Evan Hunter: Lizzie

“Why, yes, ma’am,” the druggist said, looking extremely puzzled. When he brought the requested items to the counter, Lizzie added a dozen drops of iron to the water, and then held out the two quinine pellets to Rebecca, who swallowed them in a wink. The druggist was amazed.

“Now that is what I call clever,” he said. “Very clever indeed.”

She learned from Alison later on that whereas the man might indeed have been amazed by Lizzie’s American ingenuity, he would have been even more confounded by the American penchant for patent medicines and the ease with which they were purchased in the United States. An English chemist — although he might offer for sale such items as face powder (which the fashionable London ladies were not wearing that year) or cologne and soap and toothbrushes — was almost exclusively in the business of putting up prescriptions, and was unfamiliar with a clientele who might walk in off the street to ask for a little aromatic spirits of ammonia after a reckless night of libation, or acid phosphate to counteract the aftereffects of nicotine or a glass (or a tumbler, or whatever one chose to call it) of Calisaya tonic. So whereas his refusal to honor Rebecca’s request had seemed decidedly odd to the ladies, it was no odder to him than had been the request itself.

But Lizzie learned this only later, and for the moment it all seemed bewildering and strange and marvelously exciting, and she was as much exhausted by her own tumultuous reactions to this new world (imagine them calling America the New World!) as she was by the physical exertion of exploring it. When at last they made their way home — how odd that they already considered it “home” — to the Albemarle, she slipped out of her dress, corset and shoes, and lay down on the bed instantly, wearing only her underclothing and stockings, hoping for a short rejuvenating nap before the hush of evening descended upon this stimulating city. She was just beginning to doze — Rebecca was already asleep in the other bed — when the telephone rang, startling her out of her wits. There were telephones back in Fall River, of course, but certainly none in the Borden household, and none of them were quite like this one on the bedside table, with its short urgent ring sounding more like a warning than a summons. She groped for the instrument in the near gloom — Rebecca had drawn the curtains before they’d retired — brought the receiver to her ear, and mumbled, “Hello?”

“Miss Borden, this is the hall porter,” a male voice said. “Will you accept a telephone call from Mrs. Newbury?”

“Mrs. Newbury?” Lizzie said, puzzled for the moment. “Oh, yes. Put her through, please.”

She waited.

Alison’s voice came onto the line, deep and rich and liquidly musical. “My dear Lizzie,” she said, “I hope I’m not catching you at an awkward moment.”

“No, no,” Lizzie said. “Not at all.”

“I tried ringing you earlier, but I suppose you and your friends were out on the town. Have you been enjoying our dismal little city?”

“We love it,” Lizzie said.

“Ah, do you?” Alison said. “How nice. Is there anything at all we can do to help you get settled?”

“I can’t think of anything,” Lizzie said. “But it’s very kind of you to ask.”

“Well then, directly to the point,” Alison said. “We did so enjoy our conversation with you on the train yesterday. Albert and I,” she said. “And your friends, of course. Has Anna overcome her malaise? I do hope she has. We were wondering, Albert and I, if you might be free for tea this afternoon. I know it’s rather the last minute, isn’t it, but I promise I did try you earlier. We’re in Kensington, just near the Cromwell Road — how silly of me, you don’t know London, do you? But if you think you’re able to come, I’ll send my coachman round to collect you, say, at half-past four, a quarter to five. Albert should be home by then, and I know he’ll be happy to see you again; he so admires Americans. Do you think you might possibly come? With your friends, of course, if you choose.”

The “if you choose” made it sound, suddenly, as though Lizzie alone were being invited. She considered the propriety of abandoning her friends, wondered how long she was expected to stay for tea, wondered, too, if she could catch up with the others later for their evening meal. Rebecca had said something about asking the concierge (she was still unaccustomed to the term hall porter ) to book some tickets for the D’Oyly Carte, which was performing The Gondoliers at the Savoy Theatre. Had Rebecca meant for tonight? If so, was there indeed time for tea and then supper before going to the theater?

“Lizzie? Are you there?”

“Yes, I am,” Lizzie said.

“Have I quite overwhelmed you, my dear? I know I must sound rash and impulsive — but then again, Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings.”

The “Kate” confused Lizzie until she realized that Alison was quoting from one of the Shakespeare plays, though she couldn’t exactly pinpoint which one. She thought to awaken Rebecca, who was sleeping peacefully in the other bed, a smile on her face, to ask whether she would care to accompany her to tea at the Newburys — the prospect of going there alone frankly frightened her.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a dreadful mistake, haven’t I?” Alison said. “Forgive me, do. And, Lizzie, if you should need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask. I was quite sincere about my earlier...”

“I’d be delighted to come to tea,” Lizzie said.

And of course the townspeople were crying for blood.

Blood insisted on more blood. Five full days since the murders, and even yet the crowds continued to gather in the dust, expecting a lightning bolt from above to dissipate the stifling heat together with the horror of what had happened. Murder and heat, Knowlton thought, a fine, shimmering pair.

He looked down at the square below.

The watering carts had already passed this way twice today, but there was no way of properly laying the dust in the summertime when the westerly wind drove it roiling up the hillside. In the spring, when there was rain in abundance, Fall River’s roadways turned to dust to mud to dust again within hours. Today he would infinitely have preferred rain. Rain would have kept down the dust — and the crowds outside.

From where he stood at the open, second-story window of the old courthouse, Hosea Knowlton could smell the dust and hear the murmurings of the crowd below. The people had begun gathering before ten this morning, awaiting the arrival of the servant girl — he would have to remember to refer to her as “Maggie,” the way the sisters did. This morning, when he’d questioned her, it had been Bridget Sullivan. Miss Sullivan this, or Miss Sullivan that. This afternoon, it would be Maggie. The previous servant girl had been a Maggie, apparently, and both sisters — either through indolence or indifference, he knew not which — preferred calling this one by the same name. Rather like replacing a beloved pet who’s wandered off or died, he thought, and looked off to the south, from which direction the carriage would come. Masses of people were standing along the curbing for as far as he could see, thronging the approach streets to Court Square, waiting. For what? he wondered. For deliverance, of course. God give us some answers this afternoon.

He could remember a time when things seemed so much simpler. He had spent his boyhood in Maine, moving with his family to New Bedford when he was nineteen years old and his father, the Reverend Isaac Case Knowlton, accepted the position of pastor at the Universalist Church in that city. A scarce ten miles apart, Fall River was as familiar to him as was his adopted city of New Bedford. The courtroom in which he stood today might have been the sitting room of his own house on Cottage Street, so many times had he appeared here since his appointment as district attorney three years ago. The building itself never failed to please his eye: a stately piece of architecture it was, the entrance flanked with somewhat Grecian pillars supporting the pediment, the whole fashioned entirely of native granite. He felt at home in this building, in this room. If only there were not the baffling murders to contend with. If only the townspeople did not expect a hero today.