Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“The witness is excused,” Blaisdell said. “Mr. Leonard, would you call the next witness, please?”

And so, yesterday afternoon, after all the witnesses had been heard, Knowlton had issued a simple bulletin that stated only, “Inquest continued at ten today. Witnesses examined were Lizzie Borden, Dr. S. W. Bowen, Adelaide B. Churchill, Hiram C. Harrington, John V. Morse, and Emma Borden. Nothing developed for publication.”

And earlier this afternoon, the eleventh day of August, he had questioned a drugstore clerk named Eli Bence, and several witnesses who had testified to the whereabouts of Andrew Borden on the morning he was killed, and lastly Bridget Sullivan again, who had left the Borden house to take up temporary residence at 95 Division Street, a mile from the courthouse. He considered it an oversight that a hack had not been sent for her and that she’d had to walk that distance in the interminably persistent August heat.

The heat did nothing to still the temper of the crowd outside. For two days now the officials had been promising an imminent verdict, but the bulletin boards outside the courthouse revealed no such definitive action. The crowd knew only that witnesses came and went; police officers were sent scurrying in every direction at the slightest rumor of a new clue; doctors and professors secretly guarded their learned opinions, if indeed they had reached any opinions at all concerning the murders and the weapon or weapons presumably used. Knowlton knew that a decision, one way or the other, would have to be made today.

The Borden carriage, carrying the two Borden sisters and their friend Mrs. George Brigham had arrived not ten minutes ago, the driver cracking a whip to herd the milling crowd back. Knowlton had watched from the upstairs window of the courtroom, estimating the crowd to consist of at least two hundred men, women and children; remarkable the way they gathered so rapidly the moment the closed carriage came into view. One moment there would be only a handful of idlers in the street outside; the next moment a crowd would appear as if by magic, waiting for the decision that would either exonerate Lizzie Borden or cause her to be charged with the crime of murder.

He looked up at the clock.

It was getting late.

He sighed heavily.

“Is there anything you would like to correct in your previous testimony?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

He nodded, went back to his table, picked up a slip of paper, consulted it and walked back to where she sat in the witness chair, watching his every move.

“Your attention has already been called,” he said, “to the circumstance of going into the drugstore of Smith’s...”

Her pale eyes narrowed warily.

“... on the corner of Columbia and Main Streets — by some officer, has it not? — on the day before the tragedy.”

“I don’t know whether some officer has asked me. Somebody has spoken of it to me. I don’t know who it was.”

“Did that take place?”

“It did not.”

“Do you know where the drugstore is?”

“I don’t.”

“Did you go into any drugstore and inquire for prussic acid?”

“I did not.”

“Where were you on Wednesday morning, that you remember?”

“At home.”

“All the time?”

“All day. Until Wednesday night.”

“Did you go into the drugstore for any purpose whatever?”

“I did not.”

Eli Bence, the drugstore clerk he’d examined earlier today, had positively identified her as the woman who’d come into the shop asking to buy prussic acid. Knowlton looked at her. She returned his steady gaze.

“Was the dress that was given to the officers the same dress that you wore Thursday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The India silk?”

“No, it’s not an India silk. It’s silk and linen. Some call it bengaline silk.”

“Something like that dress there?” he said, and gestured toward Annie White, who was wearing a silk pongee with a knotty weave. The stenographer looked up from her pad, startled to find herself the sudden center of attention.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Lizzie said.

“Did you give to the officer the same shoes and stockings that you wore?”

“I did, sir.”

“Do you remember where you took them off?”

“I wore the shoes ever after that, all around the house Friday, and Saturday, until I put on my shoes for the street.”

“That is to say, you wore them all that day, Thursday, until you took them off for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

He felt suddenly weary. He had asked all the questions there were to be asked; what further question remained? His future course of action seemed unavoidable, nay, inescapable. And yet, if only she would...

“Did you tell us yesterday all the errand that you had at the barn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have nothing to add to what you said?”

“No, sir.”

“You had no other errand than what you’ve spoken of?”

“No, sir.”

Please, he thought. Won’t you give me something ? If you did not do this terrible thing, help me to believe you did not. Please.

“Miss Borden,” he said, “of course you appreciate the anxiety that everybody has to find the author of this tragedy...”

Lizzie nodded.

“And the questions that I put to you have been in that direction.”

She nodded again.

“I now ask you if you can furnish any other fact, or give any other, even suspicion, that will assist the officers in any way in this matter.”

Lizzie considered this for several moments. Then she said, “About two weeks ago...”

“Were you going to tell the occurrence about that man who called at the house?”

“No, sir. It was after my sister went away. I came home from Miss Russell’s one night, and as I came up — I always glanced toward the side door as I came along by the carriage way — I saw a shadow on the side steps. I didn’t stop walking but I walked slower. Somebody ran down the steps, around the east end of the house. I thought it was a man, because I saw no skirts. And I was frightened, and of course I didn’t go around to see. I hurried to the front door as fast as I could and locked it.”

“What time of night was that?”

“I think about quarter of nine. It was not after nine o’clock, anyway.”

“Do you remember what night that was?”

“No, sir, I don’t.” She hesitated, thinking, and then said, “I saw somebody run around the house once before. Last winter.”

“One thing at a time,” Knowlton said. “Do you recollect about how long ago that last occurrence was?”

“It was after my sister went away. She’s been away two weeks today, so it must’ve been within two weeks.”

“Two weeks today? Or two weeks at the time of the murder?”

“Isn’t today Thursday?”

“Yes, but I thought you said she was gone two weeks the day of the murder.”

“Isn’t today Thursday?” Lizzie said again.

“Yes, but that would be three weeks. I thought you said the day your father was murdered she’d been away just two weeks.”

“Yes, she had.”

“Then it would be three weeks today. Your sister went away... a week has elapsed.”

“Yes,” she said, and again that faraway look came into her eyes, as though she were suddenly transported to some distant place he could not hope to reach. “I’d forgotten that a whole week has passed since the affair.”

He watched her in silence for several seconds. He was suddenly aware of the ticking of the big clock on the courtroom wall.

“Different from that,” he said, “you cannot state?”

“No, sir. I don’t know what the date was.”