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  The Purloined Curio

  A Lizzie Borden, Girl Detective

  Mini-Mystery #3

  Richard Behrens

  NINE MUSES BOOKS

  Copyright © 2015

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by Nine Muses Books at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2015 Richard Behrens

  All Rights Reserved

  A Lizzie Borden Mini-Mystery #3

  www.lizziebordengirldetective.com

  www.ninemusesbooks.com

  Cover illustration: Lizzie Cameo by Marc Reed

  www.marcreed.com

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  This story first appeared in The Hatchet: A Journal of Lizzie Borden & Victorian Studies.

  Reprinted by permission of PearTree Press

  Nine Muses Books

  New England, USA

  August 1875. Fall River, Massachusetts.

  1. Voices From the Summerlands

  Sarah Durfee Borden was growing weary of the pretense of mystery, of her mother’s face glowing in the kerosene light, of the twins’ cries of astonishment as each new trumpet blast sounded beyond the shadows in the far corner of the parlor. But what she was tired of the most was Elizabeth Wingate’s flabby jowls nodding and chortling in some pathetic act of spirit possession. All in all, Sarah was sick of the endless séances and dancing flames, of loud snapping table raps and candle light, of cold wisps blasted from over her shoulder to make her believe that her dead father was somehow in the room.

  Young Sarah, not quite fifteen years of age, born and bred in the Fall River parlors that were more suited for salons than spirit rooms, knew a charlatan when she saw one, and Elizabeth Wingate, despite her aristocratic airs and altruistic demeanor, was a fraud of the first order, a hoax mistress, a traveling snake oil peddler. How much money had the Widow Borden, her mother, spent on these endless rituals of hocus-pocus and supposed spirit visitations? How many textile dividends had been liquidated in sacrifice to Wingate’s bank account? How many superstitions and weaknesses in her mother’s character had been exploited by this fraud—this silly woman who claimed that by using clairvoyant powers not only would she reunite Mrs. Borden with her dear departed husband, but would also locate his missing will?

  “Jonathan Borden is but a mere whisper, a glimmering cloud passing through the Summerlands,” the corpulent Englishwoman said in a low rumbling voice. “Mrs. Borden, you are the flame that is attracting him to our sphere of matter. He yearns only to be close again to your material manifestation.”

  “Where is my Jon?” Mrs. Borden cried, her face wet with her own burning sadness. “I want to hear his voice once more!”

  The young twins cowered in their high chairs, small beings terrified by flickering lights and dark shadows that they could not understand. “Papa!” said the one on the left. They still could not comprehend his absence, and this farcical charade was only confusing them.

  Sarah rolled her eyes and pressed her hands against the gilt tablecloth. “Don’t forget to ask him to empty his slops. There’s an awful smell.”

  The mother slapped an open hand down hard. “Sarah! Be still!”

  Another trumpet blast came through the brocaded wall. The Widow Borden jumped at its sudden eruption. “What’s the point, mother?” asked Sarah impatiently. “This is all theater! There are no trumpets of the dead! I bet if you search the backyard you’ll find an associate of this faker hunched behind your crunch berry bush with a small horn to deliver his blasts on cue.” She poked an evil eye at Wingate who flustered in her seat, attempting to preserve an aura of solemn trance. “I would prefer you to attach your leech-like tentacles to some other poor widow and not my mother.”

  Wingate opened one eye and let it periscope towards Sarah. “Hush!” the Englishwoman said, raising a chubby finger to her lips. “Your father is just passing through the veil.”

  The Widow Borden said exhaustedly, “Stop insulting our guest, Sarah. She is not a fake. She studied with the Fox Sisters.”

  Sarah yelled out, “Fiddlesticks!” and fled from the table, pulling at the drapery and upsetting the candle that fell to the side and sputtered out. Within moments, she was in her bedroom, reclined on her lounge and sobbing liberally.

  Now she was in a fine imbroglio. She had wanted to give Elizabeth Wingate a piece of her mind for several months now but had remained silent while her mother’s dwindling wealth financed these greedy charades. If only her father had properly filed his will with the probate office. Surely he had anticipated his death by creating the document, so why had he hid it in a place where no could find it? Why did he take that secret with him to his grave?

  Sarah knew that for her to expose this spiritual fraud, she would need help from an expert. But who could prove Wingate’s deceptions? Or find her father’s will?

  As Sarah pondered these questions, she happened to glance at her writing table, and saw a framed photograph of her associates at the Women’s Temperance Society. In the center, beaming with pride and decked in her Sunday tulle finest, was Sarah Borden, her eyes glowing with the optimism of youth. She remembered the day of the photograph with fondness and nostalgia, for, at that time, her father had been alive to witness his daughter’s accomplishments.

  Right next to her in the picture was a plump distant cousin of hers, one of the less prosperous Bordens, with her smooth round cheeks and protruding blue gray eyes. Here was a girl whom Sarah had shared a high school classroom with, had sat next to at temperance lectures, and to whom she had confided some secrets that only girls could share.

  Yes, thought Sarah. How absurd. I should have thought of it from the beginning.

  I shall consult with Lizzie Andrew Borden, the Girl Detective.

  2. A Private Consultation

  The Borden house on Second Street was a quaint example of the Greek revival architecture that populated the down street area. Each time Sarah came down from the Hill, engaged on business, a social visit, or to help with her mother’s banking errands, she was struck by how crowded and small everything seemed and the Borden house was no exception. Its modest stature was pressed against the bustling sidewalk where peddlers and pedestrians challenged each other for space.

  Sometimes, in the down street area, Sarah would catch a glimpse of Andrew Borden, Lizzie’s father, who was tall, thin and a bit spectral with his unkempt locks and grim straight-lined mouth that always seemed clenched. He radiated some intense and unsympathetic aloofness. It was known that this self-made man had sold coffins, and it was rumored that he was a penny pincher, that he kept his wife and his two daughters on a tight leash, that he negotiated each and every coin in any business transaction and prided himself on never having spent a foolish dollar. Outside his house on Second Street, about to knock and call upon his daughter, Lizzie Borden, the Girl Detective, Sarah had to muster all her courage.

  Fortunately, it was the mother, Abby, who opened the door, wearing a head scarf and holding aloft a feather duster. She seemed humorless, but pleasant enough. “Are you here to see Lizzie?” she inquired and Sarah nodded slightly. “She’s upstairs reading her Plutarch, but I’m sure she is receiving.”

  Sarah was ushered up a high narrow and bending staircase to a second
floor landing. Abby Borden, who was physically drained from the demanding climb up the stairs, pointed to what was presumably Lizzie’s bedroom door. “Just knock and she’ll answer. Now if you’ll forgive me, I must lie down. I’ve been dusting all morning and I’m fairly exhausted.” And then she disappeared into the guest room, the feather duster flicking about her like a tiny bird.

  After knocking on Lizzie’s door, Sarah saw it open a crack and those wonderful eyes that were so familiar from her school days peering outwards. “My word,” came an exclamation from within. “Sarah Durfee Borden! My favorite cousin!” The door flew open and Sarah was confronted by a cheerful Lizzie. “What brings you here to brighten my day that is otherwise occupied with dreary Roman classics? Come on in, please, and sit with me.”

  The door widened and Sarah was ushered into the bedroom. A single bed was angled in the corner, covered with a blue embroidered bedspread. Behind it was what seemed to be a communicating door to another part of the house. To Sarah’s right was a fainting couch in front of the right hand window and a chest of drawers. To the left was a desk and chair with bookcase above. Another bookcase was against the far wall, liberally sprinkled with book spines, and draped over with a velvet portiere. There were elegant prints of cathedrals and European edifices hanging from the walls. It was the bedroom of a cultured, intelligent but cloistered young woman.

  “What a lovely room you have here,” Sarah said pleasingly. “What wonderful southern exposure.”

  “Actually,” Lizzie said with a sly smile, “this room belongs to Emma. The poor girl is visiting in Newport and I’ve temporarily taken over. If she ever suspects I’m using it as an office for my consulting agency she’ll have a fit, she will!” Lizzie pointed to a room off to the side that looked small enough to comfortably stable a horse. “That’s my room over there. But this is just our secret, now, isn’t it?”

  Lizzie motioned Sarah to the fainting couch. “Please,” she said, and gracefully sank with her into the cushioned seat.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” Lizzie said solemnly. “It was a great tragedy.”

  “Indeed,” Sarah said. “It has devestated mother, and the Twins are inconsolable. I’m afraid we are not a happy family.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Lizzie asked, holding her hand. “Anything at all?”

  “Lizzie Borden,” Sarah said, leaping forward with her clenched hands, “I am told you are a solver of mysteries.”

  “Why yes,” Lizzie said with a wry smile. “I have been quite successful at solving some puzzles that local police have been baffled by. I helped the constabulary solve the Case of the Portuguese Reprobate, and I was quite useful during the Affair of the Ineffectual Blunderbuss.”

  “And,” Sarah interjected, “I did hear gossip about your role in the Riddle of the Forlorn Maggie.”

  Lizzie chuckled as if she were recalling an amusing anecdote. “I did not even think that one made it into the record. Well, all of these affairs earned me commendations directly from the town judiciary.” She pointed to a framed certificate hanging above her writing table. “I am considering a full blown career in criminal detection if my father will provide capital for my tuition.”

  “Your credentials are indeed impeccable, and that is why I am coming to you today. For you see, I have a mystery unfolding within my very house. As you may know, my mother, Victoria Borden of the Annawan Street Bordens is the poor widow of Jonathan Borden, of the French Street Bordens. Six months ago, almost to this very day, my father died under mysterious circumstances while managing one of the Livermore mills. We do believe it to be foul play. He was found quite dead, his face contorted as if he had suffered a most monumental fright. The cause of death was declared to be apoplexy, but no one has ever taken that diagnosis very seriously. We suspect something more sinister.”

  “My word,” Lizzie said, holding two fingertips to her ovaled mouth. “That would be foul play indeed. Is there anyone that you think would harbor such hateful feelings towards your father?”

  “Yes. He is Thisbalt Livermore, of the Taunton Livermores, the owner of the mill my father died in. A fouler man I cannot suspect, with his odious cigars and his corpulent belly. As a little girl I felt my skin crawl when he entered the room. For years I endured his sly flirtations, and now we suspect that he is somehow responsible for my father’s death. To make matters worse, we cannot find my father’s will. That document would have provided for my surviving family, but alas we are left with a legal morass that threatens to have all my father’s property turned over to Livermore. Unfortunately, my mother seeks to solve this problem through supernatural agencies.”

  “Supernatural?” Lizzie asked.

  “A British spiritualist, Elizabeth Wingate. Perhaps you have seen her lecture in town about the seven-fold rays of man’s spiritual origins. She is a fraud, I believe, and possibly an agent of Livermore, attempting to infiltrate my intimate family circle and obtain information about the hiding place of my father’s will. I cannot prove that Livermore is behind Wingate’s fraud, but if I could, it would go a long way to proving that Livermore was behind my father’s demise.”

  “This Elizabeth Wingate, has she come recommended?”

  “No, she approached us after hearing of our plight. We inquired about town and found rumor that she has worked with the Fox Sisters in upstate New York, but it is doubtful that anything said about her has veracity.”

  “Has your mother shown any previous interest in the spiritual arts to warrant such gullibility?”

  “Not quite,” Sarah said, and then paused, pressing her lips together.

  “Well,” said Lizzie. “It seems you are remembering something of importance.”

  “Quite right, Lizzie. You see my mother has a Spirit Box.”

  Lizzie’s eyes widened. “A Spirit Box?”

  “Yes, a small curiosity Father picked up in a dusty antique store down street. Father was particularly afraid of it after he brought it home and was loath to touch it.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Yes, it was said it was haunted by evil spirits. Particularly an angry ghost of a savage Indian who wants revenge for what the white colonists did some two hundred years ago when Fall River was not yet even a town. Some say the ghost is that of Awashuncks, Squaw Sachem of the Sakonnet. They say she was condemned to dwell within the box by King Philip himself!”

  Lizzie shuddered. King Philip, a Wampanoag Sachem, had been killed almost two hundred years before during a very bloody war with the English. Many a time in her childhood, her father had told her, “Be a good little girl or King Philip will be waiting for you in your sleep.” The thought had always haunted her deepest dreams.

  Drawing herself back together, Lizzie uttered, “But one cannot truly believe the box to be haunted?”

  “My father did, and he went to great lengths to train us from an early age not to touch it. It sits there, alas, in Mother’s Cabinet of Curiosities in the parlor, collecting dust. No one, especially Mother, dares to touch it.”

  Lizzie’s brow furrowed. “Does this Elizabeth Wingate know about this Spirit Box?”

  “Well, yes, Mother was particularly interested in getting Wingate’s opinion as to its supposed possession. Wingate wanted to take it with her to examine it, perhaps to perform a spiritual rite that would clear it of any haunting, but Mother became hysterical and told her that no human on earth should touch it or else it would unleash King Philip himself and we shall all be brought to woe. Wingate told her to leave it be for now and when they have contacted my dear father’s spirit in the Beyond, they will ask his counsel on the nature of the Spirit Box’s inhabitant.”

  “So Wingate is interested in this curio?”

  “Very much so. We certainly hope the old woman has some truth in her claims for supernatural powers. We would certainly love to have that old Spirit Box cleared of spirits. I have had
many nightmares about that cursed box.”

  Lizzie Borden, the Girl Detective, glowered in the dusty afternoon light. She scratched her chin and then smoothed about against her bengaline dress with her small hands. “Sarah, in a few scant moments you have provided me with a complex mystery that will indeed be a challenge. I shall take this case, and I ask for nothing more in return than a most excellent and hearty meal and an evening’s delightful banter with your wonderful family when the affair is finished.”

  “Why certainly, Lizzie Borden,” Sarah said happily. “You are indeed a gem of a girl. When do we begin?”

  “Right this very moment! I shall inform my father’s wife that I am going down street. I believe he can help gain information about this Livermore character. I wish to assess him myself.”

  The two girls left the room and entered the guest bedroom which they were surprised to find empty. “Mrs. Borden must have finished her chores,” Lizzie announced.

  They were startled to hear Abbie’s dour voice come from behind the bed where she lay on the bare floor, invisible to their eyes. “Over here Lizzie! I seem to have fallen off the bed while napping. Can you take a moment to help me to my feet?”

  “Lizzie,” Sarah said with alarm. “Your mother is in peril!”

  Lizzie took a deep breath, her eyes twisting upwards with a forceful annoyance, and muttered, “She is not my mother! She is my stepmother!”

  3. An Investment Pitch

  Andrew Borden, a tall dark figure, grim like a provincial undertaker who had just come into some inheritance, ambled down the street on his way home for dinner. His thin emotionless mouth and cold marble eyes greeted his fellow citizens who bothered to tip their hats and say a kind word of greeting.

  “Good day, Mr. Borden,” said one corpulent gentlemen.

  “Good day, Borden,” Andrew muttered back, nodding his head. He vaguely remembered the man: J.F. Borden. Or was it T.E. Borden? Or perhaps that was another Borden. He couldn’t keep them all calculated in his head and it sufficed to just call them Borden. No one would question him since he was a man of means and could walk down street with dignity and respect.