The noose tightens

February 10, 1898

Today was a long one.  Fleet and I holed up in my office down at the central and hashed over the suspects and the new information which has come to light during my investigations.  Confirmation arrived today on several fronts of interest.  I plan to commit my final deductions to paper tomorrow morning before I take the last step towards the great unveiling, at last, of the murderer of Andrew and Abby Borden.  At present I feel 100 years old, as the revelations have left me exhausted and dismayed.  How could we not have seen this five years ago?  How could we have been so wrong?  But now, I must drag myself home, eager only for a stiff whiskey and the oblivion of sleep – a dreamless sleep.  We are at the end of things- and such things of which I never dreamed were possible, and even now can scarcely believe.

Too many suspects

 

February 8, 1898

Today, in a fit of despair, I finally let Fleet in on some of my findings on the Borden case.  I have always valued a slow and steady pace in approaching crime investigation, but suddenly I find myself immersed in a sea of suspicion on all fronts and hurtling toward an unsettling conclusion!  Fleet’s a good man, and I breathe easier knowing that one day soon he will assume this heavy burden of city marshal from my shoulders.  It was good to have a sounding board on whom I could bounce my ideas and doubts, and at the end of the day, his quiet demeanor and shrewd evaluations confirmed my notion that I am on the right track.

Little Dana and my ladies were waiting expectantly when I at last dragged my weary feet down Cherry Street and collapsed at the head of the table for dinner.  I often wonder if Nellie slips and reveals small details of my confidences to her Mother and Grandmother. 

 After an excellent Yankee pot roast with all of the trimmings, Nellie proudly entered from the kitchen bearing a warm mincemeat pie, smiling broadly and waiting for my compliments to come. She detailed the absolute necessity of chopping the fruits and nuts with a sharp cleaver into very fine pieces, with all the aplomb of an accomplished chef.  I was touched by her eagerness as only a man who has married a woman over a decade younger could be.  How she sought to please!  After praising her culinary prowess to the heavens, she startled me by revealing from whence came the recipe for the succulent morsel.

It seems that last month, at the Temperance Society Annual White Ribbon Tea, Nellie attempted to get the recipe for the toothsome mince pie which was being served on the dessert table.  Mrs. Brayton said it was the late Abby Borden’s own prize-winning recipe and at that same moment, Lucy Cahoon, Jane Gray’s daughter by her first marriage to Obadiah Eldredge, and now married to one of their boarders, burst out in an astonishing fit of pique, proclaiming loudly that it was no such thing and that her own Mamma had discovered the secret of rosewater in the filling YEARS before Mrs. Borden had absconded with the recipe!  Most of the ladies dropped their well-bred jaws and more than one fork clattered to the floor while Lucy railed on, “Mother should have used arsenic instead of rosewater!!!” –  and then exited in a flurry of taffeta petticoats and temper!  Jane Gray- yet another disgruntled widow.  Nellie was right; too many widows and old maids indeed.  Now I must re-examine my thoughts on Mrs. Gray and her little brood on Cottage Street.

February 7, 1898

  As I was sitting in my study, adding yet more pages of notes to this journal, my son Dana crept into the room and put his little head on my shoulder.  Yes, I have been so engrossed in this Borden matter I have been neglecting the boy of late.  Nellie had chided me about this last night.  As soon as I record this entry I shall take the child out to the park for a good romp and a game of catch now that the snow has melted. 

Speaking of children. . . . Mother-in-law was at McWhirr’s early this morning to match some knitting wools with Grandmother Hellen.  In all truth, having Nellie’s grandmother and mother living with us has, at times, been a strain- but today I could fairly kiss the old ladies!  Behind the bolts of fabric and notions,  mother-in law overheard Lurana Borden (Andrew’s sister and wife of Hiram Harrington) confiding in a low voice to Dr. Bowen’s wife Phoebe Miller Bowen.  Mother-in-law- always having the most amazing hearing, caught a few snatches of conversation and came right home without her knitting wool to tell Nellie, who in turn, bless her, had to tell me.

Poor Mrs. Harrington, still in black mourning from head to toe and wearing the most heart-rending brooch with an image of her little boy was venting her most agitated feelings upon the subject of Andrew Borden to Phoebe Bowen. 

“I cannot give thanks enough that wretched Lizzie has moved away to French Street,” said Mrs. Bowen, looking like a thundercloud.

Mrs. Harrington touched her shoulder kindly with all sympathy, and remarked with brimming eyes, “Yes, I understand completely Phoebe.  I curse the day that her father drew his first breath and give thanks for the moment he drew his last!”

Mrs. Bowen’s eyes flew open wide at this last remark but she made no reply. The two parted but Lurana Harrington stood and watched after Phoebe Bowen’s departure, fingering her mourning brooch in a clutch of lace at her neck.  Some thoughts have occured to me which I will detail in a special section of this journal.  Perhaps I should enlist my relatives more often to tackle some of my sensitive interviews!

A scent of tea rose

I waited until until after Sunday luncheon to pay a call on the Holmes’ residence today.  Mary Anna Holmes, always a stickler for social decorum would not have been amused at an untimely blundering-in on their quiet hour of digestion.  Mr. Charles Holmes was in his study, more of a library actually.  I had attended several soirees at the house on Pine Street over the years I have been city marshal, as a matter of course.  Mrs. Holmes loves to entertain, and is very thorough about including anyone well-connected within the city including public servants and especially politicians.

We got down to the business almost at once.  Charles Holmes showed me the heavy walnut bookcase atop the substantial desk.  The whole was of two parts.  Both the bookcase and the drop down desk leaf locks had been expertly picked and pried until the latches gave way.  From the looks of the scratches, the instrument used must have been rather like thin-bladed, very sharp scissors.  Later on at home, Nellie suggested perhaps embroidery scissors had been the tool, and hastened to remove her gold-handled pair from her sewing basket for my inspection.

Mrs. Holmes, not wishing for word to get out about the incident, re-iterated that nothing had been stolen- only that every document and piece of paper had been disarranged.  She then removed a small photo album belonging to her daughter Anna from the bookcase.  When she opened it , I gasped- for clearly someone had been at work cutting the faces out of several of the photographs!  Anna and Lizzie Borden had been friends since childhood and it was, as far as she could recall, the faces of Lizzie which had been severed from their natural position in the photographs!  Only Anna and several other young ladies in the photographs looked out wistfully.  In one, a tall, gaunt figure of a man had suffered the same treatment- faceless!!  Mrs. Holmes could not recall who the man was.  A most unsettling business!!

“You see why I did not wish to call in the police,” said Mrs. Holmes.

Inasmuch as the exterior doors showed no sign of forced entry, I was at a loss as to how to account for how the intruder had gained access to the house.  No footprints showed in the snow outside the windows on the first floor.  No, it is a curious business. I made a few soothing remarks to Mrs. Holmes, and casually slipped in the remark about Abby Borden’s desk being burgled in such an amateur fashion the year before they died and how Andrew Borden had taken to locking up everything like Fort Knox.  At the mention of his name, I took notice of a sudden stiffening of Mrs. Holmes’ posture as her eyes suddenly fixed on a large Chinese vase across the room.

“Yes,” she said stonily. “I seem to recall hearing of that incident from Miss Borden.”

As nothing more was to be done, I declined the offer of tea and hastened home.  As I closed the desk once again and arose to take my leave, the faintest fragrance of tea rose eau de cologne filled my nostrils.  it was not the scent worn by Mrs. Holmes.  Cherchez la femme- toujours la femme!

Developments, Feb. 3, 1898

As luck would have it, I received a telephone call down at the station today to come around to Pine Street to the Holmes residence.  Mrs. Holmes did not want to call in a burglary for fear of that event being made public  in the newspapers.  Inasmuch as nothing seems to have been stolen, I agreed to going over to see how entry was gained and inspect Mr. Holmes’ library where papers were disturbed, the top drawer having been pried open with scissors, and in general, a good rummaging amongst his documents seemed to have taken place. I shall leave momentarily for Pine Street, and am planning to ask a few other questions about the Borden business.  This should not be difficult as Abby and Andrew Borden also suffered a burglary of sorts the year before their murders, with Mrs. Borden’s desk being pried open in a similar manner to Mr. Holmes.  This should be an easy entry to the the topic.  I very much wonder just what the burglar could have been looking for?

Musings

  My Nellie was waiting expectantly when I returned from the church service, anxious to have all the news.  As luck would have it, Rev. Buck and his daughter Alice lingered for a good long interval at the social hour and I was able to engage them separately in conversation.  Rev. Buck had a great deal to say in regards to the recent robbery at the Citizen’s Union Bank and asked innumerable questions about the security systems in place in the city.  I never managed to bring him around to the Borden case, although he did say in passing that he missed Miss Lizzie’s talents and cheerful spirit of volunteerism in his church. 

Miss Alice Buck was a revelation.  I hope it is not personal conceit which allows me to entertain the notion that she was flirtatious in her manner towards me!  There has been a great deal said as to the conduct of “preacher’s children” being rambunctious and uncontrollable, but I was most unnerved to see the playful glint in hr eye and her warm little hand lingering on my arm. Perhaps I have imagined this, and I do not think it wise to tell Nellie about this observation.  Miss Buck invited me to pose for a sketch as she is a keen artist of some talent.  I think I must decline.  When Miss Lizzie was introduced into the conversation, she seemed uninterested and declared she and Miss Emma were closer friends.  I got nothing more out of her and was much-relieved to part company.  I did not see Mrs. Holmes on this occasion but plan to engage her in conversation soon.  And now, I think a small brandy is in order.

Notes from the weekend

Today I finally was able to locate Miss Cox, that stalwart figure of propriety who accompanied the ladies as chaperone on the Grand Tour in 1890.  She still resides in Taunton. She was a self-important old busybody and was only too glad to gossip about her high-toned charges.  Apparently Lizzie herself spent all of her pocket money and had to wire home to her father for additonal funds when she reached Rome.  She mentioned Miss Brayton seemed somewhat chilly in manner towards Miss Lizzie but could furnish no explanation as to why.  Miss Shove lingered for the most part in famous cemeteries and had to be searched for in Pere LaChaise when she wandered off for two hours with her sketch pad.  She soon set forth alone on these excursions when the other girls wearied of passing time in the Cities of the Silent.

Miss Carrie spent a great deal of time in the shops, content in buying trifles with a seemingly endless supply of ready pocket cash from her dainty purse.  Miss Lizzie tagged along on many of these excursions but confined her spending to postcards and prints of great cathedrals, much limited by the confines of her slender purse.

Tomorrow I shall attend the service of the saintly Rev. Buck at the Central Congregational Church as it is the Sabbath after all and my presence should arouse no suspicion.  I should very much like to pass a moment’s conversation with his daughter Alice, a bosom friend of Miss Emma Borden.  I should also like a good look at Mrs. Holmes who shall be undoubtedly presiding over the teapot at the coffee hour after the service.  There is much to be learned if one allows people to talk freely, unsuspicious of my motives. And there is much I wish to learn in certain areas of my investigations.  So many ladies- so little time. . .

January 29, 1898

Women are extraordinary creatures.  The snow was so heavy today that I did not dare to venture out of the house.  In consequence, I was closeted in the study with my wife for most of the day at my own hearthside, watching her try on hats in the mantel mirror. It was not an entirely profitless day due to a remark uttered by my august spouse.  Whilst stroking a wayward ribbon into place at the most unnatural and alarming angle, she cocked her pretty head to one side and regarded me with an arched eyebrow and a penetrating look.

“You know, my dear, there always were FAR too many spinsters and widows in that Borden business!  All my friends remarked upon that coterie of old maids who accompanied Lizzie Borden on her so-called “Grand Tour” in 1890 and how she behaved on the ship and at home when she returned from it.  Such an unusual lot they were to be sure. I have often wondered myself why that business was not more thoroughly investigated Rufus!  Why, for instance,  that Shove girl- so peculiar- and frankly MORBID, my dear.  And you have doubtless heard what they say about Miss Carrie Borden!  I never held with higher education for ladies and should never have thought she possessed the grey cells to have passed  her examinations.  Decidedly peculiar, that lot!”

And with that she solemnly pulled the bow off the hat and rang for the tea tray.  Spinsters, old maids, and widows.  There may be something in that. I very much wonder . . . . .

January 23, 1898

 

Just as I was leaving for a bite of dinner at the Mellen,  Mullaly knocked at my door, seeming reluctant to unburden himself with a troubling matter.  Well, he not being of a fanciful nature, and an observant officer as a rule, I put down my hat and prepared to miss my dinner of New Bedford flounder and risolee potatoes.  He hemmed and hawed and twisted his hat but finally began his narrative.  It seemed his old bay gelding, Teabiscuit, had pulled up lame just in front of the livery stable next to Dr. Bowen’s place.  Mullaly was resting on a fruit basket in a stall while waiting for someone to get around to prying out the stone under the horse’s shoe when he overheard a familiar voice.  It was John Cunningham, that cagey newspaper stringer and nosey-parker who first rung the Central about the finding of Andrew Borden from Gorman’s paint and paper store.  He was talking low to Tommy Bowles who used to room at Churchill’s place.

Mullaly heard the two men, discoursing in low and furtive tones for some minutes.  Bowles said, ” I can tell you a thing or two about what goes on over the Old Buffinton manse if you can make it worth my while, and it ain’t just the ole lady!”

Mullaly missed a few words but caught something about Addie Churchill’s kin having run a meat market and that son of hers having found a settee which he had upholstered slashed to ribbons and his shears gone missing the week before the Borden murders.  Bowles said there was a room at the Taunton Asylum for more than one of the inmates of the old Buffinton place and that Mrs. Churchill had not been right in the head since her husband had passed away and left her to raise their boy, taking in boarders and having to do it after her own father was mayor of the city.  And worse had been said about her sister and her yellow-bellied husband who had shot himself in the foot to escape leaving for the front line during the War!

Cunningham then asked Bowles if he knew how it was that Mrs. Churchill just happened to be first on the scene of the crime, and how quick she was to go upstairs with the maid to hunt for Abby Borden but refused to look at old man Borden on the sofa.  In a low voice Bowles said,

“A funny thing that is- that’s not the first time Addie Churchill was on the spot, in the thick of it all at a shocking crime scene, then hanging about for the fireworks!.  It was nearly sinful how she bought  a new hat at McWhirrs, with a cockade of partridge plumes and preened it at the Inquest! ”

The rest of the conversation was too low to grasp, and only the words “Emma Borden” and “her niece Adelaide Cheetham” audible, but in what context those were made, who but the Good Lord and the horse Teabiscuit could know!

And so now, I go home with an empty stomach to think all of this over and to contemplate my wife’s indigestible supper to come.

January 22, 1898

 

Will the snow and cold never end?  How it has hampered my progress!  Four inches more of snow on the ground.  Still, I had some startling news from my man Devine who tailed old Harrington today from 4th St. to Oak Grove Cemetery. Hiram Harrington- as inflexible and cold as the steel horseshoes he forges slipped down Prospect Street today with a sheaf of pink hothouse roses. As luck would have it, Devine was on his way back to Central  and caught the whole strange business unfolding.  Ever since Hiram Harrington gave us his version of Miss Borden’s character, and the goings on in that house, I’ve wondered about his bitterness towards the girl.  Naturally Fleet and I were not surprised to hear that Andrew Borden and Harrington had a distinctly icy relationship after their parting of ways, but as Andrew’s brother -in-law, he kept up with the family via his wife, Lurana’s, visits.  How quick he was on the spot with opinions on the day of the murders!

Devine found a convenient spot behind the Shove monument  to conceal himself when Harrington, much agitated dropped the pink floral tribute with tenderness upon the frozen grave of the late Abby Borden, knelt briefly, rose, and kicked the frozen sod in front of Andrew Borden’s headstone and spat!!  I asked my dear wife tonight what was meant by pink roses.  She, possessing a feminine knowledge of the Language of Flowers, said they signified the Promise of Love, and red roses, True Love.  The Promise of Love.  What could this all mean?  I must investigate the circumstances of what occured when the two couples were beneath the same roof on Ferry St. in the old family residence.  There is something curious here which bears closer scrutiny.