Doug WaltersBy Doug Walters
First published in November/December, 2007, Volume 4, Issue 4, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
When Murder Came To Call
Or
Literary Landmines & How To Avoid Them—
The Confessions
of
Adelaide Buffinton Churchill
Well, fair Reader, that most-favored season in the whole of New England has returned yet again: Autumn, she who brings along with that bright folial blanket, that gentle nip to the air, an urge to stand out in sunlight beneath sharply bright blue skies, to savor the rich colors. The season seldom changes of course—and why should she, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it still applied the last ye humble Compositor knew.
There are though great differences ‘twixt this and last—as any perusal of preserved newsprint from the autumn of 1892 will prove.
What a difference a year can make! As I make these jottings presently, some weeks have now passed away since the circus at New Bedford ceased, punctuated by a final blast of the ringmaster’s whistle: Not Guilty! said twelve good men and true. So within mere hours it began – the great exodus of one of the finest attractions the Commonwealth has seen in years. One wag expressed it best: the whole affair was a spectacle worthy of Barnum, and did him one better in the sense that at New Bedford there was little or no exotic animal waste to attend to.
Apart from a now-and-then rumble in the wake of Miss Lizzie Borden’s acquittal, not much is said of her but for occasional public mention of an insignificant event which took place as she was escorted out of the Superior Court at New Bedford. It seems—and I must warn you Reader that I did not see this but read of it in the newspapers—that as Miss Borden descended the steps and prepared to enter the carriage that would whisk her away, her attention was caught by a small child. The child, according to reports a small blonde-haired girl of perhaps eight years in age clad in a sky-blue dress and straw bonnet adorned with matching ribbon, had stood for several moments outside and passed the time licking a large lollipop. She called out “Oh, Miss Borden!” Miss Lizzie turned to look in that direction and was greeted by the sight of this little girl with her tongue stuck fully out—pink and red and glistening in the sunlight, yet stained with the varicolors of the confection. The child then raised what was according to reports a pert and pretty little nose to the heavens, turned about and walked away, contentedly licking at the candy she carried.
That brief moment was the talk for several days and even weeks afterward—at least in certain circles. Of course there’s still talk, Reader. The only real difference ‘twixt this year and last year is that last year the talk was trumpeted almost daily on the front pages of near every newspaper from here to Timbuktu and places beyond.
Nowadays the talk is more restrained it seems—better modulated, as it were. The tongues still wag to be sure, but they do so – at least as it seems to ye humble Compositor—in far less public venues and are tinged with far less vitriol.
The most recent report of any real substance was that which told that the sisters Borden have recently acquired a rather lavish piece of property located at Number 7 French Street—complete with nearly every convenience their former domicile lacked, or so says the most reliable of filthy rumor at any rate.
Ed Porter mentioned it to me in passing not long ago over a game of penny whist.
“Fancy frills and flushing fixtures are fine and dandy things, Porter my good feller,” I said. “But for my own part I must tell you that since the hurly-burly at New Bedford is now concluded I couldn’t be less interested in the doings of Miss Lizzie Borden or her sister.”
“It’s ‘Lisbeth’ she goes by now, didn’t you hear?” His voice was a contemptuous hiss as he spoke, his eyes aglitter like those of a bedraggled and half-starved field weasel on scent of its prey.
“Oh now you’re just talking hogwash, Porter! Have you no shame? Who’s your source on the name change anyway, Joe Howard? What would he know about such things, prancing about in a jack-dandy suit, muttering about flower-strewn fields, heifers in distress and the Father only knows what else, all while a woman sat on trial for her very life? You’ll have to do much better than that, feller! Or did you get that little tidbit perhaps from Nellie (‘Mother Superior’) McHenry—‘Bless me, Father for I have sinned: impersonated a nun just so to induce a frightened Irish maidservant to spill her guts so I could take it all down and use it for whatever purpose later suited me best’? Is that your source Porter? The name thing is nothing more than rumor, feller—and you know that! The sad part is, I wouldn’t be surprised if every dollar-a-week washerwoman in the whole of the city hasn’t heard that by now and taken it as fact! It’s disgraceful, Porter—nearly as horrible as your cardplay!
“Porter, you don’t want to throw that card, feller; do so and I’ll take every penny in your pocket. It’s no wonder Seamus Feeney won’t play cards with you!”
Porter scowled at me, muttered some unkind remark about Seamus being a shady back-alley Irishman.
“Porter, you and I both know that the only person either of us knows who gets some thrill from shady back-alley dealings is the feller sitting across the table from me!”
I laid my cards in the center of the table and grinned like the Cheshire cat. Porter stared at them, dumbfounded and spluttering. “But…how did you…?”
“Elementary, my good feller: you may be one of the finest scribblers Buffinton has in his shop over there—but you are by far one of the worst card players I’ve ever seen. It’s no wonder Seamus Feeney won’t play with you—I’m embarrassed myself!”
As I scraped up the pocket-change, Porter said something about car fare to get himself home—he did not live at all far, but for some unknown reason preferred conveyance other than his own feet to travel the relatively short distance.
I slid a pair of five-cent pieces in his direction. “There you are, Porter. Put those in the back of your shoe. It’ll help to level your walk some on the way home. You’d better get that heel fixed before it ruins your foot.”
I did not see nor hear from friend Porter for perhaps ten days thereafter. He never crossed my mind again in fact, until I saw a small notice in the Daily Globe which announced the imminent release of The Fall River Tragedy, touted as the very first history of the Borden murders.
The notice was rather restrained as publication announcements sometimes go. It read very nearly like an announcement of birth: Mr. George R. H. Buffinton is pleased to announce…etc., etc., except that there was little if any mention of the proud parent, Mr. Edwin H. Porter.
I telephoned The Daily Globe, asked to speak with aforementioned proud parent, only to be told that he was in a meeting with Mr. Buffinton and was likely to be in conference for at least the next while.
“I see. No, it’s nothing important. I’ll try him a bit later, or at home.”
Well, Porter was getting his backside chewed for some reason: In conference with Mr. Buffinton seldom if ever meant anything else.
I did speak to him later that evening, scheduling a celebratory supper at the Mellen House Restaurant for Tuesday the next. (I forgot to inquire about the infraction that put him in conference.)
At the quarter past eleven upon that appointed Tuesday, I received a telephone call:
“Hello?? Oh, hello Mrs. Churchill, how are you?
“Well, yes, I could perhaps come by a bit later, but—I see. It’s a very important matter you say? Well, yes, 2:00 this afternoon would work. No, I’m not busy at all at the moment. I just have to go to the post office and pester Seamus Feeney about some matter, then I can—yes, Seamus is a good feller and he does like to…Yes, Mrs. Churchill. I know the sister too. Seamus tried to fix me up with her last year I think it was. But of course I have a fine and lovely girl already so…Oh yes indeed. Alice Feeney is a pretty girl but I—well yes of course not much when she… No, besottedness is most assuredly not an attractive trait in a woman, of course not, but she tries. She has a fine reputation as a singer, yes. No, I’ve never heard her sing myself, but have heard from other folks that she’s very good. Yes, Seamus does a fine job looking after her. He’s very good about that sort of thing for anybody—exceptionally thoughtful and considerate, yes. Mrs. Churchill? We’ve had a lovely chat here the last few minutes, but if I’m to see you at 2:00 I should really—Oh no, that’s quite alright. Yes, I’ll see you a bit later this afternoon. Goodbye, Mrs. Churchill.
“Hello – who’s on the line, please? Oh hello, Miss Fitcher—have you been in a draft? You don’t sound like yourself. Oh I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. You’d better see to that before it gets any worse. Could you ring the Daily Globe for me please? Yes, thank you. Mr. Buffinton will do fine if he’s not busy. I’m actually trying to reach Ed Porter—yes, the famous author. Could you ring—? Thank you, Miss Fitcher.
“Hello? Oh, it’s you Miss Fitcher. I thought—Oh, he isn’t there? Well, could you try him at—? Yes, I’ll wait, thank you Miss Fitcher.
“Porter! How are you feller? Say, would you mind terribly if we made the supper plans for tomorrow instead of this evening? Something has come up here and —No, feller I’m fine. Thanks for asking though. It’s just that I had an unexpected call awhile ago. I have to take care of something this afternoon and I’m not at all sure yet how long I’ll be. I’m late as it is and I have to get going over to the post office before—
“What?!! Oh you’re kidding! He did? Why, that’s wonderful! Whitehead sure made a good choice there.
“Oh now Porter—don’t talk that way! You know that young feller would do anything you asked him to without even a thought. Well, I know that—and do you know why Seamus Feeney won’t play cards with you? Because it—Well, yes it’s that partly of course, but every time the three of us have played cards, you’ve lost! It bothers Seamus terribly. Because you can’t play cards worth a half ton of soldier beans, Porter—and that young feller, for some odd reason, knows how to play, and win. It hurts him, knowing that he gains by other folks losses.
“Well, I know that Ed, but that’s the way he is. You’re just jealous, and you know it. What’s worse, you know as well as I do that he needs all the money he can get because of Alice’s . . right.
“Listen feller, I’ve got to get going here. I’ll see you for—the Mellen House Hotel Restaurant at 5:30, right. I’ll see you then. Goodbye, Ed.”
When I entered the post office downtown, John Whitehead was at the front counter. “Well, hello Whitehead. Doing a bit of work today are we?”
“Well, a little more than usual—but not terribly much! The mail’s just come in, if that’s what you’re after. It was late today.”
“Fancy that. I’m late today myself. Thought I might see Seamus in here. I haven’t seen him the last two weeks.”
John Whitehead chuckled. “Oh, he’s here alright. In the back, stowing the empty mail sacks at the moment I think. Let me—Seamus! Come out here a minute please. There’s a gentleman wants a word with you.”
“I hear he’s got a promotion.”
“That’s right. I actually had to do something,” Whitehead replied. Whitehead explained that in the roughly seventeen months now passed since he’d arrived green off the boat from Galway, Seamus Feeney had really grown into the job. “I’ve seen smart folks take to things quick mind you, but this young feller—well, you know what he was like back in August last year.”
“I remember it well,” I said, chuckling. “I also remember you saying that if he’d stay, you’d gladly keep him another twenty years.”
John Whitehead nodded.
At that moment, Seamus Feeney leaned ‘round the doorway. “Sorry, sir; I was checking the scale. It’s calibrated properly.”
“Well, Seamus, there’s more than John Whitehead here who be glad to know you’ve discovered the secrets of calibration. Step up here feller. I understand congratulations are in order.”
Seamus was attired as I’d never seen him before, in dark slacks, blue shirt, and a head cover that resembled a yachtsman’s cap, except that the one Seamus wore was of patent leather.
“Feeney, you look awfully good in that outfit, feller.”
Seamus beamed with pride, adjusting his posture to stand ramrod straight. I almost expected a salute. Failing that, I reached to shake his hand.
“So how did Alice take the news, Seamus?”
John Whitehead laughed aloud and Seamus snickered. “We really should have been more careful,” Whitehead said. “Seamus wanted to make a surprise of it. So we got hold of Alice, she was at work over on Third Street, and asked if she might come by for a bit—I explained to the woman the reason and asked that she not tell Alice the reason, but just send her over.
“You finish the story, Seamus. I’ll take care of Mrs. Gormley.” Whitehead nodded to me and stepped a short way down the counter. Mrs. John Gormley apparently had the same notion as I, and had come in after the daily mail.
“So what happened feller?”
“Well, Mr. Whitehead told me before Alice got over here to make myself busy in the back, so she wouldn’t see me when she got in here.
“I went to the back then, started arranging the mail sacks, but keeping an ear open. We had agreed that when I heard Mr. Whitehead say ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this Alice, but . . . ’ I was to count off three, then come out. When I came out, Mr. Whitehead said, ‘Seamus has been promoted.’”
I nodded expectantly. “And . . . ?”
“Alice was stunned! She stood for a few seconds, started to cry. That was before she fainted.” Seamus grinned, apparently relishing the recollection.
“Good Lord, Seamus! What happened next, feller?”
“Well, when she came again to herself Postmaster Whitehead and me got her on her feet again and—you’ve heard that Alice can sing?”
“Yes I have Seamus. Every overnight man they have down to the Central Police Station nearly can attest to Alice Feeney’s musical talents,” I said with a wink. “That sister of yours is a bona-fide legend—a regular Jenny Lind of County Galway, that girl.”
“Oh everybody knows that sir—more than just the police. But it turns out Alice is a fine singer sober as well. Postmaster Whitehead and me got her on her feet, she stood right over there by yon window, threw her head back and started to sing a song – for me!
It went like this:
O, Seamus has got a brand new job, harooo, harooo!
With brand new cap and uniform, harooo, harooo!
Dressed up for that brand new job,
He looks better’n ‘most any a sailorman gob.
Seamus has a brand new job and Alice so proud of him!”
At that moment we were rejoined by Mr. John Whitehead. “Mr. Feeney, it’s nearly time for you to get your dinner. You may do that and return here by three-quarters past one if you please.”
“Yes, Mr. Whitehead. By three-quarter past? Let me get my things.” Seamus stepped into the back room.
I glanced in Whitehead’s direction. He met my eye, nodded and winked. “Seamus was here this morning before I was. He was waiting for me when I came at half-past seven!”
“Well, like I said Whitehead—I think you made a fine choice there, feller.”
“He keeps that business up, before too long I’ll be working for him!”
Seamus Feeney returned, carrying a light tunic, well-suited to the first breezes of autumn.
“Would you like anything while I’m out, Mr. Whitehead?”
“No thank you, Seamus. Just a nip from Alice’s private stock if you please.”
“Yes, Mr. Whitehead. I’ll pick it up on my way back,” Seamus replied, snickering.
“Let me buy you dinner, Seamus,” I said after we left the post office. “I still have a little while yet before an appointment over on Second Street. That will give you the chance to tell me about sister Alice’s ‘private stock.’”
Seamus was agreeable to that. “Since your appointment is over on Second, what about going over to Whitehead’s?”
“Sounds good to me, Seamus,” I said as we started off in that direction.
“But there’ll be none of this dinner on the cheap business. Mr. Whitehead said you’ve been hard at it since early morning. So you will eat. Are we clear on that, feller?”
“You’re as bad as Alice on some things, you know that?”
“Well, it’s like this here Seamus: you know and I know that if Alice knew I took you to dinner and didn’t see you properly fed she’d be over to the office straightaway, chasin’ me ‘round the desk, yelling and trying to kick me in the shins.
“I have rather delicate shin-bones, young feller, and that sister of yours kicks like a blue-nosed mule.
“Don’t be looking at me with wonder in your eyes, Seamus Feeney – it was you the one told me that!”
“Well, I only said it because it’s true, sir.” Seamus snickered.
“I suspected as much—and that’s all I care to know about the matter!” I said as we came down and entered Number 32-34 Second Street, the eating establishment of Mr. James M. Whitehead.
As things worked out, the delicate shin-bones did not suffer on account of Seamus Feeney that day. We had identical tastes in our dinners: sliced roasted beef, mashed potatoes, kernel corn, and baker’s rolls with butter. Seamus declined anything more. “I have to make that stop for Postmaster Whitehead’s drink on the way back. I’ll get something more then, I think.”
“All right young feller. That’ll do. Now speaking of that, what did John Whitehead mean about Alice’s ‘private stock’ anyway?”
Seamus snickered, finishing his forkful of food before answering. “Well, you see sir, it went like this: after I got promoted to the new job, Postmaster Whitehead arranged for me to go for a two week expenses-paid training course up to Boston—that’s why I’ve been a bit scarce until just recent.”
“I see. I wondered where you’d got to. I asked him about you a time or two while you were gone but he just grinned, saying he’d sent you out into the wide world to see a few things and do a little business.”
Seamus nodded. “Yes, sir; it was a nice trip actually, although I wore my backside nearly away in that course. The good part I guess is that I know a lot more about the job now than I did when I started. I’ve learned things over the past year of course as best I could, but the training up to Boston I had—now I understand why things are done the way they are. I only had just a little idea before—even up to last month.”
“Well, that’s wonderful Seamus. But I must tell you this, feller: the way you’ve had with the people the last year—even green as you were – that’s what sometimes makes the difference. You’ve gone out of your way at times—as I’ve seen for myself—to let them know that they matter, and that you are interested in helping them in any way that you can if it’s possible. That, Seamus my good feller, is a fine trait for a human being—but it’s an essential trait at times for a public servant.”
“That’s what the feller said in the—we had this two-hour lecture one day in postal operatives . . . etiquette I think was the word used: ‘As an employee of the post office, you are under direct supervision of the postmaster in your district. But to be truthful about it you don’t work for him. Your duty is to the people, for they are the reason you are there. Serve them well gentlemen and you will earn your money as the gentleman should!’
“I never thought of myself much as a gentleman but . . . ” Seamus gazed down at his plate. When he looked up I noticed a faint rose hue had come to his cheeks.
“Oh, now see here, Seamus Feeney. There’s more to being a ‘gentleman’ than having a fine house up on the Hill, old money, a flush toilet in your abode—none of that is worth a tenth of an average-sized tinkers damn alongside a feller such as yourself, who though little he may have, he has no fear of work or earning his wages by hard labor and sweat. You my good feller are the finest example of the ‘workingman’s gentleman’ that I’ve seen in a very long time. Now wipe that blush off your face. You don’t have one thing in the world to be embarrassed about.
“Something happened while you were away though, I thought.”
“Oh yes sir, I was getting to that; it will explain what Postmaster Whitehead was calling Alice’s ‘private stock.’” Seamus Feeney snickered, taking a bite of his baker’s roll.
“When I got back from up to Boston, Alice said she had a surprise for me—in honor of the new job, she said.
She had gone to Mass at a different parish apparently – the Father there is an old home feller, born not but two towns over from where we lived in Ireland. He and Alice have something in common: they are both speakers of the Irish. Galway is An Ghaeltacht.”
“Do you mean to say that Irish was the language most folks spoke in your portion of Galway, the place where you lived?”
“That’s right. Now in our house we used both Irish and English—we had to just to get by in most things. But our grandmother – Granny would only speak Irish in her home.
“She—her views of English (the language I mean) were nearly as hard set as they were toward English folks. She was as I remember an old sweetheart, but did sometimes say some pretty unladylike things. I remember she said one time to me, ‘Seamus me darlin’ boy, I love ye as I do love life itself. But I am old, and surely not too long for this old world. I hope, me boy, that I may be graced to sit by my Father’s side in Paradise. But if I should be doomed to suffer elsewhere, I can only hope that the road to Hell be bricked, and mortared with the bones of English tyrants.’”
“Fe fi fo fum in spades, eh feller?”
“Yes, sir; that’s about the size of it,” Seamus replied, laughing. “Alice used to spend a fair bit of time with Granny, and somewhere along the way picked up a tongue for the Irish. I know it when I hear it, but can only get a few words actually out, you understand?”
“I think I do, Seamus. I’ve heard Irish spoken a time or two myself. It’s not at all an easy thing. My tongue hurts just thinking about it!”
“But what Alice did while I was up to Boston, she said, was she went to see the Father, and they prayed together in the Irish – the ‘Our Father.’ That’s the only bit of Irish I ever really learned to say. Have you heard it before?”
“Well, now Seamus I’m not sure if I have or not. I know the ‘Our Father’ as it’s rendered in English, but that’s about it. How does it go?”
“Easiest way to do it I think is I’ll say the line in the Irish then tell you what it means.”
“Whenever you’re ready Seamus, go ahead.”
“It runs like this, sir.” Seamus then closed his eyes and began to recite:
“Ár nAthair atá ar neamh, go naofar d’ainm: Our Father who art in heaven, may your name be hallowed. Go dtaga do ríocht, go ndéantar do thoil ar an talamh mar a dhéantar ar neamh: May your kingdom come, may your will be done on the earth as it is done in heaven. ár n-arán laethúil tabhair dúinn inniu Agus maith dúinn ár bhfiacha mar a mhaithimidne ár bhféichiúnaithe féin: Our daily bread give to us today and forgive us our debts as we forgive our own debtors. Agus ná lig sinn i gcathú ach saor sinn ó olc. Amen: And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
“Excuse me, sir.” I nodded, and Seamus Feeney made the sign of the cross. “That’s it, sir, the only piece of Irish I can really speak.”
“Well, Seamus you did fine—and I can tell you that it is the ‘Our Father’ I’ve heard before. I cannot speak it, but at least when I hear it again, I’ll know what’s being said. I thank you, feller.”
“Three times they said the Our Father in the Irish, and after the third, Alice said her knees gave way. She started to pitch forward, but the Father held a hand to her shoulder: ‘Now hush Alice, easy there. You must have no fear. Your place is with God, and you must only look to Him.’ She prayed to the Divine Father for guidance and strength. ‘I do not ask for nor seek perfection, Father. I ask only that I might find the strength somehow to be better than I am.’
“The next day, Alice went to see Dr. Handy. She wasn’t sick or anything but just wanted a bit of advice you understand. She said the doctor advised her that it might be best to limit rather than cut out her . . . well, her besottedness; reduce it as much as she could.
“ ‘You may have one amount of beverage per day. Try that first,’ was his advice.”
“Seamus that’s wonderful! How’s she doing with it so far?”
“Oh she’s doing really well sir. She can’t do the single portion yet, but has only twice that amount, which isn’t that bad. Alice actually never has been a huge one for besotting herself in terms of amounts . . . two pints at the most usually. Her weight works against her on that apparently. The doctor advised her to eat also because . . . well, the food takes up room I guess so there’s not so much for the other.”
I nodded agreement. “But what did John Whitehead mean about Alice’s ‘private stock?’”
“Oh, she has a new favorite drink. It’s what she drinks most of the time now: bubbly water with cherry flavoring and a splash of chocolate fountain syrup!”
“Hey now . . . that sounds pretty good.”
“Well, she likes it pretty good—and has converted Postmaster Whitehead, to boot!”
“So she doesn’t make regular visits to the Central Police lockup these days, huh?”
“Well, she does, sir; just it’s now for a different reason, and she doesn’t stay overnight. The other day she was telling me though how she was on her way home—was walking along with a big cupful of the new concoction—when she happened to spy Captain Doherty across the way. She said she smoothed herself up as best she could—her dress I mean—whistled out real loud and called out ‘Harrroooooo, Captain Pat!’ When he turned about, she smiled real big, hoisted her cup in his direction, winked, and then showed off one of her ankles right there on the street! Alice said the poor feller was so surprised he just stood there with his mouth open.”
“I’ll make a note to ask him about that when I see him next,” I said. Seamus snickered, agreeing that I should.
“Well, my good feller I see that you’ve cleaned up your plate. So being as my shin-bones are safe from assault, I suppose we’d better get to it. What do you say?”
“Oh yes. I still have to make that stop for Postmaster Whitehead.”
“Well, Seamus I thank you for your company. I’ve really enjoyed this, and couldn’t be happier for the both of you.”
“I thank you too, sir. I’ll be sure to give Alice your good wishes, too.”
“By all means, Seamus, do that. Oh—one last thing: would you consider joining Ed Porter and me for a card game this weekend?”
“Oh . . . I might do that,” Seamus replied after a moment’s thought. “I’ve never played cards with a famous author before.”
“Well, I’m hoping myself that you’ll empty his pockets at least this one time, Seamus.”
“I might do that too,” Seamus Feeney replied, snickering. “I’ve never emptied the pockets of a famous author during a card game yet neither.”
“There you go feller—that’s the way to look at it! You might actually teach that feller something about winning while you’re at it – or at least how to lose gracefully.”
“See, I don’t mind playing cards with you sir—on account of you win some, I win some, so it comes out near to even.”
“I know that, Seamus. I’ve tried to explain that to Porter time and again but he’s as stubborn as that blue-nosed mule your sister kicks like. If you’ve no objection, ginger beer will be on hand. We can celebrate your promotion some more.”
“Well, if Mr. Porter makes his usual show, we just might need that ginger beer!”
“Now see, Seamus—that’s why I like you: you’re a good feller, and a smart feller to boot! Now let’s head off and raid sister Alice Feeney’s ‘private stock’, shall we?”
With that, we departed the establishment of Mr. James M. Whitehead, restaurateur, and paid a visit to the druggist responsible for Alice Feeney’s “private stock.”
A few minutes later, cherry-chocolate fizz in hand, I made my way back down Second, arriving at Number 90 with a few moments to spare. The concoction was a bit odd for my taste, which leans more toward Moxie, but I could see where it might grow on a person.
I found myself looking in the general direction of the former domicile of Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Jackson Borden. Not much about the place had changed but it struck me there upon that autumn afternoon as looking rather forlorn and almost forgotten. The yard pear tree I noted was full-fruited, and I found myself almost wishing that Mr. John Vinnicum Morse, brother of the late Andrew Borden’s first wife now many years deceased, might stroll by in search of a snack, for it seemed shameful that all the fruit should go to waste.
I did not encroach or rob – indeed haven’t stepped a foot near the place since that seemingly long ago day when I stopped to josh Charlie Sawyer about his taking up sentry duty on the side.
You may think it odd of me, Reader, but I find it difficult to look upon that humble abode with anything but sadness – the place wherein, as it was said: “upon the fourth day of August . . . an old man and woman . . . each without a known enemy in the world, in their own home, upon a frequented street in the most populous city in this County, under the light of day and in the midst of its activities, were, first one, then, after an interval of an hour, another, severally killed by unlawful human agency.”
If your old walls could talk, abode,
Pray tell what might they say?
Would they speak of days spent in happiness
Or give some foul secret away?
I stepped up with a sigh toward the door of Number 90 Second, as the appointed time was near. As I reached to knock upon the door, it was opened by she whom I’d seen only a short while before in the post office.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Gormley. I didn’t have a chance to speak to you earlier at the post office. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you, sir,” Mrs. Gormley replied, but added that she was a bit tuckered out even on this grand autumn day.
“Well, now Mrs. Gormley, little ones will cause that for sure! Could you say if Mrs. Churchill is at home? I’m to see her just about now.”
“She is at home, sir. If you’ll wait a moment I’ll see where she is. I’m just on my way out again.”
In a moment, Mrs. Gormley returned. “She’s inside there sir and is expecting you. Good day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gormley. A pleasant day to you,” I said, holding the door open for her.
It was but a few minutes later over a cup of tea that Mrs. Adelaide Buffinton Churchill delivered news which I must confess to this day still leaves me with a sense of utter mystification: “I would like your advice on a literary matter.” My heart thrills with a sense of gladness and relief that I was not caught in the act of swallowing tea when she said it, for I surely would either have choked to death or at the very least spit tea across the table and into her lap.
“Well, now I . . . ” Words were hard to come by of asudden, much like hard footing might be in a mire of quicksand. I sipped a bit of tea hoping to buy a moment’s consideration and at the same time ensure that my teacup would be as empty as possible should things . . . get out of hand, so to speak.
“I appreciate your thinking of me Mrs. Churchill, I really do; but I—why me?” I will confess Reader, that even as I posed the question, I suspected that I did not really wish to know the answer.
“Well, sir, I have heard that you’re a gentleman of excellent repute, eminently qualified and . . . ”
“Mrs. Churchill,” I said, raising my hand. “Let me stop you right there and ask from whom did you hear of my ‘eminent qualifications’?”
“Oh the word gets around, sir; that it does indeed.” Mrs. Adelaide Buffinton Churchill giggled as she spoke. Descriptive powers elude me here except to say that it was somewhere on the upper end betwixt the high-pitched, screeching giggle of a youngster whose feet are being tickled and that malevolent, ominous cackle reputed to punctuate gatherings of wart-nosed and wilesome witches. I must tell you it made my stomach shudder.
“Mrs. Churchill, I must tell you: if you were a fishmonger employed down by the docks and had that tidbit displayed under a sign bearing the name ‘Fresh Whitefish’ I might very well take one look at it and run screaming in the other direction.”
Mrs. Adelaide Buffinton Churchill gazed at me a moment. It appeared she was trying to think of something.
“Mrs. Churchill,” I said, pausing just long enough to drain the last from the teacup, “for what reason is it exactly that I’m here today?”
“Well, I have written a memoir, and I should appreciate your advice about it.”
Something still wasn’t right. Edward Buffinton’s daughter wrote a memoir, and wished my advice? Why with her contacts, I would think she could easily find better advice than mine.
“Excuse me a moment, sir.” Mrs. Churchill stepped out, and within a moment returned with a fair-sized bundle of papers tied up with twine. These she laid upon the table in front of me.
The mud began to clear, so to speak, when I examined the bundle. The first page bore the somewhat lurid title When Murder Came to Call: The Confessions of Adelaide Buffinton Churchill.
“Mrs. Churchill would—”
“Oh, do call me ‘Addie’ sir. If Seabury Bowen can do that, you’re certainly welcome to also.”
“Addie . . . ” Now here I must confess Reader, that use of Mrs. Adelaide Buffinton Churchill’s familiar name did not under the circumstances leave me with a warm and comfortable feeling. “This memoir, would it have anything at all to do with—the timing of it I mean to say—the forthcoming publication of Mr. Porter’s book?”
Addie looked at me with one of those ‘why, I’m sure I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about, sir’ looks.
“I read the Daily Globe just as you do,” I said. “I saw Buffinton’s write-up about the book, I would suppose the very same as you did.”
“I did go and see the esteemed publisher about it actually,” she finally admitted. “He told me in a rather brusque tone that I should sit on my own nest and attend to my own pickles; he has enough trouble on his hands with Mr. Porter.”
“Well, I would agree with that assertion—particularly in light of the injunction and whatnot. Not all of us are made to be Edwin Porters. If we were, Mr. George Buffinton would undoubtedly be enjoying nice, quiet surroundings in the Taunton hospital.”
I began to examine the pages laid out in front of me. Her tactic, it appeared, was similar to one often employed by friend Porter, but yet also a statement of the prevailing philosophy in many quarters among talkers of the talk: it is no use to keep private information which you can’t show off. Thus a noted writer expressed it not too many years ago.
Several moments passed, during which I found myself at turns stunned, perplexed, and horrified.
Mrs. Churchill sat, watching intently for any sign.
I looked up from the papers. “Well, I don’t quite know how to put this . . . Addie. Let me say though, first of all, that you’ve got a fine beginning here as beginnings go.”
Mrs. Adelaide Churchill smiled. I doubt she would have done so had she any idea what the next question put would be: “But why did you thief it?”
“What makes you think I’ve stolen anything, sir?”
“Mrs…Addie, there are not many folks who’d admit it, but how many people do you suppose have never heard of Mr. John Cleland and his infamies?”
“Infamies, sir? Whatever do you mean? I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Oh come now, Mrs. Churchill! You know exactly what I mean, and the pale hue to your cheeks at the moment tells me that.”
She sat there, her face impassive. She’d given herself away and knew it, but refused to acknowledge that fact.
I picked up the page containing her prefatory remarks and began to read aloud:
Hating, as I mortally do, all long unnecessary preface, I shall give you good quarter in this, and use no farther apology, than to prepare you for seeing the loose part of my life, wrote with the same liberty that I led it.
Truth! stark, naked truth, is the word; and I will not so much as take the pains to bestow the strip of a gauze wrapper on it, but paint situations such as they actually rose to me in nature, careless of violating those laws of decency that were never made for such unreserved intimacies as ours; and you have too much sense, too much knowledge of the originals, to snuff prudishly and out of character at the pictures of them.
“Mrs. Churchill, the ‘stark, naked truth’ is that the passage you have down there as your own comes from one of the most infamous pieces of intimate literature in modern history! Most folks know about it in the United States because the book has been banned for more than 70 years. I know of the book by nature of my business, but how did you come to know Miss Fanny Hill?
“Now don’t look at me with that ‘whatever do you mean, sir? I’m a proper New England lady’ look. Mr. John Cleland has obviously knocked upon your parlor door for a chat—however brief it might have been. How would it look if some enterprising snark hunter—the likes of that McHenry feller, for instance—got wind of this and opened the Buffinton home and name to shame, revilement and ridicule? Never mind the ‘turning over in his grave’. If your father knew of this he’d stand up and dance a schottische right out there in the Oak Grove grounds, as fine and pretty as you please!”
“So you think I ought to start that part again?”
“Well, now you may do as you please, to be truthful about it,” I said. “Telling the ‘stark, naked truth’ is a fine endeavor, commendable in every respect. But starting fresh—well, let me see if I can give you an example:
‘Reader,
I shall not engage in any extended remarks here but rather drop you fully into my tale as soon and gently as I might. Truth, stark and vicious, bloody and raw—that is what I intend to tell.’
“You might express yourself for a few more scant paragraphs, but then leave off, diving headlong into that which is your real purpose: the setting down of your thoughts and recollections of events of 4th August 1892.”
Mrs. Adelaide Buffinton Churchill’s cheeks forsook the pale dress they’d worn only a moment or two before in favor of their normal hue. She muttered something about how thrilled she was that she had chosen my name at random from the city directory.
Her narrative ran in a rambling fashion for several pages, unremarkable but for the fact that it had little or nothing at all to do with events which transpired upon the 4th day of August 1892. The most remarkable thing about the manuscript up to that point was the fact that each page bore this sentence: “I always wanted a pony, but Papa was disagreeable.”
“I . . . umm . . . ” I started to ask the meaning of that seemingly errant sentence, but thought better of it. My reward for that faltering start was another cup of tea.
“Mrs. Churchill, there’s no comfortable way to say this. But I must tell you that as things stand presently, I don’t believe I’ll be able to help you much in this matter at this time. You’ve caught me unaware partly, you see. Had I some clue at the start of the nature of our business this afternoon, I might have been better prepared. Among other things, I have over in the shop a full set of shorthand notes I took on the days I attended the trial—two of those being days upon which you testified. Now I realize this may not be vital to the project, but it might well be helpful to both of us to have such information available, you understand.”
Mrs. Churchill nodded, agreeable though somewhat deflated. “You’ve thus far written frankly and without fear,” I said. “Now you must modify before you print. Those are not, I must confess, my words, but represent sound advice imparted by one of the greatest writers of our age.”
We parted amiably a few moments later. Mrs. Churchill agreed to work a bit more at tightening and tidying, and I agreed to help her in whatever way I could with it. When next I did return to Number 90 Second, I would be armed to the teeth with things to assist in the project—and hopefully shoo away any ponies lurking nearby.
We actually ended up having a fine party after all that weekend: ‘Twas myself, the famed author Mr. Edwin Porter, Seamus Feeney, and Captain Pat Doherty of the police force. “The Marshal said I looked a bit too pale for his liking, so set me loose a wee earlier than intended. So naturally I had to come for at least a bit.”
“That crack on the head you took get alright did it?” I inquired.
“Oh it’s fine now. But Mr. John Vinnicum Morse might have another answer for you if you asked him that!”
The table erupted all around in a flurry of laughter as we recalled the near riot during the policeman’s picnic base ball tournament the past summer. “I’ll never understand that man—how he could think I wouldn’t know it was him!”
“What’s that young feller you work with up to these days, Captain Doherty? I haven’t seen him much. I was going to invite him tonight but . . . ”
“Well, you see it’s like this: Harrington has decided he doesn’t care much for our company; he went out and found himself a lovely girl. They’re planning to marry in just a matter of weeks here.”
It was near on to darkness when of a sudden Ed Porter, famous author of The Fall River Tragedy, let loose a blood-curdling howl: with a wink at myself and Pat Doherty, Seamus Feeney reached toward the center of the table and took the last of Porter’s nickels.
“There, there feller . . . I’ll take you home,” Officer Doherty volunteered. “I’ve never taken a famous author to his home before—much less an empty-pocketed famous author!”
“Gentlemen—a toast,” I proposed, hoisting my bottle of ginger beer: “To the famous author and the workingman’s gentleman—may ye both live long and prosper!”
