See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  ‘I’m sure we can do so tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure we can.’

  Mrs Borden called me back in. ‘Bridget, before you finish, you may like to see Mr Borden and Mr Morse have what they need.’

  ‘Yes, marm.’

  She went to Mr Borden, kissed him on the forehead, the way you do when proving loyalty, and he patted her hand, didn’t watch her leave the way John did. I was left on my own to ask, ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Mr Borden: ‘No.’

  John: ‘I wouldn’t mind biscuits for my room.’

  I nodded, went to the scullery and got what was asked, plated shortbreads and took them to the guestroom. The men talked, and I could hear their low voices carry up the stairs.

  ‘Been to the farm lately?’

  ‘I got the chance a few weekends ago.’

  ‘The girls go with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good to get them that fresh air.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Might you consider moving to the Hill? Away from the thicker smoke down here?’

  ‘Things are fine here on this side of Fall River, thank you, John. I’m sure they’ve grown strong lungs over the years.’

  ‘Of course.’

  When I’d finished up for the night, washed up in the scullery, I went to Mr Borden, in the room alone at that point. ‘I’m done for the night. Is there anythin’ you’ll need?’

  He smoothed his hands on his legs, stretched out his fingers. ‘No.’

  I noticed a grey feather on his elbow. ‘Mr Borden, ya’ve somethin’ on ya.’ I pointed and he looked, picked it off and held the feather between his fingers.

  ‘I thought I got them all.’ He then stared at me, like a boy in trouble.

  ‘Once there are feathers . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes. They stick around.’ He looked back at the feather. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have done it.’

  The birds, the axe. He knew I knew. I got a sick feeling. ‘I’m sure ya had yer reasons, Mr Borden.’

  ‘I’ll have to explain.’

  ‘Daddy always told me nothin’ was ever too late.’

  He nodded. I left him there, went up the back stairs, heard Mrs Borden in her bedroom weep a little. I thought of stopping to help her, but she’d made me so mad. I left her alone, kept going to my room. I got in and locked the door behind me, felt the need to do that. I sat on the bed, changed into my nightie. The day I’d had. I didn’t care to face another here. I turned my lamp off, huddled down into bed, listened to the night, to the house.

  TWELVE

  BENJAMIN

  4 August 1892

  I HID IN the crawl space all afternoon, heard the rise and fall of voices from the street, felt my skin bubble then melt from the heat. I heard the police walk in and out of the barn like lost children.

  ‘Did we check the loft?’

  ‘Yes, when we first arrived.’

  ‘They said she mentioned pears . . .’

  ‘I found a pear core outside, but not in here.’

  ‘Chief wants us to find the weapon.’

  ‘What makes him think the killer didn’t take it with him? Where do you suppose one hides something like that around here?’

  ‘Beats me. I’m still trying to understand how no one heard anything. Not a scream, not a thing.’

  ‘Sounds odd, if you ask me.’

  Their inexperience was almost quaint. I wanted to tell them, ‘You would be surprised at how little noise can be made at the end of a life.’

  ‘Should we take one more look around?’ an officer asked.

  ‘Sure. We’re not going to find anything, but sure.’

  The officers were lazy. They limp-scuttled the ground floor of the barn, picked up piles of cloth or wood before throwing them down and declaring, ‘Nothing spectacular here.’ They left. I got that electric-feel across the skin, the type that made me want to jump down, run out to the officers and tell them, ‘You want to see something amazing? Look at this axe head I found.’ I was bored from stillness. I wanted them to try to take the axe head from me, touch me in some way. As soon as a finger lay on me, my jaw would lash towards them. I would take a bite of flesh and I would hit them. I wanted to do these things because I could no longer do them to Andrew.

  Pigeons walked across the roof. A cloud moved overhead, darkened light. I lay and I thought. How was I going to get my money so I could go back south, finish off Papa? I would have to have words with John, like someone had had words with Andrew.

  After a time, footsteps filled the barn. I rolled myself to the crawl space ledge, peered an eye. John stood there, a pear in hand, and said in a lowered voice, ‘Benjamin, you in here?’

  I propped onto elbows. ‘Yes.’

  John came further into the barn, looked up. ‘How long you been there?’

  ‘A while.’

  ‘Has anyone seen you? Did Lizzie see you?’

  ‘No one saw me. Things got hectic.’

  John took a bite of the pear, sharp crunch of flesh. ‘Tell me, when did you decide to kill Abby?’

  The way he accused me like that, like I’d break our agreement. ‘I didn’t.’

  He laughed. ‘I never suspected you a modest fellow.’ He laughed at me some more, riled a snarl lip from me. He took a bite from the pear, coughed. I would’ve liked him to choke.

  ‘There was someone else in the house.’

  John stilled himself. ‘Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘I thought you knew who it was.’

  ‘No.’ John went to the barn door, poked his head out, came back in. ‘I only ever wanted you to deal with Andrew.’

  ‘Someone got to them first,’ I said.

  ‘You know I requested everything to be discreet. There are police everywhere.’

  I swung my legs over the ledge, sat up as best I could, hunched back and head. ‘I stayed true to my word.’

  ‘Really? Because we have two dead bodies in there . . .’

  ‘See what I found.’ I held up the bloodied axe head, the piece of skull.

  John paled. ‘The hell?’

  ‘I found the axe in here under a blanket. And this.’

  ‘Put that away.’ John waved his arm, like drowning.

  ‘Abby’s head? Don’t you want to take a closer look?’

  John wiped his eyes. ‘If you didn’t do it, who did?’

  ‘Am I going to get paid?’

  He looked at me, rotten core. ‘I beg yours?’

  ‘I was promised payment.’

  John pointed a finger. ‘You’ve a nerve, you pitiful thug.’

  ‘Fair is fair, John. There are a lot of police out there. I could show them what I have.’

  ‘No one would believe you! They’d think you did it.’

  ‘We’ve been seen together.’

  ‘Is this a threat?’

  ‘Yes.’ I smiled, showed teeth.

  There were two loud voices coming closer to the barn. I swung my legs, rolled myself to the wall, flattened out of sight. The barn door opened.

  ‘Hello, officers,’ John said. Grimy politeness.

  ‘Mr Morse. Didn’t expect to see you here,’ the first officer said.

  ‘Simply wanting to stay out of your way.’ He bit pear.

  ‘We’re here to have another search around the barn,’ the second officer said.

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘Yes. It’s part of a crime scene.’

  There was the sound of metal moving, of things being lifted and dropped.

  ‘A lot of farming equipment here,’ the second officer said.

  ‘Andrew kept the family supplies here,’ John said.

  ‘They’re farmers?’

  ‘Andrew owns farm land over in Swansea. A hobbyist, you might say.’

  ‘Why not keep the tools over there?’

  ‘I suppose Andrew liked to work around the house too.’

  ‘An elderly man labouring?’

  ‘He had help, of course.’
>
  Objects were moved around.

  ‘Do you know if anyone had any malice towards Mr Borden? Perhaps the help?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Miss Lizzie. I rarely visit enough to know.’

  ‘Of course.’ The officer paused. ‘But do you think it’s likely?’

  ‘In my experience, Mr Borden was a solid man.’

  ‘Are you aware of any trouble around the house? Anything untoward?’

  There were many things untoward.

  John was quiet for a moment. Then, ‘I recall Lizzie did tell me about the daylight robbery last year . . .’

  ‘Yes, that’s been mentioned.’

  ‘Unfortunately, and given the circumstances today, one might think the family has been cruelly targeted for their money.’ John bit the pear. I thought of his sliver tongue licking sugar juice. I could taste a set-up. ‘Nothing like pears in the heat,’ John said.

  ‘I find them too sickly,’ the first officer said. ‘Lizzie mentioned there’s fishing equipment in here.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ John said. I heard the pear drop on the ground, then a rattle of a tin box. ‘Here you are.’ The tin was opened, looked through.

  ‘Nothing suspicious here,’ the second officer said.

  They were quiet for a time, then the first officer said, ‘Tell me, is that a crawl space above the loft?’

  Blood pumped through my body, made me shake. If they found me, could I take them all?

  I heard John clear his throat. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is that a crawl space above the loft?’

  ‘Why?’ John said.

  ‘It seems like one.’

  ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing.’

  ‘I think I’ll take a look.’

  ‘Probably best you don’t,’ John said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’d say you’d have a hard time fitting through the hole. Not meant to fit anything in it really.’ John cleared his throat.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I helped build this barn. Andrew and I were going to make another level but he decided it was unnecessary. I’m afraid in the end all we managed to build was an expensive brooding hut for pigeons.’ John laughed.

  ‘I think I’ll take a look-see anyway.’

  ‘Don’t believe me, Officer?’ John said.

  ‘No, sir, nothing like that. I just think I should be thorough.’

  ‘It might be dangerous for you.’ John on the edge of pleading would make things worse for me.

  ‘How so?’

  John was quiet before saying, ‘Unsound structures. I doubt Andrew paid upkeep on this barn. I’d hate for you to hurt yourself.’

  There was silence for a time, then the officer said, ‘Perhaps we’ll send for a builder to check over the structure before I climb up.’

  ‘Yes,’ John said. ‘But wouldn’t it take some time?’

  ‘We’ll send for someone, ask them to come as soon as they can.’

  ‘If you think that’s best,’ John said.

  ‘I just want to be thorough.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful, Mr Morse.’

  ‘Good. I’m happy to assist with the investigation.’

  The men left. I could feel the axe head against my skin, the lovely sharpness. I pulled myself up, unfurled ratchet limbs, crack, crack, and it occurred to me that John might have saved me. But I was owed money. I wasn’t done asking John questions. I was going back into that house. I wanted to see if the killer had left anything behind.

  Night carved out the moon. Things became quiet. I crawled towards the barn window and stared out onto a glowing house. A few police officers lined the perimeter and looked bored. One chewed fingernails, spat out his relics onto the grass.

  I kept watch on the house, people went in and out of rooms, kerosene lamps dimmed one by one. I waited until the police officers headed towards the front before turning my lamp on. I was out the barn then, night air, an owl hoot, the sound of horses’ hooves. Into the basement I went. No need for locked doors now. There was the smell of wet clothing, of urine and fungus. I took a breath, climbed the stairs like a mountaineer. I was back inside the kitchen. The clock on the mantel struck eleven. I walked through the house. In the parlour, a lamp ached, the oily thick smell filled the house from the top down. My head buckled from the fumes. I went to the dining room door, opened it, entered the room limb by limb. A smell of rotting. I lifted the lamp high and there on the dining table: two bodies, solid masses. There were small rounds of dried bloodstains on white sheets, outlines of cavernous skulls. When I was younger, Grandpappy died. Gangrene. Papa had said, ‘He shoulda let the doctor saw his leg off.’ I tried to understand how removing a limb could save a life. Papa forced me to stay with Grandpappy’s body. ‘It’ll get you used to this stuff.’

  ‘But what if he wakes up?’

  ‘Boy, you should know by now that dead is dead. You ain’t wakin’ from nothin’.’

  I sat next to Grandpappy’s infected body and tasted gangrene on the tongue, foul, rotted fat.

  I went to the bodies on the table. I wanted to see what the axe had done to Andrew’s body. I lifted the sheet, a set of nakedness, and looked Andrew over, thin-limbed, liver-spotted skin. His stomach had been cut open, loosely catgutted shut, the stitching across his abdomen neater than my leg. He gave off old man stench, unwashed, used up. His time would’ve come soon anyway. I went closer to him, dragged a finger over his chest. I expected him to breathe in, breathe out. There was blood on his neck, blood in his beard, blood where half his face used to be.

  ‘Andrew,’ I whispered, ‘you made someone very angry.’

  He was a mess of a man. I imagined Papa on the table, him all crushed up. How angry I’d have to be to do that.

  I left Andrew alone, went to Abby, placed my hands on her bare feet. Dead cold, callused, rough-skinned. I massaged her feet and in between toes there was a blister, liquid full. I squeezed the blister and it wept.

  ‘You like that, Abby?’ I said. Her toenails were unclipped and they cut into my fingertips as I massaged. ‘Weren’t much of a society woman, were you?’

  But I liked the way her skin felt around the ankle: Mama-soft. The way Papa never was. ‘Tell me, who gave you a talking-to?’ I was ready to take that person on.

  I left the bodies, made my way to the front stairs, through the sitting room with its damp-carpet stench, through to the entry way where I saw a black hat hanging on a rack, walked to the bottom of the stairs, smoothed my hand over the banister. I climbed. I climbed the stairs, headed to the room where I’d found Abby and opened the door, looked in. John asleep in the bed, his mouth wide open.

  I went into the room, sat on the bed. ‘John,’ I said. ‘Wake up.’ John breathed deep, shifted in bed. I heard a noise come from another room. I’d come for John later.

  I opened the door to the next room, was hit with the smell of violet and washed skin; a white bookshelf filled with leather-bound and hardcover books; a wooden dressing table, hairbrush, comb, lace gloves; a free-standing mirror; rumple of clothes on the ground; Lizzie sleeping. I watched her chest rise and fall; an ocean tide. I should ask her some questions.

  I moved towards her. The axe head pressed against my leg. There was the sound of a bed creaking in another room. Lizzie rolled onto her side and I bent down close. John had been so worried that she’d see me, see what I was going to do in the house. But I’d seen how she was with Abby. Lizzie was no whimper. She’d found her dead father. I wondered if she’d seen who did it.

  ‘Tell me,’ I whispered. ‘Did you get a good look?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lizzie whispered dream-talk.

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Father.’

  I wanted what was mine, I was going to tell Lizzie some home truths. Starting with John. ‘I saw you today. Your uncle sent me.’

  Lizzie breathed, a dragon.

  ‘He asked me to talk to your father.’

  ‘Father.’


  ‘Yes.’ I leaned closer. ‘John said there were problems.’

  Lizzie smacked her lips together.

  ‘But I never got a chance. Now I’m concerned he won’t pay me my money. Do you know how important money is?’

  ‘Money,’ she whispered.

  ‘Get it for me.’

  I got so close to her face, could feel my breath bounce off her skin. ‘Tell me who you saw, Lizzie. Was it John?’

  Lizzie. ‘Saw Abby.’

  ‘I saw her too.’

  A bed creaked. Lizzie let out a sore-dog yelp and she opened her eyes, ballooned them wide and turned her face, stared at me. The scream that was made was made again. I stood in a flash, heard someone turn a key in a lock and I ran out of the room. I got to the stairs, saw John standing in the doorway of his room, saw him retreat back inside, and I ran through the house, out through the side door and towards the street.

  Somewhere a dog barked. I took off down Second Street, past a police officer, heard footsteps behind me. I quickened, the footsteps quickened.

  The axe head thunked against my thigh, made me bleed.

  I found myself walking train tracks towards a freight train. My shoes slipped in between the sleepers and track, made it difficult for me to move quickly. A train whistle. I lugged my feet, walked across the thick lines of hard track metal and climbed inside a carriage. The train moved. Everything ached. I wanted to sleep. The train gained momentum. Fall River had been a bust. I put my hand in my pocket, felt the goodies. So many things left unfinished. The train went on and I noticed blood on my hands. I licked my fingers, licked them clean. Someone in that house had lied to me, I thought. One day I’d come back, get what was owed.

  THIRTEEN

  LIZZIE

  4 August 1892

  BY THE TIME night fell, Emma and I had offered a reward for the capture of Father’s murderer. Emma had complained that the amount was too much, too showy.

  ‘You sound just like him,’ I said.

  Emma shook her head, upturned a lip. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘I think it shows how much we care.’

  ‘Money doesn’t prove anything.’ She was loud.

  ‘Of course it does! The Borden name means something in Fall River. We should do this right.’