Doug WaltersBy Doug Walters
First published in August/September, 2007, Volume 4, Issue 3, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
And I Behold a Pale Horse
Reflections Upon a Fine Supper
and
Infamy Come Home to Fall River
And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. The Gospel of St. Matthew 10:28
It’s come to mind, fair Reader, that in all my years of random scribbling—occasional jottings meant to record events of the day or my own personal reflections upon them –somewhere along the line I have neglected to record my own answer to the now-so-often-asked-question: Where were you when the Bordens were slaughtered—and how did you hear?
To the best of my recollection, (with which others might agree) the 4th of August 1892 was, in the forenoon and afterwards, hotter than six fathoms of Hell at high noon, but all the same not quite so hot as it had been only a few days before. “Purgatorial” might well serve as an apt description of the day’s weather, particularly owing to the fact that news of the 5th carried a wire service story of a disturbance the previous day. Exact details escape me at the moment—it was only a tiny little slip of a story not more than four paragraphs—but I do recall that the aforementioned disturbance took place at a nunnery up ‘round Charlestown.
The incident did not match the terrors of 1834 to be sure—the exact details of that disturbance, otherwise known as the Ursuline Convent riots are easily found in a search of ‘most any newspaper of repute in the region—but the Ursulines came to mind at least momentarily.
The nunnery disturbance of the fourth of August was thankfully far less serious: several of the good sisters residing therein were taken to hospital, apparently victims of delirium and dehydration owing to the hot weather. The unfortunates were rounded up and trundled away for treatment. Receiving such, they were subsequently released and returned to the sanctuary.
At first blush, appearances suggested that the fourth day of August in Fall River would be nothing more than ordinary. A good number of the police in the city were actually off duty not because of the heat or ill health, but for a picnic or some such thing over to Rocky Point.
But if the annals of history teach us anything, it would be that even the most infamous of days spring from the same ordinary seed, as it were. Take the example, for instance, of the Ides of March. We know it today for its association with the brutal murder of a certain emperor nearly twenty centuries ago. Before the ancient Senate ran red with the blood of that old Roman, however, the fifteenth day of March was just another day, largely untouched by the blushing crimson tide of infamy. Where ever after it has borne the red badge of infamy—and not unjustly so—there was a time when the fifteenth of March was just another day in the minds of average men. Even Caesar shed his last lifeblood upon a day that for him very likely had a most ordinary beginning.
If the translation as I’ve always heard it given is correct—Et tu, Brute`? (“You too, my boy?”) might also fairly describe the not-so-daring-and-really-rather-ordinary exploits of ye humble Compositor.
The fourth day of August 1892 would be immortalized in local legal annals as the date upon which two inhabitants of a Second Street domicile were first one, then the other, after some interval, brutally and bloodily dispatched by unlawful human agency. By end of day, the cry of murder most foul would be upon ‘most every lip, the air fairly throbbing with pulses of speculation.
It did not, however, begin in such fashion. While I am not typical, I will use my own routine to illustrate. I rose at whatever hour it was—I rarely paid any mind to the clocks indoors on account of the fact that I had no place to be at any set hour but could commence or cease my work as needed—set a small pot of coffee on to boil and attended to breakfast. I will confess in this regard to being rather pleased with my morning ingenuities such as they were. I had recently discovered by fortunate accident that a few tablespoonfuls of milk mixed with a bit of fine-ground sugar made a dandy icing, and that said icing, smeared in small blobs—or if the mood struck, large blobs—upon common day-old baker’s rolls, did indeed make a dandy breakfast.
I had nothing apart from the usual work and routines to look forward to upon that fourth day of August. I did remember one thing, however, which gave me some thrill of anticipation.
I’d had the good fortune some six months earlier to make the acquaintance of a gentleman on leave from across the water. At fifty-seven years of age, he was betaken by fancy of a trip over from the homeland of Victoria Regina, which was his own as well.
“I wanted to see for myself the damned cradle of miscreancy!” That was, I think, the third thing he said to me after we stepped down off the train from New Bedford.
Now I will confess to being rather confounded by that remark, mainly owing to the difficulty it presented. If I responded agreeably, such agreement might cast undue doubt upon myself somehow. If I replied in a disagreeable fashion, there was certain risk of a sound thump on the head courtesy a rather stout-looking walking stick the gentleman carried.
“Well,” I said after a second’s deliberation, “if it’s the cradle you’re interested in, that’s somewhat northerly of here, up to Boston and just a ways west. This area here is—well, if you wished you might call it a ‘play pen of miscreancy’ I suppose. She was born up there a ways, but in good time—much as a child grows—took root, matured, amused herself as youngsters will and thence made her way down here.”
The gentleman gave me a rather sour look, suggesting that my reward for that remark might be a sound thump. The stick, though, did not move. I did keep a somewhat wary eye on it, just in case.
“Boston, did you say, young man? Hmmmphhhhhh! ‘By the rude bridge that arched the flood, their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, here once the embattled farmers stood, and fired the shot heard round the world!’”
“Well, we have no rude bridges here, good sir. Matter of fact if you stay about here long enough you will find the bridges in this area to be exceptionally well-constructed—and well-mannered to boot. It surprises me though that you should know that verse.”
“I’ll thank you to hold your tongue, young man. I know that verse quite well. I once used a portion of it in defense of a client.”
My newfound acquaintance then cut loose with another blast from old Emerson’s cannon. The voice was now beaten by storms of years, and yet still rang with a certain air of music and confidence:
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
I thought him at first an actor, or at least descended of an acting family, for the old gentleman had a presence about him that made me think of things I’d heard people say about Mr. Edwin Booth upon the stage. I had the misfortune to compliment him along those lines.
“An actor?” He nearly spit the word out as he said it, shuddering as though he had just taken a large bite from a lemon. “Good God, my young fellow!”
“But . . .”Now as you might suppose, I had put my foot in it so to speak and was more than aware of that fact. “I meant no offense whatever sir; please be assured of that. It’s only that . . .” I stopped, wishing to say more but unsure as to how.
“What would you say, young fellow, were I to ask if you knew what an instructing solicitor is?” Here I will admit the vaguest fear that in event of a wrong answer my reward would be a sound thwap on the head.
He looked down his nose and over his glasses at me, as if to say “Ha! Victory!”
“Well, sir I have this thought: We seem to have gotten off ill-footed here the last few moments. Accordingly, I’d like to make amends, for I surely meant no harm. If you’re of a mind to accept, I should enjoy taking supper with you at the Mellen House. It will be my treat. It’s one of the finest establishments in the whole of Fall River.”
“The Mellen House Hotel did you say? I believe I may be staying there this and tomorrow evening. Will you kindly direct me?”
“I’ll do better than that. Let me put one of these fine folks to work.” I took a small wooden whistle from my pocket—I can’t whistle worth soldier beans when it comes to summoning cabs or the like—and used it to catch the attention of a hack-man nearby.
Seeing that the gentleman’s baggage was attended to, we hopped aboard and made our way to the Mellen House.
We had agreed that our supper hour would be ‘round six o’clock. A few moments before the appointed hour, I arrived at the Mellen House and made due inquiry after the gentleman newly-arrived from England just that afternoon.
“By the rude bridge that arched the flood, their flag to April’s breeze unfurled!” I turned, that rich commanding voice as a beacon on seas stirred by storm. The gentleman from across the water stood a few paces behind me. “I do hope you’re looking for me, young man. It’s nearly my suppertime.”
“Well, that’s why I’ve come sir.” I stepped toward him, offered my hand. He gave it a shake that was much warmer than I expected, as if to say that he hadn’t minded the nonsensical chattering earlier in the day as much as it appeared.
“Well, then: Lay on, MacDuff; and damned be he that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”
“Don’t look at me feller. I’m ready to eat, too!” I said, falling into step just behind him as we headed off toward the restaurant.
“Let me begin young man, by giving you sincere thanks for this fine supper. Have you any recommendations?” We were seated, looking over the evening menu.
“Well, if you’ve no objection to shell fish,” I said, “I’m inclined toward beginning with…where did I see—here we are: ‘Poached jumbo prawns.’ They’ll come cold, arranged over the sides of a silver dish, with horseradish sauce to dip. The normal serving is half a dozen, the prawns most often nearly the size of half a regulation golf ball. I am not a sauce person ordinarily—although the horseradish sauce they make here is rather tasty. It’s a tomato and vinegar sort of mix.”
The gentleman nodded, his eyes twinkling with a spark indicating a true food lover.
“If you’ve no tongue for the bite of the radish, there’s an option for melted butter spiced with a hint of garlic.”
“Young man, you’ve talked me into the latter. Horseradish goes far better with beef, if my teeth are doing the work!”
“Speaking of beef, would you object to a recommendation of the prime rib of beef—done rare, but not too rare—paired with mashed potatoes and gravy, plus asparagus?”
“Lead on, MacDuff!” The gentleman snapped his fingers gleefully.
“Have you a preference of sour or sweet desserts?”
“Well, now you intrigue me. It could be either, depending on the selections.”
I pondered that possibility a few seconds, finally deciding upon a sour apple and rhubarb cobbler. “You’re familiar with rhubarb?”
“I am indeed, young man. I’ve heard that when Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, he always kept rhubarb on his mind when writing of Scrooge.”
I nodded in a knowing way, but did, I must confess, file that tidbit away under “Filthy rumor, possibly hogwash.”
We made our orders, deciding upon the libative powers of coffee for our evening. The prawns came first off, and were as large as I had expected
“Now then, young fellow—that question you put off this afternoon with a most thoughtful invitation to this supper. Have you prepared yourself to answer it?” He grabbed a prawn and held it in the air, with some apparent intent to point to something.
“I have not—and you are asking if I know the term ‘instructing solicitor?’ ”
“Indeed I am. What say ye?”
I answered rather poorly, but as best I could. The gentleman harrummpphed at me, though not without good nature, nibbling the prawn he held like a piece of school chalk ‘twixt thumb and forefinger.
“No, my young fellow, an ‘instructing solicitor’ is most assuredly not one whose duty it is to impart the fundamental principles of successfully hawking brushes door to door.” This pearl was uttered as my companion finished off the last of his second prawn.
“It’s difficult to know how to put it together for you actually. American points of law and so forth are things that I do know, but I’m not much on the ‘crickets and ‘hoppers’—the ‘nuts and bolts’ I suppose you say here—of qualifications. But in England, a ‘solicitor’ is one who is schooled and licensed in the law, but has a limited right of access. He can only perform certain functions in the courts, that is. Follow my train so far?”
“I think so.” We developed a pattern: Whilst one spoke, the other ate. It seemed to work quite well, really.
“Now then… an ‘instructing solicitor’ instructs a barrister to appear in court for them. The instructions provide the barrister with necessary information and documents, and outlines the tasks that the solicitor wishes the barrister to perform. Following tradition, the instructions and related papers, referred to as a ‘brief,’ is delivered to the barrister. After review of the instructions, such conference as needed with the instructing solicitor and his or her client, and any required legal research, the barrister argues the matter at issue in court.”
“The instructing solicitor, if I understand you correctly, assists the barrister in trying the case before the bar, but has nothing to do with the actual presentation before the court—the ‘mechanics’ of the argument?”
“I believe you have the concept right. Before the English bar, the barrister does all the barking. The solicitor never makes a whimper usually, but stands and serves in support of the barrister making the case.”
Taking a bite of prawn, I pondered that. Then something else came to mind.
“So what has brought you to America? I’m not objecting a bit—just curious.”
“Well, young man—if ever you’ve lost a loved one, you will appreciate what I tell you.
“My wife passed into the Great Beyond some sixteen months ago. We had been one together for 25 years, 4 months, two days. She was my rock, my guide, the small bird whose music did set my very heart aquiver. We’d been so attuned, that in the first months after she’d gone, I did lay awake many a night missing the sounds of her breathing. It’s amazing young man—the things you miss when they are gone. They’ve been a part of you for so long. You don’t take them at all for granted, but they melt somehow and become a part of your being.”
The gentleman paused, refreshed himself with a swallow of coffee. “To be quite frank about things—I went a bit ‘round the bend awhile . . . mad as a bloody-damned hatter. Successful life of a barrister dashed near instantly in a Stygian whirlpool. I had no guide or ferryman to assist me. The tiller that had been my earthly guide for a quarter century now rests in the churchyard . . .”
“You need say no more, good sir.” It was all I could think to say.
“Bless you for that young man, but I do need say more. It does me good. I haven’t spoken much of it in awhile. For what it’s worth, I’ve carried her near to my heart ever since. Some distance is necessary to heal you understand, and yet she is never more than a second away from my thoughts.”
I nodded, and together we polished off the last of the prawns.
“My trip here? Well, I might plead a case of Tocquevillean wanderlust. I needed to get away awhile, and I’ve always had at least some interest in America. I’m rather impressed I must admit. However, that good impression will not, I think, be sufficient inspiration to follow de Tocqueville’s example and chronicle my adventures in book form. Bah!
“Have you a strong constitution, young man?”
“Well, strong enough I suppose. I can handle most anything, I think.” As proof thereof I related an instance that had happened in February of ’89. A young lady friend had fallen and cut her foot rather badly. The slash was deep enough that I could see the bone. I got it tied off well enough to diminish but not cease the crimson flow, and headed off with her in a hack in search of a doctor. We located one fairly quick, but he had nothing to administer for pain.
“Soak this cloth in cold water, young man, and ball it up.” He then instructed the young lady to put the cloth in her mouth and at signal, to bite down on it as hard she could. The doctor then untied the crimson-stained cloth, inspecting the wound. “Twenty-seven,” he muttered. “Young man,” he said, looking down his nose in my direction, “when I tell you, you take hold of that foot and do not let go until I tell you. Is that clear?”
I nodded, and we assisted the young lady up onto the doctor’s examination table.
“You may bite down on the cloth, Miss—and you, young man, will take position and hold that foot against the table. Do not let her move until I tell you.”
The doctor began his sewing; the young lady squirmed and struggled, biting hard upon the cloth. High-pitched screams (of course muted by the cloth) flowed forth in constant streams over the next several moments.
Five minutes later, it was all done. We thanked the physician, settled the bill, and took our leave.
“Eminently qualified” was the gentleman’s appraisal as I concluded my tale. He had similar kind words for the next courses of food, which had just been delivered to us there in the Mellen House restaurant. The rib impressed him especially, being done just to his liking.
“Tell me, young fellow: are you at all familiar with the matter of The Crown against Frederick Baker?”
I had to confess that I was not. “I know a bit of Crown law,” I said. “But most of my knowledge comes of occasional perusal of The Newgate Calendar.”
“You read the Newgate?” The gentleman glanced up at me whilst he continued working at the rib with his knife.
“I do, sir. I read many things the average person might not. Now I mean to put nothing against other folks in that, but . . .”
“I know perfectly what you mean, young fellow. Don’t bother about that. Even that which your neighbor may find strange still makes fine company of a rainy Sunday afternoon.”
I nodded. I could do no more decently, as the teeth were occupied with a bite of rib and mashed potatoes.
“Well, if you know the Newgate then you might also know of the infamy of Sawney Beane the Scot—and of course the infamous slasher in Whitechapel a few years back.”
I nodded again, still chewing.
“If one were to place both matters upon a large apothecary scale, the infamy of Beane might exceed that of ‘Saucy Jack.’ If you know Beane, you understand exactly what I mean.
“At the same time”—and here the gentleman paused, swallowing a drop of coffee—“Crown against Baker surpassed the both of these in its own way. Butchery and cannibalism are among the vilest of acts known to humankind. ‘Man cannot live by bread alone’ carried far, too far beyond. . . . The same might be said for the slaughter of unfortunate females, set to work in the oldest, but yet the only, ‘profession’ readily at hand.
“Beane and those of his hermetical household did kill and consume. The unfortunates in Whitechapel met similar but somewhat lesser ends, for they at least (apart from a single claim regarding an organ purportedly belonging to Catherine Eddowes) were not consumed.
“The affair of Frederick Baker though does in its own way surpass even those two extremes. Fred Baker’s infamy rises to the top of the crème can, young man, because his was a crime of foul and senseless butchery of a small child.”
“Agreed, sir.” Here again, it was all I could think to say.
“I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, young man, but I make my home in Hampshire, at Alton.”
“You do? Well, I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of an ancestral neighbor. My mother’s family on the paternal side was domiciled in Kent some three hundred fifty years ago.”
“Really? I had an uncle lived in Kent at that time I believe—a poulterer by trade. According to the family lore, he made about a thousand pounds sterling over three years, supplying turkeys and the like to the King. I’ve never looked into it though, so cannot vouch for the truth of the claim.
“My own suspicion, however,” the gentleman said, as he broke open and liberally buttered a baker’s roll, “is that somewhere along the way a family member set aside the poulterer’s trade just long enough to engage in a bit of historical hog washing.”
“But how does that Baker feller figure in?”
“Oh yes . . . I was about to explain something, a minor point. Are you familiar at all, young man, with the term ‘assizes?’ ”
“Only to the extent that it’s a term that has something to do with English courts.”
“Well, that’s good enough for a start. The assizes are county courts periodically convened for certain purposes. They are very like what you in America know as ‘superior courts’ and may serve to try either civil or criminal cases. They are also convened for purposes of inquest.”
“Our superior court here in Bristol County is usually convened at New Bedford, where you and I caught the train this afternoon.”
“Now then, young man, I must go back to the place in my story where I was before we got off on sidetrack courtesy one Fred Baker.
“As I said, I’m a Hampshireman of Alton. I came rather late to professional life—and by that I mean a profession that would stand well in terms of security, and sufficient in terms of salary. Conferring with my beloved not long after announcement of our intent to join lives, she expressed a desire that said profession meet those needs, but should also be something that we might do together somehow. This expression I must say confounded me. I knew her desire, and will confess to sharing it. But there was still some deliberation to be done, you understand. It was together that we concluded upon a life in the law.
Our decision was rooted in the fact that while crime paid not a farthing, there could be a fair bit of money had in the work of the law. ‘I could help you in the work, besides,’ was the only thing more my intended did say.
“Now you understand, young man, that at that moment in time—well, help was yet an open question, the ultimate answer undecided. I made no fuss though, as I couldn’t bear the thought of dampening the fire that lighted her cheeks as she said it, or dim the stars that twinkled in those eyes.”
I must say it made me sad hearing this, for the obvious depth of the loss he had recently suffered came forth clear as a bell.
“Having agreed thus, I then made due enquiry and subsequently made a binding agreement with an understanding local barrister. If I would agree to work for him, he would pay me reasonably for services rendered, and assist me in gaining a legal education. I believe, young man, the term for such informal schooling is called ‘reading the law.’ ”
I nodded, and voiced a long-held wish that I had gone through such schooling.
“Well, now young man—you might still do that you know. Proper education in the law is a wonderful thing, serving as it does two purposes: knowing the law will help you stay out of trouble, or . . . if you find yourself in trouble, you’ll at least have sense enough to know who to go to in order to get out of trouble!”
“Excuse me, sir. You were saying that you had begun rather late . . .”
“That I did young man. I must tell you that you would have, in all likelihood, adored the gentleman who tutored me. You mentioned something this afternoon—that I reminded you of an actor. If I do, you may credit my legal tutor, Mr. Wilfred Robards. I picked up that trait from him. He said I wouldn’t have much use for it at first—‘you’re only the barrister’s choirboy for the present. It will come in handy though after you’re qualified to be a barrister.’
“Mr. Wilfred Robards was also helpful in resolving the dilemma I mentioned a moment ago. ‘The young lady might indeed be great help to you—not only in your studies. A willing companion is a grand thing, particularly when one leads a life in the law. She may not be able to help in every instance, but if ever there be times when you find yourself beset by troubles, she will always know how you feel, and the reasons why. That in itself is one of the greatest things a gentleman of the law can have, aside from the love of a fine woman.’
“Mr. Wilfred Robards did though caution me to be wary of one thing: ‘If your young lady be truly bright as she looks, she might just prove better at the law business than you are!’
“So, young man, the stage was set, as they say. I took the young lady’s hand in marriage upon the ninth day of May 1866. Four days hence, I called at Mr. Wilfred Robards’ legal establishment to collect the necessary books and whatnot, which would aid me in my learning. The prize among these was a set of Sir William Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England arranged in four rather hefty volumes. My wife, examining the books, noted that Robards had actually scribbled notes at various places. Her personal favorite, she said, was found in Sir William’s introduction. Robards had underlined this passage:
He cannot but reflect that, if either his plan of inftruction be crude and injudicious, or the execution of it lame and fuperficial, it will caft a damp upon the farther progrefs of this moft ufeful and moft rational branch of learning; and may defeat for a time the public-fpirited defign of our wife and munificent benefactor.
and scribbled ‘This would be your Missus!’ in the margin, and beneath that, ‘Defeat? Hogwash!!’
“Much to my chagrin (and yet also secret pride) Robards was correct in his earlier admonition. My dear wife did actually develop an excellent head for the law. At a small gathering to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of my commencement of legal studies, I kept her right there by my side through all the cheers and toasts. It was not so much my ‘victory’ but ours.”
Here the gentleman breathed a sigh, bittersweet, and yet contented. “But for her, young man, I’d not have gone nearly so far in life as I did—and that is absolute truth.”
“You’re indeed a lucky man, sir.”
“Amen to that, my good fellow. It was largely her gentle encouragement, along with the excellent instruction of Mr. Wilfred Robards, of course, that allowed me to complete my studies and pass a compulsory omnibus examination in June 1867. With Robards’ recommendation, I was able to secure a position with the solicitor’s office in Alton High Street.”
I nodded, in process of cleaning away the last bites of rib, roll, asparagus, and potatoes.
“I mentioned a name some while ago. Do you recall it?”
“Fred . . . Baker, was it? Frederick Baker?”
“Gold star, young man. Fred Baker was a colleague of mine in Alton High Street—that is, until he was arrested, tried, and subsequently hanged for the murder of little Fanny Adams.”
The gentleman paused as our desserts arrived. They were hot and steaming, served in fair-sized bowls. Alongside was a dish of sweetened whipping crème. My companion first sampled his cobbler without, apparently testing the waters for tartness, as it were. As the tartness took hold, he was beset by a sudden wave of shudders, such that I could hear his teeth knocking together I thought.
“Young man, this is excellent!” he cried when he was able to speak again. “I think though, a spoonful of this crème will help, else I’ll not be able to finish the tale.” He plopped a spoonful of the crème over the cobbler and spread it out a bit.
“It’s rather sad that this excellent dessert should so neatly match and rival the tale I’m about to relate. Another bite to fortify myself I think.” He took another bite, and I noted that this time his eyes watered.
I sampled my own dish at that point, and finding the crème an excellent idea, added some to my own dessert.
“Picture if you will, young man, a child of eight years: dark of hair and eyes with a cherubic sort of face, and somewhat thin of frame. That was sweet Fanny Adams in her prime, and also, sadly, the twilight of her life. I never actually met the child by way of introduction, but had seen her about . . . once, perhaps twice, after securing the position with the solicitor’s office. I did though have an acquaintance with her parents, who visited the office upon occasional matters.
“The closest I came to a formal meeting of Miss Fanny, I was walking in the vicinity of the solicitor’s office and caught sight of the little one out with her sister, who was younger. They were scampering about at some little girls’ sort of game. I called to them to come nearby, and reached into my pocket to withdraw two wrapped confections. “Can you catch this sweet thing, pretty girl?” I called out. The younger child stepped perhaps a foot nearer, and I tossed the candy lightly in an up-then-over sort of way. Miss Lizzie Adams caught it quite easily. “Very good, Miss!”
“Miss Fanny, would you like to try?” The child answered by grinning and racing to the spot where her sister had stood, cupping her hands. I calculated a bit, and judged that she was—the distance was easy enough, but her hands were so tiny. “Come a bit nearer,” I called out. She did… I figured again, beckoning her yet nearer still. The second toss, though closer, was more difficult. I said a little prayer, and then tossed the candy. Lo and behold, Miss Fanny Adams let out a squeal of delight. By grace of God, I had managed to toss the confection into those cupped baby doll hands. ‘Very good, Miss Fanny!’ The sisters then curtsied and scampered off in the direction of their home in Tan House Lane.”
The gentleman thereupon paused and took another bite. His eyes watering from the tartness, he continued. “I never saw Miss Fanny in life again. Her mother, however, I did see upon the day after. She stopped into the office long enough to thank me for being kind to the children.
“In consideration of this fine supper we’ve had, I will not tell you of the next time I saw little Fanny Adams, for it is too much a risk, as the result would surely be your complete loss of a fine meal.”
“Thank you.” At that moment, although I had only a vague feeling about what he wouldn’t say there, I truly was thankful that he had not gone into detail. The darkness that came into his eyes when he spoke of these things was sufficient
“Now I’ll tell you something young fellow: the modus operandi in this case, defendant stated that he oft gave little children money to buy sweets. I mention that fact by way of explaining the difference ‘twixt him and me. I myself used to regularly keep pocketfuls of wrapped candies. As you may have noticed, I do have a bit of a sweet tooth. I have been known to give sweets to youngsters—usually in the manner described, if they are able to catch, you understand. There’s also most often at least one adult witness nearby. I have never, young man—ever—touched a child in a public place without express consent of the adult parents if they are on hand.
“It may be due to having seen that harmless little child done such grievous indignities—you understand what I mean, young man?”
“I do, I do actually. I myself am very careful about that sort of thing, for much the same reason.”
“Now young man, in consideration of the hour and the fact that I must set out again tomorrow ‘round middle afternoon for Charlestown and Boston, I hope you will forgive me providing but a scant summary of further circumstances surrounding the matter of the Crown against Frederick Baker.
“Miss Fanny Adams went missing upon the 24th day of August, 1867. All that remained of that cherubic-faced child, she of fine and small bones, dark hair, eyes and hands little bigger than a toy doll’s, was subsequently discovered by a search party. She lay—what was left of her—in a hopfield not terribly far from where she was last seen in the company of Frederick Baker, the solicitor’s clerk more than twenty years her senior. She was in pieces! Her head was completely off, a leg and a thigh were discovered nearby and internal organs yet a bit further beyond. Those eyes, they that could be all at once dark and bright”—and here, for the first time, the gentleman crumbled under the weight of his tale, stifling a sob—“they were gone, young man! The fiend had removed them, cast them away amongst the ripples in the river. They were later discovered there.
“The police surgeon said at the inquest that the likely instrument of death had been a rock, for such rock was turned up with a bit of flesh and hair yet attached.
“Fred Baker? Well, he was hauled in from the solicitor’s office. ‘I know nothing about it’ is what he remarked to the police superintendent. He knew nothing about it—nor, I suppose the blood on the wristbands of his shirt. Nor could he explain the dampness to his trousers, nor his socks, nor his boots. He passed them off as insignificant—insufficient evidence. He was pretty certain these things wouldn’t hang him.
“Well, the weeks went on and Baker’s tales began to change almost with the seasons. His first utterance was ‘I know nothing about it’ and this later became something along lines of ‘Well, I’m innocent, of course—but if I did it, I was crazy at the time.’
“That much I had to give the fellow. If I recall correctly though none of this came about ‘til after his office diary was found. Guess what was in it, young man? I’ll give you a guess outright.”
“The Baker feller confessed, in writing?”
“Very near that. An entry was found in Baker’s hand which read ‘24th August, Saturday—killed a young girl. It was fine and hot.’ The superintendent made this discovery if I recall upon the Monday after the murder.
“Fred Baker was tried of course, well and true by the laws of the Crown, hanged upon the eve of Christmas at Winchester. His last statement, curiously, admitted to the foul deed, but set it down to a rage that consumed him as Fanny Adams cried. She was likely pleading for release and her life at the time. He did not (so he assured her desolate and aggrieved parents) violate the child at all in any intimate way. He bashed her head in, cut her small frame to ribbons, cast her very eyeballs into the river torrents—and yet took no intimate liberties. Where, I ask you, is the consolation in that?”
“There is none sir, none worth even a tenth of a tinker’s damn.” The weight of the tale set suddenly upon myself, bringing from me a sigh of melancholy.
The gentleman then did something unexpected: he put a hand upon my shoulder. “I must bid you goodnight and farewell, young man. I do so with thanks of your fine company, a good supper, and tolerant ear. It will take time, you understand, on account of business considerations and the like—but in time I intend to gather and ship over to you a set of the case records in the matter of The Crown against Frederick Baker, if of course you’d care to have them.”
“I would and thank you, sir. I too have enjoyed this afternoon and evening. I wonder though if you might do me a small kindness. I will provide you funds of course, but I should appreciate it if you would place a flower of your choosing on the little one’s grave for me.”
“I can do that young man. I know just the spot she rests.”
“I thank you most kindly, sir. If you’re off up to Boston, you might visit the courthouse there. They have yet preserved the very courtroom in which Mr. John Adams did stoutly defend a number of British regulars put to trial for acts committed in Boston on or about the 5th day of March 1770. Even years later, Mr. Adams said that upon reflection, that 1770 defense was ‘one of the most gallant, generous, manly, and disinterested actions of my whole life, and one of the best pieces of service I ever rendered my country.’ Of the eight soldiers charged, six were acquitted, while the remaining two were found guilty of manslaughter and had their thumbs branded.”
“I thank you again, young man. If time permits I will make that visit. If you should ever find yourself ‘cross the water to visit the ancestral home, you must come if you’ve time and look up ‘Charles Simmons, Esq.’ at Alton: him who has gratefully shared your company this day.”
I nodded, and with warm shake of hand did take my leave of Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq. there outside the restaurant of the Mellen House. He notified me by telegraph whence he arrived safely at home. I had another telegram from him in March of 1892 saying that he had resumed the law business full tilt, and though very busy, had not forgotten his promise of the case files. He had located most of them he said, but thought there was yet one more box to find.
He also mentioned a trip to the Boston courts. He had been able to see the room where the Regulars were tried and defended by Mr. John Adams of Braintree, and judged it most impressive.
Old Simmons, bless his heart, said also that he had complied with my request and set two flowers upon Miss Fanny’s grave in the Alton Cemetery. They were, he said, a purplish hue which the child would have appreciated. Simmons had ignored my offer to provide funds. The flowers were but four-pence each anyway he said, and it would have cost me far more to safely send the funds.
I had subsequent communication from him in mid-July, saying that he had rounded up the wayward box, gathered everything together, and sent it over. I should expect the case files in the matter of The Crown vs. Frederick Baker to arrive on either the 4th or the 5th day of August 1892.
That then, was the source of my anticipation whilst I sat with my breakfast of iced day-old baker’s roll and coffee upon Thursday, August 4th, 1892. Using Simmons’ descriptions as a sort of guide, I had cleared sufficient space to house the collection off to itself, in a special place.
I found myself rather oddly preoccupied with that Baker feller, I must admit. Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq., my Mellen House supper companion, had, on account of time, given no detail of the means by which the fiend Baker had been conveyed to his end there in Winchester, the reputed ancient home of Arthur, the King. I could not say for sure, but a certain passage kept creeping through my mind: “I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”
Cruel and strange though it may sound, I found myself fancying that Baker the fiend had been rid to the gallows upon such pale beast, and that he did enter the hottest regions of Hell to suffer for his crime.
I resolved at that point to rouse myself from that reverie, for enough was enough of anything—and the coming of such thoughts as that to my mind was a signal that for the present, at least, I’d had more than enough pondering concerning the demise of that fiend of Hampshire.
The resonant bong of the city clock did aid me somewhat in rousing myself. At its sounding, I at least found myself sensible enough to finish the last bites of the iced baker’s roll which I washed down with a last swallow of coffee now gone cold as an ice berg.
I hunted up the clock, discovering the hour was 42 minutes past. On suspicion more or less, I dialed the post office to inquire about the day’s mail. “Oh, yes sir. It’s just being delivered here now.”
“Seamus—is that you, Feeney? I know that brogue anywhere! Now don’t you dare deny it, feller. Say . . . how’s that sister of yours?” Seamus Feeney was a raw-boned, redheaded Irishman of about 24. He had come over from Galway with an elder sister, Alice. Seamus was the more industrious of the two, having found regular work as a postal clerk within three weeks of setting foot again upon dry land. Alice Feeney was less fortunate, having found part-time day work as a maid and sewing woman. Unfortunately, Alice didn’t do well in managing her leisure time. The average month saw her in the lockup three times at least on what Alice herself referred to as “the usual complaint.” The police force knew all too well what “the usual complaint” really meant: at least three days a month—overnights, usually—they’d haul Alice in for what she called “bethottedneth.” As you might guess, Alice Feeney could say that word letter perfect any other time. When she couldn’t say it (or much else that made any sense, now that you mention it), she forgot about talking altogether, and spent her time singing beautiful old Irish ballads in a loud but rather pretty voice. All the daughters of music were hers in these moments, flung higher than a child’s kite in strong wind.
“Oh Seamus, that’s too bad. But at least she thought to sing for him.” Alice had been in again on the usual complaint. It seems that one of the officers made the mistake to wish another feller a “Happy birthday” within earshot of Alice Feeney, and . . .
“Hey, Seamus—you seen any mail for me yet today, have you?”
“Let me look . . . Good grief, man! What is this behemoth that has your name on it??!!”
“Well, I don’t know Seamus. Where’s it from? I see… Well, yes, I was expecting—it’s how big?” Apparently the package dispatched from Alton, Hampshire by Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq. had arrived in the playpen of miscreancy. It also was much larger than I had expected!
“Huh? No, Seamus I don’t want you to do that, feller, but I thank you all the same. No, I won’t hear of it. If you get laid up, who’d bail out Alice when the need arose? See what I mean?
“No, Seamus—I’ll be around to get it after bit. What? You better believe I’ll hire a ride back! I don’t have Alice on my hands, but I do have things that must be done. What?! No, Seamus, but thanks. I like your sister and all that, but I have a fine girl already. One’s enough for…you bet, especially if it’s Alice! Now be a good feller and hush, so I can get outta here. Right . . . I’ll be around in awhile.”
I made a quick mental calculation of my plans for the morning, or what remained of it. First to the Union Bank, then the post office, then back home. Owing to the size or sheer bulk of the things dispatched across the water by Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq., of Alton, Hampshire, I could not return by the horse car, but would need the services of a hack-man or carriage driver. I checked my pockets to be sure I had the whistle, and then set off.
I walked about half a block, then caught the horse car for a brief time and then left it, making my way on up in the direction of the bank. Some variation of such travel was my usual custom, as it allowed me to get a bit of exercise if I desired it. I allowed that would be most prudent today, if I was to well and truly face the behemothic monster that Seamus Feeney had described earlier.
As I made my way from the bank and prepared to set off toward the post office, I caught sight of a gentleman whom I believed to be Mr. Andrew J. Borden. I hailed him, and after a moment’s conversation (during which he joshingly inquired into the state of my pockets), wished him well. He seemed himself, but a bit tired, as he made his way in the general direction of Clegg’s store.
“Don’t yell at me Seamus. I told you earlier that while I was expecting a package from across the water I had no idea what would be in it beyond what the gentleman himself told me now several months back.”
I had barely stepped a foot into the post office when Seamus Feeney, God bless him, stepped up to the plate and started pitching. I had to give him one thing: he was entirely right about that box. Either Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq., of Alton, Hamphire in the United Kingdom of Great Britain had underestimated the bulk of the package purposely, or he had no head for estimating at all. The “box” which purportedly contained case records relating to the matter of The Crown vs. Frederick Baker stood thirty-eight inches high and measured thirty-six inches on the shorter side, and forty-eight inches on the longer.
“Don’t you dare tell me that the office scale is broken on account of this here box, Seamus Feeney—I know better! Why, this scale could handle your sister’s weight—and when she’s fully dressed, drunk as a skunk and singing her heart out in the blessed clink!”
(Alice Feeney, according to arrest records weighed in at 87 and ¾ pounds without shoes and “in full gust” as they say.)
“Ask your boss over there, and he’ll tell you that the secret to these infernal things is calibration.”
Feeney, bless his heart, just stood there, his face pale as a ghost in spots, red as a wild Irish rose in others. The postmaster, I noticed, was off to the side there, listening from behind a magazine. He made very little noise, but the magazine pages were shaking like leaves on a tree stirred by an autumn breeze.
“Oh . . . Seamus?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you mind stepping to the doorway there, looking to see if there’s any carts out there please?”
Seamus Feeney rushed to comply. Whilst he was occupied, I had a brief word with the postmaster. “You understand I’m not at all upset with the young feller, right?”
“Don’t worry about that. You very nearly had me on the floor laughing. The boy is a fine worker, conscientious and considerate. If he’ll stay, I’d like to keep him another twenty years. Just for the record—you were right on both counts: the limit on that scale is one hundred fifty pounds. It just came last week, and I really hadn’t got around to explaining to Seamus yet that it does periodically need to be re-calibrated.”
Seamus Feeney reappeared. “Sir, there’s a hack-man outside for you. May I heft this out?”
“You need ask the postmaster here that, young feller. You work for him.”
The postmaster nodded.
“Hold it a minute Seamus—there’s a catch: you can take that out to the hack for me if you’ll allow me to buy you a—you like ginger beer?”
“Yes, sir; but not the way Alice does.”
“Young feller, from what I’ve seen there’s nobody on the face of the earth likes ginger beer the way your sister Alice does.”
“That’s true, sir.”
“Seamus,” the postmaster spoke up. “It’s nearly dinnertime. Why don’t you see this gentleman out with his package, and get your dinner?”
“Yes sir. I’ll do that.”
“Lift with your legs, young feller. Remember, Alice needs bail money.”
At this, Seamus Feeney snickered. I suspected he’d finally caught on. He hefted the box up—it did weigh every bit of fifty ponds if not a bit more—and out the door to where the hack-man waited.
“Thank you, my good feller. That offer is redeemable at any time by the way, just let me know.”
I gave the hack-man the address, and off we did go, quick as a flash.
The city clock struck the quarter-hour past eleven as we came within fifty yards of my humble domicile. My mind was somewhat occupied with thoughts of how I would get the aforementioned behemoth into said humble domicile.
Looking about, I noticed that my neighbor up the way was just coming off duty for his dinner break—the neighbor of whom I speak in this instance being Officer Philip Harrington of the police. I whistled at him, waved, and called out: “Neighbor Harrington! Could you help me a moment here please?”
Philip Harrington turned and walked over. “Good afternoon. How can I help?”
“Well, I need to unlock the place and get this here box indoors. Would you mind?”
“Oh…sure.”
“Watch it though feller, that bugger is heavy!”
Neighbor Harrington nodded, appropriately bracing himself, lifting the large box whilst I paid off the hack-man, who snapped his whip and took off like a shot.
“What is this beast anyway?” Neighbor Harrington inquired.
“Well, it’s supposed to be case files, sent to me by a gentleman from Hampshire, England.”
“What case is it?”
“Crown against Baker. Child murderer hanged at Winchester, England in 1867,” I said, opening the door. “Right in here if you would—any empty spot. I’ll worry about breaking it open later.”
Neighbor Harrington nodded and set the crate down with heave of a great sigh.
“You didn’t go to the festivities at Rocky Point?”
“No—I missed Cleopatra’s barge on that one.” My policeman neighbor grinned an easy grin.
“Well, somebody has to mind the place whilst the revelers do whatever it is that revelers do, huh?”
“Indeed.” Neighbor Harrington nodded.
“Well, my friend I’ll bid you a pleasant day and leave you to your dinner. If you’re working the weekend I suspect you might need all the strength you can get, just in case Miss Alice Feeney shows up again. Do you know Alice?”
“I think I do. Irish girl, short, slightly pretty—less than 90 pounds, likes to get drunk and sing loud Irish songs?”
“Well neighbor, it sounds like you are at least slightly familiar with the trial which may follow after all!”
“I’ve heard about Alice Feeney, but we’ve never met professionally . . . yet.” Officer Harrington laughed.
“Well, you just keep her in mind young feller. Good day to you.” My neighbor turned to leave and I closed the door.
I looked at the box come across the water from the town of Alton, Hampshire courtesy Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq., and wondered what secrets it held. That thought resounded still in my mind as the city hall clock announced that the hour was now thirty minutes past eleven upon the morning of August 4th, 1892.
I set about the task of preparing myself a light dinner. I was in the midst of eating that dinner of a buttered sausage and cheese sandwich when the three-quarter hour sounded.
At last, having ceased my mid-day nourishment, I could stand the suspense no longer. I hunted up a claw hammer and began to pry the lid away. It took three tries, mind you, but finally the last pieces of bracing gave way with a tooth-grinding squeak. Tossing it away, I lifted the lid and thereupon discovered the reason for the weight of this box come across the water from the town of Alton, Hampshire courtesy Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq.
The files and such that friend Simmons had promised were there right enough. To my surprise and amazement, the gentleman barrister of Alton, Hampshire had preserved them in beautiful leather bindings. Each volume was numbered and appropriately labeled with the title The Crown v. Frederick Baker, Upon Indictment For Murder. Each volume carried a subtitle indicating the nature of the materials therein preserved, for instance Memoranda and Coroner’s Inquest: Duke’s Head Inn. There were some 40 books worth of files and memoranda, which included the stenographer’s minutes of the trial—an unbelievable cache, to say the least.
Most touching however, was a set of Sir William Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England that was identical to that previously mentioned by Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq. of Alton, Hampshire. Embracing a sudden random memory, I turned impulsively to Sir William’s Introduction to the first volume, much relieved to discover that this was not, in fact, the prized copy inscribed by Simmons’ old tutor Mr. Wilfred Robards.
I knew that Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq. of Alton, Hampshire loved his own copy far too much to part with it—and knew the reason why. I would not have allowed him to part with it.
I did find, however, that my friend Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq. did inscribe a note to me on the flyleaf, which read:
“Take these, young man, in the spirit which they are given. The struggle for an independent America had its rough moments. Life has its moments. If you are at all intent on study of law, even for yourself as a non-practitioner, let your studies begin here, with these Commentaries. You have the capacity to know them, to understand them even if you never do anything the more with them. Godspeed, young fellow.”
The noon chime did strike. I stepped out the front door to catch a bit of air, although to be entirely truthful, there wasn’t much air stirring to catch. For a split second all went quiet and still. And it seemed as though I heard (off somewhere in the vague distance) the strains of a fiddle as it played a mournful country air.
Within a moment, however, even as I stood there catching what little air I could, the vaguest rustling sounds grew suddenly the louder. I turned in their direction, and my eyes were met by the sight of a young feller in hot-footed quickstep racing toward my neighbor Harrington’s door. He knocked a time or two, and then was briefly admitted. Not long after that, neighbor Harrington emerged in official dress and left his premises. I looked around for the young feller who’d knocked at neighbor Harrington’s door, but he’d gone as quickly as he came, so far as I could tell.
It was not curiosity but an empty stomach that led me to do what next I did. (I really should know by now when a light dinner is too light!) Free of the hulking behemoth of a wondrous gift that my friend Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq. had so thoughtfully sent, I thought an expedition in order, as if there’s one thing I hate more than anything in this world, it’s an empty or insufficiently-appeased stomach.
I locked the place up again, and after a short walk hopped upon the horse car. I did not know it at that time you understand, but I did later discover that the path I took toward town was the very same which my neighbor Harrington had taken after the young man made his visit. The difference there was that I did not leave the car, but took it all the way into town.
The first inkling I had that anything was amiss came while I was in town, but the news was rather fragmented, leaning far more along the lines of what rather than to whom. “Murder” is not the most common of words, of course, but at the same time it’s not altogether uncommon either. I heard someone speak of “murder in Second Street” exactly one time, while on my way back from town. (I must here tell you quite frankly that in retrospect I’m most glad of things turning out as they did. Had I known before what I discovered later, it would have meant an empty stomach all over again.)
As I was going more or less in that general direction anyway, I paid close attention, and made a special effort to return via Second Street. Things did not seem especially peculiar at first sight, although I did notice that here and there folks were standing in knots or the like—groups of two, three, or four persons—looking up the street or down the street depending upon their situation, speaking in low, hushed voices.
I did not accost anyone, but continued until finally I caught sight of Charlie Sawyer, a painter of ornaments—ornamental painter, that is—I never fail to mix those two. He was standing, as I recall, outside one of the doors to the Borden household—the outside doors, you understand. As he did not seem to be occupied with much of anything, I stepped up and spoke to him.
“Well, if it isn’t Charlie Sawyer. Your business got so slow that you gave it up for sentry duty?”
Sawyer shook his head.
“Charlie? What’s the matter feller? You don’t look good.”
“You didn’t hear? Mr. and Mrs. Borden are both in there—dead, dead, and dead.”
“What?! Charlie tell me you’re joking! I saw Mr. Andrew Borden just a few hours ago. He looked a bit green and tired, like he wasn’t feeling real good, but…dead?”
“Well, he might have been a little sick. But that’s not what did the job on him.”
“I’m not sure from the way you said that, feller, that I really want to know—but what the devil are you telling me—or trying not to? Murder?!”
“Uh huh. Mr. Borden is in there, sitting room. His…his face is half gone it looks like.”
I started to go toward the house. Charlie put his hand on my shoulder. “If you’ve never trusted me before, trust me on this one: you do not want to go in there. I know you want to try to do what you can for them—but Mr. and Mrs. Borden, there’s nothing anyone can do for them now.”
I bowed my head and reflected on the one and only time I had ever been in the Borden household—the day Mr. Borden had covered a bill for me at D. R. Smith’s. I had gone to repay him
“Miss Lizzie is inside. They are talking to her and looking after her needs presently. You might give her a day or two. Miss Emma has been notified of the tragedy and is returning by train sometime today. Doctor Bowen was to send the telegram.”
“Thanks, Charlie. You’re a good feller.”
I turned and made my way back towards my humble domicile.
That, fair reader, is the story on not just one but two ordinary days. The first has value in a deeply personal sense. We do not often meet folks the likes of Mr. Charles Simmons, Esq., nor for that matter, people like Mr. and Mrs. Andrew J. Borden, late of No. 92 Second Street. But if we do, and are lucky, we will be graced with sufficient sense to know how blessed we are.
Four lives changed forever by the end of two days which at their core had very ordinary beginnings.
Later that day, I dispatched the following telegram to friend Simmons at Alton:
MR. CHARLES SIMMONS, ESQ.
ALTON, HAMPSHIRE.
FRIEND SIMMONS,
COLONIAL ‘MISCREANT’ SENDS FOND GREETINGS. HOPING THIS MAY FIND YOU WELL. YOUR MOST THOUGHTFUL GIFTS ARRIVED 4TH AUG. PLEASED BEYOND MEASURE, BUT MOST GLAD BLACKSTONE NOT YOUR OWN. INTEND TO READ AND SAVOR EVERY WORD AS TIME PERMITS. PRESENTLY HOWEVER, HAVE NEAR FRONT ROW SEATS IN LOCAL HORRORS. TWO MURDERED, AGED 64 AND 70 YEARS. APPARENT WEAPON: CUTTING INSTRUMENT. RUMORS ABOUND. MAY BE REPORTED THERE SOON. ELSE, DETAILS TO FOLLOW. KEEP SAFE.
‘MISCREANT’
