The Axe Will Fall

by C. A. Verstraete

  Pierre pulled the reins and brought the carriage to a stop in front of Lizzie’s stately, three-story Victorian. But this time, not even the sight of her beloved home made her feel better. He moved to get out, but she held up a hand to stop him. She stepped down from her seat and turned to explain.

  “Pierre, thank you again. I’m glad you were there. Truly. If you don’t mind, I’m exhausted. I need to get some rest.”

  He nodded. “I understand. It’s been a trying day. I’m going to do the same. I’ll do some more checking tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

  She went inside and hung her coat in the hall closet, the sight of the still open basement door giving her pause before she closed it. The dog’s snuffle against her leg was a welcome distraction against the vicious memories that beckoned.

  “Hello, boy, are you hungry? Let’s get you something to eat.”

  After igniting the flame under the tea kettle, she rummaged in the icebox for the bowl of chopped chicken. She couldn’t help but glance at the other bowl of chicken parts. I should cook that, she thought, knowing there was no need. Emma wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon.

  Sadness filled her as she braised the liver and other chicken in a small iron skillet. She chopped the pieces, setting some back in the icebox. The rest she mixed with the chopped chicken and dry dog food. Setting the bowl on the floor, she poured a cup of tea for herself and took it into the parlor. She wondered how Emma was faring. Is she being held somewhere? Or has she already been killed by someone else? The thought depressed her. It should be her job; no one else’s.

  The loud tick of the wall clock drew her eye. She settled into the floral-print armchair, not quite ready to go to bed. She tapped her finger on the table in time, her thoughts on what she could do to find Emma. So far nothing had yielded any tangible results. Before she knew it, her head dropped. She fell into a deep, albeit uneasy, doze.

  Hours later, Lizzie woke in the dim light, unsure where she was. The stiffness in her neck and body after spending the night sleeping in the armchair made her grimace. “Ooh.” She got up and stretched, wishing she’d gone to bed where she would’ve been more comfortable. She peered at the mantel clock, noting it was near five thirty in the morning. Thoughts of going upstairs to change and bathe had to wait as the candlestick telephone sitting on the small desk jangled.

  She rushed to pick up the small cylindrical earpiece, moving in closer to the speaker. “Hello? Mr. Jennings, it’s a pleasure to hear from you. No, it’ not too early. I’m awake. I see; there’s an applicant for the housekeeping position? Interesting that she’s the only one. Her background checks out? Well, then, do give her my address. I’ll see her this morning. Yes, I know it sounds risky, but it’s a chance I have to take. If she has anything to do with Emma’s disappearance, or knows anything, then I want to know. Thank you. I appreciate your efforts. Yes, I’ll contact you once the interview is over. Goodbye.”

  She cleared the kitchen table before going upstairs to her spacious bedroom to change. She chose a light blue Bedford cord day gown from the armoire, the feel of the fabric setting off a ripple of memories. Mrs. Borden’s dead stare… The woman’s stiff and jerky movements as she lurched toward her, mouth gaping, teeth chomping…

  “No, not now, no,” Lizzie muttered. “Stop it. I don’t have time for this.”

  She threw off her wrinkled clothes and shrugged into the dress. She hummed part of a John Sousa march and bits of other songs, anything she could think of to keep the ugly images at bay. Several minutes had passed by the time she shook herself from the past. I have to keep a firm grip on my thoughts. I can’t let what happened control me. The chime of the front doorbell pushed her to hurry. She closed the gown’s front buttons and whisked a brush over her hair’s front pouf before rushing downstairs.

  Taking a deep breath, she composed herself, and opened the stately carved oak door. A slight, pretty blonde of nineteen with bright green eyes and a pert nose stood there.

  The girl spoke in a thick brogue. “Miss Borden? I’m Eileen O’Sullivan. I’m here abut the haskeeper posishin.”

  “Yes, Miss O’Sullivan, do come in.”

  Lizzie led the slight young woman into the parlor, urging her to take a seat on the overstuffed floral settee while she perched on the edge of the matching chair. “I know you’ve spoken with Mr. Jennings about the position. He told me you worked for the Ames family in Boston before coming to Fall River. Do you mean the railroad magnate? Why did you leave?”

  What she really meant to ask was why the girl would leave a position with such a prominent family. It seemed like the ideal situation, which made her even more suspicious.

  “Ach, no, Miss. It was a workingman and his family, a distant cousin, I think. I worked for them but a year after I came to this country. I couldn’t join my sister until I got a posishin here in Fall River. As I’m workin’ only three days a week now, I wanted to get a second to fill out me hours, ye understand.”

  “Yes, I see. It’s only light housekeeping and cooking some meals. I’d imagine you’ll want to leave once you get a full week’s position then?”

  The girl wrung the worn gloves in her hands as she answered. “I be understandin’ if you want someone who’ll be more steady, but I won’t be mindin’ the shorter hours.”

  The interview was but a formality, of course, since no one else had answered the advertisement. Few women wanted to commit to the limited two hours, three days a week she’d listed.

  “Very well. This should be fine.”

  “Thank you, Miss. I think it’ll fit in with my other work jes’ fine if you don’t mind my other schedule.”

  Lizzie took the paper her visitor offered, giving it a quick glance as she went to the front door. “I think we can make it work. You can start next week, and come in on the days you’re off. Oh, and if I may ask, do you know of a housemaid named Bridget Sullivan?”

  The young woman frowned a second before shaking her head. “I know of some girls named Bridget, but they’ve all been workin’ in houses in the other part of town for quite some time. Sullivan’s a pretty common name, ye know.”

  She certainly looked surprised, Lizzie thought. What is she trying to hide? She didn’t miss the sly look on the chit’s face, either. At any other time, such impertinence wouldn’t be tolerated, but Lizzie knew this was no ordinary situation. Of course, she’d only put up with a limited amount of sass until she found out what this girl was up to.

  “I’ll expect you on time, eight o’clock Monday. And be aware, I won’t tolerate any impertinence.”

  The girl dipped her head before leaving. “Thank ye, Miss. I’ll be doin’ my very best. I will see you next week.”

  Lizzie closed the door and stood there, arms folded, watching her new hire saunter down the walk until she was no longer in view. “Yes, I’ll see you, and hopefully see what you are up to as well,” Lizzie murmured.

  The thought that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all ate at her. Am I a fool to try this? She called her attorney, letting him know of the development, happy he didn’t seem to have any misgivings. After hanging up the phone receiver, she had to wonder if Pierre would feel the same. Would he support her idea, or would he think she’d stepped into a snake pit? That thought in mind, she decided to give the girl a few days before saying anything to him.

  Her feelings of uneasiness only grew as she wandered around the parlor, mindlessly straightening an intricately patterned Belgian lace doily not in need of straightening and dusting an imaginary spot of dirt from the shiny gold fireplace grate. Finally, she grabbed an old copy of The Ladies Home Journal from the side table. She flipped through the pages, wondering why she’d saved the July issue. Maybe this story, “Five Leaves from the Life of a Western Society Girl,” had caught her eye, though she wasn’t sure why.

  She set the magazine aside, unable to concentrate, her mind still on her visitor. What would t
his girl do besides the housecleaning and cooking? Would she try to snoop around, and for what? Am I being paranoid? What if she was just an innocent young woman answering an advertisement?

  Still worried, Lizzie tried to push her misgivings aside. She sat and leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and soon fell into a light doze. She found herself in a thick fog.

  Her heart pounding, she panted harder as she ran in a panic, searching, crying out, “Emma, wait! Emma!”

  All around her, she heard nothing but the low, guttural sounds of the undead…

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lizzie Borden took an axe…

  —First line of rope skipping rhyme, 1892-1893

  T

  he new housemaid appeared bright and early Monday as expected. To her relief, Lizzie found she only had to provide a cursory tour of the kitchen. The girl proved to be quite comfortable with cooking, also offering good suggestions and additions to the list of ingredients and quick meals Lizzie said she liked for lunch and dinner.

  “I’d rather have a heavier meal in the afternoon and something light toward dusk,” Lizzie instructed. “I’m not a big eater, but any extra meat can be used for a stew or another dish the next day. I’d also like some of the unseasoned, cooked meat set aside for the dog. I’ll see to his meals. Just put the meat in a bowl in the icebox.”

  “Very well, Miss. I have an excellent recipe from me grandmother for an Irish stew I think ye’ll like. Quite fillin’ and tasty.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Lizzie said. “As for the other duties, see that the main rooms are dusted and the rugs swept once a week. The bath can also be cleaned. The bedrooms are off-limits unless I have guests. I will let you know which is to be cleaned then.”

  “I understand,” the girl said.

  Lizzie turned to go back to the parlor when she stopped. “Oh, and please, I do not want any mutton cooked, or served, under any circumstances. Not ever.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory of the days-old meat her stingy father insisted their maid Maggie keep serving. Just the idea of the dish, the top covered in a coating of congealed, gray fat, made her stomach turn. “I simply can’t stand the smell of it. I’ll be in the parlor if you should have any questions.”

  “Very well, Miss. I’ll be makin’ a quick cooked chicken and salad this morn. The stew will be cookin’ and ready soon if you prefer that instead, or for your supper.”

  Lizzie picked up the copy of the magazine she’d been reading, skipping over the words as she pondered her new help. To her credit, the girl soon had some delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. It had her stomach growling in hunger. She only hoped her new hire didn’t have any other nefarious ideas in mind. Like poisoning me, Lizzie thought.

  Lizzie survived the meals, which proved to be even more delicious than she’d anticipated. The odd thing, though, was how her new help looked at her. Lizzie had been seated in her favorite chair in the parlor, eating more of the quite appetizing salad for a mid-afternoon snack, when the back of her neck prickled. She turned and caught the young woman standing at the doorway, staring, her cold, green eyes slit like a cat’s. Lizzie had been about to ask what she wanted, or if something was wrong, when the maid slipped back into the kitchen just as fast. Slippery like an eel, she thought.

  The same uncomfortable event happened again later when Lizzie was heading upstairs. She stopped on the polished oak staircase and looked down. That’s when she noticed the girl standing there, supposedly wiping a dish. But when their eyes met, Lizzie felt a coldness crawl up her backbone like undead fingers. This time, her help didn’t even try to pretend she hadn’t been caught. The look made Lizzie bristle. The nerve of her! But she bit back a retort, stifling the urge to fire her on the spot. She’d initiated this. Now she had to see it through.

  The event unnerved Lizzie enough that she decided to finally talk it over with Pierre. They most likely had to escalate their plan and look into what the girl was doing. The phone’s shrill ring interrupted her train of thought. A current of surprise hit her when she picked up the earpiece and heard who was calling.

  “Hello? Pierre, yes, I was going to call you. One moment.” She craned her neck to see if the girl was anywhere near before lowering her voice to a whisper. “Oh. So you know about her. Yes, she’s still here. It’s been… interesting.”

  She mentioned how she’d caught the maid staring at her, and agreed it could be nothing. But it made her uneasy. The conversation concluded with them deciding to do some more checking. They had to find out if this girl knew anyone in the Irish community who could be connected with Emma’s disappearance.

  The chill in the air on Wednesday only slightly surpassed the chilly feeling she got from her new hire. The girl was polite enough, and went about her duties with quiet efficiency, but Lizzie wondered at the glares directed her way. She couldn’t complain, of course, about the cooking. Delicious. The silent attitude? Less satisfying.

  Her lunch of roasted rosemary chicken finished, Lizzie went upstairs to wait for her servant to leave. Hearing her name, Lizzie came to the staircase. Hands clasped in front, she waited for the housemaid to share the day’s menu.

  “Miss Borden? I’ll be goin’ now. I set the roast to cool on top the stove. There’s a salad and other fixin’s in the icebox. I’ll be back on Friday.”

  Lizzie nodded slightly. “Very well, thank you.”

  The maid shrugged into her thin cloak and put on a worn black hat, before slipping out the door. Lizzie watched her walk out of view before she hurried down the stairs. She went to the front closet, and hurriedly donned her own coat and plumed hat, before heading to the door. Then she paused.

  “Oh, my weapons.” She pulled the two knives from the pocket of the dress hanging in the closet and slid them into her coat pocket. Her eyes lingered on the leather satchel which held several other knives and the small hatchet. The awful few lines of that dreaded nursery rhyme she’d heard some of the nearby children singing as they jumped rope on the sidewalk popped into her head… Lizzie Borden took an axe, gave her father…

  “No!” On an impulse, she slipped her arm out of one coat sleeve, grabbed the satchel, and threw the bag’s handles over her neck and shoulder before putting her coat back on. Her anger stirred, she shoved the closet closed. “Wretched people. Enough already, enough! Why do I have to keep thinking of these things?”

  Her mood foul, she stormed out of the house, giving the door a satisfactory slam. She charged down the front steps, and through the gate, to where Pierre waited. He stood beside the sleek carriage, with its equally sleek horse. If her mood wasn’t so sour, she would’ve taken better notice of the splendid image he made, almost like one of those magazine clothing advertisements in his black hat and coat. But she did see the smirk on his face, which did nothing but anger her more.

  “Good morning, Lizzie, or should I say bad morning?”

  “Oh, never mind. I think that girl’s getting under my skin. We need to see what she’s up to.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I saw her go off down the street. She turned in the opposite direction of where she lives, though, if she gave the right address. Here’s an interesting spot of news, if you didn’t know. She’s not alone.”

  That did catch Lizzie’s interest. “Oh? But I’ve never seen anyone with her.”

  “That’s because the chap meets her just around the corner, out of your view. Working type, shabby clothes. Rather rough looking. Boyfriend? Brother or some other family maybe?”

  The carriage clattered along, the horse’s steady clip-clop drawing the interest of the groups of undead shambling across the road. The horse neighed and snorted in protest.

  Lizzie pondered his words as she watched the creatures grab at them as the horse trotted by. “I did wonder how she walked to my house unaccompanied. You never know when those creatures will show up.”

  “Indeed. I talked to my friend in the Society. He said they’re making some headway. They have several groups out attacking as many of
the mobs of undead they find, but it’s far from over. Just when they think they’ve made some progress, more of those monsters appear. No one yet knows where they’re coming from.”

  The news made Lizzie pause. Was Emma among any of those groups, or were her captors still holding her somewhere? But where, and why? That is what she had to find out, and soon.

  Pierre’s instructions interrupted her musing. “There, up ahead on the right. Turn toward me and look down so they don’t see your face as we pass. She has her arm in his.”

  Lizzie watched the couple walking ahead, then turned and looked away as instructed. “They do seem rather friendly. I wonder where he spends his time before he meets her? A local saloon, perhaps? I thought the Irish liked their own places.”

  The horse trotted faster in response to the light flick of the reins.

  “That’s what we’ll have to find out,” Pierre said. “The problem, I’d say, is some of these places are pretty rough. I need to go alone.”

  “No, I don’t think…”

  “I have to insist. I can’t be looking out for you and some thugs who’ll want to pick the rich lady’s pocketbook. These are working people, and there are always some who won’t hesitate to take advantage of the situation. You’ll be spotted right off for not fitting in.”

  She bristled at his words. “Oh, and you’ll stand at the bar and order a Guinness without anyone noticing?”

  His answer in a thick brogue caused her to lean back and stare, eyes wide.

  “Never mind, me lassie. I ‘ave me ways. No one will be noticin’ anythin’ abut me that makes me stand out like some toff.”

  “Well. You are certainly full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  Her face flushed when he gave her a roguish smile and a wink.

  “My lady, more than you’ll ever know. At least for now.”

  The neighborhood showed a dramatic change, and not for the better, the further the carriage and horse went toward the riverfront. The old two-story dwellings, carved into small apartments, looked dingy and worn, their fronts covered with layers of grime and soot carried on the wind from the nearby mills and factories.