A New View Into an Old Case

by Melissa Allen

First published in August/September, 2007, Volume 4, Issue 3, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.

August 4th, 1932

This is the first time I’ve officially told the story of what I saw and heard so long ago on that hot summer day. I have kept it to myself because I did not wish to be hounded by newspapermen, aspiring authors, or any of the others who are so avidly curious as to what actually happened that day. I wanted to be left alone. This is also the reason I wish to finally share my story, yet still remain anonymous. Public scrutiny, even when it is well meaning, to my mind remains an invasion of privacy. Still I am not getting any younger and the time to share my story is growing short. Just recently my doctors informed me I might be showing signs of the “old timers” disease. Nothing serious. Simply a matter of some forgetfulness now and again. But if I am going to tell all that I know, truthfully without adding any more myth to the legend, I should share my memories while they are still planted firmly in my mind. I will remain anonymous because I don’t want to be sought out after I’ve lost my wits about me. No reason on Earth is worth going down in history as the old lady babbling nonsense over a spoonful of pudding. There is no price tag for one’s dignity. All I can do is tell what happened as I stood outside the Borden house at 92 Second Street on August 4, 1892 to the best of my recollection. This stands as clearly in my memory as if it had happened just yesterday.

I had gone downstreet early to do some shopping for the noon meal. It was very warm that day. Among other things I have heard since, witnesses who were interviewed described the temperature using phrases such as “very warm” and “hot and close.” These are accurate descriptions. The humidity was dreadful. Do not forget to take into account the fashions of the time. Even a summer dress, not counting the generally worn underwear, was a heavy garment that was intended to keep a lady properly covered. Because I had been feeling somewhat ill I decided to start out a bit early to go about my errands. There was no desire in me to be out and about as the sun rose higher and the day grew warmer. Once the needed items had been purchased I thankfully began the return trek home. 

My route inevitably leads me past the Borden house, a nondescript Greek revival that had once been divided into a two family house. Nothing would have set the house apart from any of the others along that street before the murders. Except perhaps the rumors which were surreptitiously passed along, for the most part in whispers, by those who considered themselves “in the know” about the goings on inside. Miss Lizzie Borden was whispered to be a very queer one indeed. She was painted to be an outspoken, bad tempered, spoiled girl who threw temper tantrums when she didn’t get her way. It was said that she ignored her stepmother out of spite and refused to sit at the same dining table to take meals with either one of her parents. Those were the tamest rumors. The spicier gossip running through the grapevine included such shocking revelations as Lizzie having improper relations with her uncle John, or, depending on who was doing the talking, maybe Dr. Bowen, that she stole things from local shops without any heed to the consequences, and may even have orchestrated a staged robbery within her own home. Many of the items supposedly taken belonged to Abby Borden. These are only the well-known tales that I dare to mention. I considered most of this information to be nothing more than idle gossip. Actually, I had never given much thought to the Bordens or any of the sordid affairs attributed to their household before that fateful day. Yet afterward, as with many others within our close-knit community, I would become consumed by them.

The two and a half story frame house that is now so famous loomed just ahead of me when I saw a woman hurrying from the side yard across the street in the direction of Dr. Bowen’s house. Since I knew the Borden women by sight, I assumed it to be their work girl Bridget Sullivan. In just a few short minutes Bridget quickly scurried back. I had drawn close enough by this time to speak a greeting as she rushed past. The screen door made a creaking noise; Bridget disappeared from my sight. I paused a moment outside the fence as a thought occurred to me. Something about her demeanor had bothered me. I believe it was the expression she wore on her face. It was the earnest, determined look of a person dealing with a crisis. So determined that she never even realized I was there. 

Before I had sufficiently gathered these thoughts she reappeared to quickly make her way back out of the gate. This time she began a brisk steady pace up Second Street. Something was definitely wrong at the Borden house. I found myself lingering on the sidewalk, torn between wanting to find out how serious the trouble was, and needing to get my groceries safely home. My sense of propriety finally won out by persuading me the proper thing to do would be to get back to the duties at hand. I set out to do just that. That is, until I was given quite a start by the sound of Addie Churchill’s voice suddenly calling out. From what I assumed to be her kitchen window, she called to the figure of a woman leaning against the doorframe on the other side of the Borden screen door. She made an inquiry concerning the cause of the woman’s apparent state of agitation. The voice that issued forth in answer could not have belonged to anyone other than Miss Lizzie Borden. Her deep distinctive voice was unmistakable. Her answer, “Oh, Mrs. Churchill, please come over, father has been killed” halted me almost mid step. I was sure I had misheard the response. 

Mrs. Churchill was out the door in a flash, a woman on a mission. She greeted me most absently in passing. Turning to bestow the gesture in kind, the hello died quietly on my lips as I watched her enter the very same gate Bridget had so recently exited. A look of distress was evident on her face. The next thing I remember is the sound of some sort of rig making its way toward me. Dr. Bowen was returning home from his rounds. My curiosity was truly piqued. This could explain why Bridget had spent such a short time at the good Doctor’s doorstep. He had not been at home to receive her distress call. Mrs. Bowen immediately met her husband with words that sent him to join Addie at the Borden side door. Through the screen I barely heard an exclamation of alarm. My groceries, however, had not been entirely forgotten. With all possible speed, I returned to my residence to make a halfhearted attempt at putting them away, all the while trying to make sense of what had transpired. Andrew J. Borden was killed? Surely I had misunderstood the content of the exchange.

By the time I made it back a small crowd had gathered outside. Among the familiar faces present were reporters, neighbors, a few policemen I knew, and everyone was in varying degrees of shock. There was a man standing at the screen door watching the crowd. His name has become lost to me with time, though I am sure it’s in the official record, because he was called upon to give sworn testimony. He was there to keep people from getting inside, so I was told. Then one of the men standing near me said the Mr. and Mrs. had been murdered. Hacked to pieces is what he said. I could hardly believe my ears. In a month of Sundays this idea would never have crossed my mind. Two people had been slaughtered in their own home in broad daylight. On this busy street no less! If it could happen to this old couple, it could happen to any of us, anywhere. 

It was most unsettling to think I had passed by the place on my way to the market. Could I have seen the killer without realizing it? This idea still leaves me with cold chills. I saw a great many things that will always be with me that day. When a truly shocking event happens I don’t think it ever leaves you. To their credit, the police tried to break up the great throng of people that converged on the scene from all over the city to literally block the street. I’ll have the good grace to admit to being one who stuck around for the whole of the afternoon. To tell the God’s honest truth the place unsettled me even with all those people milling around. It wasn’t simply the fact that two old people lay murdered inside those walls. What totally unnerved me was the feeling that the person who had done the deed was close by, possibly staring right at me from time to time.

John Morse spent the biggest part of the day outside in the yard with the officers. Really I cannot say I can blame him. With the gruesome situation that lay within, maybe staying outside was the best thing the man could do until he got his bearings. No doubt dealing with such an unexpected tragedy would have broken down even the heartiest of men. Onlookers continued crowding the street in hopes of glimpsing any evidence of such a grisly deed. What transpired behind those closed doors I cannot say. Many people came and went. 

As I looked on, Dr. Bowen made a hurried trip to his own house and back again. I’d stationed myself particularly on that side of the street to distance myself from the crowd. What I swore would never be uttered to a living soul up until now is, of all the things which aroused feelings of alarm that afternoon, none gave me greater pause than what I glimpsed as Dr. Seabury Bowen hustled past. Purely by chance my eyes happened upon his bag. The clasp was not done up so it stood slightly opened. Now of course it would never be my intention to cast any shadow on the good doctor’s name, but for a hint of a second, I could almost swear I caught sight of a smooth wooden handle—a handle that left the distinct impression of being recently cleaned. I reassured myself that it was a perfectly harmless physician’s instrument. Never once have I felt compelled to believe otherwise. We’re talking about a very respected member of our community. Dr. Bowen’s wife Pheobe spent time at the scene, as did Miss Alice Russell. 

Alice was a very nice woman. Everyone who knew her spoke very highly of her. She was quite shaken by the experience for some time afterward. Miss Lizzie Borden was not to be seen. Some who had the fortune to be permitted inside were nothing more than thrill seekers, in my opinion. They had no business being in there at a time like that. Viewing the mutilated body of one’s neighbor to satisfy a morbid sense of curiosity is exhibiting your own lack of morals. Even the corpse of Andrew J. Borden deserved some respect. My heart went out to poor Abby. What she must have gone through in her last minutes on Earth was unthinkable. I drew the line at attempting to gain entry. My personal reason for being there was a simple need to understand how such a thing could have happened in my neighborhood, within minutes of my home. Miss Emma Borden showed up later in the evening and to all outward appearances was quite upset. I finally left soon after she arrived.

This, unfortunately, is all there is to my story. It’s been my experience that firsthand accounts tend to capture the imagination even if they hold only the most mundane details. There are no illusions that what has been related here will be accepted at face value. The reader can pick and choose what they will believe, I suppose. That’s out of my hands. For the first and probably the last time, I have recounted what I know for the record. Most everyone officially connected to the case has long since passed over. There is some comfort in the fact that I did not speak ill of the dead. Not even with my admission concerning Dr. Bowen. I am glad to have shared my little piece of history. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so.

Taken from the clipping of an interview that was published in an unknown newspaper in August of 1932.