Lizzie concentrated on keeping her thoughts and emotions steady while she put some distance between herself and her neighbor. I can’t fall apart now. I can’t. Not now! I have to think of Emma. She gave her sister a sad smile before Emma left the room.
True to character, it took only a minute or two before Mrs. Churchill displayed her usual nosiness. Lizzie’s annoyance turned to alarm when the woman got up and left as well. Only minutes later, she came running back, with Emma right behind her.
“Oh, my! Heaven help us!” cried Mrs. Churchill. “Abby’s upstairs!”
“Lizzie! Abby’s dead!” Emma gave a wide-eyed stare, and her best shocked expression, both true reactions since she’d had no idea what had happened earlier.
Lizzie jumped to her feet as Emma swooned. She managed to get her sister into a chair with the help of one of the policemen. Mrs. Churchill fanned Emma while Lizzie ran to the kitchen. She hurried back with a glass of water, a cup of warm tea doctored with a little whisky and honey, and a cold, wet rag to wipe her sister’s pale face.
Moments later, Emma began to whimper. “Lizzie, Lizzie, it’s awful,” she muttered. “Awful.”
Lizzie set the tea down and tried to comfort Emma, who continued to cry silently. Finally, she got her sister to take a sip of water. While Lizzie knew what had happened, the announcement still brought the horror of it rushing back.
“It can’t be!” Lizzie cried out and clapped a hand to her breast. “I thought Abby went out. I was certain of it! What happened?”
Chaos swirled around her. Emma’s crying, Mrs. Churchill’s paranoia, and the police pounding up the hall stairs to the guest bedroom set Lizzie’s nerves on edge. She held in the urge to scream while Maggie stood there, her face white as chalk.
“Oh, it’s jes’ terrible.” The maid wiped her tear-stained face and wrung her hands. “I dinna know how anyone could be doin’ such a horrid thing. It’s awful.”
When Maggie swayed, Lizzie yelled and reached to steady her. A questioning glance from one of the officials, his shrewd eyes studying her as Mrs. Churchill helped Maggie, made Lizzie pause.
Emma and the other women sobbed in near hysterics. Lizzie remained calm. She wiped her hand across her eyes, her weariness real, as she reasoned it out. She’d never been much for female hysteria. Someone has to stay in control, she thought. If she fell apart now, like Humpty Dumpty she’d probably never be whole again.
The histrionics ended with Maggie seated, more in control of herself again. Lizzie handed her the cup of tea and watched how Maggie greedily gulped it down, which made her wonder how much the maid enjoyed her spirits in her off-hours. Not that I should be one to judge, Lizzie thought, having overcome her earlier abhorrence. She had forced herself to take her own discreet sip before setting the bottle aside. She needed it. They all did.
A bit of color once again on Maggie’s shocked face, Lizzie wandered to the doorway and tried to hear what the officials had to say.
“Looks to have been dead a while,” one said.
“He’s as cold as that one there, I’d say.”
“Somebody strong did this, or someone mighty angry, I gather…”
Her cheeks warmed as she listened. That childhood advice about not eavesdropping for fear of what you might hear came to mind, but Lizzie dismissed it. This time she needed to know, no matter what was said. She turned away and tried to control the surge of anger. She’d best get accustomed to the questions and scrutiny.
Despite her Uncle John being seen near the house, and the unknown man she’d overhead Father arguing with at the door a few nights ago, she suspected the police would focus on who was home at the time of the murders. They’ll look at Maggie, who was asleep, and Emma who was upstairs in her room, having just returned from a visit out of town. That makes me the best suspect.
Lizzie’s thoughts raced. She reasoned that some of their recent financial dealings, like Father buying back the house he’d given her and Emma to rent out, might make her look bad as well. Maybe they should’ve waited to ask Father to pass on some of their inheritance. But wait for what? How could I have known what would happen?
Then there was her occasionally uncomfortable, sometimes strained relationship with her stepmother. Lizzie sighed. Families and personal relationships were so complicated. She braced for the worst. Then she heard a couple of the investigators talking amongst themselves about the deaths.
“Looks like she’d been dead at least an hour before he was killed,” one said.
“He’s not been dead long,” another said. “Trace of warmth yet in the body.”
Warmth? She stumbled and quickly pulled herself out of sight, back into the kitchen. How could that be? The memory of how chilling her father’s touch had been made her shiver. She couldn’t think of any real explanation for it. Of course, most of what had happened this day made no sense, no matter how she looked at it. It simply couldn’t be fathomed. But what would she tell the police? What could she tell anyone who asked what had happened?
Lizzie knew she had best obtain the services of an attorney for herself and Emma. Would it really go that far? She couldn’t be naïve. She had no real explanation for what had gone on while she was at home.
She knew of several good attorneys through Father’s solid business position in the community, his presence on several bank boards, and the B.M.C Durfee Safe Deposit and Trust Company board. Of them all, one name came to mind and topped the list—Mr. Andrew Jennings. He had a kind demeanor, but always struck her as a thorough, no-nonsense man: the perfect attorney.
After finding the number in one of Father’s ledgers, Emma obligingly went to one of the neighbors to make a discreet telephone call to Mr. Jennings’ firm. The irony made Lizzie shake her head, given Father’s aversion to having one of the “newfangled” devices, as he called it, here at home. “Bad enough they’re encroaching on our space everywhere else,” he often complained.
Emma returned several minutes later. She sidled close to share Mr. Jennings’ response with Lizzie so no one could overhear.
“Did anyone know who you were talking to?” Lizzie asked, a trifle nervous.
“No, they gave me my privacy,” Emma assured her. “He said he’ll gladly represent you and me both, if needed. He also insisted you say nothing further without him being present.”
The conversation pleased Lizzie, who squeezed her sister’s hand. “Thank you, Emma. That is reassuring.”
Mr. Jennings need not have worried. Any further questioning went on hold as officials from the marshal’s office finished up their cataloguing of both rooms where the bodies had been found. Lizzie grabbed Emma’s hand and held it tight as they watched the medical examiner and his assistant transport Father’s and Mrs. Borden’s bodies out to the waiting wagon. Both she and Emma bit back sobs, but remained stoic.
His work done, the official in charge suggested it might be best if she, Emma, and Maggie stayed elsewhere. “Is it a requirement?” Lizzie asked. The official shook his head. “Then we’ll stay here, in our own home,” she insisted.
The actual places of the murders—the sitting room and the guest bedroom—remained off-limits, though Lizzie figured it couldn’t make much difference. There had been enough visitors traipsing throughout the house earlier. She also suspected that no one in the household wanted another look at the gruesome scenes. She, for one, had had quite enough. She wanted to be alone.
Lizzie went to her room and changed into her sleeping gown to rest, though she didn’t expect she’d get any sleep. She mulled over the events of the day even if she was no closer to understanding the details now than before. It still bothered her immensely. What could have made Father and Mrs. Borden act so? Why did this happen to them? Why?
Her bewilderment soon turned to grief. She spent several minutes hiding deep, gulping sobs behind her hands. Finally, her emotions spent, she wet a cloth from the cool water in the pitcher on her bureau, wiped her face, and tucked into bed. She hated laying there, her mind reha
shing every bloody moment. Sheer exhaustion finally put her in a deep, albeit disturbed, sleep.
In her dreams, she ran and ran, pursued by a mob of horrid, bloodied creatures. They closed in, their fetid breath fouling the air, claw-like hands reaching for her, when… THUMP. A loud noise startled her from her nightmare. She gave a frightened cry.
Lizzie sat up, heart pounding, taking deep breaths, when she heard it again. THUMP. THUMP. She listened, afraid to move. Wait, the sounds… Someone was knocking downstairs. The clock in the hall chimed eight. Is it that late? Who could be bothering them at this hour?
She fumbled around in her attempt to light the oil lamp on her bedside table, her hands shaking like she had palsy. She threw on her wrapper and opened her door just as Emma opened hers.
“Somebody is downstairs,” Emma whispered. “Have the police come back?”
Lizzie went to the window and stared out at the street bathed in the moonlight. “No, nothing is out there. Please, don’t worry. Go back to bed. I’ll take care of it. Go on now.”
Grabbing the lamp, she went into the hall and rushed down the stairs as another knock sounded. “Coming,” she called out, keeping her voice as low as possible. “Give me a moment, please. Who is it?”
Usually, she didn’t hesitate to open the door. After all, she knew her neighbors. She’d never been afraid. But now… An unexpected fear inched down her back. She pulled the wrapper tighter around her.
Her mouth went dry. She felt her heart thud in her chest as she gripped the banister so hard her fingers went white. Her sweaty palms slid along the polished wood. She had plenty of reasons to be afraid after the day’s events. Who could be out there? Did someone want to do them further harm?
She breathed harder with each step, yet she kept going, if only to tell whoever was out there that the police had been alerted. Even if it wasn’t true, she didn’t know what else to do.
But what if whoever brought this sickness to her family had returned to finish what they started?
Chapter Five
Could it be that the murderer was concealed inside the dwelling and had awaited a favorable moment to carry out his nefarious plans?
—The Fall River Herald, August 5, 1892
L
izzie continued down the stairs, heart pounding. A most unladylike curse slid from her lips. Why, oh why, has a telephone never been installed here at home? She knew why, of course, but one of them should have insisted on it! The strong, burning smell of the lamp made her cough. She realized that with everything else on her mind, she’d forgotten to clean it.
Whoever was outside pounded on the heavy oak door again. Lizzie hesitated in the entry hall’s doorway, especially when a deep male voice called out. “Miss Borden? Please, I need to talk to you!”
Breathing deep, she focused on keeping herself calm. She quickly grabbed one of Father’s umbrellas from the hall stand. At least it offered some kind of protection. Her steps slow, she tried to keep the lamp steady lest she drop it.
“Who-who is it?” Lizzie tiptoed into the parlor and peered hesitantly through the lacy curtain in the front window. The sliver of brightness from the moon gave her a glimpse of a tall man at the door, his face shadowed. She jumped back in alarm, dropping the umbrella onto the floor. “What do you want? Leave us alone! I’ve already contacted the police!”
The man took a step back and apologized. “Miss Borden, please forgive me. I never intended to frighten you. Your attorney, Mr. Jennings, sent me.”
“How do you know him?” she questioned. “Is it an emergency? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Here.” He fumbled with something in his hand and bent down. “I’ll slide my card under the door. Do you have it?”
She went to the hall and watched the small white card appear under the crack in the door before picking it up. “Yes, yes, I see it.”
The card read, Mr. John Charles Fremont, Attorney-at-Law. Mr. Andrew J. Jennings, Attorney-at-Law. Firm of…
“All right, it-it seems to be in order.” She straightened, her irritation growing. “This is really inconsiderate to bother us so late. We are a house in mourning. What do you want?”
“Miss Borden, please. It’s urgent I talk with you. Will you open the door?”
She swallowed the last of her misgivings about him being a masher, or someone nefarious, and opened the heavy oak door a crack. Her light offered a surprising glimpse of a tall, attractive man with a serious face and startling blue eyes. His good looks tempered her irritation, but only for a moment.
“Well?” Lizzie blustered, her patience wearing thin. “Are the police coming to arrest me?”
Her visitor’s eyebrows rose at the question, but Lizzie had to know. Why else would he be here now?
Mr. Fremont shook his head. “No, not yet.” He leaned closer and whispered, bringing with him the scent of mint. “Please, I don’t want to alarm you. Look, I know what you did. I know what really happened today.”
His words made her leap back in alarm and try to slam the door. She would have if he hadn’t stuck his well-shined shoe in the jamb like some ill-bred salesman.
“Please, leave,” she ordered. “Now. The police should be here soon.”
“Wait, Miss Borden, please, hear me out. I don’t mean to frighten you. Mr. Jennings sent me because of my work on, um, cases with special circumstances. No need to worry, anything you say is protected by attorney-client privilege.”
“You are NOT my attorney. I hired Mr. Jennings, not you.”
“In a way you already did since I am connected with his firm. You’ll need my help and that of the others working with me.”
Maybe it was the earnestness of his appeal or the guileless look on his face that got through to her, but an inner instinct told her to trust him. “Very well, Mr. Fremont. I’ll listen to what you have to say. If I find you are trying to take advantage of me, I will contact the authorities again.”
“Fair enough. Now, please, you need to change into street clothes. I need to show you something of importance.”
That did make her suspicious. She stepped away from the door in concern. “Now? At this hour? Maybe I should contact Mr. Jennings for further verification.”
He took a deep breath. “Miss Borden, there isn’t much time. I can explain everything on the way, but you have to see it yourself. Then you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
Still, Lizzie hesitated, which caused him to utter a mumbled curse.
“Look, I suspect you found your stepmother acting strangely, not like herself at all,” he blurted, his voice urgent. “She neither recognized you, nor paid attention to you calling her name. She tried to attack you, even to bite you, as did your father. You hit them several times, but found it had no effect. All they did was growl, and they felt ice cold to the touch. Neither of them stopped until you hit them in the head. Am I right?”
Lizzie staggered as the horror of it became clear. When he reached out and touched her arm, she let him. His touch was steady, comforting. “How-how did you know?” she whispered.
“That’s what I need to show you. Please, we need to leave right away.”
She studied him a moment. It might be foolish, but she decided it should be fine. After all, no one but Emma knew about the call to Mr. Jennings, so she really needn’t worry. Besides, he has such nice blue eyes and dimples. A masher or anyone with bad intentions surely wouldn’t have such a nice-looking face or be so polite, would they?
“All right. Give me a moment, please. Wait here.”
As luck would have it, she’d left one of her day dresses in the hall closet instead of putting it back in her bedroom armoire. Rather than go upstairs, she set down the lamp and slipped on the wrinkled garment behind the kitchen door. I’d better get my riding coat, she thought, since it’s turned cooler.
“Miss Borden? We must leave.”
On a whim, she grabbed the gray silk scarf to cover her hair, surprised to hear a crinkling sound. She pulled at the
scarf, almost able to feel her visitor’s impatient breath on her neck.
“Yes, just a minute, please.”
She worked to un-snag the scarf and found it had caught on the edge of a small, white paper package stuck in the pocket of Father’s favorite black coat. It occurred to her that he’d mentioned going to pick up something on his way to the bank. But she suspected with it being warm early in the day, he certainly wouldn’t have needed his heavier coat. Or maybe he’d put it on first and changed into the lighter coat instead? Her mind worked. Did this have anything to do with the mysterious man I heard him arguing with some days ago?
After finally loosening the scarf, she wrapped it around her head. The package went into her own coat pocket until she could study it further.
“Miss Borden? Please, can we go?” her visitor asked again.
The door shut and locked, Lizzie hastened her steps to keep up with her visitor, who nearly bolted down the street. “Mr. Fremont, what’s the hurry?” she whispered at his back.
“Miss Borden, we have no time for formalities. Call me John.” He stopped for a moment beside her and took her elbow. “I don’t mean to be forward, but the others are waiting.” He began to walk, his pace quicker. “We must hurry.”
“Mr. Fre—John. Oh, I suppose you might as well call me Lizbeth or Lizzie if you want, though I do prefer Liz.”
She allowed him to help her into a well-kept carriage pulled by a handsome black horse. The moonlight glowed on the carriage’s shiny painted surface. “Others? Who are we meeting?”
A smile lit his face as he hopped in the other side of the carriage and clucked to the horse. “All right, Lizzie, I mean Liz. Hang on, we should be there shortly.”
Her hands gripped the front padding of the carriage tight as the horse trotted down the empty street. “But where are we going?”
“Oak Grove Cemetery.”
Lizzie sputtered and choked on the words. “Oak Grove? My father and stepmother are going to be buried there in two days time! Why are we going there of all places?”
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter (Book 1): Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter Page 3