In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  The only silver lining I could think of was that with my disappearing like this, my sister would not be tempted to have me hanged—and I would not be tempted to kill her, either—and that was certainly something. She would grieve me, perhaps, and then she would move on, doubtlessly relieved, maybe scarred . . . Had not my pain over the children been so stark, I might even have shed a tear for leaving Big Brynhild behind.

  It was better for us both if she thought me dead. Nellie would be safe now.

  “Give it a little time,” James said, “and if you want another child, I will get one for you. I might even help you raise it.” His lips twitched.

  “You always wanted me to elope with you.” I gave the flask back.

  “That I did, and now you do. Good things come to those who wait.”

  “Aren’t you afraid that I’ll kill you in your sleep?”

  “Yes, but that’s a part of your charm, my dear.”

  “I never had a friend as true as you.”

  “We are a rare breed. We have to look out for each other.” He took a swig of the flask. “When the rumors have died down and no one is writing about the fire anymore, you will feel better.”

  “I will still miss them, though.”

  “Think of Minnesota.”

  And I did. It is what people like me do. We learn how to survive.

  When I was younger, I sometimes thought a devil had slipped inside me in place of the child I lost. Later I came to accept that there was never anyone but me in my skin, human through and through.

  We are all just creatures on this earth, fending for ourselves the best that we can. There is nothing unnatural about me. I walk the same pastures as any other. I am as natural as they come. There are just not many of my kind.

  Author’s Note

  So, what happened next?

  After the fire in 1908 and the discovery of the bodies in the basement, Ray Lamphere was arrested and charged with arson. Asle Helgelien arrived in La Porte shortly after, certain that something had happened to his brother, and insisted that they dig where the earth was disturbed around the farmhouse. In a trash pit, they found Andrew’s remains and other bodies under it, among them Jennie Olson’s. Soon other bodies were found as well, and Belle’s cunning enterprise was finally exposed.

  The discoveries made huge headlines and attracted thousands of onlookers who came to watch the police dig. The visitors could buy refreshments and souvenir postcards with pictures of the deceased in their putrefied state. One Sunday, the doors to the makeshift morgue were opened, and the public was free to file past the corpses before indulging in their picnic lunches. One vendor sold pink ice cream and cake next to an open grave. A journalist dubbed the scene “An organized feast of the morbid and curious.”

  Because of the findings on the property, it was soon suggested that the headless woman in the basement was not Belle Gunness but some unknown, smaller woman. A long-winded trial was set in motion; its first task was to determine if Belle was dead or alive. Her dentist came forward, describing the bridge of teeth he made for her, which had not been found in the basement. An old gold miner, Louis Schultz, was hired to sift through the ashes to look for them. Weeks later, his search was successful, and he pulled them out of his pocket one day, announcing that he had found what they were looking for.

  Mr. Schultz did not testify at the trial; he disappeared without a trace shortly after the find.

  Although many still believed Belle was alive, and reports of sightings kept pouring in from all over the United States and even from Norway, Ray Lamphere was found guilty of arson. He died in prison two years later, still proclaiming his innocence.

  The mystery of Belle Gunness’s fate has until this day not been solved, but it was another kind of mystery that inspired this novel. Belle was a local girl, from the same part of Norway as me, and I just could not fathom how a dirt-poor girl from the middle of Norway ended up in Indiana with a yard full of corpses—and maybe even got away with it.

  * * *

  —

  I don’t remember when I first heard about Belle. I was an avid reader as a child and probably found out about her through a lurid book or some magazine article. She existed in my mind as a vaguely Victorian, cleaver-wielding shadow who fed her victims’ body parts to pigs. That was all I knew about her, which is strange, since I have always been interested in history—especially women’s history—and have an ongoing fascination with vintage crime. She remained that vague shape for quite some time, swinging her cleaver in the recesses of my mind.

  That changed when I made a friend who lived in Selbu. I spent a lot of time there throughout my thirties, and even lived in the valley for a year, renting a house in the middle of a field, while honing my novel-writing skills. I didn’t write this novel while living there, but I got the idea while I sat in that house and watched the wind blow in the birches outside the windows.

  I read everything I could about Belle and her murder farm, and quickly realized that I wanted more than headlines and facts; it wasn’t that interesting to me just how many bones they found at her farm. I wanted to try to understand who she was and why she did what she did, even if her reasons were twisted and obscure for those of us with somewhat healthy minds.

  When I finally sat down to make sense of my notes, it wasn’t as easy as I had thought to get a clear picture of Belle. She was mercurial in every way. According to contemporary descriptions, she was difficult and amiable, outgoing and timid, overly religious and lewd. One person described her as talking a lot in a sugary voice; another said she muttered to herself. Some said she was stupid, others bright. Her sister said she loved children, while Jennie Olson’s suitor claimed that the girl was mistreated. Farmhand Peter Colson, who made a narrow escape, said that he loved her in spite of himself, suggesting a charismatic personality.

  I found that the reports of Belle’s crimes were as varied as those of the woman herself. Some said she killed fourteen people, others forty. Belle’s possible escape has also been the theme of much debate. In 2008, Belle’s cemetery plot in Chicago was opened in an attempt to determine once and for all if Belle died in the fire. The female remains in the grave were tested, but the results were inconclusive. For years, it was almost perceived as a truth that Esther Carlson, an elderly Swedish woman on trial for murder in California in 1931, was in fact Belle Gunness. An amateur historian from Selbu was able to disprove that in 2014.

  Belle Gunness remains mercurial.

  This, then, is not a novel about the truth. It’s an attempt to understand how someone like Belle could have happened. While the bones of this novel are facts, I opted to keep my favorite rumors and lies, and made up some new ones as well.

  The biggest lie in this novel is James Lee. I came across him in a Norwegian true crime book from the 1970s that wasn’t entirely accurate. Among the stories presented, I found this accomplice of Norwegian descent. I chose to keep him because there probably was an unknown male who presented himself as Belle’s brother and ushered men to the farm. Victim Henry Gurholdt is supposed to have come to Belle through him. I also wanted to give Belle a confidant, someone she could freely discuss her crimes with, and another killer seemed to fit the bill.

  The next biggest lie is Nellie. Though Belle’s sister in Chicago did exist, she said she had lost touch with Belle shortly after Mads’s death. There is, for the record, nothing to suggest that Belle’s family knew anything about her criminal activities, and the Nellie of this novel is a fictional character with only superficial similarities to the real woman. I opted to use her in this way to add another, more empathetic voice to the story, and there was also an element of curiosity on my part: What is it like to love a serial killer? Not in a romantic way but as a sister, or a mother? When (if ever) does conscience override the instinct to protect?

  Belle and Mads had foster children, but besides Jennie, it is unclear how many and for how l
ong. They also had a son, Axel, born shortly after Myrtle, who only lived for a very short time. I also made other adjustments to Belle’s family for the sake of the narrative, and must also state for the record that there’s no proof that Belle was ever mistreated at home as a child. I opted to go that route after reading up on research that suggests that most sociopaths develop from a combination of nature and violent nurture.

  After the fire, there were rumors about Belle and the mob. Allegedly, she disposed of bodies they delivered to the farm in crates. This is almost certainly not true, but it fit nicely with my narrative. Poor Edvard from Bergen (the one with the scissors) is entirely my own invention as well, and people familiar with the story will notice that I have taken some liberties with Belle’s last days in LaPorte, and completely ignored Maxon’s testimony. The men who visit Belle at the farm are a mixture of confirmed victims, suspected victims, and my own inventions, and Myrtle’s secret about the night Peter died was allegedly told to a friend at school and not to her aunt.

  A questionable truth I embraced was the attack Belle suffered in Selbu and the subsequent murder of the perpetrator. Although the attack has never been proven, some people in Selbu still claim to know who he was. What seems to be more uncertain is if she truly killed him or if he died of natural causes.

  It has often been assumed that Belle killed two of her children in Chicago, and later Peter Gunness’s younger child, but there is no proof of that. Child mortality was high at the time, and the children could just as easily have died of natural causes. There has also been speculation that Belle killed her children in La Porte before starting the fire, either as part of a murder-suicide or to cover her tracks as she fled. This seems very strange to me, as her one redeeming quality in life was a love of children, and there is nothing to indicate that the younger ones were ever mistreated at home.

  As for Belle herself, my Belle is a tad more eloquent than the original, judging by her letters. There are also sides to an antisocial personality that don’t translate well on the page, and the real Belle may have had a little less compassion and depth than the Belle in this novel. The original would also have been more concerned with religious matters, even if only superficially.

  Another thing about the original Belle is that as a mother, farmer, and housewife at the turn of the last century, she would have worked all the time. The perhaps most impressive thing about her endeavor is that she found time to execute it at all.

  Acknowledgments

  A novel doesn’t rise out of nowhere: it takes time, preparation, and countless revisions to get it just right. When it is based on real events, even more so, because life is a messy and complicated thing—and when the life in question is that of a notorious serial killer, the stakes are even higher. I owe thanks and gratitude to a lot of people, most of all to those who saw potential in the manuscript and helped me polish my words to a shine.

  Brianne Johnson, my amazing agent, helped me take the story from a scraggly early draft to a solid piece of work. She has been this novel’s champion all the way, for which I am immensely grateful. I also owe thanks to everyone else at Writers House who have worked on this novel’s behalf.

  I am also deeply grateful to my wonderful editor, Sarah Blumenstock at Berkley, for seeing just the right things and helping me take this novel to next level. Likewise, to my UK editor, Jillian Taylor at Michael Joseph. This novel would have been much poorer without the two of you, and I am so very happy that you saw the potential. Another round of thanks goes to the teams at Berkley and Michael Joseph respectively. It really takes a village to raise a proper book.

  I also owe thanks to Liv Lingborn for countless late night discussion about Belle and her exploits, to Sissel Berge for introducing me to Selbu and taking me to visit Størsetgjerdet, to my cousin Øygunn Skaret for her boundless enthusiasm, and to my son, Jonah, for patience and understanding.

  My mother, Sidsel Kristin Degn Skaret, who died while I was working on this novel, also deserves heartfelt thanks for raising me among well-stocked bookshelves crammed with works by feminist writers. I think she would have liked this one.

  I am also grateful to all the historians and nonfiction writers who have taken on Belle and excavated her story. In addition to providing me with facts, their work has served as a huge inspiration.

  There is also Belle herself, and though it feels wrong to thank her per se, there wouldn’t have been a book without her, so I think I should at least acknowledge that fact. Writing a folkloric monster back to flesh and blood has been a challenging yet immensely rewarding experience, and though I still don’t know just who Belle Gunness was, at least I feel a little bit wiser.

  About the Author

  Camilla Bruce is a Norwegian writer of speculative and historical fiction. She co-founded micro-press Belladonna Publishing, where she served as an editor on two anthologies. She currently lives in Trondheim with her son and cat.

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