
Boston. As you may know, when the finest
of singers sings just the right tune in just
the proper way in the proper venue, he or
she touches the audience in such way that
when a note is struck or a stanza sung, they
feel it deep within their bones.
Alice Feeney sings like that, with the
whole of herself—mind, heart, body, and
soul. Now I had heard of her prowess before, as I have mentioned occasionally. The
descriptions though were somehow lacking, skewed as they were perhaps toward
portraying the typical low-born Irish immigrant girl, drunk as a skunk and singing her
heart out in the Central Police lockup while
her brain swam in a stuporous alcoholic
puddle. But here before me, in my humble
abode did I see and hear (for the first time)
with my own ears Alice Feeney as she was
before the bottle. ‘Miracle’ is not a word I
toss about at every turn, but I found myself wondering if perhaps I might have witnessed just such a thing right here in the
parlor of my humble domicile.
I went into the kitchen, grabbed up a
cloth, pumped cool water over it and returned to the parlor.
“Ladies first, Seamus my good feller.”
I handed the cloth to Alice, who looked at
me with a half-smile. “Feeney girl, do wipe
your face please,” I said. “You’ll feel better
in just a minute.”
Alice wiped her face off, handed the
cloth over to Seamus, who wiped himself
up as well.
“Well, aren’t we the trio?” I said. “Seamus, you missed a spot there feller, aport
of your nose.”
“Thank you, sir.” Seamus wiped the
spot he’d missed.
“All right,” I said, “I know that I have
not yet sung for my supper, but the hour is
nearly here and I am starved.”
“You are a rarity, Mister Handsome
Host. Tradition says that for supper we
must sing. But any man who shed free
and unashamed tears over remembrances
of gallant and departed Irish souls is worthy of a supper with the Feeneys whether
he sings a note or not. Do you agree, Seamus?”
“I do, sister.” Seamus spoke in a voice
that was rife with sage as he tried his level
best not to snicker.
Alice Feeney rose, grinned at me and
went off toward the kitchen, where I’d left
the surprise yet covered atop the stove.
Alice peeked her head around the
entryway. “How do you—this pan is still
partly warm. Can you starving men wait
another 15 minutes? The oven should be
hot enough to take care of things.”
When Alice Feeney returned to us in
the parlor a few moments later, she found
Seamus idly plucking at the dulcimer whilst
I listened. “Well, now if this isn’t the prettiest picture ever I have seen! Where’s the
merrymaking, the bands and whistles?”
She tried her best to eye the both of us with
an icy glare of disapproval, which Seamus
answered with a few halting, bedraggled
bars of what sounded at least a bit like Barbara Allen.
“Hmmppphhh!! It’s a fine and pretty
pass things have come to when an Irish boy
from Galway amuses himself in a parlor
picking a Scottish tune on a dulcimer!”
“Why Alice,” said I, thinking right
quick, “he’s playing that for the one who is
absent!”
“Oh? And just who might that be, Mister Handsome Host? Do tell Alice.” She
leaned back, a hard, appraising look betaking her visage.
“Seamus, you’re playing Barbara Allen
to honor Mr. Porter the famous author,
aren’t you feller?”
Seamus looked up, nodding gravely.
Don’t you dare snicker, Seamus! I thought
quickly to myself.
“Where is Mr. Porter anyway? Wasn’t
he supposed to be here?”
“He was, and he yet is so far as I know.
When is the only open question.”
“I see. Well, maybe something came
up,” Alice suggested.
“I suppose it might have, but I don’t really know. He hasn’t been quite himself for
some good while—especially since his book
came out. But he might have called, at least.
I told him to be here at 6:00. John Whitehead and I even came up with a plan to
keep him busy if he got going on his favorite lately subject. Mr. Whitehead thought it
was a dandy notion, I should say.”
“What was this ‘dandy notion’ of yours,
Mister Handsome Host?”
“Well, we figured that if Porter showed
up and started yammering incessantly
about the Bordens again, we could take
care of the matter by handing him a plate
and say ‘Eat this, feller, else the cook will
whip you but good.’”
“One plate?” Alice had caught on right
quick.
“We thought of that, too—Mr. Whitehead did.”
Alice looked at me expectantly.
“Elementary, my dear Feeneys. When
he’s finished, if he gets to yammering about
the Bordens again, we’d simply hand him
another plate and say ‘Eat this, feller, else
the cook will whip you but good.’”
Alice Feeney burst into laughter and
Seamus snickered. “You, Mister Handsome
Host, are a devil.” Alice grinned at me, fire
lighting her eyes.
“Well, now Alice I don’t mean to be, but
I did actually have one question, although
it may get me thumped on the head. I’ve
always heard that the dulcimer is Scot in
origin?”
“Oh no, Mister Handsome Host, it is
not neither a Scottish instrument!” Alice
cried. “Many people think it is, but it really
isn’t. The dulcimer originated in Ireland
and remained there until it was stolen by
the infamous highwayman thief and sheep
stealer, Angus Fitzsimmons McGee.
“Sentenced to hang after trial on a
charge of sheep theft in the Galway courts,
Angus escaped Ireland (with an Irish dulcimer tucked amongst his things) back to his
native Scotland—only to be hanged at Edinburgh after another trial for sheep theft
in 1802.
“The one good thing about McGee, his
mother was Irish—a Fitzsimmons from
County Fermanagh in the north. There
wasn’t anything much good about ‘Pigtail’
McGee—although in fairness he was said
to be an excellent shepherd until he took
up thievery.
He got the name ‘Pigtail’ the day he
met his maker. The hangman’s rope they
said was twisted above the knot, so that it
looked like a pig’s tail.”
The surprise supper was revealed but
a short time later after Seamus Feeney put
on the finest show of famishment you ever
might see. “If I don’t get a bite soon I’ll have
to strike out and stalk a beast, I do think.”
“Oh, you poor starving boy.” Alice glared
at Seamus, but good nature brimmed over
in all her visage. “I know for a fact young
Seamus that you couldn’t hit so much as
the broadside of an elephant with a barn,
much less anything fit to eat with something so tiny as a bullet! Have you strength
enough left, my young brother, to open
three bottles?”
“I’ll fetch those,” I said, stepping toward my kitchen and the cold box just out
the back door. Alice was just taking the
pan from the oven when I came back in my
kitchen door.
“Alice, let’s swap,” I said. “If you’ll sit
that beast on the stove, I’ll give you these
bottles. That pan is hot and I know for a fact
it weighs a ton.” Alice winked at me, bowed
her head slightly in a gesture of thanks.
So it was that in good and due time the
secret was revealed: Alice Feeney had prepared a large pan of Irish colcannon. Now,
likely as not Reader, you be as familiar
with colcannon as am I or any friend of an
Irishman judged worthy enough to sit and
take a Sunday supper. The most reliable of
tradition to pass across the water to these
shores, by it we are told that colcannon
(as humble as any Emerald Isle farmsman
or transplanted day-maid though it might
be) is the finest thing to leave Ireland since
old Saint Patrick exiled the serpents some
fifty-score and more years ago.
Alice served it up, mounding each plate
pretty high. “Now you boys eat this,” Alice
said, “else the cook will whip you right here
this instant.” Of course we laughed and
settled in to do our duty as assigned.
Now I had eaten colcannon a time or
two before, Reader, but I must admit it was
not at all the same compared to the plate
set before me.
“There’s five pounds of Irish bacon in
this, Mister Handsome Host, along with
like amounts of thin-cut cabbage and potatoes mashed up and layered all together
with butter and cream. We wouldn’t use
garlic in it if this was Galway, but since it
isn’t Galway, I did. Usually I use milk, but
for special occasions I use cream.”
I nodded. I could do nothing else and
speak decently on account of my mouth
was full. Seamus Feeney, I noticed, was
similarly silent.
“Seamus,” I finally put my fork down
long enough to ask, “what else did you eat
today, feller?”
Seamus, still chewing, shook his head.
After a nip of ginger beer, he answered.
“Well, I had two baker’s rolls this morning sir, and that was it. I had meant to get
something else but forgot about it. But I
knew too that our supper would be the best
thing Alice makes. So I waited.” With that,
another forkful went down the Irish boy’s
hatch.
“I may just whip you anyway, Seamus,”
Alice said. “Colcannon or not, you should
eat better than that during the day!”
“Oh, now Alice, leave the boy alone.
He starved himself senseless on purpose,
obviously—and for good reason,” I said as
I finished cleaning my plate. Alice glared at
me, but there was no mistaking the glee in
her eyes.
Alice Feeney apparently took Mr. John
Whitehead’s advice to heart. “Oh, you and
your talk, Mister Handsome Host!” She
grabbed my plate up and scurried into the
kitchen, only to return a moment later
with fully laden plate. “Here, you,” she said,
grinning at me. “Eat this; else the cook will
have to whip you!”
“Gadzooks, Woman. Of course I’ll eat
that, if you’ll stand guard for a moment
while I fetch another bottle or two.”
“Stand guard?? Oh, Mr. Handsome
Host, I have Seamus very well trained.
Some female comes to get him she won’t
need a thing but a lesson in how to cook his
favorite food.”
Seamus Feeney, bless his heart, never
broke rhythm at all, but merely nodded vigorously as I rose from the table and headed
toward the kitchen and the back door.
I returned a few minutes later. “Seamus
my good feller, you keep this nearby. You
might need it here shortly,” I said, placing a
fresh bottle of ginger beer near his place.
“Your pay for guard duty, Miss Feeney,”
I said as I handed Alice a fresh bottle of
Moxie.
“Well, aren’t we kind, Mr. Handsome
Host; how thoughtful of you.” She smiled
her thanks.
Seamus paused in his nourishing ritual
just long enough to pull the stopper on his
ginger beer and take a long swallow.
Alice was watching him. She said nothing, but merely watched, beaming from ear
to ear. “I do wish Mr. Whitehead and Mr.
Porter might have come,” she said, “but for
my part I must say I like things just fine the
way they are.”
“I agree, Alice. But then we”—I started
to say “but then we always do.” While this
was true of Seamus and me, and had been
for some time, it was true of Alice Feeney
only from tonight.
“We what?” Alice looked at me with
a question in her eye as well as on her
tongue.
“Well, I just realized Alice, that al-
though I’ve known you folks a good while
now, tonight is the first time the both of
you have been to my home. We really should
do this more often I think—not necessarily
with a fancy meal as it makes more work
for you, but . . . It’s just nice to spend time
with folks whose company you enjoy.”
“It is at that.” Alice grinned at me.
“Oh, bless your heart, Alice Feeney.
This will, I think, be my last plateful of the
night. I simply cannot keep up with that
ravenous brother of yours.”
“Oh, now Mister Handsome Host, you
just finish that plate and don’t worry about
young Seamus there. We’ve each the two of
us had two heaping platefuls of colcannon,
and the brother is only one up. So we’ve not
done too badly at all I think.” Alice threw
her head back and laughed heartily, ruffling
the still-eating Seamus’s hair.
Within a few moments I had worked
my way through the last of my colcannon.
“Bless your soul Alice,” I said, laying my
fork at last aside, “I wish I could go for another plate—it’s just that good—but I simply cannot hold anymore.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Handsome Host.
The leftovers will keep fine in this cold and
be just as good tomorrow—that is unless
brother Seamus cleans them out tonight!”
“Oh, let him be, Alice,” I said. “Half the
fun of taking him to dinner is seeing that
he truly enjoys his food.
“You sure didn’t eat like this though
the last time we were in Whitehead’s
though, Seamus. Why is that, feller?”
Seamus cleaned the last of his third
plate up and laid his fork aside. “Well now,
Mr. James Whitehead puts on a fine meal
in his establishment, that’s true enough.
But nobody cooks the way Alice cooks.”
Seamus pushed his chair back from the
table, stretched himself out a bit.
“You see what I was saying before is
true don’t you, sir?”
“Of course it’s true, Seamus my good
feller. Anyone who has trouble seeing that
need look no further than our stomachs at
this moment!”
Seamus agreed that the evidence
should be plain enough for all to see.
“You two are . . .”
Whatever we were according to Alice Feeney we never discovered, for her
thought was at that moment interrupted
by a sharp booming sound outdoors which
in a few seconds was followed by the poppopping of snap crackers not far distant
from my abode. Shortly after that came another deep boom which Seamus recognized
instantly as the product of a bass drum.
“Now who do you suppose . . . a band,
in this weather?”
“That’s a good question, feller,” I said.
“Alice, would you care to join us? The brother and I are about to do a bit of reconnaissance.”
Alice laughed aloud. “Not without
coats we don’t, Mr. Handsome Host. You
hold fast while I get them.”
“Bless you, Alice,” I said when she’d
brought our coats. “The harpsichord should
be fine where it is. We’ll not be far.”
So it was that our intrepid trio made
its way out the front door of my abode and
into the yard a bit. I was right glad that
Alice remembered coats, because the chill
was blistering otherwise.
Within a moment the cause of said
outdoor disturbance became apparent to
our eyes and our ears, being announced by
intermittent blasts from a bugle. There appeared to be two small detachments from
the regimental band of the Grand Army of
the Republic, which is headquartered in the
Borden Block, roaming the streets serenading folks. One bunch would sing while the
other played—they traded off.
As they marched past us there in the
yard, the bugler doffed his cap in Alice
Feeney’s direction, put instrument to his
lips and blew “Ruffles and Flourishes” four
times. As the fourth was finished, the armed
detachment took up their instruments and
began to play, whilst the others went hard
at it singing. Now I have seen many a thing,
just as you undoubtedly have as well, Reader—but I must ask in all seriousness, when
did you last hear “John Brown’s Body” rendered in music and song on the 31st day of
December in any given year?
John Brown’s body lies a-mold’ring
in the grave
in the grave
in the grave
His soul goes marching on
Glory, Glory! Hallelujah!
His soul is marching on
He captured Harper’s Ferry with his
nineteen men so true
He frightened old Virginia till she
trembled through and through
They hung him for a traitor, themselves the traitor crew
They marched up the street, playing
and singing. We thought they might turn
and go in another direction, but that presumption was incorrect. In the distance I
heard some feller—the bandmaster I suppose he was—call out, “About face—for’ard
march!” and up the street they came again!
The only difference was that the players
had swapped off sides with the singers, and
they were singing another tune completely
unlike “Auld Lang Syne,” or any such tune
as we might expect to be played at this time
of year.
Both bandsmen and choir did redeem
themselves (at least in the eyes of one Alice
Feeney) when the bandmaster next called
his call, “About face—for’ard march!” The
bugler doffed his cap in Alice Feeney’s di-
rection once more, put instrument to his
lips and blew “Ruffles and Flourishes” four
more times.
In the next instant, I must confess
Reader, the very bands and buckles that
restrict Hades to the nether regions broke
loose all at once—when the band played
“Garry Owen.”
Alice Feeney screamed like a Banshee
and began to cheer wildly. She jumped and
hollered and jumped and hollered, and
jumped and hollered, climbed all over me
and Seamus both like we were oak trees.
Then she started to sing the old song:
Let Bacchus’ sons be not dismayed
But join with me, each jovial blade
Come, drink and sing and lend your aid
To help me with the chorus:
Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale
And pay the reckoning on the nail;
No man for debt shall go to jail
From Garry Owen in glory.
She was still at it when I looked for
Seamus—we decided to stay aground figuring it was safer there. “Seamus, you okay
feller?”
“Yes, sir; I think so.”
“That’s good, feller. It looked like you
might have taken one in the teeth there.”
“No sir; just a bump.”
“Hey Seamus . . . the feller that catches
your sister . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“You make sure that he knows what a
fine catch she is . . .”
“Yes, sir.” Seamus grinned at me.
“But you must also in fairness to him
be sure that he knows . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“If ever she gets in earshot of a band
playing ‘Garry Owen’ . . .”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure he knows.”
“Oh, Seamus?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Usually, when a feller be run down by
a turnip wagon, there’s supposed to be tur-
nips scattered about, aren’t there?”
“Not this time, sir.” Seamus snickered.
“Be still, sir; here comes Alice back.”
“Right; thanks, feller.”
“Now Alice Feeney—don’t you dare
cry. It’s not your fault. Nobody knew that
marauding band of miscreants would play
‘Garryowen’ except them. Now that’s right,
isn’t it?”
Alice nodded. “But you . . .” She could
say no more before she started to cry
again.
“Alice Feeney, you listen to me,” I said.
“Nothing has changed. You’re still a wonderful person. You and Seamus are both
welcome in my home anytime. Do you understand that?”
Alice nodded. She blew her nose and
shook her head a fair bit, too. But that
came after she nodded.
“Seamus, will you tell Alice word for
word what I said to you out in the yard,
please? The silly part about the—well, no,
feller, I suppose you might tell that part
too. It might cheer her a bit.”
Seamus recounted our conversation
whilst we were huddled in the yard.
“Look into my eyes, you. Did you really, truly say that?”
“Yes, Alice; I did indeed say that—the
part about the turnip wagon, too.”
“So you really do mean that . . .”
“All right you, it’s time you listened.
Come here, please. Seamus, you’re a witness, feller.”
“Give me your hand if you will, Alice.”
She did so.
“Now . . . you feel that, right?”
“I do, yes.” Alice was looking straight
into my eyes.
“Do you know what that means?”
“I think so, but you tell me—what does
it mean?”
“It means this: that here, in this home
you and yours will always find warmth, affection, friendship, and understanding. It
means that you have value as a human being, and will always be treated and valued
as that by at least one person—two if we
count that ravenous brother of yours.”
Seamus grinned.
“What were we saying earlier tonight
before the dancing lesson in yon humble
yard, do you remember?”
“We found how much we enjoy each
other’s company, and you said we ought
to do these things more often—no fancy
things, to make less work for me, or something like that; because we enjoy doing
them.”
“Did you enjoy tonight as much as it
appeared you did, Alice?”
“I did. I truly did.” She smiled a big,
wide smile.
“Well, I did myself—and I think Seamus did, too, until that errant turnip wagon got loose. That right, Seamus?”
Seamus nodded, snickering.
“Now then, Miss Feeney,” I said quietly, “have we settled the matter for well and
for good?”
“Yes, we have Mister Handsome Host,”
she said, dipping her head in thanks.
“Excellent. Now, if you will go and
get yourself a cloth and wipe off that face,
please, I believe I just heard Captain and
Mrs. Doherty pull up out front there.”
Alice jumped up, winked at me and
raced into the kitchen.
The city hall bell was just signaling
that only thirty minutes yet remained to
the year 1893, when I opened the front
door and bade Captain and Mrs. Doherty
to enter.
“Come in, do come in!” I said. “The
guest list turned up a wee bit shorter than
anticipated, but we have had a fine evening
nonetheless, and now will have an even
better time since you’ve got here.”
“Good evening, there feller,” Captain
Pat Doherty said, shaking my hand. “You’ve
met Mrs. Doherty I think, haven’t you?”
“Well, now officially no, I don’t think I
have. I’ve seen her here and there about the
town occasionally though. It’s truly a pleasure, Mrs. Doherty.”
I can only say, Reader, that Mrs. Nora
Doherty is a lovely woman—in every re82 The Literary Hatchet
spect the ideal companion of her husband,
the Captain.
“Alice, if you’re all fixed in there, come
say hello. Captain Pat and Mrs. Doherty are
here at last.”
Alice Feeney peeped around the kitchen doorway. “I’ll be right in, Mr. Handsome
Host. Would anyone like a bite of supper?”
“Bless you Alice Feeney, no, but thank
you,” Captain Doherty said. “If it were earlier though I most certainly would have
some. I rarely, if ever, pass up a good colcannon.”
Alice stepped into the parlor, exchanged greetings with Mrs. Doherty. She
glared at Captain Doherty though—or
tried, such things are hard to convincingly manage wearing a grin from ear to ear.
“Now just how did you know that, Captain
Pat? Seamus, did you tell?”
“Oh Alice, the boy hasn’t uttered a peep
to me other than ‘good day, Captain’ since I
saw him last in the post office. The clue was
in what I was told by that feller sittin’ over
there—and he didn’t know what it was.”
“What did you tell the Captain, Mr.
Handsome Host?”
“Well, I told him what I knew from
young Seamus there: that in Ireland, marriageable girls sometimes make the dish in
hopes of snaring fellers. I still don’t know
what it means, to be truthful about things,
Alice.”
Up and down old Eire,
On either side of the Shannon
Whene’r a maiden wants to catch a
man,
She snares him with her finest colcannon!
“Well you devil—how did you know
that, Captain Pat?”
“Hush now, Alice Feeney. Captain Pat
knows many things!”
Pat Doherty looked at Alice sternly as
he could, then winked at me and nodded.
“Mrs. Doherty, ma’am, if I may say so,
that feller of yours is a keeper, he is.”
“That he is, indeed, Miss Feeney.” Nora
Doherty, though a bit at sea in this new
company, seemed to warm to us quickly
enough. They were chatting about some
such or other thing when Pat Doherty
caught my eye and motioned toward the
kitchen.
“Seamus, my good feller, are you up to
entertaining the ladies for a bit?”
“I can do that I think, sir,” Seamus replied. As he began the dulcimer, Captain
Doherty and I headed for the kitchen.
“Say, feller,” Captain Doherty inquired.
“Didn’t you tell me last week that Porter of
the Globe was invited to the party?”
“Well, yes, I did Pat. I did invite him. So
far as I know, he was supposed to be here. I
don’t have any idea why he didn’t come, or
where he is.”
“I know where he is, feller.”
“You? What happened, Pat?? Is he—?”
“Well, part of the reason we came so
late tonight, I stopped in at the station
to see how things were going. Assistant
Marshal Fleet drew the holiday duty. He
said things were pretty quiet, a few complaints about a Grand Army band detachment roaming the streets, that was about
it; except that one of the beat boys picked
up Mr. Edwin Porter about two hours ago,
not too far from here. He may have been
headed over here.”
“As much as you can tell me please,
Pat—what’s going on?”
“Well, the man that picked Porter up
said he was in pretty bad shape, looked
like he had been stumbling around in the
streets and fallen a time or two at least;
dirty, weather-stained clothing, matted
hair, that sort of thing. The feller thought
at first that Porter might be drunk, but
didn’t smell anything at all on his person
to indicate that. There wasn’t any bottle in
his pockets, either.”
“I see. The man who picked him up
didn’t take him home?”
“Well, no. He was going to at first,
but things got to the point where the man
didn’t feel that home would be the best
place, if that makes sense.”
“I’m still a little at sea here,” I said. “But
I think I understand.”
“Mr. Porter was completely incoherent.
The man who picked him up said he looked
as though he had been literally scared out
of his mind—had a wild look of terror in
his eyes. He was crying, mumbling to himself, muttering complete nonsense, that
sort of thing.”
“What sort of nonsense?”
“Well, I don’t really have a full picture
you understand, but he kept saying how he
knew who the real killers of Mr. and Mrs.
Borden are—it wasn’t Lizzie at all. The
Bordens were actually the victims of some
tribal curse put upon the family some time
before 1700. Richard Borden, I think the
man said, was the name.
“According to the lore, the curse was
placed upon a serpent commonly found
in the area near the Queuquechan River.
The medicine man divined that certain
descendants of Richard Borden would remain within the reach of the Quequechan.
Of those who remained within the river’s
reach, one among them in all succeeding
generations who bore children would die
by unnatural or violent means. Those within the reach of the serpent.”
“Well, a hatchet murder would certainly qualify as ‘unnatural’ I suppose. But
what about Porter?”
“Well, like I say, he was muttering to
himself and making not even a teaspoonful of sense. I don’t have the notes, but the
feller arrested him wrote down some of the
things he was saying. They were rhymes describing the curse and what not. Mr. Porter
was hissing, too, feller, just like the serpent
he raved about.
“Right now, that my friend is the big
question. To say the least—the feller may
be in Taunton for awhile until he comes to
himself. We’ll get him looked at soon as we
can, feller. Right now he’s under guard in
the stationhouse. It’s all we can do for him
here.
“Doctor Dolan has examined him, but
needed the help of Mickey Finn to even accomplish that. Billy Dolan’s one of the best
medical men in town behind the Mayor, as
you know, but all he could say was ‘I don’t
know; right now, I just don’t know.’ He said
the best place for Mr. Porter the shape he’s
in, is either Taunton or up to Boston. ‘We’ll
start with Taunton; I’ll make the arrangements in the morning.’”
“Is he . . . ?”
“The last I heard awhile ago, he’s asleep
in a cell up the station there. We have him
under guard and will keep him until we
hear from Dolan. It’s all we can do but for
waiting, hoping, and praying, feller.”
“Thanks, Pat. I appreciate it. Say, could
you hand me that bottle of Madeira on the
shelf behind you there, please? We’ll have
the new year to toast here in just a few minutes.”
“Well, aren’t we fancy?” Pat Doherty
grinned at me as he handed the bottle
over.
“No, not really, feller; that bottle there
is three years old. The high-hatters have
their bubbly and their sparkly fizz. I make
merry with Madeira—enough to wet the
whistle every New Years Eve, and that’s
about it.”
“Just the tip of a pinky finger for us
there, feller, if you please,” Doherty said. I
splashed a thimbleful into two cups.
“Seamus,” I called out, peeking around
the kitchen doorway. “Could you come in
here for a moment, please? We need your
assistance, feller.”
The dulcimer music suddenly ceased
and Seamus Feeney came on the run.
“There you are, young Feeney; Happy New
Year, feller.” Pat Doherty said, handing Seamus a cup of Madeira.
“Thank you, sir.”
“All right, young Feeney, lead on, if you
will. We’re right behind.”
“This, you’ve more than earned today,
Alice Feeney,” I said, handing her the cup a
moment or so later.
“Well, now what did I do exactly, Mister Handsome Host?”
“You’ve shared the pleasure of your
company with a friend, and stuffed both
him and that brother of yours to the gills
with the finest food,” I said. “The turnip
wagon . . . well, that we can overlook I
think.”
“You’re a fine and a good man, sir.
Seamus and I are lucky people that you’re
about. Would your lady object to an affectionate token on the cheek, do you think?”
“I don’t think she would under these
circumstances, Alice. She’s something of
a shy girl herself, but is freely and openly
affectionate among those whose presence
brings her comfort.”
Alice Feeney rose up on her toes and
sure enough did kiss me on the cheek then
and there: “Happy New Year to yourself,
my Handsome Host and friend.”
“Happy New Year to you, Alice; may
God bless and keep you surely.”
“Now then friends, a toast,” I cried, as
the city bell did ring the midnight hour.
“Seamus, the floor is yours.”
Seamus Feeney rose to his feet. Bless
his heart; his cheeks were pink with blush
as he raised his cup:
“To all those with us gathered here,
may love, luck and joy be yours in the New
Year 1894. To those not here we wish the
same, though they have gone before. May
we meet them again in Heaven as we pass
to God’s bright shore.
May the road rise ever with ye, and may
the wind be always at your backs. May the
sun shine always brightly and the rains fall
ever softly upon your farms and fields—
and to ye here who gather: Until we meet
again, may God attend to you tenderly as
you rest in the palm of His hand.”
Alice Feeney then rose and began to
sing in a soft yet full voice:
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
“ . . . every man should be born again on
the first day of January. Start with a fresh
page. Take up one hole more in the buckle
if necessary, or let down one, according to
circumstances; but on the first of January
let every man gird himself once more, with
his face to the front, and take no interest in
the things that were and are past.”
So it was, Reader, that the old passed
away and the new day dawned in the year
1894. The party broke up at last when the
revelers departed my abode at forty-six
minutes after midnight. I hated to see it
end, but hoped that we might do it again.
While things were yet tentative, that appeared at least a fine prospect.
But yet even as I did gird myself and
turn face to front in anticipation of New
Year and fresh things to come, these words
of old did march through my mind:
Here lies the humble scribbler,
recorder for the ages.
He earned his fame
(and all knew his name)
As the brightest of Buffinton’s bunch
Until one day some beast did come
And devour his soul for lunch.
Once a wise man good and true;
So talented, few could match it.
Here lies the scribbler Porter—
Third victim to mysterious hatchet.
[poetry]
The darkness
Setting out for home
the darkness follows,
long winter shadow
darts ahead
like a flat crushed companion
all the time knowing
the darkness will fade in silence....
a Blanket of naught
the waning sun scurries with fright
to a distant and serrated Horizon
jagged by city buildings
perched on a fractured hill
like children’s building blocks
heaped one on another,
orange windows kissed
by a sun, blazing,
church steeples like abandoned needles
poking clouds
empty of rain and forgiveness
in a desiccate search for god
a moon emerges from behind
in silent ambush
to smolder with light
to which it can make no claim
like a pucked ornament dangling
a sad unbra illuminating
uncertainties that eat inside
and so, I quicken the pace
in desperate haste
to beat the darkness
from white
to red
to grey
the gloom about
to fall
to black,
and home
once inside I illuminate
the house with light
room
to room
to room in reprieve
I secure the door on the darkness
in a desperate and frightened attempt
to keep alive that which is me
alone, I sit by a window
and spy on the creeping shadows
and ponder uncertainties
the darkness brings
the fright that subsists
inside me
for the horror that prevails
below the soil
where the granite dominos rest
where it will one day lie with me
beneath, above, around, within
below the moss of time
eternal.
—michael brimbau
[poetry]
Lizzie On Trial
She is every bit the lady,
queenly in her black dress
and plumed hat,
black gloves, and long black fan.
Head held high,
she weeps and faints
at appropriate intervals.
She is every bit the devil.
Bolts of lightning fly from her eyes.
She wears an evil grin
and her hair is filled with snakes.
One can only look at her
obliquely . . .
or face a fear of stone.
—Larry Allen
August Names
Be that it may
I tell this to thou
thoughts spoken
cant is out tongue
hear the words
gentlemen and
ladies listen
to the demonic
cries of terror
Stop
turn a deaf ear
they may suffer
and they may die
but we are safe
Nay, there is not us
starved for attention
waving arm in air
lost a lottery
won nothing but one
new idea of life
Pages turn over
years pass, countless
lists of many
dead and buried
they and us all
have august names
—grim k. de evil
[poetry]
Waiting
On a still, quiet afternoon
I wander the sterile grounds of
carefully placed stones
of red, of white marble
of polished granite grey
unappreciated by those who lie
covered, Silent, endlessly
waiting
waiting,
waiting, away
The hemorrhaging foliage
from bleeding trees
tumble to the ground at my feet
on a bed of late summer grass
where they will not long last
dry and wither
crumble and decay
steady and unnoticed
like beneath this clay
like the flesh we carry
until the day we marry
the dying leaves
those below
waiting
waiting
waiting away.
—Michael Brimbau
[poetry]
ODE TO DOMESTIC HARMONY
It was the day of the murder and all through the house,
Tension mounted twixt Lizzie and Andy’s plump spouse.
Emma, in Fairhaven, with Brownells in their nest,
Closed weary eyes and longed for some rest.
With heavy feet dragging, Bridget downward did trod,
Doing as she was told with one tired, resigned nod.
Seizing bucket and pole out the doorway she clattered,
Got sick in the yard, but what did that matter?
Spying a friend standing close to the fence,
She sauntered right over without much of a wrench.
Chatting and smiling in the warm August sun,
It sure beat the washing and was surely more fun.
Uncle Morse had departed, so peculiar and thin,
To visit the Emerys and their visiting kin.
While no one would say that he was a glutton,
He thought, “Oh, Dear Lord, please no more mutton!”
Andrew had left to count all his money,
Lizzie was quiet, and he thought that was ” funny.”
He sighed as he walked to the banks just downstreet,
And felt faintly ill, “It must be the heat.”
Abby trudged up the steps with her braid of false hair,
And hitched up her skirts as she mounted the stair.
Already defeated and without a friend,
She looked up to Heaven thinking, “How will it end?”
—Shelley Dziedzic
[poetry]
Lizzie did you do it?
I couldn’t bear to ask her and so I waited
And so I watched.
I wasn’t here! Why wasn’t I here?
She was upset—knew she was upset
That’s why we planned to go away.
It was her birthday and she always gets like this
This certain way about this time
June-July-August
The mood lasts longer as each anniversary passes
She must see her childhood escaping
Her youth fades when she looks at her desperate hands
She sees the promises of sixteen and then she blinks and sees thirty-two.
We used to give her gifts, but Father cut that out at thirty.
You’re no child anymore, Child, he’d say.
That confuses her. She still wants.
But we cannot give her what she truly wants
It is not in our nature or power to give her that.
So flat Birthdays, and she doesn’t forget
And each piles on the other and soon
She is carrying a weight but won’t let it go
The weight becomes her and it’s not a burden anymore
It’s a part of her like a hump back.
She looks in the mirror and doesn’t see it
because it’s behind her.
She doesn’t look behind her to notice she is deformed.
Oh her Birthdays are a ruin
And now she is grown no one cares.
Her friends give little trifles
But accompanied by raucous humor and ribald jokes.
They don’t take things so seriously.
They don’t understand the deep well that is within her
That needs filling—that will never be full.
It used to be exposed—in her eyes, in her manner.
The deep needy thing that consumes her would reach out
From her eyes—and that repelled people
Tho they didn’t know why.
They sensed they were lacking and wanted to run away.
She was cautioned about that—Abbie knew.
Abbie saw it on her own wedding night in June.
Abbie had come to Father after almost giving up
And so she was relieved—she would have done anything—made any
effort.
Then she saw that look on Lizzie,
The I will eat you up and swallow you whole look of her hunger
But surly Lizzie was a mere baby!
And Abbie thought she might fill her
Or failing that, distract her.
A good woman went down then. Sunk.
Sunk in Lizzie’s eyes.
Father didn’t look that deeply
If we were not fighting—
If we had no tears or frowns or demands or tantrums
He thought all was right in his world.
Better to miss the look
Better to deny it if one even had a glimpse of it.
He could do that, and sleep soundly
But he was a Man, and he did have a big stick he kept under the bed.
I’m sure he knew not why—but some Man’s instinct kept it there
And lock the door and what is already inside cannot invade deeper.
It’s locked in the house with us now.
We’ve not locked strangers out—we’ve tried to secure the beast within.
Father does it unknowingly
But I think Uncle knows what’s what.
He has been everywhere and seen everything
And he has seen this thing and he recognizes what it looks like.
He knows when the wolf is circling the flock—there is uneasiness, unrest.
A farmer knows the wolf will strike from hunger, with patience.
The farmer can only hope the wolf
Settles for just one lamb to its slaughter.
He can’t kill it ahead of time because it is amorphous.
It hovers outside the ken of human knowledge
It blends into the morning mist, unseen—yet sensed
When the guard has slipped it strikes quick and deadly and gets away.
I can only imagine the bleating of the lamb
As it is torn from its family, and the sound of the family as it is torn
The victim is dragged into gray limbo
Beyond a human’s sight or understanding
The kill, then, is almost merciful when it finally is done.
The screaming stops—the fog closes over the sight
And the herd has made another sacrifice
And they thank God it wasn’t them.
We learn to appease the beast
We are on watch and we are wary.
We went away—but she came back
Was she feeding the beast or was it feeding her?
If you did it was only natural.
Who is to say that the prey shouldn’t die and the predator live?
A wild animal cannot be tamed—people know this, don’t they?
—Kat Koorey
The Hatchet:
Lizzie Borden’s Journal
of Murder, Mystery & Victorian History.
Available online at hatchetonline.com and in
print through lulu.com.

The Literary Hatchet, Special Edition #1

Transcription

Similar documents

Sosy Style Guide

People Magazine - Shore Fire Media

Headteacher`s Newsletter July 2015

The Legend Summer - Austin Preparatory School

Northern Lights 5 - Scottish Universities` International Summer School

Is Memory Faithful to the Past?

2014-15 - One

Folder 16 Private Messages Sent Mayer, Andre