Chapter Twenty-Six
Emma was calmer now. She walked to the other chair, sat down, and stared across at me. I could feel her eyes burning holes into me. I was not sure what I should do. Or, even, could do. After all, my guests and servants were gone, we were all alone in this big house, and she was supposed to still be away...
And then the puzzle pieces dropped into place.
She must have recognized my epiphany, for she asked, "So, have you finally figured it out, have you? God knows it took you long enough."
I was unable to form words, let alone sentences. I could barely breathe. I just sat there, foolishly, staring at her in disbelief.
"I do have to admit, I could never have managed it without dear Uncle John."
After swallowing several times, I asked, "You mean you had Uncle John murder Father and Abby? But, how? The police checked. He had an unimpeachable alibi."
"Yes, about six unbreakable alibis. He could not have done anything to make him look more guilty. Luckily, the police did not see it like that. I seriously considered killing him after that fiasco.
"No, he did not kill anyone. He could never have managed it. The man has no stomach for anything so 'manly.' But, he did teach us, both, how to handle a rig. And, he arranged for that horse-trader in Westport to leave a horse and buggy near the Brownell's in Fairhaven.
"That was how I was able to get back to Fall River, and then back to Fairhaven again."
"But... the Brownell's... you were with them..." I sputtered.
"I had been there for two weeks. Plenty of time to drop a few words, here and there. They believed they had thought of the 'picnic on the beach' idea, all by themselves. Bless them!
"As I said, I had already been with them for two full weeks. We were all ready for a bit of a break from one another's company. The morning of their picnic dawned. Everyone went to the seaside for their outing -- except for me. I begged off with a blinding headache.
"As soon as I was sure they would not return for anything they might have forgotten, I hurried to the spot in the woods where the rig was waiting for me.
"It was me who brought the note to Abby. It didn't say someone was sick. I told her I was planning to play a prank on you, and to tell you and Bridget she was going out. Then she was to wait for me in the guestroom."
"Abby thought you were going to trick me? Why would she think you would suddenly become so light-hearted? Or, why you would include her in your hoax?" I managed to ask.
"Because she was a stupid cow. She did not have the brains God gave a gnat," she spat out. She giggled. "Well, that is not true. As it turned out, she had lots of brains -- all over the bedroom."
"Emma!" I gasped. I was unable to say more for several minutes. So, I just sat there, watching as she moved between the dresser and the suitcases open on the bed.
Eventually, I found my voice again and asked, "But, how? There were people on the street. Surely, they would have recognized you."
"Pshaw! They all saw me and nobody -- not a soul -- identified me. I was dressed in a dark suit and a slouchy hat. I even wore a funny little moustache I ordered from the Sears and Roebuck's catalogue. We had lived on that street for more than twenty years and not one person saw through my disguise."
I felt my mouth drop open. Every word she said was more difficult to comprehend than the one before it. At last, I squeaked out, "But why? Why after all that time -- all those years? Why?"
"Were you not listening to me just now? I had done my best to forgive Father. I really had. He should have banished Uncle John. He should never put you before me -- I was his first born, and he never should have married again.
"We could have been quite happy -- the three of us. But, no, he had to marry that cow!
"Besides, I was tired of living in that awful house. Lord knows, I tried to get you to feel the same, but you remained so complacent.
"How he missed you while you were away on your Grand Tour. Never once, when I would come home from school, did he welcome me or even seem glad to see me. But you -- you he pined for the entire time you were gone."
She paused in her packing and turned to me before continuing, "I gave serious thought of killing him -- them -- then. Then I thought better of it. After all, I was home and you were across an ocean.
"Besides, I decided I really needed to think the thing through -- to prepare for it. This was something too important for me to rush about."
I sat there, mute, too stunned to speak. However, it seemed she did not need me to speak any more. Now that she had begun, there was no quieting her. She was the one who was speaking now.
"Do you think it was chance that Uncle John showed up when he did? Or, how he managed to have all those elaborate alibis?"
She gave her sour-milk expression, and added, "I very nearly killed him when he went to such extremes. He certainly went out of his way to make sure he would not be accused with all those ridiculous stories to prove his whereabouts that morning.
"I think he was afraid I might change my mind -- that I might decide he would prove an excellent scapegoat -- hence he documented his every move.
"Still, I was sure I would have no trouble with him afterwards. He knew just which side of his bread was buttered. But, then, he had learned that very early on."
I managed to stammer out an "Emma..." before she pursed her lips and started up again.
"You still do not understand how I managed it all, do you? You hear me tell you it was me who killed them, but you cannot see how. I shall tell you then, shall I?"
She moved from between the bed and dresser and back to the chair and sat down, primly folding her hands in her lap. It was so very familiar to me, this gesture, I suddenly realized she really was my beloved sister. This was no phantom assuming her form. My dear sister was a monster.
"I have already told you how I was dressed as a man, with a wig and a hat, and a bushy moustache, that it was I who passed Abby the note through the door. It told her of my prank on you, and suggested she find a way to get Bridget from inside the house."
"Yes, all right, you passed Abby the note, and tricked her into waiting for you, but how did you get inside? All of us -- Abby included -- double-locked the front door after opening it. And you could not have slipped by me, where I was sitting in the kitchen."
"Uncle John..." she answered. I could hear the exasperation and frustration in her voice. "He went downstairs to the privy and unlocked the hatchway into the cellar."
"I still do not understand how you got inside, with Bridget and I about."
"I slipped around the back of the house and in through the cellar door. Then I merely waited in the basement."
"But, I went down into the cellar that morning. I used the privy. Why did I not see you then?"
Emma let out a high-pitched laugh, light and airy, something I do not ever recall hearing from her.
"Because I did not want you to see me. There was a moment, as I sat on the chopping block, that I considered telling you everything -- of including you in my plan. And then, I saw I could not. For you could not be relied on to remain silent.
"So, I hid when I heard the kitchen door open, and watched as you came downstairs. Once you closed the door to the privy, I crept upstairs and through the house to deal with our dear stepmother."
"But... why? How?"
"Lord, Lizzie! I have always known you were not very bright, but I never expected you to be this dull. I can be most quiet when I choose. And, it took no time at all to grab the meat cleaver off its hook as I passed through the kitchen. I just nipped upstairs and took care of Abby. Then I waited until I heard you go into your room before I went back downstairs. I hid in the closet there by the front door and waited for you to go out.
"Emma..." I began. I was aware of sagging lower in my chair, and I felt as though I had been kicked in the chest by a mule. "How could you be so sure I would go out?"
"Because, my dear sister, you are that predictable. I knew once you found Abby dead, you would pan
ic. I knew you would get as far away from the house and her body as you could manage."
She looked at me, shook her head and went on, "You still do not see, do you? I put that article of Abby's in your pile of laundry. I was sure you were too lazy to bring it back down to her. I knew you would merely stick it in a guestroom drawer, and forget to even mention it, until she began asking about it."
"You... wanted... me... to... find... her?"
"Of course I did. Have I not told you I knew you would bolt? After all, I did not want to be forced to hurt either you or Bridget." A horribly evil smile spread across her face, and she added, "But, I was determined to do whatever I needed to get the job finished.
"Father coming back so very early was a surprise. Although, in the end, it was a blessing. That closet was so unbearably hot.
"I was peeping out when you started downstairs. I saw you had changed your clothes, and carried your hat and bag. In another five minutes, you would have been safely out of the way. And then I heard the key in the front door lock and the doorknob rattling. It could only be Father struggling to get into the front door, so I pulled back into my hidey-hole and waited."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My head was spinning. I felt, in fact, just as I had that awful morning, thirteen years earlier, when I stumbled across Abby's hacked and bleeding body. And, the strange thing was that on some bizarre, primal level, I had known -- or at least suspected -- somehow Emma was involved.
I looked over to the window and saw the sky, streaked pink and purple, and I wondered how long we had been sitting here, talking. Well, how long I had been listening to Emma's tale of horror.
I returned my gaze to Emma: my older sister, my childhood caregiver, and the person who had made me -- us -- alone. I just looked at her and waited. I could tell by her expression she had much more she wanted to tell me.
"I wish you could have seen your face when Father came home and you realized you could not escape. I knew you would run out to the barn and brood for a while, and that would give me time to finish what I had come home to do.
"I was sure that lazy, Irish bitch would go upstairs and nap before dinner time, especially after being so put out. That was the one thing I worried over -- that Abby would feel sorry for her because of the heat and not send her to do the windows.
"I knew if that sloth of a girl was made to do actual work, she would go to her room and feel sorry for herself. And, I was right, she did."
Emma looked down at her hands, still folded in her lap, sighed and said, "All right. I can see I shall have to spell everything out for you.
"I was wearing a man's black suit and shoes. I took the meat cleaver up with me and killed Abby. The silly cow actually laughed when she saw me dressed so. Of course, she did not see the cleaver until it was too late. There was so much blood in the air of that stuffy room I could taste it. It was wonderful! It reminded me of when Alice had been born.
"I had a large towel with me. When I had dispatched our dear stepmother, I wiped Abby's blood off my hands and scuffed my shoes on it, so I did not track any telltale blood through the house. Then, I wrapped the cleaver in it and waited in that cubby of a closet."
"But," I asked her, "how could you be so sure Father would lie down?"
Another little peal of laughter escaped from her before she answered, "You cannot be serious, Lizzie? The only person even more predictable than you was Father. Even if he had not felt ill, he would have stretched out on the settee in that odd way of his. He always did.
"I did not even have to go into the sitting room to kill him. I wiped off my hands and feet and was turning away when I saw his old coat hanging up, and had the idea of stuffing it beneath his head. I was sure the police would think the murderer had worn it to protect his clothes.
"How I laughed when they did!"
Something stirred within me and I blurted out, "But, they thought I had been the one who wore it. Did you even consider that I might be accused? Think that I might have been hanged?"
"Ah, but you did not hang, now did you?"
"I was in jail for nearly a year. How could you do any of this? How?" I became aware how my voice had become a rather odd, high-pitched whine. But I did not care. I was so very hurt and angry, and wounded beyond belief.
"Well," she scoffed, "It was hardly prison. I mean, you were never locked away. You had your things with you, and a comfortable bed, and all your meals catered by the best restaurant in Taunton. And that nosey, old biddy, Mrs. Wright, took you outside for airings and strolls all the time. You really never suffered. You make it sound as if you had been held in the Bastille.
"However, the way you have behaved, I wonder if perhaps, it would have been better for you to be found guilty."
I think I blanched at this, for she snickered and continued, "I was never really concerned that you would be hanged. I was sure -- well, fairly sure -- I would be able to sway to the judges to spare your life.
"Did you ever study those old men on the jury. None of them would want to know they had sent a woman to the gallows."
My numbness lessened as my anger bubbled up, "Oh, you decided that spending the rest of my life in prison would have been all right? I think I would have preferred hanging, rather than spend my days in a real prison, where I would have been truly locked away."
She shrugged her shoulders in such an off-hand manner I wanted to scream. She said, "Well, to each his own. Although, I would probably agree with you about being imprisoned. After all, that was what I was trying to escape -- from our prison. How could Father stand living like that? It was as if we were back in the Middle Ages. Even worse, he expected us to live in that squalor."
"Emma, it was you who always said it was fine. It was you who encouraged me to go to Europe. You even gave me money towards the trip. You gave me the better bedroom. You always said you were happy and content."
"Yes, I did all those things. But, I did them with a purpose. Well, most of the time with purpose. Sometimes I would just wind you up for the fun of it. You were always so easy to manipulate. Of course, it was great practice for when I needed you to do what I wanted. I always knew I would eventually work out a way to leave that hellhole.
"I knew when we first moved to Second Street that Father had begun moving up in business. But, I knew he did not have his fortune made. So, I waited. I endured that miserable existence for the simple reason that the longer I waited, the more money he would save. I was right. I believe he almost doubled his wealth in the last few years of his life.
"Good thing too, since I had to share it with you. I never actually expected to have to split it with you. I do believe that was one of the very few mistakes I made -- telling Mr. Jennings I wanted to give you 'your rightful half.'"
"Then why did you? I never asked you to. Although, I would have hoped you would at least give me enough to live."
"I really could not tell you. Perhaps, I just got carried away with my play-acting. At the time, I never would have imagined you would become so hedonistic."
I could stand it no more. I jumped from my chair as if I had been stung, and cried out, "Would you please explain to me how it is you can call me a hedonist, when you have admitted to at least four murders? You have also made it quite clear you would have killed Bridget and I if you needed to. You allowed me to sit in 'police custody' -- since you insisted I was never in an actual 'jail.' However are you able to justify your actions with all your religious values?"
She blinked several times and, with a child-like look of innocence answered, "Well, I did all that before I was saved. God forgave me for all that."
I sank back down into the chair. I was torn between disbelief, anger, and my growing fear that, being alone in the house, she might suddenly decide it had been a mistake to reveal all this. As uneasy as I was becoming, I was unable to hold my tongue. "My God, you really are insane."
She shook her head, insisting, "Not at all. I am merely a realist." Then, in a quiet, firm voice added, "Besides, even t
he Bible says 'an eye for an eye.' Father should have never remained Uncle John's friend, and, of course, he should have never married Abby.
"I was merely re-establishing the status quo."
"Emma... do you actually believe all this? That you have the right to kill people to settle what you consider injustices?"
She looked at me with a rather bland expression and answered, "Why, of course. After all, who would have stood up for me -- for us -- if I had not?"
I only stared back at her, for in truth, I had no answer for her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emma went suddenly quiet, as if she waited to see what I wanted to listen to next. Since I decided I would much rather hear the rest of her horrific tale than debate justice, or hear another of her sermons, I asked, "So, you killed Father and stuffed his coat under his head. Then what did you do?"
"Ah... I knew you would become curious eventually," she said, smiling. "Well, I told you about wiping my hands and feet… oh, and the cleaver. Then I went to the scullery and washed it, dried it, and put it back on its hook. It was right there, the entire time. Hanging there, right out in the open in the kitchen -- and all those stupid policemen searching for axes.
"I very nearly laughed out loud at the trial. All those experts, pontificating about the size of the axe and hatchet blades -- and they were completely wrong. Those sanctimonious old goats! And they always insist they are stronger and more intelligent. Pshhh!'
I was afraid she was going to drift off into a rant about the stupidity of men. So, I tried to get her back to her story by asking, "Yes, well... but how ever did you get out? Did you go back through the basement?"
"No," she shook her head. Then she leaned forward, and started to use hand gestures, as she continued, "That was the worrisome bit. After all, I had locked the hatchway once I was in the cellar earlier. But, I was pretty sure you would stay in the barn for at least fifteen or twenty minutes."
Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden Page 14
