See What I Have Done
Sarah Schmidt
Praise
‘Eerie and compelling, Sarah Schmidt breathes such life into the terrible, twisted tale of Lizzie Borden and her family, she makes it impossible to look away’ Paula Hawkins
‘What a book – powerful, visceral and disturbing. I felt like one of the many flies on the walls of that unhappy, blood-drenched house’ Cathy Rentzenbrink, author of THE LAST ACT OF LOVE
‘[A] gory and gripping debut’ Observer
‘An outstanding debut. Enviably brilliant and memorable’ Hannah Beckerman
‘Vivid, sultry and engrossing’ Carys Bray
‘A twisty, visceral, highly original novel that grips you from start to finish. An exceptional and stunning debut’ Kate Hamer, author of The Girl in the Red Coat
‘See What I Have Done held me in its sweaty grasp to the very last pages . . . as deftly destabilising as the best of Margaret Atwood’ Patrick Gale
‘See What I Have Done is wonderful. Exquisitely-drawn characters, beautiful prose, a brilliant retelling of story. Every single sentence is perfect’ Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths
‘[An] exquisitely crafted and chilling reimagining of the gruesome 1982 crimes’ Lady
‘Lizzie Borden and her axe have fascinated since 1892, and this incredible reimagining is one you’ll never ever forget’ Heat
‘A great historical novel that takes a real life crime as its starting point. See What I Have Done is a gripping family drama and a whodunnit about two unsolved murders . . . chilling and claustrophobic’ Stylist
‘Disturbing and original’ S Magazine, Sunday Express
About the Book
When her father and step-mother are found brutally murdered on a summer morning in 1892, Lizzie Borden – thirty two years old and still living at home – immediately becomes a suspect. But after a notorious trial, she is found innocent, and no one is ever convicted of the crime.
Meanwhile, others in the claustrophobic Borden household have their own motives and their own stories to tell: Lizzie’s unmarried older sister, a put-upon Irish housemaid, and a boy hired by Lizzie’s uncle to take care of a problem.
This unforgettable debut makes you question the truth behind one of the great unsolved mysteries, as well as exploring power, violence and the harsh realities of being a woman in late nineteenth century America.
For Cody.
And for Alan and Rose who left before I could finish.
We outgrow love like other things
And put it in the drawer
Emily Dickinson
Knowlton: ‘You have been on pleasant terms with your step-mother since then?’
Lizzie: ‘Yes sir.’
Knowlton: ‘Cordial?’
Lizzie: ‘It depends upon one’s idea of cordiality, perhaps.’
Lizzie Borden’s inquest testimony
PART I
ONE
LIZZIE
4 August 1892
HE WAS STILL bleeding. I yelled, ‘Someone’s killed Father.’ I breathed in kerosene air, licked the thickness from my teeth. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I looked at Father, the way hands clutched to thighs, the way the little gold ring on his pinkie finger sat like a sun. I gave him that ring for his birthday when I no longer wanted it. ‘Daddy,’ I had said, ‘I’m giving this to you because I love you.’ He had smiled and kissed my forehead.
A long time ago now.
I looked at Father. I touched his bleeding hand, how long does it take for a body to become cold? and leaned closer to his face, tried to make eye contact, waited to see if he might blink, might recognise me. I wiped my hand across my mouth, tasted blood. My heart beat nightmares, gallop, gallop, as I looked at Father again, watched blood river down his neck and disappear into suit cloth. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I walked out of the room, closed the door behind me and made my way to the back stairs, shouted once more to Bridget, ‘Quickly. Someone’s killed Father.’ I wiped my hand across my mouth, licked my teeth.
Bridget came down, brought with her the smell of decayed meaty-meat. ‘Miss Lizzie, what . . .’
‘He’s in the sitting room.’ I pointed through thick, wallpapered walls.
‘Who is?’ Bridget’s face, prickly with confusion.
‘I thought he looked hurt but I wasn’t sure how badly until I got close,’ I said. Summer heat ran up my neck like a knife. My hands ached.
‘Miss Lizzie, yer scarin’ me.’
‘Father’s in the sitting room.’ It was difficult to say anything else.
Bridget ran from the back stairs through the kitchen and I followed her. She ran to the sitting room door, put her hand on the door knob, turn it, turn it.
‘His face has been cut.’ There was a part of me that wanted to push Bridget into the room, make her see what I had found.
She pulled her hand away from the knob and turned to me, owl eyes swooping over my face. A length of sweat trickled from her temple to collarbone. ‘What do ya mean?’ she said.
Like a tiny looking-glass inside my mind, I saw all of Father’s blood, a meal, the leftovers from a wild dog’s feast. The scraps of skin on his chest, his eye resting on his shoulder. His body the Book of Apocalypse. ‘Someone came in and cut him,’ I said.
Bridget was a-tremble. ‘What do ya mean, Miss Lizzie? How could someone cut his face?’ Her voice soured, a tear. I didn’t want her to cry, didn’t want to have to comfort her.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ I said. ‘They might have used an axe. Like taking down a tree.’
Bridget began to cry and strange feelings popped across my bones. She faced the door and twisted her wrist, allowed the door to crack open an inch.
‘Go get Dr Bowen,’ I said. I looked past her, tried to see Father but couldn’t.
Bridget turned to me, scratched her hand. ‘We should attend to yer father, Miss Lizzie . . .’
‘Go bring Dr Bowen.’ I grabbed her hand, all rough and sticky, and walked her to the side door. ‘You’d best hurry, Bridget.’
‘Ya shouldn’t be alone, Miss Lizzie.’
‘What if Mrs Borden was to come home? Shouldn’t I be here to tell her?’ My teeth were cold against my teeth.
She looked into the sun. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘I’ll try ta be quick as I can.’