Evan Hunter: Lizzie

She did not look too terribly stricken now, Knowlton thought, listening as she swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her God. She put on her glove again as Leonard went back to his chair before the bench.

“Mr. Knowlton?” Blaisdell said.

Knowlton rose. “Your Honor?”

“May we begin, please?”

He walked to where she was sitting.

On Saturday last week he had been summoned from his home in New Bedford for a meeting with City Marshal Hilliard, State Officer Seaver, Medical Examiner Dolan, and Mayor Coughlin. He had recognized from the start the need to proceed with extreme caution, and had voiced his feelings to the others even before they explained what they had done by way of interrogation and investigation. The marshal showed him all the evidence he had collected, spreading notes, papers and documents on the tabletop, reporting on the various conversations with those who had first arrived at the scene of the crime and — most importantly — detailing the conversations with Bridget Sullivan and Lizzie Borden, the only two people who had been in or about the premises when the murders were committed. By the end of their consultation, Knowlton was convinced that an inquest was in order, and he announced to the reporters gathered outside the Mellen House that such inquest would be held immediately before Judge Josiah C. Blaisdell of the Second District Court of Bristol, in Fall River.

This was that court; this was that inquest.

He had listened this morning to the testimony of the servant girl, Bridget Sullivan. He had made copious notes at the Mellen House meeting, and had carefully read Miss White’s transcript of the morning’s testimony. His notes and the transcript were on the table behind him. He did not think he would need to refer to them; the facts, as he knew them, were firmly rooted in his mind. He wanted to learn now, firsthand, exactly how Lizzie Borden’s version of what had happened differed from what he already knew.

He looked directly into her eyes.

“Give me your full name,” he said.

“Lizzie Andrew Borden.”

“Is it Lizzie or Elizabeth?”

“Lizzie.”

“You were so christened?”

“I was so christened.”

“What is your age, please?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Your mother is not living?”

“No, sir.”

“When did she die?”

“She died when I was two and a half years old.”

“You do not remember her, then?”

“No, sir.”

“What was your father’s age?”

“He was seventy next month.”

“What was his whole name?”

“Andrew Jackson Borden.”

“And your stepmother? What is her whole name?”

“Abby Durfee Borden.”

“How long had your father been married to your stepmother?”

“I think about twenty-seven years.”

“How much of that time have they lived in that house on Second Street?”

“I think... I’m not sure... but I think about twenty years last May.”

“Always occupied the whole house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Somebody told me it was once fitted up for two tenements.”

“When we bought it, it was for two tenements, and the man we bought it of stayed there a few months until he finished his own house. After he finished his own house and moved into it, there was no one else ever moved in. We always had the whole.”

He nodded. He walked deliberately and slowly away from her, back to his table, picked up a sheet of paper there and glanced at it, though he had no need to. On the day after the murders, Andrew Borden’s brother-in-law had said in an interview, “Yes, there were family dissensions, although it has always been kept very quiet. For nearly ten years there have been constant disputes between the daughters and their father and stepmother. It arose, of course, with regard to the stepmother. Mr. Borden gave her some bank stock, and the girls thought they ought to be treated as evenly as the mother. I guess Mr. Borden did try to do it, for he deeded to the daughters, Emma L. and Lizzie A., the homestead on Ferry Street, an estate of one hundred twenty rods of land, with a house and barn, all valued at three thousand dollars. This was in 1887.” Knowlton meant to ask her about this now. There are no murders without motives, he reminded himself, and put the sheet of paper back on the table again, and walked again to where she was sitting.

“Have you any idea how much your father was worth?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever heard him say?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever formed any opinion?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know something about his real estate?”

“About what?”

“His real estate.”

“I know what real estate he owned, part of it. I don’t know whether I know it all or not.”

“Tell me what you know of.”

“He owns two farms in Swanzey... the place on Second Street and the A. J. Borden building and corner... and the land on South Main Street where McMannus is... and then, a short time ago, he bought some real estate up further south that, formerly he said, belonged to a Mr. Birch.”

“Did you ever deed him any property?”

“He gave us, some years ago, Grandfather Borden’s house on Ferry Street. And he bought that back from us some weeks ago, I don’t know just how many.”

“As near as you can tell,” Knowlton said.

“Well, I should say in June, but I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean by ‘bought it back’?”

She turned from Knowlton and looked at the judge, as though questioning whether or not she had given her previous answer in the English language. Somewhat testily, she said, “He bought it of us, and gave us the money for it.”

“How much was it?”

“How much money?” she said, her voice still carrying a note of irritation. “He gave us five thousand dollars for it.”

“Did you pay him anything when you took a deed from him?”

Again she looked at the judge. “ Pay him anything?” she said, and turned back to Knowlton. “No, sir.”

“How long ago was it you took a deed from him?”

“When he gave it to us?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t tell you. I should think five years.”

“Did you have any other business transactions with him besides that?”

“No, sir.”

“In real estate?”

“No, sir.”

“Or in personal property?”

“No, sir.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“No transfer of property one way or the other?”

“No, sir.”

“At no time?”

“No, sir.”

“And I understand he paid you the cash for this property.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and Emma equally?”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowlton nodded. He went back to his table, took what he hoped would seem a long time consulting the same sheet of paper, and then turned back to her. This time he held the paper in his hand. It was a transcript of the interview the brother-in-law had given last Friday. It read: “In spite of all this, the dispute about their not being allowed enough went on with equal bitterness. Lizzie did most of the demonstrative contention, as Emma is very quiet and unassuming and would feel very deeply any disparaging or angry word from her father.”

“How many children has your father?” Knowlton asked.

“Only two.”

“Only you two.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any others ever?”

“One that died.”

Knowlton nodded. Judge Blaisdell had begun fanning himself again. The court stenographer had caught up with the previous exchange. Her pencil stopped. She looked at the witness. Back to motive, Knowlton thought. On the day after the murders, Andrew J. Jennings had said that he had no particular desire to talk about the family affairs of the Bordens, but he admitted that as far as he knew, the murdered man had left no will. The estate would, as a matter of course, go to the daughters.