In the midst of his stubborn and time-consuming work, he often joined Miss Lizzie Borden for some refreshments at the South Main Street Apothecary where he would boast about his own inventions and visions for machines as yet invented. He held a bit of a torch of Lizzie, being that he admired the way her mind sorted out a considerable amount of factual data, always managing to piece together a larger picture that was absurdly obvious once you divined the solution, but which had been doggedly evasive during the crime solving. He felt she accomplished, with the puzzling mysteries brought to her by her clients, what he was attempting to do when he engineered some electromagnetic device: to fit it all together into an elegant and obvious solution. For this reason, his inventive mind and mechanical competence had served her well in more than a few of her detective cases.
So it came as a pleasant surprise one afternoon when Homer received a note by messenger to meet Lizzie at the apothecary on South Main Street and that he should bring his Sazaphone, a complicated contraption of rubber tubing and ear-shaped lozenges that were designed to project voices from one part of a room to another. Homer had invented the device for a school performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but it had never been used because it had been so effective that members of the rehearsal audience had trembled in fear of the spectral voices that emerged from its cups. The presiding theatrical director finally deemed the device infernal and had banned it from the school grounds.
Homer appeared in the apothecary with his inventor bag slung over his shoulder, the Sazaphone protruding through the burlap like a bunched serpent coiled inside. Lizzie was up on a stool sipping her syrup water and tapping her toes on the cross bar. “Homer,” she said with a sigh. “You have acted promptly. Once again I need you to aid me in my exploits.”
“And what, pray tell, are those?” Homer asked. He was used to Lizzie allowing him only enough information about her proceedings than he needed to know, no more, or less. “I have a meeting of my Fluted Shaft Society at eight tonight,” he explained. “We’re designing a cylinder that will capture the human voice in coded format so it can later be reproduced mechanically. We’re hoping to obtain a patent and make money selling it to industry. We believe it will replace the stenographer. We’re calling it the VocoPhonometer.”
“A machine replacing a human voice,” Lizzie mused. “This century has brought nothing but technical marvels into our everyday life. But anyway, Homer, I believe I can have you at your Fluted Shaft meeting by its pre-ordained hour. Here’s what I want you to do for me. How well can you climb through shrubbery?”
“I don’t believe I have any practice in that area.”
“No matter. The trick is to avoid getting the seat of your pants stuck on thorns. I have faith that you can accomplish that.”
Homer rubbed his pants legs with a trembling hand.
“And,” Lizzie continued. “I need you to rig up some sort of harmless explosion. Something with a snap and a bang to it!”
“What exactly are you proposing, Miss Lizzie Borden, Girl Detective?”
She smiled. “Well, I’ll tell you. But you must follow my instructions precisely!”
So that night after sundown, Homer Thesinger, hauling his burlap sack over his shoulder, entered the Widow Borden’s French Street garden by the side path of the house and immediately encountered the crunch berry bushes that whispered in the wind below the brightly lit parlor window. Through the glass, he could see a gathering of people including the Widow Borden and her children, and Judge Mason and his tiny wife. They were standing around the parlor table just as Lizzie had described, and within a moment or two, a rotund woman, dolled up in a head scarf entered the room fluttering her fake eyelashes. This, no doubt, was the phony spiritualist, Wingate. Homer didn’t like her one bit. Imagine taking advantage of poor Widow Borden’s grief, and in plain view of the young twins.
His eyes lit up a bit as Lizzie Borden and Sarah Borden entered the room, nodding their heads in quaint curtsies and allowing Judge Mason to press his walrus mustache against the backs of their hands. After a few polite pleasantries, they all settled down around the table and the kerosene lamps were lowered as Wingate sat like an erect Buddha in front of the massive Cabinet of Curiosities. Her candle flickered upwards giving her face a ghastly glow as she threw back her head, her eyes going pearly white.
Lizzie sat to the side, peering intently, her eyes darting over every minute detail of the scene. Judge Mason and his wife held their silence, clasping each other’s trembling hands. The twins hid behind their mother’s chair as the Widow Borden pressed a handkerchief to her prematurely tearing eyes. Sarah looked as diffident as ever, just like she did in Latin class whenever Miss Handy gave a particularly dull lesson.
With a scowl and a silent curse, Homer stepped awkwardly across the dank undergrowth as his ankle caught on some root that arched upwards from the soil. He noticed it was a lead pipe. There was a muffled gasp in the foliage and Homer froze in his tracks. Fearing it to be a trapped animal of some sort, he trailed his fingers along it, and began patting a rounded surface that crinkled like felt. He lifted it and immediately saw he was removing a bowler hat from a figure that was hunched in the bush. With a slight yelp, the person released his breath and threw up his hands.
“By Jove!” Homer cried out. “Who the devil can you be?!”
The hunched figure trembled. “It’s only I, poor Tom Crank! Don’t be stern with me, Master Thesinger. I’m only doing my contracted duty!”
Tom Crank was one of the more feeble-minded students at Fall River High School. He had shared many a lunch hour with Homer Thesinger where he had proved continually how slow-witted his mind could be. Homer shook his head with disbelief and pointed at the pipe. “What’s this hell blasted thing for?”
Tom reached up, his hands grasping a tarnished tin trumpet. “It’s mere fascination, sir!” he said with alarm. “I’ve been paid my wages! Wingate’s got her subterfuge and I’m a cursed man for it!”
Homer grabbed the boy by his lapels and shook him until his eyes went crossed. “You mean you’re the one whose been blowing these trumpets?”
“Aye, sir. I don’t mean to be insensitive to the Widow, but I’ve been paid a most excellent wage. And I always did want to be a musician.”
Homer released the lapels and stepped back a pace. “You are nothing but a mercenary.”
“That I am. And there’s no shame in it when you’re trying to turn a penny for your hungry family.”
“Whatever Wingate is paying you, it’s tainted money. If you want some redemption for your part in this subterfuge, I recommend you do exactly what I tell you to do!”
Tom’s face contorted, and then his eyes sparkled with some hope. “Oh to be sure, there’s nothing more sublime than to correct crooked ways. Just show me what to do and I’ll do’t.”
Homer reached behind himself for his rucksack. With a cherry glow in his eyes, he dipped his hand inside and pulled forth his Sazaphone, now a tangled mass of rubber tubing.
“What in the name of the Twelve Tribes be that?” the trumpet hustler cried in astonishment.
Homer Thesinger, the Boy Inventor, just grinned
7. A Spirit Box Opened, A Demon Set Free
Lizzie had noticed from the very first that Elizabeth Wingate was keeping her back to the Cabinet of Curiosities. It seemed to be a deliberate avoiding, rather than a casual ignoring. Up close, the spiritualist’s face looked flabby and pasty, and her eyelashes were obvious fakes. As soon as the lights were dimmed and the candlelight filled the room, the rappings began. They seemed to be coming from the table, but it could very well have been underneath the table. Those attending seemed too terrified of them to pay much notice to particulars.
“We are gathered here tonight,” Wingate said suddenly, “to draw forth the specter of Jonathan Aloysius Borden from the beyond, from the Summerlands. May his presence here be potent and puissan
t.”
“And don’t forget to bring his checkbook,” Sarah whispered into Lizzie’s ear, provoking a sharp giggle. Wingate’s eye flashed to the side, demanding silence.
Mrs. Judge Mason twitched in her seat. “I hope he comes soon. It’s awfully cold in here.”
Lizzie noticed the draft as well. No doubt the window just beyond the parlor door was kept wide open. If all had gone well with Homer in the garden, there should be a lozenge-shaped cup snaking along the floor at this very moment.
“Jonathan!” Wingate cried out. “Come forth from the realms beyond!”
Suddenly, without warning, there was a haunting groan. The two small twins began to cry and Mrs. Judge Mason let out with a shriek.
“Victoria!” came a spectral voice. “Victoria! I have come back to you!”
The Widow Borden leapt to her feet and held out her arms, tears pouring freely down her face. She was too choked up for words.
Wingate stared, puzzled, at the parlor door. Lizzie suspected that she was baffled as to the nature of the voice. It certainly was different from the utterances made by her accomplice in the garden. Homer was being extremely clever.
“Victoria!” it continued. “This woman, Wingate! She is not a friend!”
Wingate snuffled. “Why, Jonathan,” she said purposefully. “You must be confused. I am your familiar, your material basis in the waking world.”
“You are nothing but a desperate fake!” the voice shouted.
There were muffled gasps, as Wingate sat poker-faced.
Lizzie pulled out a handkerchief from her dress pocket and pushed her nose into it, letting out with a sharp sneeze. Then, just on cue, as her hands came down from her face, a terrific noise filled the room. A new voice, warbling, deep and loud careened off the walls and echoed between the doorways. Lizzie smiled subtly. Homer’s Sazaphone was working its magic.
“This is Awashuncks, Squaw Sachem of the Sakonnet!” it screamed. “The fires of tribulation are coming down upon French Street ready to consume utterly the misbelieving! Oh fly! Fly while you can! King Phillip shall have his revenge!”
The assembled guests stared at each other with alarm, then turned to Wingate who was sitting with a perplexed frown that outdid their own. “Wingate!” cried Sarah. “If ever there be a time that you confessed to fraud it must be now! You have either gone too far, or we are about to be consumed by the Tribulation!”
Wingate spoke with a choked throat. “Alas, I cannot say this is subterfuge.”
The voice spoke again. “Let my words be a warning to your eternal souls!”
Mrs. Judge Mason gathered her composure enough to speak a single sentence. “Perhaps dear,” she said hoarsely, her face getting paler with suppressed fear, “we’d best listen to her advice.” Then she swooned into the arms of her husband whose walrus mustache bristled with rage and fury. “Wingate!” he puffed. “Stop this farrago of nonsense immediately! We’ve tolerated your frauds because they amused us, but this …”
Wingate lifted her empty palms into the air. “I only wish I can.”
The voice shouted over the din, “If you do not flee, the house will be set aflame and all within it shall satisfy the swollen appetite of fire.” Then there was a small explosion which illuminated the room followed by the smell of sulfur and charcoal that flooded the offended nostrils of all present. With this sudden assault on the senses, the Widow Borden gathered the twins, who were paralyzed with fear. Lizzie stood from her seat, fearing nothing of course, but curious to see what Wingate would do next.
As Mrs. Judge Mason was revived by the pudgy hands of Judge Mason, Sarah, right on cue and with a wink to Lizzie, motioned for everyone to head for the French doors leading to the main hallway. “Fly to safety!” she commanded, and everyone listened to her directive. All but one, of course.
Elizabeth Wingate ran straight for the Cabinet of Curiosities. From the folds of her blouse she produced a small claw-headed hatchet which she raised with terrific violence against the Cabinet’s glass front.
“Got you,” Lizzie smirked.
The spiritualist deftly smashed the hatchet into the pane of glass that separated her from the prized Spirit Box. For a brief moment, the flabby woman stared through the shattered glass, then dropped the hatchet to the ground with a dull thud and with trembling fingers lifted up the shell-rimmed box in the air, muttering under her breath, “I have seized the prize!” She swooped it down to be buried within the folds of her blouse, then bolted for the door.
“The purloinment of the Spirit Box,” Lizzie thought, “proves everything. This case is as good as solved.”
Following Wingate out of the house, she came upon an odd scene on the front lawn. Deputy Sheriff Wixon, a tall handsome man with a generous mustache, was holding Homer Thesinger and Tom Crank by their collars with two respectful hands.
“Here’s a pretty how-dee-doo!” Wixon was shouting. “What is this nonsense? Ghosts and trumpets!”
“Let my man go,” Lizzie and Wingate said in perfect-pitched unison, then stared at each other as if they had both shown up at a ball dressed in the same gown.
“Deputy,” Judge Mason said, holding up his wife who swooned with a near-fainting dizziness. “They are innocent. I think I know what has transpired here tonight.” He pointed downward to the streamers of rubber tubing that were hanging from beneath Homer’s jacket, and the bent tin trumpet that was dangling from Tom Crank’s belt. “I believe the poor Widow Borden has been the victim of an elaborate fraud to obtain her money and to steal her husband’s will.”
“What?” Wingate sputtered. “My intentions towards the Bordens have been nothing but honorable.” She lifted her hands up in the air as if to demonstrate the straightforward fact that she had nothing up her sleeve. Unfortunately, at that very moment the Sprit Box exuded from its hiding space within her blouse and slid down her hooped skirt to the ground, hitting the lawn with an audible thwack and turning on its end twice before coming to a dust-stirring rest.
“That,” Wingate said glumly, “was not quite to my advantage, now, was it?”
Mrs. Borden stared in horror at the Box, then glanced up at Wingate who was edging her way towards the garden path.
Lizzie stepped forward and pointed a stern finger at the Spiritualist. “Miss Wingate, I’m afraid I must ask you to remove your slipper on your left foot and snap your toes.”
The woman’s cheeks went slack. “What a preposterous proposal,” she blurted.
“No, I’m afraid that I have to ask you to do this toe-snapping right away.”
Wingate peered about as if trying to discover some escape route from the garden. With a sudden grunt and a lurch she bolted from the crowd and headed straight for the path off the property. At first Deputy Wixon made some attempt to follow, but Lizzie lifted a single finger encouraging him to stay his hand.
Before Wingate could reach the safety of the street, there was a quivering sound as if a large strip of metal was being twanged, and her agitated body seemed to lift completely from the ground. For a second she hovered in space as if suspended by invisible entities, and then came crashing with a sickening crunch to the earth. She flopped for a moment and made a crude noise as air escaped from her orifices, and then lay very still and silent.
Wixon’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “I don’t suppose you can explain that,” he said to Lizzie.
“I can,” Homer Thesinger said, beating his chest with pride. “I have laced the path to the street with my Super Durable Elasto String. The sound you heard was its marvelous flexing ability, like a piano wire being plucked. I have merely set a very primitive trap to catch a sophisticated bird.”
“Well done, Homer!” Lizzie clapped, while Deputy Wixon raced forward to manacle the stunned spiritualist.
“And now for the Spirit Box,” Lizzie said, holding up the shell-encrusted container. The Widow Borden s
hrank back with an awful creep. “No, Lizzie! King Philip! Awashuncks, Squaw Sachem of the Sakonnet! We shall all be brought to woe!”
“Nonsense. This is nothing but a curio that Mr. Borden proposed to be haunted to protect its contents. I’ll show you.”
Lizzie lifted the lid as several present put up their arms to shield their eyes from any supernatural events. As soon as they could see that there was no spirit, no blast of light, no demonic clouds or shrieks of the damned, they lowered their arms and peered into the interior of the quite ordinary box.
Inside was a rolled piece of paper tied with a red bow tie.
“The will!” Sarah said.
The two little twins started bouncing up and down like one of Homer Thesinger’s Vertical Amusement Shafts. “The will! The will!” they were shouting.
Mrs. Borden was reduced to tears seeing her little precious girls so happy. She knew that they understood little, but they sensed their mother would be made immeasurably happy by the appearance of what they knew as “the will.” And here it was: the ultimate secret of the dreaded Spirit Box of the Curiosity Cabinet.
Wixon, who had been poking around the clothing on the inert Elizabeth Wingate, came back to the crowd with a wrinkled piece of paper. “Here’s a nice how-dee-do,” he chuckled, glancing at its contents.
The Widow Borden took the paper in hand and arched it towards the kerosene lamp that dangled from the back porch. After a moment, her eyes flickered and she looked as if she would faint. Judge Mason came forward to support her and Lizzie and Sarah hunched over the paper.
The Agitated Elocutionist Page 3