Copyright © 2017 Sarah Schmidt
The right of Sarah Schmidt to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Quote from ‘We outgrow love like other things’ J 887/F 1094 by Emily Dickinson from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
First published by Hachette Australia
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook in 2017 by Tinder Press
An imprint of Headline Publishing Group
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 4084 2
Cover credits: Wasps © alslutsky, Leaves © sea-walker, wooden background texture © Svetlana Lukienko, all © Shutterstock
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.tinderpress.co.uk
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part II
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part III
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Fall River timeline
Last will and testament excerpts
About the author
Author pic © Nicholas Purcell
Sarah Schmidt is a librarian from Melbourne. She became obsessed with the Borden story after coming across Lizzie’s case by chance in a second-hand bookstore and her passionate research has even taken her to stay for several nights in the Borden house.
Find out more on her website https://sarahschmidt.org/ and on Twitter @ikillnovel.
Praise
‘Eerie and compelling, Sarah Schmidt breathes such life into the terrible, twisted tale of Lizzie Borden and her family, she makes it impossible to look away’ Paula Hawkins
‘What a book – powerful, visceral and disturbing. I felt like one of the many flies on the walls of that unhappy, blood-drenched house’ Cathy Rentzenbrink, author of THE LAST ACT OF LOVE
‘[A] gory and gripping debut’ Observer
‘An outstanding debut. Enviably brilliant and memorable’ Hannah Beckerman
‘Vivid, sultry and engrossing’ Carys Bray
‘A twisty, visceral, highly original novel that grips you from start to finish. An exceptional and stunning debut’ Kate Hamer, author of The Girl in the Red Coat
‘See What I Have Done held me in its sweaty grasp to the very last pages . . . as deftly destabilising as the best of Margaret Atwood’ Patrick Gale
‘See What I Have Done is wonderful. Exquisitely-drawn characters, beautiful prose, a brilliant retelling of story. Every single sentence is perfect’ Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths
‘[An] exquisitely crafted and chilling re-imagining of the gruesome 1982 crimes’ Lady
‘Lizzie Borden and her axe have fascinated since 1892, and this incredible reimagining is one you’ll never ever forget’ Heat
‘A great historical novel that takes a real life crime as its starting point. See What I Have Done is a gripping family drama and a whodunnit about two unsolved murders . . . chilling and claustrophobic’ Stylist
‘Disturbing and original’ S Magazine, Sunday Express
About the Book
When her father and step-mother are found brutally murdered on a summer morning in 1892, Lizzie Borden – thirty two years old and still living at home – immediately becomes a suspect. But after a notorious trial, she is found innocent, and no one is ever convicted of the crime.
Meanwhile, others in the claustrophobic Borden household have their own motives and their own stories to tell: Lizzie’s unmarried older sister, a put-upon Irish housemaid, and a boy hired by Lizzie’s uncle to take care of a problem.
This unforgettable debut makes you question the truth behind one of the great unsolved mysteries, as well as exploring power, violence and the harsh realities of being a woman in late nineteenth century America.
For Cody.
And for Alan and Rose who left before I could finish.
We outgrow love like other things
And put it in the drawer
Emily Dickinson
Knowlton: ‘You have been on pleasant terms with your step-mother since then?’
Lizzie: ‘Yes sir.’
Knowlton: ‘Cordial?’
Lizzie: ‘It depends upon one’s idea of cordiality, perhaps.’
Lizzie Borden’s inquest testimony
PART I
ONE
LIZZIE
4 August 1892
HE WAS STILL bleeding. I yelled, ‘Someone’s killed Father.’ I breathed in kerosene air, licked the thickness from my teeth. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I looked at Father, the way hands clutched to thighs, the way the little gold ring on his pinkie finger sat like a sun. I gave him that ring for his birthday when I no longer wanted it. ‘Daddy,’ I had said, ‘I’m giving this to you because I love you.’ He had smiled and kissed my forehead.
A long time ago now.
I looked at Father. I touched his bleeding hand, how long does it take for a body to become cold? and leaned closer to his face, tried to make eye contact, waited to see if he might blink, might recognise me. I wiped my hand across my mouth, tasted blood. My heart beat nightmares, gallop, gallop, as I looked at Father again, watched blood river down his neck and disappear into suit cloth. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I walked out of the room, closed the door behind me and made my way to the back stairs, shouted once more to Bridget, ‘Quickly. Someone’s killed Father.’ I wiped my hand across my mouth, licked my teeth.
Bridget came down, brought with her the smell of decayed meaty-meat. ‘Miss Lizzie, what . . .’
‘He’s in the sitting room.’ I pointed through thick, wallpapered walls.
‘Who is?’ Bridget’s face, prickly with confusion.
‘I thought he looked hurt but I wasn’t sure how badly until I got close,’ I said. Summer heat ran up my neck like a knife. My hands ached.
‘Miss Lizzie, yer scarin’ me.’
‘Father’s in the sitting room.’ It was difficult to say anything else.
Bridget ran from the back stairs through the kitchen and I followed her. She ran to the sitting room door, put her hand on the door knob, turn it, turn it.
‘His face has been cut.’ There was a part of me that wanted to push Bridget into the room, make her see what I had found.
/> She pulled her hand away from the knob and turned to me, owl eyes swooping over my face. A length of sweat trickled from her temple to collarbone. ‘What do ya mean?’ she said.
Like a tiny looking-glass inside my mind, I saw all of Father’s blood, a meal, the leftovers from a wild dog’s feast. The scraps of skin on his chest, his eye resting on his shoulder. His body the Book of Apocalypse. ‘Someone came in and cut him,’ I said.
Bridget was a-tremble. ‘What do ya mean, Miss Lizzie? How could someone cut his face?’ Her voice soured, a tear. I didn’t want her to cry, didn’t want to have to comfort her.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ I said. ‘They might have used an axe. Like taking down a tree.’
Bridget began to cry and strange feelings popped across my bones. She faced the door and twisted her wrist, allowed the door to crack open an inch.
‘Go get Dr Bowen,’ I said. I looked past her, tried to see Father but couldn’t.
Bridget turned to me, scratched her hand. ‘We should attend to yer father, Miss Lizzie . . .’
‘Go bring Dr Bowen.’ I grabbed her hand, all rough and sticky, and walked her to the side door. ‘You’d best hurry, Bridget.’
‘Ya shouldn’t be alone, Miss Lizzie.’
‘What if Mrs Borden was to come home? Shouldn’t I be here to tell her?’ My teeth were cold against my teeth.
She looked into the sun. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘I’ll try ta be quick as I can.’
Bridget ran out the side of the house, let the door hit her on the backside, a paddle, and she bobbed as she ran onto Second Street, her white house-bonnet a sail in the breeze. Bridget looked over her shoulder towards me, her face dumb with worry, and I shooed her along, my wrist a flick and crunch. She kept going, hip and shouldered an old woman, made her drop her walking cane, made her cry out, ‘What’s the hurry, missy?’ Bridget didn’t respond, how naughty, disappeared from sight, and the woman picked up her cane, made it chink against stone, made a tacky-tacky sound.
I watched people pass by, liked the way their voices filled the air, made everything feel whole, and I felt my lips turn a smile as birds jumped over and under tree branches. For a moment I thought of capturing them, placing them in my pigeon aviary in the barn. How lucky they’d be with me to look after them. I thought of Father, my stomach growled hunger and I went to the pail of water by the well, let my hands sink into the cool sip sip. I brought my hands to mouth and began drinking, lapping with my tongue. It was soft, delicate. Everything slowed down. I saw a dead pigeon lying grey and still in the yard and my stomach murmured. I looked into the sun. I thought of Father, tried to remember the last words I said to him. I took a pear from the arbour, walked back inside.
On the kitchen counter were johnnycakes. I wormed my fingers into their middles until they became small pieces of flour-rocks. I threw a handful of johnnycakes against the wall, listened to them crash in stale waves. Next I went to the stove, pulled the pot of mutton broth close to me and took a deep breath.
There was nothing but my thoughts and Father. I walked towards the sitting room, sank my teeth into the pear, stopped at the door. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. My legs began to shake and drum into the floor and I took a bite of my pear to make them still. Behind the sitting room door was the smell of tobacco pipe.
‘Father,’ I said. ‘Is that you?’
I opened the door wider then wider, sank my teeth into pear. Father was there on the sofa. He hadn’t moved. Pear skin crisped in my mouth and I caught the smell again. ‘You ought to stop with the tobacco, Father. It makes your skin smell old.’
On the floor next to the sofa was Father’s pipe. I hooked the pipe under my teeth, my tongue pressed against the small mouthpiece. I breathed in. Outside I heard Bridget call like a banshee, ‘Miss Lizzie! Miss Lizzie!’ I placed the pipe back on the floor, my fingers grazing circles of blood, and as I walked out of the room and half closed the door I took a peek at Father.
I opened the side door. Bridget looked a-fire, flame red, and she told me, ‘Dr Bowen’s not home.’
Her response made me want to spit at her. ‘Go find him. Get someone. Get going,’ I said.
Her head jarred backwards. ‘Miss Lizzie, shouldn’t we get Mrs Borden?’ Her voice an echo in a cave, enough with questions.
I cracked my heel into the floorboards, made the house moan then howl. ‘I told you, she’s not here.’
Bridget’s forehead creased. ‘Where is she? We need ta get her right now.’ Annoying, insistent.
‘Don’t tell me what to do, Bridget.’ I heard my voice fold around doors and corners. The house; brittle bone under foot. Everything sounded louder than it should, hurt the ear.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Lizzie.’ Bridget rubbed her hand.
‘Go find someone else. Father really needs help.’
Bridget let out a breath and I watched her run down the street, past a group of young children playing hopscotch. I took another bite of the pear and started to move away from the door.
From across the side fence I heard a woman call my name, felt the drilling of it, ‘Lizzie. Lizzie. Lizzie,’ bore into my ear. I squinted at a figure walking towards me. I pressed my face into the screen door, pieced together the shapes of familiarity. ‘Mrs Churchill?’ I said.
‘Are you alright, dear? I heard Bridget hollering up and down the street and then I saw you standing at the door looking so lost.’ Mrs Churchill came closer to the house, pulled at her red blouse.
On the back step she asked again, ‘Dear, are you alright?’ and my heart beat fast, fast, fast and I told her, ‘Mrs Churchill, do come in. Someone’s killed Father.’
Her eyes and nose scrunched, mouth hollowed into an O. A loud bang sounded from the basement; my neck twitched.
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ she said, a small voice. I opened the door, let her in. ‘Lizzie, what’s happened?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I came in and I saw him all cut up. He’s in there.’ I pointed to the sitting room.
Mrs Churchill slowed into the kitchen, rubbed her fat, clean fingers over her red-queen cheeks, rubbed them over her gold cameo necklace, covered her chest with her hands. There in all its shine, her gold and diamond wedding ring, I’d like to keep that. Her chest heaved, soft, child-suckled breasts, I waited for her heart to burst through ribcage onto the kitchen floor.
‘Is he alone?’ She was a mouse.
‘Yes. Very.’
Mrs Churchill took steps towards the sitting room door then stopped, looked at me. ‘Should I go in?’
‘He’s very hurt, Mrs Churchill. But you could go in. If you wanted to.’
She receded, came back by my side. I counted the times I had seen Father’s body since I found it. My stomach growled.
‘Where’s your mother?’ she asked.
I wrenched my head towards the ceiling, I hate that word, then closed my eyes. ‘She’s gone to visit a sick relative.’
‘We really must get her, Lizzie.’ Mrs Churchill tugged at my hand, tried to make me move.
My skin itched. I pulled away from her grip, scratched my palm. ‘I don’t want to bother her right now.’
‘Lizzie, don’t be ridiculous. This is an emergency.’ She scolded me like I was a child.
‘You can see him, if you want.’
She shook her head, baffled. ‘I don’t think I can . . .’
‘I meant, if you saw him, you would see why it isn’t a good idea to fetch Mrs Borden.’
Mrs Churchill placed the back of her hand on my forehead. ‘You feel very hot, Lizzie. You’re not thinking straight.’
‘I’m alright.’ My skin slid from underneath her hand.
Her eyes widened, threatened to outgrow the boundaries of bone, and I leaned towards Mrs Churchill. She flinched. ‘Perhaps we should go outside, Lizzie . . .’
I shook my head, absolute. ‘No. Father shouldn’t be left alone.’
Mrs Churchill and I stood side by side, faced the sitting room door. I could
hear her breathe, could hear saliva swish thick over her gums, could smell Castile soap and clove in her hair. The roof cracked, made the sitting room door feather open an inch and my toes wiggled a step then a step until I was a little closer to Father. ‘Mrs Churchill,’ I said, ‘who do you think will wash his body when it comes time?’
She looked at me as if I spoke foreign words. ‘I’m . . . not really sure.’
‘Perhaps my sister could do it.’ I turned to her, watched sadness tiptoe across her brow and gave her a smile, cheer up now, cheer up.
Her lips parted, a sea. ‘Let’s not worry about that.’
‘Oh. Alright.’ I turned to face the sitting room door again.
We were quiet for a time. My palm itched. I thought of using my teeth to scratch, went to bring my hand to my mouth when Mrs Churchill said, ‘When did it happen, Lizzie?’
I rushed my hand to my side. ‘I’m not sure. I was outside then I came in and he was hurt. Bridget was upstairs. Now he’s dead.’ I tried to think but everything slowed. ‘Isn’t that funny? I can’t remember what I was doing. Does that ever happen to you, forgetting the simplest of things?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Her words slurped out.
‘He said he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to be alone. So I kissed him, left him asleep on the sofa and went outside.’ The roof popped. ‘That’s all I can remember.’
Mrs Churchill placed her hand on my shoulder, patted me, made me warm and tingle. ‘Don’t push yourself, dear. This is all very . . . unnatural.’
‘You’re right.’
Mrs Churchill wiped her eyes, made them red with tears and rubbing. She looked strange. ‘This can’t be happening,’ she said. She looked strange and I tried not to think of Father alone on the sofa.
My skin itched. I scratched. ‘I’m really thirsty, Mrs Churchill,’ I said.
She stared at me, ruby-eyed, and went to the kitchen counter. She poured water from a jug and handed me a cup. The water looked cloud warm. I sipped. I thought of Father. The water was tar down my throat. I should have poured it onto the floor and asked Mrs Churchill to clean it up, get me something fresh. I sipped again. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I smiled.
See What I Have Done Page 1
