Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden

by Jordan Bollinger

  Again, she had predicated my actions to the minute, but I did my best to hide my annoyance.

  "And, it only took about a minute to kill Father. So, I really did have plenty of time to clean and replace the cleaver.

  "Then I peeked out of the back door and, when I saw no one around, I took my chance. That was the most risky part of my plan -- that you might see me from wherever you were in the barn, or someone on the street might catch sight of me coming from the back of the house, even though I was dressed as a man.

  "Anyway, out I popped. I scurried around the back of the house and looked toward the street. Again, there was no one about, so I kept close to the shrubberies along the north side of the house. When I was close to the sidewalk, and still saw nobody, I ran out, jumped into the buggy and drove off.

  "That was the hardest part -- to drive away at a slow, steady pace, so I did not draw attention to myself. Once I was safely out of town I drove very fast -- to where I knew the man would fetch the horse and buggy.

  "There, I changed back into my own clothes and burned everything I had been wearing -- the suit, hat, wig, mustache, and shoes -- everything. Oh, and the bloody towel as well.

  "Then, I hurried to the Brownells. "Although," she added, frowning, "I did cut that rather fine. I found the telegram waiting for me. I had only just gotten back inside and was opening the telegram when the Brownells returned from their picnic. I screwed up my face and squeezed out some tears, and pretended the man had just delivered it and left. They wanted me to just go, without packing, to just leave my things for them to send after me.

  "But, I told them I was feeling faint. So, I was sent to lie down, while everyone scurried about gathering and packing my things."

  "But is was so late when you got home."

  "Yes. It worked just as I planned. It took all of them at least twice as long to pack as I would have taken."

  "And," I asked in an incredulous voice, "you planned all this?"

  "Oh yes. I took my time and worked everything out."

  "I see." I thought perhaps Emma was right and I had become a hedonist. After all, I was sitting here, in this darkening bedroom, calmly discussing how my sister had killed our father and stepmother, as if we were planning the menu for the week.

  After several minutes of silence, I said, "But, the police surely must have spoken to the Brownells. They must have discovered you had not been in their company most of the day."

  My sister burst into a fit of giggles like I had not heard from her since I was a small child. "No, those stupid policemen never questioned them. Can you believe it? And the entire time that pompous Knowlton droning on to anyone who would listen about how they 'had left no stone unturned.' I nearly died of laughter."

  "What..."

  "You heard me correctly, Miss Lizzie. They never asked anyone if I was where I said I was. Of course, even if they had, it would not have mattered. They would never think I could have traveled to Fall River and back, let alone kill Father and Abby."

  "But what about that horse and buggy. Why did no one come forward about it? Neighbors told the police there had been a buggy in front of the house."

  "Dear Uncle John. He arranged for the horse to be left and then picked up. He instructed his friend where and when to leave it and to pick it up, and to ask no questions."

  "But, how could the two of you be so sure the man would remain silent?"

  "Uncle John. From something he said, I believe he knew something about this man -- something he would not wish to be known.

  "Remember, Uncle John went out to mail a letter. He was able to slip out anonymously enough, but was mobbed on the way back inside. He wrote the man, assuring him it would be worth his while to not come forward. And, he warned the man 'he did not want to cross the people with whom he was now involved.' Of course, I had to write that out for him. But, it worked."

  "So, Uncle John was your partner in these beautifully orchestrated, yet heinous crimes. Then what? Did you plan for me to be arrested? Did it concern you -- either of you -- at all? Did either of you consider that Bridget might have been dragged out into the street and lynched -- just because she was a poor, Irish, Catholic immigrant?"

  "Of course I did. But I decided I would just let things 'happen' and then work from there. Although, Uncle John expressed his concerns that neither of you two be accused. But then..." she shot me a rather sly smile and continued, "he always did have a special place in his heart for you two."

  This last comment made my blood run cold and filled my own heart with more dread and horror. Was I to understand that even Bridget had been pursued and abused by my dear uncle? Then it became clear to me. Uncle John had returned from twenty years or more in the west just a few years prior to the murders. He had come to live with us for several months.

  Originally, he had been given the small, unfinished bedroom in the attic as his quarters. However, that had only lasted a few weeks. I had never really understood or cared the how and why of it, but he had suddenly been moved down into the guest bedroom.

  Thinking back on it, Bridget had been nervous -- even jumpy -- whenever my uncle moved near her. Also, Abby had been most dour and disapproving for the remainder of his stay. Now I realized what must have happened. Of course, dear perverted Uncle John must have meddled with Bridget -- who duly complained to Abby, who, in turn, went to my father.

  This revelation filled me with shame. First, that it possible for me to have been so enwrapped in my own little world, I had not noticed someone I was fond of had been suffering. Second, that my father would only partially deal with his friend's proclivity. I would have to wait to chastise myself over all that. Right now, I had several things to say to Emma.

  "Well," I said, with a sneer, "his level of concern for our well-being was most thoughtful of him."

  "You do him a disservice," she told me, grinning. "I had to assure him that nothing would happen to either of you."

  "And," I asked her, "could you be so sure of this?"

  "I could not, could I? But, Uncle John was never the quickest of wits. I merely told him nothing untoward would happen to you two, and he believed me."

  She gave me a sweet smile, adding, "And, after all, he was really in no position to argue. I am sure he realized -- too late of course -- the police were much more likely to believe any story I told them, rather than believe him. Especially, if I told them about Uncle John's peculiar appetites."

  I was about to ask her about this when she started speaking again. "I was most vexed when you wrote me about ruining your dress. I had seen the advantage of you wearing it the morning of the murders. After all, most of Bridget's were blue calico. I was sure you would change into the blue silk bengaline for your 'escape.' Then you spoiled it."

  "However could you know what I would wear that morning?"

  "Oh Lizzie, do you never listen? I have said several times this afternoon how very predictable you are. You are just like Father was -- creatures of unshakeable habits. Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays that summer, you wore the pink and white wrapper. On Tuesday, Thursdays, and Saturdays you wore the Bedford cord.

  "I had planned everything for a Thursday with a purpose -- that you would be wearing the dress stained with brown paint. Paint stains that looked very much like dried blood."

  As appalled as I was about my predictability, I had other fish to fry. "But, you said you did not intend for me to be suspected."

  "No, what I believe I said was I had not intended for you to be 'arrested.' You being suspected initially was part of my plan. The more time they spent investigating you -- trying to prove your guilt -- the more time the 'real' culprit would have time to escape."

  She looked at me, studying me for several moments, before she went on, "Actually, thinking on it, it would have been your own fault if you had been convicted."

  "Oh, would it?"

  "But yes. It never occurred to me before this moment, but it was you who burned the Bedford cord dress -- chose to burn the dress of your o
wn accord. And then, you burned it in front of dear Alice! Even I had never hoped you would do such a thing.

  "And imagine how those stupid policemen did not find it when it was right there in front of them -- first hanging in the closet and then sitting on top of the coal in the closet. It was right under their noses the whole time. It was all too perfect for words. There I was in the sink room biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud."

  When I just stared at her, she shook her head and continued, "You burned the dress, so the police were not able to either prove or disapprove it had been stained in blood. Yet, it did suggest your guilt.

  "But, of course, one could equally argue that you burned it in front of us -- spoke to us about it -- which could also point to your innocence. Think of the fun I could have had deriding the police for harassing my innocent sister and allowing the actual murderer to slip through their fingers."

  With each added insult, my shock and hurt turned into greater anger, and I snapped out, "Well, I am so glad every worked out so wonderfully for you!"

  "Now Lizzie, you are not going to become tiresome, are you?"

  "Of course not, Emma," I said in my most sarcastic voice, "After all, I would never want to make you unhappy in any way."

  "Well, I should hope not," she laughed, "I am your older sister. I have always watched out for your best interests."

  I am not at all sure that my jaw did not drop at this. I frowned at her and said, "You mean, other than putting me in the position first to be hanged, and then to suffer public humiliation and ostracism for the last half of my life?"

  "I should have known you would look at it like that. Really, it does make me find you both critical and condescending."

  "I do apologize. How very unfeeling of me." I stared at her in disbelief and asked, "Emma, have you heard any of what you have been telling me?"

  "Of course."

  Shaking my head at her, I said, "I just do not understand how you are able to sit here and tell me all this... like you were telling me... telling me something that happened at church."

  "You see," she said with that sour-milk face of hers, "this is exactly why I never discussed this with you -- either before or after. You always did act the princess."

  She pursed her lips, giving her face an even more unpleasant expression, and continued, "You would never have seen the logic of my plan. You would have just gone on, living in that hovel of a house -- why it was practically a slum -- under Father's thumb.

  "I freed you, and all you do now is whine and complain."

  I was thoroughly angry now. I stared at her as I repeated her words, "What you 'freed' me from is the father I loved. Perhaps the house was not all it might have been. Maybe I would have enjoyed living in more comfortable surroundings. But, you are right, I would never had approved of your method of 'freeing' us. To be blunt, you left me desolated over Father's, and even Abby's, deaths, subjected me to imprisonment and possible execution, and merely substituted your own thumb -- as you put it -- for Father's. Until now."

  I had been surprised at the vehemence in my tone, but Emma looked amazed. Her jaw hung open.

  She squinted at me and hissed, "So, you feel I have held you down, do you? How very like you. I always took care of you. I gave you support and encouragement. I gave you my money to go on your 'Grand Tour' and convinced Father to give you more. I gave you the bigger, nicer bedroom so you would be more comfortable."

  Her color had returned to normal -- but now she flushed scarlet again. I could see a vein in her neck throbbing at an alarming rate, and her voice had grown louder and louder during this speech, until it ended in her screaming, "Everything I have done, I have done for you!"

  She suddenly jumped up and stretched like a cat. "Well, I think I would like a cup of tea. And, since I am assuming you have sent the servants away, I suppose I will need to make it myself. Come along, from the looks of you, you can most certainly use one as well."

  She strutted from the room, and I followed her in utter shock and silence.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Emma bustled about the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove to boil, and filling the teapot with hot tap water to take the chill off it. She walked into the pantry, where she called out to me, "What do you think, Lizzie... China Black or Russian Caravan?"

  I had, meanwhile, slumped into the nearest chair beside the table. I was still having a difficult time believing what she had told me. I was not at all sure how she expected me to react to all of it. Or, how she would act after telling me."

  "In truth, I was most concerned about that. It suddenly occurred to me she could very well be in the pantry, quietly adding rat poison to the tea. I was not at all sure if this might not be the best possible solution. Maybe we could somehow make up for all this carnage if we both were dead.

  I frowned at these thoughts. My dying would really help no one, and Emma needed to make her own peace with both God and men. Besides, a nagging little voice inside me taunted that everyone would think the worst. They would never believe that good, pious Emma had done anything. However, they would be more than willing to believe I had killed Emma and myself out of guilt. That I would be much more likely than Emma to finish off the family -- once and for all, as it were.

  She reappeared carrying two tins. "I only care that I have a good strong cup of tea -- so you choose the kind."

  I thrust my chin out and snapped, "What makes you think that I would drink any tea you prepare for me? Or, for that matter, consume anything you fix for me ever again?"

  Her response was a look of utter confusion and disbelief. She just stared at me for a moment, until the kettle came to a boil and began spitting water out. The hissing of the water as it evaporated off the hot surface of the stove brought us back the present.

  She snatched up the closest tin and carried it over to the sink. There, she dumped out the water already in the teapot, added a generous spoonful of the dark, dried leaves, and poured boiling water over them slowly. She swirled the pot a bit, and filled the pot up to the brim.

  I gave a plaintive sigh, got up, and crossed over to the cupboard. I took out two cups and saucers, and carried them over to the table. Apparently, it was just another afternoon -- like so many we had spent together before. We were just two sisters, sitting in our kitchen, sipping on tea.

  There were no bloodthirsty axe murderesses here.

  The entire afternoon had taken on a rather surrealistic aspect. I felt as if I was in one of impressionistic or pointillist paintings like I had seen in Europe. Everything was there... just a bit apart and out of focus.

  As I sat there, waiting for my tea to cool at bit, I seriously wondered if I had experienced some sort of seizure or fit, and had imagined the entire afternoon. Perhaps, I was even dead. I did my best to believe this -- take comfort in it. The trouble was, I knew I was alive and, even if I was not exactly well, I was nowhere close to death.

  The situation became even more absurd when Emma started poking in the icebox, pulling out leftover tidbits of food, and commenting on them. "Salmon mousse, smoked breast of pheasant, caviar... my goodness... how very grand you have become. Is there anything here one could consider old-fashioned, plain, wholesome food?"

  "There should be better part of a baked ham," I answered, without really thinking.

  "Ah, I see it." Emma turned to me and asked, "So, what do you think? Some ham and eggs, sandwiches, or a cold plate?"

  "Emma, how can you possibly be so nonchalant about all this? What is to keep me from going to the telephone and calling the police right now?"

  She gave me the most odd look, kind of a silly smile. "I told you, I know you. And I know you will never tell anyone. I have no need to even threaten you. You are utterly predictable. You will never betray me. I am your sister. No matter how distressed you are by our little talk this afternoon, you love me and would never give me up."

  "You think so, do you?"

  "Oh, my, yes. Absolutely. You
are far too loving and loyal to do anything so cruel."

  My head spun at this. I had loved her... I did love her... but, I doubted I could ever understand her. What saddened me even more was she surely would never understand why I could not.

  I shook my head and answered, "I do not want anything to eat. I am not sure I will even finish my tea, thank you." I realized how I had just responded -- the same meek and mild, polite way I had always answered her -- and became angry at myself. I would not simply accept all that she had revealed. I could not. If I did that, it would be as if I had encouraged or even condoned her violence and insanity.

  "Emma," I started, doing my best to control my voice, to make it soft and low and sympathetic. "Emma, perhaps we could go and speak to someone. If you are not ready to speak to Mr. Jennings, maybe we could go and see you pastor... or whomever you choose."

  Her head came up with a jerk and she scowled. "I have no intention of speaking to anyone. I have been wanting to talk with you about everything for ages, but I have no intention telling anyone else. I also have no intention of listening to you preach at me for the rest of the day, let alone the rest of my life."

  I maintain my gentle tone, but spoke firmly, "But, Emma, this entire discussion -- all of these revelations of yours -- are the result of you preaching to me."

  "And..."

  "Well, you must see that no one likes to be preached at -- especially when the one who had been doing the preaching has just confessed to doing a great deal more throughout the years than just speaking against something or someone."

  She looked at me wearing a perplexed expression, but said nothing, so I continued, "Do you actually think all you have admitted to this afternoon sounds like the acts of a reasonable person?"

  "Oh Lizzie, I was more than reasonable for years and years. I waited -- for Father to see the error of his ways, for Abby to drop dead, and for you to grow a backbone. But, Father did not repent, Abby just kept on living, and you merely accepted things just as they were. So, I took action. I did what needed to be done."