Mary Elizabeth Naugleby Mary Elizabeth Naugle
First published in February/March, 2005, Volume 2, Issue 1, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
Even though there are three women in the standard game of Clue, by popular and statistical wisdom none of the weapons in the game would be employed by any of the three in the real world. The rope, the candlestick, the wrench, the lead pipe, the revolver, and the knife—all violent weapons, all given the go-by on general principle by the traditional murderess. Why? Because the traditional murderess chooses poison or like Lady Macbeth eggs on some sucker to do the job for her.
Usually. But the exception proves the rule, and anyone reading this journal has more than a passing interest in at least one possible exception: Lizzie Andrew Borden. Non-Bordenites are more likely to remember “Lizzie Borden took an axe” than that she was acquitted. Had Eli Bence only sold her that prussic acid, Lizzie would be long forgotten. Poison is a ladylike weapon, and although parricide is an unladylike pursuit she would at least have been going about it the right way. Fascinating as the questions of who and how and why may be, most of us are irresistibly drawn by the question, persistent as Chico Marx’s “Why a duck?”, “Why an axe”? At least, that is, if Lizzie was the culprit.
And so ensues a series of articles dedicated to all the Miss Scarlets, Mrs. Whites, and Mrs. Peacocks of the world: murderesses who chose the road less traveled.
Heading the list is Constance Kent. She chose that weapon favored by Sweeney Todd himself, the razor. She hated her stepmother. She hid, then burned, the clothing she wore. She was arrested but found Not Guilty at the inquest. She later confessed, leaving us in no quandary over her guilt. And best of all, Constance did the deed in the banner year of 1860, the year Lizzie Borden was born.
So what can be learned from Constance?
First a brief rundown of the case. Constance was born to English aristocrats Samuel Saville and Maryanne Kent. Samuel Saville held the government appointment of factory sub-inspector. In his spare time he fathered children. Maryanne spent her time bearing those children and going steadily mad from the strain. The poor creature would be shepherded back to the fold from time to time, having been found stumbling blindly about the grounds like the sheep in the Whiffenpoof song. But rather than suffer the public shame of family lunacy, Samuel shunned medical intervention. And rather than suffer the private frustration of discreetly vacating the poor woman’s bed, Samuel continued to keep the woman in socially acceptable confinement. By the time of her death, Maryanne had borne ten children (only six of whom survived more than a year) and 23 years of Samuel’s tender attentions. Within a year Miss Mary Pratt, the unfortunate lady who had long ago taken over all but one of the functions of mother (in the capacity of governess), assumed the mantle of Mrs. Kent the second and the reproductive responsibilities as well. That was in 1853. Mary Kent was as prompt in that capacity as her predecessor had been. In less than a year she miscarried her first child, but in the following four years her lyings in were rewarded: first with a girl, Mary Amelia Saville, then a boy, the general favorite of the household, Francis Saville, and finally with another anonymous girl. By 1860 Mary Kent was in the family way once more.
Where does Constance fit in? Constance was the sixteen-year-old second youngest surviving child of the first marriage. She had two seldom named and irrelevant elder sisters in their twenties, both still unmarried and living at home, and a younger more relevant full brother of fourteen named William. Her older brother, Edward, had broken ties with their father upon the second marriage, joined the merchant marines, and died abroad in 1858. Just as Lizzie followed Emma in her distaste for the second Mrs. Borden, so Constance followed Edward. In fact, she seems to have had the aim to do so quite literally when, at the age of thirteen, she took her brother William by the hand and undertook the adolescent fantasy of running off to sea. Constance was far more determined than most, however, for she went so far as to cut off her hair and change into male clothing in a remote privy on the family estate. Both hair and female garb were later found in that hiding place once the alarm went out for the missing pair. Constance and William took the ten-mile journey to Bath, where she boldly requested a room for the two at the Greyhound Hotel. Despite the girl’s bravado, she did not escape the keen eye of the proprietor, and the two were soon returned to the bosom of the family–William in tears and penitent; Constance devoid of tears or remorse, even after the extreme measure of a night’s stay in the police station.
The only explanation she ever offered was “that ‘she wished to be independent’ “ (Roughead 90). This episode is stressed in every account of Constance Kent for two reasons. First, the hidden privy would figure prominently in the later murder; second, it reveals an early sign of Constance’s resolve and ability to remain mum in times of stress. It has a third point of interest for any Bordenite by its early and inconclusive acting out against family–almost a dress rehearsal for the main event. For Lizzie, the dress rehearsal was the staged robbery of Abby Borden’s room. The staged robbery may or may not have been an early attempt at creating a fictitious enemy, but it undoubtedly afforded some degree of satisfaction as well, by giving Lizzie the opportunity to rifle through Abby’s possessions. Constance, though thwarted in her escape, did find an excellent hiding place for future reference and had the additional satisfaction of stirring up trouble on the home front.
Now for the murder. At first glance it is altogether different. The murder was a single event, but more shocking, for instead of striking down two able bodied adults Constance cut the throat of an innocent four year old child. Constance was undoubtedly jealous of young Francis Saville, but could jealousy against one so young be enough to drive her to such extremes? According to her later confession and according to criminal historians, the answer to that question is a resounding no. But more of that later. First, the murder.
The household at the time was a large one. Though it was considered understaffed for its size, the household included three female servants, housed within, and three male servants, housed without. The family, established in much grander fashion than the Bordens, was distributed thus: above the living areas, consisting of two wings, were the master bedroom suite, in whose sleeping quarters lay both the parents and young Mary Amelia (who seems not to have cramped their style one whit); across the hall slept the latest governess, Elizabeth Gough, with the youngest girl in a cot beside her, and in a cot across the room, young Francis; on the floor above were lodged in the three front rooms the Misses Kent in a room together, Constance in a room to herself, and cook and housemaid in the third; William, like Constance, was awarded a room to himself in the back end of the same floor. On the night of Friday, 29 June 1860, the occupants went to their respective rooms for their last night of undisturbed rest. Before bed, Samuel secured the doors and windows, as was his custom, and turned loose the very voluble Newfoundland dog for additional security. This dog may have been the original of the dog in the Holmes story “Silver Blaze,” for like that dog it failed to bark in the night-time.
The night was such a quiet one that when Miss Gough awoke at five to find Master Francis missing from his cot, she assumed that the child had been taken to sleep with his parents and, being tired, she took advantage of the chance to drift back to sleep. And so it was not until after six thirty that mother and governess made the discovery of the boy’s absence and raised the alarm. When all inhabitants claimed ignorance of Francis’ whereabouts and the previously locked drawing room door was found ajar, the locked window slightly raised, the police were sent for and a desperate search began. Later that day volunteers found the child upon the splashboard of the abandoned privy, his throat so savagely slashed as to nearly decapitate him.
Because both the father and the housemaid could attest to the security of all doors and windows the night before, because the dog failed to bark, and because a bloody handprint was found on the pane of the opened window–then unforgivably removed by the local inspector– (Nash 220), the crime was considered an inside job from the beginning. And, although village gossip favored a sex scandal involving the governess, the inquest jury immediately singled out Constance and insisted upon questioning both her and brother William. William, as before, wept upon examination and appeared timid, claiming that he now slept with his door locked. Constance’s testimony on the other hand was measured and matter of fact enough to attract the attention of Inspector Whicher of Scotland Yard, who had since taken over the case. On the strength of Whicher’s investigation, Constance Kent was arrested for the crime and brought forward in a preliminary hearing.
Much like Lizzie, she was described as “appear[ing] to be much afflicted, but perfectly quiet and composed” (Roughead 98). A bitter aspect to her nature soon emerged when a classmate testified that Constance had a sadistic streak that drove her to pinch and tease her half siblings out of jealousy. The reason? Her parents “showed great partiality” (Roughead 99). When the girl innocently suggested it might be nice to return home for the holidays, Constance had replied, “ ‘It may be, to your home; but mine’s different’ “ (Roughead 99). Another classmate stated that Constance complained that her father proclaimed half brother Francis superior to William. Further, just as Lizzie would proclaim Abby a “mean old thing,” Constance grumbled, “ ‘Mamma will not let me have anything I like; if I said I should like a brown dress, she would let me have a black: just for contrary’ “ (Roughead 99). Although the reasoning was unfathomable, malice aforethought could well be concluded from these words. Moreover, Constance had a previous connection to the crime scene.
Finally, Constance was missing a nightdress. Like Lizzie, Constance had her room searched by apologetic, bungling policemen. They made a hasty inspection of the girl’s linen and found it unsoiled. However, the day of the search she had three nightgowns, but only the two gowns of her sister’s came back from that week’s laundry though she had put one in. The housemaid testified that after collecting and inventorying the laundry, Constance had her “ ‘look in her slip pocket and see if she had left her purse there. [The maid] looked in the basket and told her it was not there. She then asked [the maid] to go down and get her a glass of water’ “ (Roughead 100). Whicher’s theory was that the first errand was to establish the presence of the gown and the second was used to provide opportunity for its extraction and disposal. And that theory is mighty like Victoria Lincoln’s proposed route for Lizzie’s Bedford Cord. However, the best of theories are not enough for conviction, and Constance, whose resolve remained unshaken, was released without ever going to trial. Inspector Whicher retired in disgrace shortly thereafter. At least Whicher lived to see himself vindicated, for five years later the country would be stunned by the confession of Constance Kent.
Constance did not confess with the assumption of immunity by double jeopardy laws: she had never stood trial. Nor did she confess because another had been mistakenly condemned: although Miss Gough was briefly tried before the magistrates, she too had been released for lack of evidence. Constance Kent apparently made a genuine confession from a sense of belated remorse. After her hearing, Constance had been sent to a French convent school, where she remained three years, then spent two years in an Anglican devotional home for women. She was 21 when she confessed, first to her spiritual director, then to the police. The original sentence of death was commuted to penal servitude for life, and she was released to a life of anonymity in 1885. Her doctor, John Charles Bucknill, having found her to be of sound mind, released the following statement to the press at her request after her initial sentencing:
Constance Kent says that the manner in which she committed her crime was as
follows: A few days before the murder she obtained possession of a razor from a green case in her father’s wardrobe, and secreted it. This was the sole instrument which she used. She also secreted a candle with matches, by placing them in the corner of the closet in the garden, where the murder was committed. On the night of the murder she undressed herself and went to bed, because she expected that her sisters would visit her room. She lay awake watching, until she thought that the household were all asleep, and soon after midnight she left her bedroom and went downstairs and opened the drawing-room door and window shutters. She then went up into the nursery, withdrew the blanket from between the sheet and the counterpane, and placed it on the side of the cot. She then took the child from his bed and carried him downstairs through the drawing-room. She had on her nightdress, and in the drawing-room she put on her goloshes. Having the child in one arm, she raised the drawing- room window with the other hand, went round the house and into the closet, lighted the candle and placed it on the seat of the closet, the child being wrapped in the blanket and still sleeping, and while the child was in this position she inflicted the wound in the throat. She says that she thought the blood would never come, and that the child was not killed, so she thrust the razor into its left side, and put the body, with the blanket round it, into the vault. The light burnt out. The piece of flannel which she had with her was torn from an old flannel garment placed in the waste bag, and which she had taken some time before and sewn it to use in washing herself. She went back to her bedroom, examined her dress, and found only two spots of blood on it. These she washed out in the basin, and threw the water, which was but little discoloured, into the foot-pan in which she had washed her feet over-night. She took another of her nightdresses and got into bed. In the morning her nightdress had become dry where it had been washed. She folded it up and put it into the drawer. Her three nightdresses were examined by Mr. Foley, and she believes also by Mr. Parsons, the medical attendant of the family. She thought the blood stains had been effectually washed out, but on holding the dress up to the light a day or two afterwards, she found the stains were still visible. She secreted the dress, moving it from place to place, and she eventually burnt it in her own bedroom, and put the ashes or tinder into the kitchen grate. It was about five or six days after the child’s death that she burnt the nightdress. On the Saturday morning, having cleaned the razor, she took an opportunity of replacing it unobserved in the case in the wardrobe. She abstracted her nightdress from the clothes basket when the housemaid went to fetch a glass of water. The stained garment found in the boiler hole had no connexion whatever with the deed. As regards the motive of her crime, it seems that, although she entertained at one time a great regard for the present Mrs. Kent, yet if any remark was at any time made which in her opinion was disparaging to any member of the first family, she treasured it up, and determined to revenge it. She had no ill-will against the little boy, except as one of the children of the stepmother. She declared that both her father and her stepmother had always been kind to her personally. . . . (Roughead 119-20)
This statement was followed by an open letter of Constance’s own insisting upon the kind treatment she herself had always received from her parents. Bucknill resumed his narrative by saying that Constance had resolved to confess if Miss Gough were to be convicted, or commit suicide if Constance were convicted. Constance “said that she had felt herself under the influence of the devil before she committed the murder, but that she did not believe . . . that the devil had more to do with her crime than he had with any other wicked action” (Roughead 121). Dr. Bucknill’s professional opinion was that, though legally sane, Constance’s attempted runaway had “indicated a peculiarity of disposition, and great determination of character, which foreboded that, for good or evil, her future life would be remarkable” (Roughead 121). Bucknill continued by saying that this same inclination “which led her to such singular and violent resolves of action, seemed also to colour and intensify her thoughts and feelings, and magnify into wrongs that were to be revenged any little family incidents or occurrences which provoked her displeasure” (Roughead 121). This very description could be applied verbatim to Lizzie Borden.
Although the public was to hear no more from Constance Kent, Dr. Bucknill’s colleagues received one final footnote on the case in a lecture on insanity made by him before the Royal College of Physicians in 1878. He maintained his original position regarding sanity, but after the passage of thirteen years, he was able to reveal that
to save the feelings of those who were alive at the time, I did not make known the
motive. . . .I think the right time and opportunity has come for me to explain away this apparent monstrosity of conduct. A real and dreadful motive did exist. The girl’s own mother, having become partially demented, was left by her husband to live in the seclusion of her own room, while the management of the household was taken over the heads of the grown-up daughters by a high-spirited governess, who, after the decease of the first Mrs. Kent, and a decent interval, became Constance Kent’s stepmother. In this position she was unwise enough to make disparaging remarks about her predecessor, little dreaming, poor lady, of the fund of rage and revengeful feeling she was stirring up in the heart of her young stepdaughter. To escape from her hated presence, Constance once ran away from home, but was brought back; and after this she only thought of the most efficient manner of wreaking her vengeance. She thought of poisoning her stepmother, but that, on reflection, she felt would be no real punishment, and then it was that she determined to murder the poor lady’s boy (Roughead 123).
To this, I believe he might safely have added that Constance determined to murder the poor gentleman’s boy. For surely half Constance’s problem was her unspoken hatred of the father who reduced her real mother to madness, then belittled the poor woman’s sole surviving son. Elizabeth Gough’s exclamation the day of the murder, “Oh, ma’am, it’s revenge!” was probably the most accurate made that day (Nash 219). For this was no murder of sibling rivalry, but a revenge tragedy full blown. The sixteen-year-old Constance Kent with all the firm purpose of a Medea destroyed the thing both parents loved the most, and in so doing destroyed both of them.
So goes the story of Lizzie’s first cousin in crime. Might Lizzie’s crime have had more behind it than greed to make her take up the hatchet?
Sources
Nash, Jay Robert. “Kent, Constance,” in Look for the Woman. New York: M. Evans and Company, Inc., 1981, 217-26.
Roughead, William. “Constance Kent’s Conscience,” in The Art of Murder. New York: Sheridan House, 1943, 87-126.
