Lizzie is Whacked

“Not guilty! They said not guilty!” the boy yelled from an open front window of the white columned New Bedford Courthouse.

For a long moment the people milling about in front of the courthouse awaiting a verdict in the sensational murder case stood in stunned silence. Then a cacophony of sounds exploded like a bomb going off. Cheers mixed with groans. Men shouted approval or spoke to the heavens with religious fervor for God to override the jury’s finding. Others mounted horses and galloped off as if modern day Paul Reveres to bring the news to all corners of Bristol County: “Lizzie Borden was not guilty of killing her father and stepmother.”

Sergeant Caleb Clubb of the New Bedford Police Department sat on the corner of the courthouse steps and stopped whittling the shaft of wood he had been working on since the jury took the case behind closed doors only an hour-and-a-half earlier. “Didn’t see it coming out that way,” he said aloud to no one in particular.

While New Bedford was the site of the trial, the murders of Andrew and Abby Borden occurred in Fall River, 15 miles to the west. But the brutal murders of the well-to-do businessman and his wife captivated the nation. Clubb followed the proceedings as most other citizens of the town, through the newspapers. Since the murders the previous summer, August 1892, newspapers from all over the country had been expanding pages to cover the story. Clubb also had insight from conversations with his brethren on the Fall River police force. They indicated there could be no other killer except Lizzie Borden.

Clubb stood and watched as the doors of the courthouse flung open. Reporters scattered looking for the nearest telegraph office or telephone to file their reports and inform the world.

It was not long before the trial spectators emerged from the courthouse. They soon parted to make way for the lady who was the center of attention for nearly a year. Dressed in an all black dress with puffy shoulders, a black hat topped by a feather, the hat partially covering the dark hair parted in the center with short curls protruding from under the hat, Lizzie Borden was accompanied by her sister and attorneys. They acted together something like a flying wedge formation used in college football contests to move Lizzie through the crowd.

As the spectators and on-lookers moved along with Lizzie Borden and her small entourage heading for a waiting carriage, Clubb noticed Fall River City Marshal Rufus Hilliard step out of the courthouse, hat in hand, his sagging walrus mustache giving the man a defeated look.

“Good day, Marshal,” Clubb said, sidling up to Hilliard.

“Is it, Clubb?” Hilliard responded not taking his eyes off the retreating figure of Lizzie Borden.

“You did your best, sir,” Clubb responded.

“Did I?”

A sign of a melancholy man is making conversation with questions, Clubb thought. Before Clubb could offer up more sympathy Hilliard went on.

“Justice. That’s what I’m about. I arrested that lady and I believe she was guilty but the jury did not find her so. That means there is no justice for Mr. and Mrs. Borden.”

“Then she slipped through the law by hook and crook. That’s the fault of the prosecutors. You did what was required of you.”

“What’s required of me is to arrest the guilty party. I arrested a woman the jury found not guilty. How it came to be this way, I do not know. The maid, Bridget Sullivan, said no one else was in the house that morning. The wife was murdered over an hour before her husband came home and was slashed to death by a hatchet as he napped on the sofa. Would an outside killer wait so long?”

Hilliard shook his head supplying either an answer to his own question or signifying disbelief that such a thing could occur. Clubb did not know which.

“If someone had a motive, they would wait,” Clubb said.

Hilliard sighed. “Kill both the wife and the husband? What could motivate such savagery? The idea that the wife would get the man’s riches –- and there is plenty of that –- might motivate the daughters. But only Lizzie was home, not the older sister. The jury said the evidence was not strong enough, I heard them. No physical evidence. No blood on the hatchet. No blood on Miss Lizzie.”

“But the dress. The one she burned. We all read about it.”

“Yes,” Hilliard nodded. “That was the one solid argument. That’s what caused the judge at the inquest to call for a full trial. She burned a dress a few days after the murder. Her friend testified to that. Lizzie told her the dress had paint on it and was no good anymore.”

“A shallow excuse,” Clubb offered.

“So it would seem. But her lawyers convinced the jury that if the dress was covered in her father’s and stepmother’s blood she would not be burning it in the middle of the day for all to see.”

Lizzie Borden’s carriage had pulled out of sight down the street and the crowd of court observers was rapidly diminishing. Hilliard did not move, looking ever more defeated, a lonely and singular figure. Clubb put a reassuring hand on the marshal’s shoulder.

To Clubb’s surprise, Hilliard rallied.

“If I made a mistake. If Miss Lizzie is not the killer, then the killer is still in the community. It is my job to find him. Justice demands it.”

Hilliard pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and put it in his mouth. Without lighting the smoke he chewed at the tip. His contemplation seemed to undermine his moment of euphoria for his shoulders slumped and he spit the tip of the cigar onto the courthouse steps. “I followed the evidence. The circumstances all point to Lizzie Borden as the killer.”

“Perhaps, a fresh look on the problem would find new possibilities.”

Hilliard turned and looked at Clubb.

“The murders were not in your jurisdiction, Sergeant Clubb.”

“It’s June, Marshal. I have time coming. I’ve been following the case as close as one is able. I’m a police officer trained in this sort of investigation. I can pick particular details up quickly from your men. And this would not cost your budget a penny. With a letter of introduction from you, I can open any door in Fall River.”

Clubb quickly warmed to the idea. A case of national notoriety. A chance to assist the marshal in a neighboring town. If he could find the killer when others failed, he expected a promotion from his own chief or to be hired by the Fall River department at a superior rank and pay.

Marshal Hilliard stroked his chin. “Perhaps you’re right, Sergeant Clubb. New eyes on old facts have solved many a puzzle. Justice must be served. Someone must pay for this terrible crime.”

“Are there no other possibilities?” Clubb asked.

“You are not a Fall River man but I tell you Mr. Borden was not an agreeable sort. He had disagreements with many. Business associates. Tenants in his property.”

“Is there no prospect?”

“There was — what shall I call him — a mystery man. Dr. Handy saw him the morning of the murder walking on Second Street near the Borden home. Dr. Handy thought him suspicious.”

“A place to start then. May I have that letter of introduction?”

***

Caleb Clubb looked at the degree issued by Harvard Medical School on the wall above Dr. Benjamin Handy’s roll top desk. It was dated 1871. Clubb estimated the doctor to be about 44 years old or nearly ten years his senior. The policeman removed Marshal Hilliard’s letter from his inside breast pocket and placed it in the doctor’s hand.

Handy read the letter and handed it back to Clubb as he said, “I told the court everything I know.”

“Do you think Miss Lizzie Borden killed her parents?”

“The jury said no.”

“Then there’s a killer walking the streets of Fall River. It’s possible you saw that killer the morning of the murders.”

Dr. Handy considered the policeman’s words for a moment. He nodded. “Won’t you sit, Sergeant Clubb?”

It was Clubb’s turn to nod. He sat in a high backed, wooden chair across from the doctor’s desk. Handy sat in the cushioned chair behind the desk.

“You saw a suspicious looking man the morning of the murder on Second Street near the Borden house?”

“That’s in the record I told the court at trial.”

“What made him suspicious?”

“He was looking down, looking away so as he would not be studied by any passer-by. Walking slowly in a southerly direction. He was nervous. He was very pale, a very pale complexion. He seemed hesitating, not sure where to go. He seemed mentally agitated, an intense expression on his face. Very suspicious.”

“You noticed him briefly or did you watch him?” asked the policeman.

“I turned in my carriage to watch him as I drove by, to look at him. Maybe he visited with Mr. Borden.”

“Why do you think he may have met with Borden?”

“Andrew Borden was a businessman. Many interests. Furniture maker. Banking. Mills. Property owner. This man may have had business with Mr. Borden.”

“You think he killed him?” asked Clubb.

The doctor blinked. He had not expected the question. “I know what I have told you, no more.”

“Did you do it?” Clubb asked.

“What?” The doctor rose from his chair. “How dare you make such a statement!”

“It wasn’t a statement, Doctor, it was a question. It was meant to focus your attention on the problem. If you did not kill Mr. and Mrs. Borden and Lizzie did not kill Mr. and Mrs. Borden then we must find who did. You saw a mysterious man, a suspicious character, on the street near the Borden house at the time of the murders. We must find that man. First to show he was real. Not a figure of your imagination. That would clear all suspicion of you.”

“I’m suspected of what?” The doctor slammed his fist on the desk.

“I suspect you of creating a false figure until I discover he’s real. If he’s real, he may be a killer. I want him arrested to protect the community. You can help me find him. Only you. You must give me something to go on.”

The doctor stared at Sergeant Clubb for a long moment. Clubb surmised the medical man was trying to decide if he should throw the copper out of the office or search his memory for more details of the mystery man. Whichever way it went would be telling to Clubb.

Dr. Handy slowly sank back into his cushioned seat. He hooked his thumbs into his vest. After a moment of deep thought he said, “The man was well dressed. A light suit of clothes, collar and necktie. Hanging out of his jacket pocket on a chain was a key. I’d forgotten that detail in court. A large key one might use for a big lock.”

“Not a skeleton key? Not a key to open the door of a house such as the Borden’s?” asked Clubb.

“No, sir. Larger.”

“What do you suppose it might go to?”

“I heard Mr. Borden would lock out tenants who were overdue with their rent.”

***

Caleb Clubb secured a list of properties owned by Andrew Borden. He decided to focus on the properties in the direction Dr. Handy said the very pale mysterious man was walking. The man, if he existed, could be a housing tenant or a merchant in a shop. Clubb would have to survey both kinds of properties. Without a good description of the man and no picture he knew the task would be difficult. But, the rule in his business was so simple even an idiot could get it: when you only have one lead, follow it.

Knocking on doors two days and one night brought discouragement and disappointment. The name Andrew Borden brought out curses and sad stories from renters in his properties but the search produced no pale man or anyone who saw or knew of a pale man. There were no tales of someone who had been locked out of an office or apartment by Andrew Borden in the last year.

In need of a lift, Clubb stopped at S. R. Smith’s Drug Store and ordered the new drink called Coca-Cola at the soda fountain. The young man working the soda fountain, blond and no more than seventeen, filled a glass with the drink and placed it on the counter.

“I don’t know you, mister. In town cause of the trial?”

“I’m from New Bedford,” Clubb said.

“A reporter?”

Clubb considered telling the young man his position. Would it be a good idea to have a chatty young man knowing that he was investigating the Borden murders? Or would it be beneficial to talk to the young man who was in the center of a gossip station at the soda fountain? Clubb remembered that the policeman that Marshal Hilliard ordered to fill in Clubb about details of the murder investigation had mentioned Smith’s drug store.

“I heard this place was involved in the murder investigation,” Clubb said in a casual tone.

“Should have been. Miss Lizzie came by day before the murders and tried to buy some poison.”

“What for?” asked Clubb.

“She said to kill bugs. That’s not what other folks say. Our clerk wouldn’t sell it to her because she didn’t have a prescription. The judge wouldn’t let the jury hear about that I’ve been told. If they had heard, they probably would hang Miss Lizzie.”

“You think she did it?”

“Who else?”

“They say there was a pale man at the scene of the crime. Maybe someone who lives around here in a building Andrew Borden owns.” Clubb picked up the glass to drink.

“Aw, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a writer.”

Clubb slowly lowered the glass from his lips and watched the boy. Did he know someone who answered the description?

“Who’s a writer?”

“Ain’t you talking about that fella who used to live up in the attic across the street. That’s a Borden building. Young guy. Always seemed he stayed out of the sun. Even in summer he was winter white.”

“You know him?”

“Use to come in here. Haven’t seen him in months.”

***

The soda clerk did not know the man’s name but he directed Clubb to the superintendent of the neighboring building. Shops lined the street floor, offices above with a third level for storage, and according to the boy, a place for the writer.

The man who managed the keys to the building was broad and red-headed with a thick beard and mustache. His name was O’Grady. He repaired bicycles in his shop at the corner of the building.

“Mr. Borden took a few dollars off the rent if I kept eyes for him,” O’Grady said returning Marshal Hilliard’s letter to Clubb. “I took care of things and he didn’t need to show up much.”

“When was the last time he was here?” asked Clubb.

“I remember well. Day before he died.”

“How come you remember?”

“One of the few times we had some trouble. Fella didn’t want to pay rent so Mr. Borden put a lock on the attic.”

Clubb held his facial expression as best as possible but inside he felt his heart racing. “Didn’t pay his rent on time?”

“Didn’t want to pay any rent any time. Mr. Borden let him stay for free. Fella was a writer. Trying to write a novel. Tried writing articles for Collier’s Weekly and other magazines. He’d write some things for Mr. Borden’s businesses in exchange for the place. That was the deal they had. But Mr. Borden didn’t need his services anymore. He told the writer if he wanted to live and write in the attic he would have to pay rent. They had some words. The writer said Mr. Borden went back on a deal. He wasn’t moving out and he wasn’t paying rent.”

“What did Borden say?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing? That doesn’t sound like the man.”

“He didn’t say nothin’,” said O’Grady. “He came back the next day and put a lock on the door.”

“Did the writer get angry?”

“Not that I saw,” O’Grady said.

Clubb was surprised by the answer. He thought he was on the right trail. That he had found his man and the probable murderer of Andrew and Abby Borden. But O’Grady said the man was not angry by being locked out of his room.

“Are you sure he didn’t get upset or threaten Borden?” Clubb pushed.

“Not after the first argument. He came in the next day with the key from Mr. Borden and opened the lock. Said he paid what he owed.”

“Did you check that with Borden?”

“Never got a chance. They found him killed. Said his daughter did it.”

Clubb said, “Is the writer still in the attic?”

“No,” said O’Grady. “Moved away months ago. I don’t know where he went.”

“What was the man’s name?”

“Tarrington. Harold Tarrington.”

“He didn’t say where he was going?”

“Not to me.” O’Grady thought for a moment. Snapped his fingers. “He must’ve told the Post Office. They use to deliver his manuscripts back to him when they were rejected. You got the marshal’s letter. Post Office will tell you.”

***

Harold Tarrington’s forwarding address proved to be a back alley door below a pub called the Stinking Rose in the tenement section of Boston. Caleb Clubb pounded on the door early one morning aware that he had no authority to question the man and little reason to expect he could arrest him. Clubb would have to make Tarrington think he had legal power if it came to that. But, Clubb had another path in mind to help find the truth.

“Go away,” came a quarrelsome voice from inside the basement. “I’ll make good with my bill when I can.”

“I might be able to help you make good if you’re Harold Tarrington, the writer,” Clubb responded and covered his face with his hand to hide all hints of his lie.

Footsteps came toward him then the sound of something thrown aside, something, Clubb guessed, that had been used to block the door. The door swung open.

A man with pale complexion of medium build and height stood before Clubb. He was wearing a cloth shirt with several holes, pants and no shoes or socks.

“Are you from Little, Brown book publishers?”

“Not Little, Brown, Harper’s Magazine. May I come in?”

Taking advantage of the surprise Tarrington registered in his eyes, Clubb walked past him into the cellar apartment. While at the Fall River Post Office learning where Tarrington’s mail was forwarded, Clubb saw a returned manuscript addressed to Tarrington sent by Harper’s. He had it in the pouch he carried on his shoulder.

Living quarters was a generous name for where Tarrington resided. Much of the space was taken up with storage. Beer barrels for the pub upstairs, broken furniture, cellar heating stoves with large pipes that ran up through the ceiling. A bin half filled with coal by a chute to the street from which the coal was delivered. The place was covered with a thin layer of coal soot.

One awkwardly repaired chair and cracked table seemed to serve as Tarrington’s writing place. Papers, pens and newspapers were on the table. Next to the table was an unmade cot.

Tarrington closed the door and followed Clubb into the cellar. “You want to publish the article I sent you?” Hope and a smile captured his features.

Clubb retrieved the post from his shoulder bag and handed it unopened to Tarrington. “Not this one,” he said. “Perhaps another.”

“Another?”

“You’re an exceptional writer, Mr. Tarrington. We see that. What we need is a subject of interest to couple with your talent. We understand you lived in Fall River at the time of the Andrew and Abby Borden murders and that you knew Andrew Borden. A personal account of the feelings in the town and a profile of the victim would be of great interest to our readers.”

The smile froze on Tarrington as he studied his visitor. He took a long moment to respond. “That is an old story now. Been reported and written about to death.”

“Death is a fascinating subject. Especially unsolved murder. You are aware that Lizzie Borden was found innocent?”

“The subject matter has little interest for me.”

“But you knew the man.”

“Unfortunately. He was a miser. Money was all he cared for. He was not interested in literature. In giving an artist an opportunity to work. He would have his pound of flesh first.”

“A villain, then. Sounds like he deserved to die.” Clubb studied Tarrington for a reaction. The man worked to keep his emotions in check. He looked to the floor, hiding his eyes.

Clubb looked at the papers on the table. The newspaper was the New York Times opened to an editorial that had appeared days before. Clubb was familiar with it as was the entire police department of Fall River. Tarrington had underlined some key words.

It will be a certain relief to every right-minded man or woman who has followed the case to learn that the jury at New Bedford has not only acquitted Miss Lizzie Borden of the atrocious crime with which she was charged, but has done so with a promptness that was very significant. 

The editorial also criticized the vanity of ignorant and untrained men charged with the detection of crime, declaring the Fall River police, the usual inept and stupid and muddle-headed sort that such towns manage to get for themselves.

Clubb knew how deeply these words hurt Marshal Hilliard.

Pointing to the newspaper, Clubb said, “I see you still follow the case. Do you know the police still pursue the killer?”

“Why should they?” Tarrington said quickly. “Everyone knows the daughter, Lizzie, was the killer.”

“The jury found otherwise.”

“Legal tricks set her free. The truth will out.”

Next to the newspaper Clubb saw a paper covered with notations and short phrases. What caught his eye was a reference to a hatchet. A hatchet was used to kill the Bordens. Close by were the numbers 19 and 10 followed by words crossed out: strikes, hits, chops, blows.

“It appears you were writing on the subject. The numbers 19 and 10, the number of times Abby and Andrew were struck by the hatchet.”

“I was scribbling after reading the newspaper, nothing more.”

“Then you’ll write something for us? The subject is still very much in the public’s mind since Lizzie Borden was found not guilty. It’s not going away and the killer is at large.”

“Let me think upon it. Perhaps I shall write something. Now I must ask you to leave. I have an early appointment.

Clubb decided not to press the man further. He didn’t have to at this moment. He felt his promotion was in sight and that justice would be served because he knew he had his man.

***

“Harold Tarrington killed the Bordens,” Caleb Clubb said to Marshal Rufus Hilliard once the two sat inside the marshal’s inner office.

“How can you be sure? Do you have the evidence?”

Clubb looked away. “Nothing definite. But he’s the man. He hated Borden. He ran away.”

“You say Borden locked him out, he was seen near the house–-we’ll need Dr. Handy to verify Tarrington was the man he saw-–and that he disliked Andrew Borden. That is not enough to convict him of murder. There’s no physical evidence. That’s what undid the case against Lizzie Borden. No physical evidence. We need more.”

Just then, the door to the marshal’s office opened and Deputy City Marshal John Fleet came in carrying a newspaper.

“Take a look at this, Rufus. The report says it’s catching on.”

He indicated a place on the page and Hilliard followed Fleet’s finger and read aloud:

Lizzie Borden took an axe,
And gave her mother forty whacks,
When she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.

Hilliard looked up at Fleet. “Absurd. The woman was found innocent and the murders occurred with not so many blows.”

“Still, the poem is in the newspapers and I hear the chant in the street,” said Fleet.

“We can make this right,” Clubb said. “Tarrington is the killer. We must prove it. Let me go back to O’Grady to try and learn more. Then I’ll confront Tarrington again. Make him talk. You can’t control the truth with a nursery rhyme.”

***

O’Grady was adjusting the chain on a Humber bicycle when Caleb Clubb entered his shop. O’Grady stood and wiped his brow.

“Did you find Tarrington, Sergeant Clubb?”

Clubb nodded.

“Was he the man you were looking for?”

Clubb answered with a question of his own. “You said Tarrington and Borden had words over the rent dispute. Did you hear the words?”

“Some,” said O’Grady. “Couldn’t help hearing the way they was carryin’ on. Borden the no-nonsense business dealer and Tarrington a man in love with his own words. Borden, he mostly said no when Tarrington pleaded for a place to create his writing. Said his writing would change the world. Move people. Make them believe. Borden just said no, he wanted money for the space.”

“You remember nothing else that was said?”

“I remember Tarrington getting angrier. Became like a mad dog. Said Borden was killing his creative spirit, killing his words. His writing was like his children. He asked Borden how he’d like it if someone came along and killed something or someone close to him.”

“Killed someone close to him,” the policeman repeated slowly, enunciating each word.

“That’s what he said.”

“What did Borden say?”

“He said, ‘I want my money!’”

***

“There it is,” Clubb said sitting across from Marshal Hilliard. Arrest Harold Tarrington for the murder of Andrew and Abby Borden. No question Tarrington is the killer. He felt Borden was cutting off his livelihood. Preventing him from writing his manuscripts and articles by denying him a place to work. He said Borden was killing his children–-his words–-and asked how Borden would feel if he lost a loved one. It couldn’t be clearer.”

“Solid evidence would help,” said the marshal.

“It’s certain, Marshal. In a fit of rage, Tarrington set out to kill someone Borden loved. Went into the house and killed his wife. Then he must have come to the realization that Borden would know that it was him that did the killing. So he waited around in the upstairs murder room for Borden to come home. The old man made it convenient for him when he got home and decided to take a nap on the sofa downstairs. Tarrington went down and finished the job.

“Of course, the two killings must have dulled the anger and set off confusion and fear in his mind. That’s what Doctor Handy saw in him when Tarrington was walking back to his attic with the key he took from Borden to undo the attic padlock.”

Marshal Hilliard leaned back in his chair. The theory had legs he admitted but the lack of evidence could hurt the case.

“Make Tarrington talk,” Clubb urged. “With the testimony of O’Grady and an identification from Dr. Handy he’ll feel cornered. He’ll talk.”

The marshal stroked his chin before agreeing to send a man to Boston along with Sergeant Clubb in the next couple of days to interrogate Tarrington using the new information Clubb had gathered.

***

Two days later Sergeant Clubb found Marshal Hilliard exiting a diner across from the police department.

“From the looks of you, I’d say you didn’t get the confession you were after,” said Hilliard.

“He was gone, Marshal. Moved away. The bartender said Tarrington told him he was going west. California maybe, but he didn’t know.”

Hilliard nodded.

“Don’t give up. We’ll find him,” said Clubb. “He’s our killer.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” answered Hilliard with a sigh. “It’s over.”

“Over? It can’t be over. Justice has not been served.”

“But public awareness has been satisfied. Just listen.” He pointed across the street to a group of children skipping along the sidewalk, chanting.

Lizzie Borden took an axe,
And gave her mother forty whacks,
When she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.

“The people listen to the tune and accept it as gospel,” Hilliard said. “No one will be convicted of the crime. That little ditty, wherever it came from, has ended this investigation.”

Caleb Clubb knew where the tune came from. He remembered the scribbling on Tarrington’s notepad. The writer was composing a diversion. He was controlling the truth with a nursery rhyme.

Author Bio

Joel Fox spent over 35 years in California politics. He teaches at Pepperdine University’s School of Public Policy. Fox has published hundreds of opinion pieces in national and state publications including the Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, and Los Angeles Times. His fiction books include history—whether its an FBI agent unraveling historical puzzles to solve modern murders (Lincoln’s Hand; FDR’s Treasure) or a supernatural suspense with a woman bewitched in colonial America, still alive today (The Mark on Eve). Originally from the Boston area, he completed the FBI Citizens Academy program in preparation for writing his novels.