Her musing ended as John ran back into the room, his face grim. “Liz? All clear. I found two of them in the other room. Unfortunately, two girls were attacked and killed. The woman you wanted wasn’t there. This is awful. I fear I’ll never get used to this.”
Her sigh matched his as they headed back to the reception area. “Nor I. I found one dead woman in back who was still twitching. I almost thought I’d found the young woman I wanted. Poor girl, but I’m still looking for the right one. Her name tag must have fallen off. Before we go, I want to look at the records. Maybe I’ll find something useful.”
“Very well. Take a few minutes before I alert the Society members as to what happened. They’ll let the proper officials know.”
Lizzie nodded sadly as she rummaged through the files in the wood desk in the front lobby. Bills, schedules, payments and other papers swept past her eyes in a whir of numbers and figures. Her fingers kept up a steady flicking through the pages until she got to the end, but nothing of use turned up. The other papers on the top of the desk weren’t useful, either. She’d almost decided to give up when the directory the receptionist had dropped on the floor earlier caught her attention. Maybe this was something… She grabbed the book, flipped through the pages, and jotted down the addresses of several women with the name of Adelaide, though she wasn’t feeling too hopeful.
The book back in place, she half-heartedly eyed the pages in the front when one line made her gasp. Wait a minute! A few handwritten entries had been added to the bottom of the page. Printed in a small, neat hand, the printed entry told of supplies ordered, but the last line had her heart pounding—a personal note. “Remember to pick up papers to type on Wednesday,” followed by two initials, AR.
Her mind worked. She reread the entry. Could it be that the seamstress’s daughter wasn’t the person she wanted after all? These initials could be the same AR she’d seen in Samuel Smith’s—and Father’s—papers that they’d found at the warehouse. A huge smile lit her face as she saw the formal signature under the ornamental frontispiece of the book. There in a free-flowing script with neatly formed letters was the name she wanted: Property of Mrs. Adelaide Richards Thatcher, Mrs. Thatcher’s Business College.
Apparently, the industrious and entrepreneurial Mrs. Thatcher not only had opened the business college for young women, but she’d made a nice little sum on the side typing papers and reports. She supplied a service to businesses and businessmen who neither wanted, nor needed, to employ a full-time typewriting service—like Father and Mr. Smith.
A further search among the files resulted in a master list with the personal details of employees, students, and teaching staff. The arrival of several Society members told her she’d best hurry. She wrote out the address and joined John, who was already tapping his foot with impatience at the door.
“How many places did you want to go yet?” he asked. “I don’t have much have time before I have to get back to my office.”
His impatience angered her. She thought about it a minute, and then gave him a cat-swallowed-the-canary smile. “Only one more stop and then we’re through, for good. From now on, I’ll manage on my own perfectly fine, without your help.”
The shocked look on his face made her outburst worthwhile. Yes, she should’ve said that much sooner.
Chapter Twenty-Four
There is not a spot of blood, there is not a weapon that they have connected with her in any way, shape or fashion…
—Opening statement for the defense, A. J. Jennings,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 15, 1893
A
s it so happened, the trip to Mrs. Thatcher’s residence was on the way back to Lizzie and Emma’s new home on French Street. John stopped the carriage in front of the stately brick manse only blocks from where she and Emma had moved. Lizzie suspected each of them had similar thoughts though Emma was the first to put it into words. “My, typewriting must pay well.”
“Yes, so it seems,” Lizzie added, “but our Mrs. Thatcher appears to be a most industrious person.”
The accuracy of her observation only became obvious when they got out and went up the hewn stone steps to the highly polished oak door. A peek in the window revealed a massive crystal chandelier in the foyer, along with a giant carved fireplace and gleaming marble floor.
A petite woman dressed in a proper black and white maid’s uniform answered the door. “Yes?”
“Hello, is Mrs. Thatcher available?”
“I am sorry, she is resting. May I ask who is inquiring?”
John stepped forward and offered his business card. “John Charles Fremont, attorney-at-law. We were just at the school and—”
Lizzie swallowed her retort at his pushiness as a strong voice from an adjacent room broke in. “It’s all right, Anna. Show them into the parlor, please, and bring in the tea, would you?”
The three of them followed the petite woman into a large room even more grand, if possible, than the foyer. Exquisite tapestries hanging at each end of the room competed for attention. Landscape wall murals in warm shades of green and brown made the visitor feel like they’d stepped into a formal garden. A lovely young woman, her peach silk gown glowing against her dark brunette locks, rose and greeted them.
“Please, be seated,” the young woman said, dabbing a handkerchief at her eyes. “I am Adelaide Thatcher.”
Lizzie fought to control her surprise at their hostess’s youth. The lovely young wife had to be a late twenty something years, and if the stately portrait on the opposite wall was her husband, he had to be at least the age of Mr. Borden, if not older. She understandably looked as though she had been crying.
Everyone did as she asked, settling onto the silky sofa cushions.
“Thank you,” Lizzie responded. “I am—”
“Yes, I know who you are,” their hostess broke in. “I followed the trial.”
The woman’s admission surprised Lizzie, even if it shouldn’t have.
To Mrs. Thatcher’s credit, she remained ever the lady. She showed no emotion, or expressed any kind of opinion, on the trial’s outcome. Mrs. Thatcher’s demeanor appeared neither hostile nor threatening, so Lizzie felt it must be all right to continue her explanations since her hostess remained silent. Lizzie had no choice but to assume that a woman in her position would have already been informed of the full details of all that had happened at the school, as well.
“We just returned from your school,” Lizzie explained, her words eliciting a sad sigh from the hostess and another sniffle. “I am so sorry. We wanted to share our condolences on the loss of some of your fine students.”
Mrs. Thatcher nodded as she acknowledged the apology. “Yes, such a horrible, horrible tragedy. I don’t understand where this came from. I sorrow for the families who will be suffering so.” Her voice grew hard. “I certainly hope Marshal Hilliard and his staff are getting on top of this dreadful attack. I am sure Mr. Thatcher will be putting some pressure on those in charge to clean up this terrible mess. Mr. Fremont, I am indebted to you for your service and that of your membership.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. We’re here to help in any way we can.”
Lizzie agreed wholeheartedly, pausing before returning to the subject. “Mrs. Thatcher, if I may mention, some time ago I worked with a program that helped young women enroll in typewriting courses as part of our church’s outreach.”
Lizzie’s admission prompted a small smile from their hostess as she poured tea and offered her a cup. “Yes, I knew of your church program. It was a noble effort. I believe a few women did attend my college as a result of your program. Would you like milk or sugar?”
“Both, please, thank you.”
“Mr. Fremont?”
“None for me, thank you.”
The tea prepared, Mrs. Thatcher had Anna finish readying the other cups as she got to the point. “I’m sure you’re wondering how I came to open the college, and have some other questions, I suspect.”
Her eyes met Lizzie�
��s. “My husband has had quite a bit of business success, and has been astute enough to invest in several promising and growing companies,” she explained. “He thinks highly of new ventures and has been quite taken with typewriting machines. He also approves of women being able to provide for themselves or their families, so he fully supported the idea of the typewriting school. I was one of those women who found themselves financially bereft after my father lost much of his investments as a result of the recession. The bankruptcy of the Philadelphia and Reading Railroad in February completely broke him. His heart failed, and he passed away shortly after that.”
“I am so sorry.” Lizzie apologized again, realizing how little attention she’d paid to such financial news, leaving most business dealings in the past to Father and his attorneys. Of course, she’d been quite preoccupied in the past year, as well.
“I will be frank, if you don’t mind,” their hostess continued. “Many have been rather harsh in judging me because of the age difference between me and my husband, but I was fortunate to have met him. I am saying that not only because he is a wonderful, caring man. I learned typewriting to help support my mother and younger sister after my father’s passing. Before I met Mr. Thatcher I was doing quite well providing typewriting services to various businesses. We became acquainted through such contact, and as it turned out, he had done other business with my father before that.”
Lizzie nodded, liking this woman for her strength while facing adversity. If circumstances were different, she suspected they might even have become friends. She toyed with her tea cup, unsure of how to bring up the subject of her own father delicately without offending her hostess.
Instead, Mrs. Thatcher attacked the subject without hesitation as she stood, signaling the visit was over.
“Now, please pardon my sudden ending of our meeting, but I’m afraid I have a situation to attend to at the school. I hadn’t expected these horrors to hit so close to home. I am sure Mr. Thatcher will be taking new security measures after this. Mr. Fremont, please convey my heartfelt appreciation to your Society members for all their help.” She held out a thick folder. “Miss Borden, I think you will find all the contracts and papers you need here. This is everything I typed for Mr. Borden and his contacts. And please accept my condolences as well. Anna will show you out.”
Stunned, Lizzie murmured her thanks as the maid showed them to the door. Once outside, they hurried to the carriage, Lizzie barely able to contain her excitement as John helped her into the seat. “This may be it! I think we’ll finally have some answers.”
John tried to sound encouraging. “Perhaps, but don’t get your hopes too high. So far, everyone has been pretty good at hiding their secrets.”
I know he means Father, Lizzie mused. But it won’t be for long.
She restrained from pawing through the pages lest something of importance got overlooked or misplaced. She and Emma needed to study the folder’s contents in an orderly fashion so they could account for every single item. She squeezed the thick stack of papers tighter, wishing John would hurry so she could get home and find out exactly what they had.
After all these many months, is the answer right here in my hands? Will I finally learn the truth about what Father was up to?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Q. At that time did you see a particle of blood on her dress?
A. No, sir
Q. Or her hands?
A. No, sir.
—Testimony of Adelaide Churchill,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 8, 1893
F
inding Mrs. Thatcher made Lizzie think nothing else would, or could, surprise her at this point. She realized how wrong that assumption was after bidding John goodbye and joining Emma in the dining room for a couple hours of sifting through stacks of papers. The two of them made a good dent in the pile, unearthing mostly run-of-the-mill bills and correspondence, when Emma yawned and got to her feet.
“I have to say for a person who disliked and didn’t need modern conveniences, Father sure approved of the typewriter.”
Lizzie laughed and added, “as long as he didn’t have to bring it home, or to his own office.” She rose as well and took a good stretch before attempting to put the papers back in several folders. She sighed in exasperation as one stack fell and papers cascaded across the floor like a giant fan. “Sorry, clumsy me. I think these are making me ill and—” One paper at the bottom of the stack caught her eye. She pulled it out with a frown.
“What?” Emma asked and picked up the rest of the fallen papers.
“I-I have no idea. It has all these ingredients listed like—”
“A recipe,” Emma stated.
Lizzie stared at Emma in confusion. “Yes, or maybe it’s a prescription, or some kind of list of pharmaceutical supplies.” She read off the different items. “Let me see, Oil of Wintergreen, I think that works well for indigestion. Then we have Licorice Root, a familiar element. Oh, and Burdock, do you know what that is?”
Emma shook her head.
“There are some directions.” Lizzie continued reading. “It says mix in water with a forty to forty-five percent concentration of alcohol. It also says to add three grams of opium per fluid ounce. It sounds like it’ll knock out anything wrong with you, almost like when Dr. Bowen—” She trailed off, not wanting to revisit those unreal moments following the doctor’s treatments. She was glad when they ended.
She went over the list, wondering what kind of ailments this might be intended for when Emma piped up.
“Wait, I know,” Emma uttered, her voice rising in excitement. “Let me get something. I’ll be back in a second.”
Emma hurried from the room, leaving Lizzie wondering what she went to find. A few minutes later she came back and held out a bottle. “Here, read the label.”
The familiar, stern face of Mrs. Lydia Pinkham graced the front of the tall bottle most of them had availed themselves of at one time or another. Lizzie knew she’d taken a couple doses when necessary to ease a headache and help her sleep.
The label featured the woman’s face above the scripted title of Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, with the explanation, is a positive cure for all those Painful Complaints and Weaknesses so Common to our best female population.
“Yes, so? We have both taken this for headaches or other ailments.”
“Yes, but would you say this,” Emma pointed to the list in her hand, “sounds almost like the same kind of medicine?”
Reading the label made Lizzie think of all those other treatments, some with outrageous claims that they could even cure such heinous diseases as cancer, which she most sincerely doubted.
“I never thought much about all those soothing syrups and bitters and salts you can get at the druggist,” she mentioned, trying to make the connection. “They’re reasonably priced and often useful for headaches and such. Of course, there is a lot of ‘quackery’ as Father called it.”
“I’d imagine the makers are quite successful, too,” Emma added. “It most probably is a good sideline business for someone skilled in pharmaceuticals, or who is interested in such a field.”
Emma’s words stopped Lizzie cold. “What? A sideline, you say?”
For an unexplained reason, Lizzie thought of the sheer amount of advertisements she spotted most everywhere. Shops and magazines touted all kinds of new elixirs and tonics. There seemed to be more and more each day. Wait, tonics. An image came to mind. That wagon! The workers picking up the monsters from in front of the house. It had some kind of tonic advertisement on the side panel.
Something about that advertisement niggled at the back of her mind. What was it? Before Lizzie could put two and two together, the melodious chime of the doorbell caught her attention. With a sigh, she restacked the papers and helped Emma pick them up before her sister went to answer the door.
Emma came back with a visitor in tow. “Liz? It’s Mr. Moret.”
Lizzie greeted the instructor warmly, though she felt slightly a
nnoyed that something important had indeed been overlooked. She tried to keep the thought firmly planted in the back of her mind, intending to revisit it later. Emma’s retreat to the stairs made her glance over in surprise.
“Emma, you’re not coming downstairs to practice?”
“If you both have no objections, I’d rather not today. I feel a bit tired. I think a nap is in order.”
“All right then, you know where to find me if you need anything.”
Lizzie chuckled to herself, thinking how scandalized many of the neighbors and church ladies would be at the idea of a woman keeping company—alone—with a handsome, young man like Pierre. At least living here, most of the neighbors paid her scant attention or said little, at least to her face. Fine with me, she thought. Besides, in their eyes I’ve already done much worse.
With those thoughts in mind, she led Pierre downstairs. “I’ll go change and be back in a minute,” she told him as he pushed the button, opening the training room.
“I’ll be waiting,” he answered.
His smile, Lizzie had to admit, dazzled her. It also set off warning bells. She paused a moment to watch him set up the equipment before hurrying into the tiny dressing room to change into her customized bloomers.
Maybe I should feign illness, too, she thought, but continued to change clothes. She enjoyed the interaction and the physical nature of their sessions too much to quit. She cautioned herself: He’s my instructor. Keep it professional. Stick to the lessons. But as she stepped out of the room and met Pierre’s gaze, Lizzie acknowledged she was lonely. Deeply and desperately lonely.
Chapter Twenty-Six
He began by declaring the defendant physically unable to commit the crime in the manner committed, and that aside from that it was only possible for a maniac-devil to do it.
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