Mary Elizabeth Naugleby Mary Elizabeth Naugle
First published in April/May, 2004, Volume 1, Issue 2, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
The Borden case is arguably the best example we have of domestic murder, for not only were the victims killed at home in broad daylight, but also the actions of killer or killers depended upon the movements of three women in the course of ordinary housekeeping. If the killer came from without, he must carefully dodge at least one of these women in the course of her duties; if the killer came from within, at least one woman must present the illusion of an ordinary morning, untainted by any thought less savory than the next meal.
Later testimony would contain a litany of recounted chores: taking in ice and the milk pail from the back step, Andrew’s journey to the backyard with the night’s slop pail, the Borden breakfast (as great a chore in the eating as in the preparation), a ten minute vomiting break, bed making, simple mending, window washing, hanky ironing, sealskin cape fumigating, and freeing up a nail in a crowded closet by burning a paint stained dress. And among these industrious souls, all but the latecomer, John V. Morse, complained of mysterious stomach ailments dismissed as “summer sickness”; Bridget further suffered from a sick headache.
When viewed by the modern reader, many of the actions described on August 4 and surrounding dates appear thoroughly baffling. I will not even attempt to explain how the Bordens maintained or endured the boarding house atmosphere of their family, much less to identify the killer. But I may be able to shed some light on some of the peculiarities in that home, which may not have been peculiarities at all in 1892.
I call to the stand an unusual witness: an inanimate object called The New Buckeye Cookbook, an ambitious tome combining and greatly expanding upon the original Buckeye Cookbook and its companion A Guide to Practical Housekeeping. The Buckeye Cookbook was the best seller of its kind from 1876 to 1905. This edition,* weighing in at 1,288 pages, covers almost any crisis the woman of the house might face—except how to get away with murder. Still, it is possible that at least one of “the PLUCKY HOUSEWIVES” to whom the book is dedicated, and “who master their work instead of allowing it to master them,” may have mastered the fine art of murder as well as the fine art of housekeeping.
The New Buckeye was broad in social scope. It offered advice to servants wishing to obtain and keep their stations, to insecure middle class women not yet sure how to manage those servants, and to lady folk living on the hill and planning their first five course dinners for ten (for which the book thoughtfully provides an aerial view illustration of a properly laid table). The book reminds all three classes of their duties:
The mistress ought always to be able to do everything better and quicker than any servant. If she gives orders that betray her ignorance, she may as well resign her sceptre at once in shame and humiliation (1018).
The mistress was to show appreciation and respect for her “girl,” who is reminded that
the happiness and health of the family depends on you, and no lady or gentleman will “look down” upon you because you work. . . . Whoever looks down on you because you do honest work conscientiously is a fool, and not worth minding (1020).
So, The New Buckeye demands watchful efficiency on the parts of all women of the household, and on August 4, 1892, three women moved about, intent upon their duties: Abby, as housekeeper; Lizzie, as second in command during Emma’s absence; and Bridget, as servant girl. Since none was confined to bed past 9:30, their movements presented a tricky proposition for the killer—if an outsider, he must hopscotch about an ill designed home containing one target and two potential witnesses; if an insider, she must present a plausible account of her domestic activities that would allow for no extracurricular killing on the side. Either way, we must congratulate the killer for executing both murders while avoiding detection in a regular mine field of domestic pitfalls.
Having remarked on the domestic complications that have no satisfactory explanation so far, I should like to examine some of the domestic peculiarities that do. Starting with the famous Borden diet. Admittedly, it is a far cry from Atkins, but was it that unusual for its time? Fortunately for us, The New Buckeye provides a full year’s suggested bill of fare. We know the famous menus for Tuesday through Wednesday. Here is The New Buckeye menu for August 2-4:
2. Breakfast—Graham gems, broiled mutton chops, fried potatoes, sliced cucumbers.
Dinner—Roast beef, boiled potatoes, macaroni with cheese, young beets, tomatoes; rice pudding, cake. Supper—Toasted gems, dried beef frizzled [sic], stewed berries, sweet buns.
3. Breakfast—Hot muffins, broiled beefsteak, stuffed eggs. Dinner—Meat pie, boiled potatoes, green corn pudding, dressed lettuce. Supper—Toasted muffins, chipped dried beef, cold buns, coffee jelly and blackberries.
4. Breakfast—Light rolls, mutton chops breaded, crushed oatmeal with cream. [emphasis added] Dinner—Stuffed fillet of veal, mashed potatoes, summer squash, boiled beets sliced; lemon meringue pie, cake. Supper—Cold rolls, sliced veal, warm biscuit and honey (897).
No wonder summer sickness was a common affliction!
Now, given the fact that similar nasty breakfasts were being served nationwide at the time, and given the fact that the heat wave myth has been exploded, what of the fact that four household members were already suffering from summer sickness? Was the Borden breakfast appropriate for invalids? Surprisingly enough, yes. The bananas said to be on hand would be just the thing for those suffering from diarrhoea (1132); “a moderate quantity” of coffee would likewise be “a great restorative” for any stomach ailment (1133). Bridget might have been saved the bout of vomiting had she brewed herself some boneset or thoroughwort—both highly recommended for sick headaches (1145). But she was probably too busy ministering to the needs of the others to have time to think of herself. For even the notorious mutton broth is included in the section headed Food for the Sick and is especially recommended for recovering dyspeptics. Here is the recipe, should you wish to try the remedy for yourself:
Mutton Broth—Put two pounds of mutton and two quarts cold water to boil, add one tablespoon rice washed carefully through several waters. Let it boil till the meat will leave the bone, and the rice is cooked to a liquid mass. Take from the fire, season with a little salt; skin [skim?] if preferred. If for a patient with flux leave on all the fat (the more fat the better) (1138).
I don’t know about you, but I feel better already.
Now, granted, Bridget might have varied her presentation of the mutton. The New Buckeye includes recipes for the following possible preparations for cold mutton: Curried Mutton, Masked Mutton [perfect for Halloween], Smothered Mutton, Scalloped Mutton, Mutton Collops, Mutton Hash, Mutton Pie, Mutton Rissoles, Mutton Relish, Mutton Stew, Mutton and Macaroni, Mutton with Pickles, Mock Saddle of Mutton, and finally, Ragout of Mutton (577-80). Yes, you could have mutton for two weeks straight and never see the same plate twice. I recommend the Mutton and Macaroni for those who are not too keen on mutton; it’s not got much mutton in it.
Having fairly exhausted the subject of meals, let’s move on to the point of an attempted purchase of prussic acid for the purpose of expelling moths from a sealskin cape. Assuming that Eli Bence was correct in his identification of Lizzie as said customer, should she be criticized for attempting to treat fur in August? On this score she will receive support from The New Buckeye. Although all furs and woolens were to be inspected and treated “the week before the ‘siege’ of house-cleaning in spring . . . Any article of fur, which has been previously troubled by moths, should be opened and examined in July to make sure no moths is [sic] harbored in them” (936). It would be reasonable to believe that Lizzie, in her nick-of-time Sunday inspection, might have found evidence of reinfestation. So far, so good. Unfortunately, the book makes no recommendation of prussic acid for anything. More careful attention to its advice might have spared her much vicious speculation—and salvaged a perfectly good cape. Furs were to be “combed, beaten, and aired,” then treated with nothing more toxic than a sprinkling of “camphor gum or half and half of black pepper and cut and dried tobacco. . . .wrapped in linen, sewn up” and wrapped in brown paper (935). Whatever was she thinking?
Of course, a girl could easily confuse her acids; so many were in use about the house: oxalic acid, carbolic acid, etc. If she had her heart set on prussic (or hydrocyanic) acid, she could have come quite close enough and with a perfect New Buckeye alibi. Supposing she had wanted to resilver a mirror with nitrate of silver. Had a drop spilled upon her delicate hand, leaving an unsightly stain, she might have gone to Mr. Bence and ordered cyanide potassium without reprisal. She would need “a piece of cyanide potassium, size of a hickory-nut, wet in water, [to] rub on the stain [which would] immediately disappear.” Afterwards, she would, of course, “wash. . . hands in cold water” (1089). What happened to the remainder of the stain remover would be anybody’s guess. Apart from acids, the average household would also contain laudanum, lime, lead, creosote, benzine, and butter of antimony. She could take her pick of poisons. If Lizzie did intend to poison.
Moving on to another source of debate, let’s consider Lizzie’s burning of the Bedford Cord dress. Now, really, this one is inexcusable. First, she had the house painted in spring, when everyone knew that fall was the best time for it. The wood does not absorb the oil so readily, and during the winter it hardens and forms a compact coating. When put on during the spring or summer the wood takes up the oil and leaves the paint dry and it will soon crumble and wash off (946).
But the advantage to such ill-timing is that the Bedford Cord should have been much easier to clean. She could have removed it quickly and easily “by using equal parts of ammonia and turpentine.” She could then (we hope, holding her breath the while) “saturate the spot two or three times until the paint [was] soft and then wash out with soap” (1086). No stain, no burning, no troublesome testimony from Alice Russell.
As for the problem of the much needed extra nail in the closet for Emma, the remedy was simple: remove their “Handsome dresses that [were] not often worn, fold them with extreme care. . . to prevent the sagging of the drapery that is sometimes given by constant hanging” (1214). These dresses, nicely wrapped and pinned in cloth would be stored gently on shelves or large drawers, leaving plenty of room for their everyday dresses. They could then avoid crushing their daily wear and follow the proper guidelines for proper clothing care:
As a rule, put away every article of apparel as soon as it is taken off. Dresses must be shaken and brushed, and if they have been worn in the street, thoroughly cleaned upon the bottom, turned inside out, . . . hung by loops sewn on the back of each armhole, and if possible be allowed the full possession of the hook or nail, as hanging under or against other garments is no advantage to a dress (1215).
Bridget was not entirely without household faults, herself. Perhaps she was led astray by the girls’ above mentioned carelessness with their wardrobe. Bridget properly washed on Monday, as she should; however, rather than drying the clothes the same day, hanging up each load as the next began, she left them to molder until Tuesday. Tuesday, the proper ironing day, she dried, and worse, she left the ironing till Wednesday. Of course, Lizzie ironed on Thursday, so who’s to say which one began the downward course? Perhaps, falling behind one day was what caused Bridget to do such a slovenly job on the windows. At least, we are told she did change water frequently. But she makes no mention of ammonia or kerosene in the water; she used no ladder; she rinsed by means of a careless splash of a dipper (so as to encourage the fresh paint in its peeling); and she allowed the windows to air dry, rather than give them a good polishing with a chamois or newspaper. It was all there on page 938—if only she had looked.
At least Uncle John Vinnicum Morse was a man of good sense. Many have questioned his insistence upon the temporary burial of the Borden clothing. This was reasonable. After all, they were stored down cellar where the laundry was done. Monday would soon be upon them, and good homemakers did not even serve fish on Monday, lest the fresh clothing be tainted by the odor (1052). One shudders to think how the cellar would have smelled by Monday. Furthermore, “Articles of clothing. . . .which have become impregnated with bad-smelling substances, will be freed by burying for a day or two in the ground.” (944) Uncle John was a man of sound judgment.
Last, and most importantly, although The New Buckeye named no solvent to remove bloodstains, it did give the recipe for the perfect murder. On August 4, both Andrew and Abby were suffering from summer sickness. The killer could have stepped back and left the work to the Bowenses, the Churchills, the Whiteheads, and the Bucks:
Nothing is so common as for [the invalid] to be besieged with such unwholesome substances as preserves, rich jellies and sauces, pies, cakes, confectionery, etc. About as soon as a person is taken sick, in some communities, the neighbors begin to show their sympathy by contributions of all sorts of unwholesome and indigestible viands, and the invalid, whose stomach may be unable to digest any but the very simplest food, becomes a victim to the kindness of friends. Many times have the best efforts of the intelligent physician been baffled in this manner. “Killed by kindness”. . . might be written on many a tombstone (1125).
Had the killer used such guile, the children of Fall River might be skipping rope to a very different tune today.
*Note: The Buckeye Cookbook went through many incarnations, first as a simple church project of the 1840’s, then as the best known edition, The Centennial Buckeye Cookbook, published in 1876 by the First Congregational Church of Marysville, Ohio, to raise money for a new parsonage. It was followed a year later by A Guide to Practical Housekeeping, which developed an equally loyal following. The book, alone and in combination with the companion volume, went through 32 editions between 1876 and 1905. I am fortunate enough to have inherited an original New Buckeye Cookbook, the most comprehensive and rare edition of them all. My copy is undated, but it was probably printed in the 1800’s (judging by the assumed dependence upon kerosene, coal, wood, gas, and elbow grease). I have been unable to trace any other copies of this edition; however, Applewood Books publishes a 472 page paperback facsimile of an 1877 combination of cookbook and guide.
