David Marshall Jamesby David Marshall James
First published in Spring, 2011, Volume 7, Issue 1, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
just don’t see why I need bother with science at all,” Nan groaned in regard to her least favorite subject, neck and neck with geometry, at Miss Hadrian’s Academy for Young Ladies. “After all, I’m going to read history, English literature, and political science in college, and then study law.”
“But Nan, you’ve got to remember all the science that now figures into detective work,” Genia reminded her. “You’re going to have to know something about that if you’re going to defend criminals.”
“I hadn’t really thought about how exciting law could be, if you had some real madman of a criminal to defend,” Beth, undoubtedly the most impetuous of the three teenaged schoolgirls, brightened. “I rather think I should enjoy that.”
“Well, it gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Nan shuddered. “What if I sprang some killer off scot-free, and he turned around and killed again?”
“Or, somebody innocent whom you’ve defended might wind up in prison, and it would be all your fault, so they would plot to kill you from behind bars.” Beth obviously enjoyed manufacturing this disconcerting scenario.
“You’ve been into the Edgar Allan Poe again, Beth, and it’s saturating your mind with horrid thoughts,” Genia frowned. “Nan could be an attorney who handles lawsuits and civil matters, not criminal cases.”
“I never heard of anything so dull in my life, except maybe Bettina Littlefield’s report on the Roman Senate, when we were reading Julius Caesar. Victoria Marston was actually snoring, and drooling at that.” Beth never missed an opportunity to take down her nemesis, Bettina Littlefield, a peg or two. “Well, Genia Butterbeania, how is science going to play into your play-acting?”
Genia, who had already won accolades in some amateur theatricals in Fall River, Massachusetts, responded, “Well, I might have to play a famous scientist some day.”
“Like who? Louis Pasteur?” Beth mocked her.
“Well, there’s always Madame Curie. Besides, Beth, it’s the 1920s. Women have the vote now, and they’re making great strides in new fields by leaps and bounds. There are already lady doctors you know, and there’ll be plenty of lady scientists in another decade or so. Who knows—maybe one of them will discover a cure-all, or design a rocket ship, or maybe even invent a time-travel machine, and I’ll play them all.”
“You know, if some woman invented a time-travel machine she could go into the future and come back with all sorts of new inventions,” Nan espoused.
“I’d call that stealing, Miss Lawyer,” Beth opined.
At that juncture, the three teenagers, who were walking home from school to their respective residences on French Street, approached Maplecroft, the home of Miss Lizbeth Borden, who presently greeted them from her front walkway, down which she was proceeding toward her chauffeured Pierce-Arrow, parked at the curb. “Hello, young ladies,” she waved to them. “Fine weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“Hello, Miss Borden,” Genia returned her salutation. “Since it’s such a beautiful day, are you headed out for a drive in the country?”
“Yes and no, dear. I must run down to Providence to meet with my physician. I’m not feeling well today, and the thought of suffering through the night and waiting till tomorrow to find out what’s wrong, or to at least gain some relief, is more than I can bear. You know the saying, ‘The old grey mare ain’t what she used to be.’”
“We do hope you get to feeling better,” Genia answered. The three schoolgirls stopped and watched while the liveried driver helped his employer into the gold-trim upholstered backseat of the Pierce-Arrow, and the two of them pulled away from the curb.
“Too bad one of us isn’t a lady doctor who could assist Miss Borden,” Genia sighed.
“Her color looks pretty peaked to me,” Beth pronounced, as if she were indeed a physician. “She’ll probably be as dead as her Pa and Ma before next winter. Minus a hatchet in the back of the head, of course.”
“Beth!” Genia exclaimed. “What a perfectly wretched thing to say! I’m going to tell your parents that you have overdosed yourself on Mr. Poe!”
“What, and to put me on a strict program of Kate Douglas Wiggin? Patooey on you-ey, Genia Davenport. The few people you can get to say more than two words about it all believe that Miss Borden is a murderess who got off as free as you please because she has lots of money. Must’ve had a better lawyer than Nan to defend her, too.”
“Beth, are you just aiming to try everyone’s patience this afternoon?” Nan retorted. “If you can’t be more considerate of the friends who’ll tolerate your opinions, then you can just start eating lunch with Bettina Littlefield.”
“I’d need a banana for each ear,” Beth attempted to make light of the situation. “Anyway, I’m not going to stand here like a hypocritical hippopotamus and pretend that Miss Borden is the picture of propriety, no matter what you two say. If people really and truly believed in her innocence, then she would have many more friends.”
“She doesn’t have many friends because she’s been branded a criminal whether she is one or not,” Nan explained. “Once you’ve been stained liked that, it’s hard to wash your reputation clean.”
“I wonder how hard it was to wash all that blood off,” Beth would not let go of her bone of contention. “Somebody told me she burned the dress that was all bloodstained from the murders.”
“You’re nothing less than impossible, Beth, so I’m going home,” Genia snapped.
“Okay, Sarah Bernhardt, I’ll stop talking about Miss Borden. Meaning to change the subject, then, what elements were you assigned to write about for that torture of a science class?”
Genia merely sulked, but Nan replied, “I was assigned tin as my element. That might be pretty easy—tin cans, tin roofs, and tin plates. How about you Beth?”
“I really got lucky: I got gold. And you, Genia?”
Genia had stalked off toward her own front door, refusing further participation in the conversation that Beth had taken so far out of hand.
“Well, I like that,” Beth tossed her curls. “And she makes such a case of my inappropriate behavior.”
“Beth, she warned you that she was about to walk off if you didn’t hush up about Miss Borden, but you kept right on with it.”
“She doesn’t like to hear the truth. She can’t stand the thought that Miss Borden isn’t just some sort of sweet old grandmother who gives her treats and gifts. You know, Nan, Genia could be sitting in Miss Borden’s kitchen one day soon, having a piece of pie or something, and then Miss Borden could go totally off her rocker and hack Genia to bits and pieces with a meat cleaver. I wish she could see that I only tell her these things for her own good.”
“Oh, go read some Poe,” Nan replied.
As it turned out, Genia had been assigned arsenic as the element on which she was to write a science-class report, so the following day she eschewed her usual perambulation home with Nan and Beth—happy, to be sure, to avoid more of Beth’s blood-soaked ramblings—opting instead for a visit to the Fall River Public Library, in hopes of gaining a leg-up on the science project, which wasn’t due until one week from that Tuesday.
The handsomely polished white-pine circulation desk was presided over by Miss Helen Leighton, a close friend of Miss Borden—probably her closest, at that. Genia approached her with the subject at hand, and Miss Leighton suggested several scientific volumes, including one on poisons. “Did you know that arsenic was once a staple of the mortuary profession?” Miss Leighton offered.
Oh, dear, Genia thought to herself. Here I am, thinking I’ve done a good turn in skipping the walk with Beth, and Miss Leighton is already sounding more like Poe than Poe himself. Why couldn’t I have been assigned oxygen, or helium? Instead, she replied, “No ma’am. I can assure you I don’t know the first thing about the mortuary profession.” It crossed her mind, for an instant, to add, “But I know some people are just dying to find out more,” yet she refrained. Genia shook her head. She had been spending too much time with Beth, and the adverse effects were becoming manifest.
“Yes, it’s a highly effective preservative. Unfortunately, it became available to the extent that would-be murderers could easily acquire it for their nefarious designs. It’s rather ironic, then, that something that can so expediently destroy a life can also preserve the body so well in death.”
“Yes, Miss Leighton, I would find that ironic.” Genia also found herself becoming as impatient and irritated with the librarian as Beth evidently became with Belinda Littlefield and her interminable reports on the Roman Senate. Genia wished nothing more at the moment than to get on with her research. She had just come from a full day of classes and was not in the mood for an impromptu lecture by Miss Leighton.
“Well, there you are. Oh, I must see to that patron who has come up to the desk. Should you require further assistance, don’t hesitate to ask. Good luck with your report, dear.”
Genia felt as if she had just dodged a cannonball. Gratefully, she transported her ponderous tomes, which smelled faintly of mildew, to a long, unoccupied reading table, which was as scarred and otherwise rough-surfaced as Miss Leighton’s desk was pristine. More than a few pocketknife-wielding young men (and perhaps women) had etched their musings upon its top. She wondered at the meticulously carved, “Miss Hadrian wears purple polka-dotted bloomers,” how it looked suspiciously like Beth’s lettering. Weren’t people aware of how their handwriting could give them away as quickly as their signatures? On further scanning the tabletop, she discovered, “B. Littlefield makes me drool.” Well, that just had to be Beth. Genia wondered if her friend habitually carried a pocketknife, then sighed. Nothing much about Beth would surprise her at this point.
Genia passed the better part of two hours copying relevant passages into her science notebook. Miss Chagnon, the course instructor, was quite the stickler for attribution. Her students were required to note all pertinent bibliographical information to accompany their assignment. After adhering to these regulations, Genia examined each volume for its references, in an effort to obtain further sources.
As she was leafing gingerly through the thin pages of a guide to toxins and their applications, she discovered a note, which at first looked too enigmatic to decipher. On one side, she read, “Mr. A.J.,” then directly below those handwritten letters, “92 Se,” then beneath that, “Fall.” All the writing was along the edge of the paper, which had apparently been torn in two. The reverse side contained further jottings: “P.A.!!!” was prominently featured. Underneath that was written, “N.B.?”
Genia would have thrown the sheet into a trash receptacle and dismissed it out of hand if not for the final bit of writing on the reverse side: “Lizanne,” and below that, “Lizabette,” and finally, below that, “Lizbeth.” The first two names had been crossed through with straight lines, then covered with “X’s,” yet the final name remained untouched. To Genia’s eye, the “Lizbeth” seemed written in the fashion of Miss Borden’s signature. She wasn’t completely certain, but, the more she considered the matter, the more she wished to put her mind at ease rather that discarding the paper and effectively burying her discovery in the sands of time.
Often, during the lives of many, a juncture is reached, either to force a question toward its answer—in spite of the consequences—or to leave the question unspoken, in order to circumvent the consequences of pursuing an answer, which in fact may never come. Genia, being young, fresh, and naïve, never considered the consequences of what she did next, which was to present the note, as well as the volume from which it was extracted, to Miss Leighton. At first, the librarian most decidedly blanched. Regaining her composure, she inquired, “Well, you’ve discovered an old note in an old book, my dear. Happens all the time, I can assure you. Now, have you found everything you need for your report?”
“I believe I have, thank you, but Miss Leighton—the reason I showed you the note was because … well, the handwriting looks a good bit like Miss Borden’s, and you’re friends with her, so I thought I might get your opinion.”
“Well, I could ask her, couldn’t I, but really—what is the point? It wouldn’t prove anything, aside from the fact that she left a piece of paper in a library book. That is, if she actually left it.”
Genia might have been naïve, but she recognized a “closed for discussion” sign on an adult’s face when she saw one, and Miss Leighton’s pursed lips, rigid posture, and glaring eyes couldn’t have been clearer. “Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. Thank you for your help with my science project.”
Miss Leighton merely nodded, then returned to her perch behind her highly polished desk. She drew a sheaf of papers from one of the drawers and set about studying them as if they contained the solutions to mankind’s most pressing problems. Genia, although obedient and compliant by nature, didn’t like being frozen out, which only further piqued her curiosity. How better to assuage that than by tossing a bone to Beth and seeing how far she could run with it?
Genia didn’t have to wait long to unleash this bête noire, for Nan and Beth were seated at one of the wicker tables on Beth’s front porch back on French Street, ostensibly working on lessons while enjoying the last shafts of late-April sunshine, along with glasses of lemonade and a plate bearing a few remaining cookies. “Hey, Genia, come have some raisin cookies before Beth stuffs them all,” Nan called out to her eager compatriot.
“Great. I’ve been holed up in the library with no snacks,” Genia took the steps up to the porch.
“We figured you were off trying to upstage us all,” Beth smirked. “Well, have you been?”
“Listen, you two. I’m going to be perfectly frank, but I need you to keep whatever I say secret.”
“Do tell.” Beth shuffled her chair forward.
“It’s distressed me so, and it may mean nothing, but I’m afraid it means something.”
“Good grief, Genia, you sound like the riddle of the Sphinx. Spill it out in plain English,” Beth responded impatiently.
“Okay. I was looking up information on arsenic, which is my assigned element, and I ran across an old note stuck in a book on poisons.”
“And I thought Latin was dull,” Beth mock-yawned.
“Shut your mouth and let her finish,” Nan scowled.
“I’m almost positive Miss Borden wrote the note and left it there. Most of the writing was abbreviated, and wouldn’t make much sense to anyone except her, but the name ‘Lizbeth’ was there, plain as day, and it was written exactly after the style I’ve seen on her letters.”
“Well, I’ve been telling you two that she’s guilty as sin, and you never have believed me. Maybe you do now,” Beth stated smugly.
“How do you figure that?” Nan queried.
“My Papa says Miss Borden tried to poison her parents before she resorted to the blade.”
“Oh, I knew something was dreadfully wrong,” Genia wailed. “Miss Leighton turned white as a sheet when I brought that book up to her desk.”
“It doesn’t prove a thing,” Nan observed flatly.
“No, Miss Oliver Wendell Homes, it doesn’t. But it sure doesn’t look good either, from where I’m sitting and eating raisin cookies,” Beth bit into another one.
“Everybody duck down!” Nan implored. “Isn’t that Miss Leighton coming up the sidewalk, over to the right?”
Miss Leighton seemed to be striding twice as fast as Genia had ever observed her. The three girls watched from the lilac bushes that grew in front of the porch railing, as Miss Leighton stepped off the sidewalk at Maplecroft and hastened around to the back door.
“I’d bet all the tea in China that she’s going to blab about that note, Genia,” Beth declared. “And, if I were you, I would never set foot in Maplecroft again. At least not alone—and maybe not even then.”
Genia, however, could not resist testing the waters. Two days later, she approached the rear entrance to Maplecroft, requesting an audience with Miss Borden, only to be informed by a house servant, Colleen, that Miss Borden was most under the weather and was therefore indisposed. Colleen didn’t add, “But try again later,” or any other words that might encourage Genia to return, yet that she did over the following three days, receiving a markedly similar reply to each successive attempt to speak with Miss Borden.
On the fourth day, Genia, Beth, and Nan were going over their completed science assignments on Beth’s front porch, and were offering suggestions to one another regarding improvements and corrections. However, Genia’s heart wasn’t in it. “I hate this d-a-m-n report. I hate it with a fury,” she blurted. “If it hadn’t been for this, then Miss Borden wouldn’t have frozen me out.”
“It wasn’t the report, Genia,” Nan adjudged. “I’m afraid it was pointing out the forgotten note to Miss Leighton.”
“Yeah, it was pretty much you, not the arsenic,” Beth added.
“It’s poison, all right,” Genia became teary, then wiped at her eyes.
“Maybe she hasn’t given you the cold shoulder after all,” Nan shot Beth a disapproving glance. “Maybe she’s really ill. She didn’t look very well that day when we saw her getting into the Pierce-Arrow with her chauffeur.”
“She can’t be all that sick,” Beth glanced remonstratively at Nan. “Aunt Grosie spotted her in Boston yesterday, pawing through fur coats with Miss Leighton in Filene’s. I didn’t want to tell you, Genia, because I knew it would be crushing, but it looks as if, on top of everything, that Old Lady Leighton is getting a big deal of a gift for returning that note to Miss Borden. I hate to tell you two, ‘I told you so,’ but, if the mink coat fits, the lips are sealed.”
“Beth,” Nan fired back, “if you were as good at writing about gold as you are at mixing your metaphors, then you would be the director of Fort Knox.”
“Let her be, Nan. She deserves to gloat if her Aunt Grosie is right. I guess Miss Leighton has learned more about Miss Borden than I ever intended to.”
“Like what? That she’s guilty?” Beth asked.
“You still don’t know that for sure, Beth,” Nan sighed.
“No, it really isn’t even so much that,” Genia noted. “It’s just that she’s turned out not to be the good friend that I’ve been believing she was.”
“It’s hard to be friends with anyone if you’re hiding something all the time,” Beth stated.
As it happened, Miss Borden was indeed becoming more infirm, with complications from surgery to remove her gall bladder. Nevertheless, Genia was refused admittance to Maplecroft on the intermittent, and increasingly infrequent, occasions upon which she called. However, it didn’t escape her notice that Miss Leighton and a few select others were allowed inside.
Yet Genia Davenport was driven by her theatrical ambitions, and those deflected her attention beyond her hurt over the repeated dismissals at the back door of Maplecroft. Still and all, Genia sometimes wondered how someone who was so obviously rejected by the mainstream of society could so casually reject someone else. As Beth suggested, Genia began to believe that Miss Borden was so consumed with hiding something that she was unable to further pursue friendships that reached a point of crucial probity into the matter that was written so large over her personal history.
As it came to pass, more than three decades later, no living actress was able to plumb the depths of Miss Borden’s character as Genia did in her performance as her former friend and neighbor on French Street, in the 1960 production of “Last Leaves of Maplecroft,” which opened with the following speech:
“I had dreamed that my new home—that my Maplecroft—would become a place of welcome and good cheer for many visitors, for friends old and new, for many years to come. Yet, my formal entertainments have ceased, and my guests have dwindled. The people who presently seek my company are generally of two minds. Either they expect me to have a collection of battle axes spread across the walls of the front parlor, or else for me to display a framed portrait of the person who really killed my father and stepmother.
“They think we ought to chat about 1892 as if it were a very fine year for wines, or as if the roses bloomed most exceptionally lovely that year, or as if the nation turned the corner into some gloriously brighter tomorrow. It is as if there is always that proverbial elephant in the room with a visitor, and they don’t merely wish to rob it of its ivory, but of its meat and hide, of its bone and gristle, as well. It’s as if they’re dying to say, ‘Lizbeth, I would really like to have a go at that elephant—it’s so large and juicy. Would you happen to have a spare hatchet?’”
