Carrie Harper
Carrie Harper took a knife,
killed her father and his wife,
stabbed them each a dozen times.
Will she hang for her crimes?
How often I've heard children chant that macabre rhyme over the years. Countless little girls in pigtails have jumped rope to its cadence, completely unaware of the horrible deaths lurking behind those simple words.
I was a fourteen-year-old orphan, newly arrived in America from Belfast, when I went to work at the Harper household. Abraham Harper, the owner of several successful businesses, was one of the most prominent men in Pine Harbor, Massachusetts. His first wife had died of consumption several years earlier, leaving him to care for two young daughters: Carrie and Lucille.
Most people in these parts believe Abraham's second marriage was one in name only. It was rumored that he needed someone to look after the girls and, being a notorious tightwad, decided it was much cheaper to take another wife than to hire a nursemaid. Whether Nora Harper was happy with her arranged union one can only surmise. She had always been a dour-faced woman, and marriage didn't change her demeanor. Thus, no one knew how Mrs. Harper felt about either her husband Abraham or his two daughters.
As their housekeeper, I slept under the same roof as the four of them—in the servant's quarters in the attic, of course, not on the second floor where the family members slept. Living in such close quarters, I got to know the Harper family better than anyone else. I am the only living person who knows what actually took place in the house on Third Street on that hot summer day in 1892.
* * *
"You're up early this morning, Katie," Carrie observed when she went down to breakfast that morning.
"That I am. I wanted to get the bread baked before it gets too hot outside. You know how the oven heats up the whole house," I explained.
"I don't know why she insists on freshly baked bread every day."
Carrie never referred to Nora Harper as Mother, Stepmother, Mrs. Harper or even as Father's wife. The only word the younger of the two Harper girls ever used when speaking of the older woman was the third-person feminine pronoun she.
"Mrs. Harper has established a routine for this household, and she insists that it be followed to the letter. Now, go sit down and I'll make you a nice, hot breakfast."
"Katie, it must be close to ninety degrees in here already. I don't want anything hot. I think I'll just have a bowl of blueberries with some fresh cream poured over them."
"You leave those berries alone," Nora scolded sternly, as she walked into the kitchen. "You've been eating them all week. Before you know it, there won't be any left for Kathleen to make blueberry preserves for the winter."
"There are plenty of berries out there for canning," Carrie argued. "Half the backyard is overgrown with blueberry bushes."
"Don't answer me back, young woman," the stepmother said sharply. "Just mind what you're told and leave those berries alone."
It was always the same between the two of them. Nora never had a kind word to say to either of her stepdaughters (nor to anyone else, for that matter). Those poor girls had to grow up without a mother and with only the cold, unsmiling woman to take care of them.
Lucille Harper—only Carrie ever called her Lucy—was the older of the two girls. Unlike her sister, she was old enough to remember their mother, a warm, loving, generous and good-natured woman. Lucille had taken her mother's death hard and sought comfort from her father's second wife, but there was none to be found in that quarter. Nora, disillusioned with life and miserable herself, had no comfort to give the motherless child.
With nowhere left to turn, Lucille looked to God. She found solace in her lonely, unhappy life in prayer and in the act of helping others. Had she been Catholic, she would have made an excellent nun, but her father, a descendent of early New England Puritans, deeply mistrusted Catholics and their papist ways.
Carrie, on the other hand, was rebellious. She did not accept life's misfortunes as God's will and then bear them like a cross. She learned to hate, and the object of that hatred was her stepmother.
As she was growing up, Carrie's animosity manifested itself in a series of "accidents," often attributed to adolescent clumsiness, which her father assured everyone would cease as his daughter grew older. Once she accidentally spilled hot soup down Nora's back while she was helping me serve dinner. Another time she accidentally stepped on Nora's spectacles, which had mysteriously fallen on the floor while Nora was sleeping. The worst mishap was when Carrie came too close to Nora with a lit candle and accidentally set the woman's dress on fire. I often wondered if Mr. Harper ever noticed that Carrie's clumsiness only surfaced when she was around her stepmother.
Eventually, Carrie grew up, and as her father had often predicted, the awkwardness of adolescence passed. Unfortunately for Nora Harper, life did not improve much. Her younger stepdaughter had indeed gotten older and more graceful, but she had also gotten more devious. Carrie made certain that her malicious little pranks could not be traced back to her. How could anyone blame the innocent young woman if a snake managed to crawl into the carriage when Nora was riding in it, or if a particularly large and ugly spider had decided to seek shelter in Nora's linen chest? And certainly, no one could blame Carrie when her stepmother's boot heel became loose and she tumbled down the stairs. (Luckily, she only broke her leg in the fall.) Alas, Nora just seemed to be a person prone to misfortune, one for whom life would bring one calamity after another.
"Kathleen, Mr. Harper and I would like our breakfast now," announced Nora, who always referred to her husband as Mr. Harper even when they were alone together in the same room. "We will have ham, scrambled eggs, coffee and fresh bread with butter and jam."
"Yes, ma'am," I said and immediately began cracking the eggs.
"I'll be in the parlor, resting. Call me when breakfast is ready."
"Yes, ma'am."
I glanced over at Carrie whose eyes were boring into her stepmother's back.
If looks could kill, I thought, Mrs. Harper would soon be resting six feet underground.
* * *
The temperature got hotter and more humid as the morning slowly dragged on. My clothes were sticking to me most unpleasantly as I performed my daily chores. Mr. Harper had gone to his office after eating his breakfast, and Mrs. Harper was resting upstairs in her bedroom. I had just finished hanging the first batch of laundry on the line. Mr. Harper thought it extravagant to have more than two clotheslines, so I had to wait for one batch to dry before hanging up the next. Thus, it took most of the day to do the week's laundry.
Wiping the perspiration from my brow, I decided a glass of cold water might make me feel a little cooler, so I put the laundry basket down and went into the kitchen. Carrie was seated at the table, carving herself a slice of cold roast beef for lunch.
"Where have you been off to all morning?" I asked casually.
"A new family is moving into that grand house on the corner of Danvers Street. I was sitting on the Adamses' porch with young James, watching as the furniture was carried into the house."
"Did you get to meet the new owners?"
"No, I didn't. They had a servant overseeing the placement of the furnishings. Mrs. Adams told me the family is traveling in Europe and won't move in until the house is made livable. Oh, what elegant furniture they had, Katie, enough to fill every room of that huge house! I'll bet they're rich beyond words and that when they're not traveling to all those fascinating places in Europe, they'll be hosting lavish dinner parties."
I remained silent. I knew how much it rankled my young mistress that her father, arguably the richest man in Pine Harbor, insisted his family live in such modest circumstances. Carrie, who had been forced to wear unadorned homespun dresses that her father deemed sensible and practical, often stared longingly at the lace-trimmed satins, silks and velvets of girls born to families with far less wealth than Abraham Harper had amassed.
I sometimes thought Carrie hated her miserly father as much as, if not more than, she hated her cold, unfeeling stepmother; but if she did, she managed to keep that emotion well hidden. For all intents and purposes, Carrie was a loving daughter, devoted to her father.
"I made a pitcher of lemonade," Carrie announced, offering me a glass. "Better drink some before it gets warm."
"Thanks," I replied. "A cold drink is just what I need."
"Where is everyone? It's so quiet in here."
"Your sister is at a prayer meeting, and your stepmother is up in her room resting."
"Again? I honestly don't know why she needs to rest so often. She never does anything to make herself tired."
Carrie took a sip of her lemonade and then placed the cold glass against her forehead.
"This is one of the hottest summers I can remember. I wish it would rain and cool things off a little."
"So do I. It's weather like this that makes me appreciate the New England winters. At least when it's cold, you can bundle up and stay warm, but what can you do to cool off in this heat?"
"Maybe we could take off all our clothes, jump into the river and go swimming," she said, laughing gaily.
"Aye, and they'd be locking us up for a couple of loonies, they would," I laughed, forgetting my good intentions to lose my Irish brogue.
Then we heard Mrs. Harper banging on the floor above us.
"Be quiet down there," she yelled. "I'm trying to rest."
Our laughter ceased at once. Carrie picked up the carving knife, squeezing the handle tightly in the palm of her hand.
"I wish she would have a nice long rest, an eternal rest," she said and then put the dirty knife and her empty glass in the kitchen basin to be washed with the supper dishes. "I'm going to take my book and sit out in the shade of the elm tree. It's too stifling in this house."
I ate a quick lunch and then continued with my housework, being careful not to disturb Mrs. Harper. Regardless of the heat, I was a paid servant and had to earn my keep. Oh, I did have a choice in the matter: I could always starve.
Not long after the noon meal, Mr. Harper returned home.
"Kathleen," he said to me as I was folding the freshly laundered bed sheets, "I haven't had any lunch yet. Would you make me something to eat and bring it to my study?"
"Yes, sir," I said respectfully and obediently. "I'll be right there."
As if I didn't have enough to do around here, I thought to myself.
* * *
The afternoon was almost over. A pot of mutton stew was cooking on the stove, and I had just finished washing the final batch of laundry. As I started to hang it on the line, Carrie put her book down and came over to help.
"Katie, you look like you're going to fall over any second now."
"I'm all right. It's just this heat. A cool sponge bath and a good night's sleep, and I'll be as good as new."
"I don't know what we would do without you, Katie," she said, looking at me solemnly.
We finished hanging out the laundry together and then went inside the house.
"I'll keep an eye on supper," she said. "You go lie down for a few minutes."
I didn't put up an argument, for it had been a long and exhausting day. As I lay down on my attic cot, I had no idea that the worst was yet to come. I don't know whether I merely fell asleep or if I passed out from the heat. The temperature in that attic bedroom was unbearable. On such a day, I'd rather have had a room in the damp, dark cellar. At least it was several degrees cooler down there.
I woke up, or came to, a few hours later. When I went downstairs I realized the sun was beginning to set. Why hadn't anyone awakened me?
Carrie was sitting in the parlor reading.
"It's late. Has everyone eaten already?" I asked.
"No. Father is still working in his study, and she is upstairs resting. Maybe they've lost their appetites in this heat."
"Heat or not, Mrs. Harper never misses a meal, nor will she tolerate one being served more than an hour late. I'd better go set the table. I'm sure they'll both be ready to eat any minute now."
"Yes, Katie. Go and set the table, and I'll go up and tell them supper is ready."
The kitchen was clean and the lunch dishes had been washed and put away. Carrie had apparently been busy while I was sleeping. As I was getting the large bowls down from the cupboard, Carrie walked into the kitchen.
"Katie, stop what you're doing and go fetch Dr. Prescott," she said. "That monstrous woman has killed my father."
In a dazed shock, I ran the four blocks to the doctor's house. After first sending his wife to summon the police, Dr. Prescott grabbed his bag and accompanied me back to the Harper house. Carrie met us at the front door.
"He's in his study, Doctor—the last door on the right."
I put my arms around Carrie in an attempt to comfort her.
"The police are on their way," I told her.
She nodded her head but said nothing. When the police arrived, I sent them to the study. Meanwhile, Carrie and I waited in the parlor.
Detective Orville Flanders of the Pine Harbor Police Department took off his hat as he approached Carrie.
"Miss Harper, I'll have to ask you a few questions," he said respectfully.
"My father is dead, isn't he?"
"Yes, I'm afraid he is."
"I'll have to find my sister, Lucy. She's probably at Reverend Lockhart's house. She must be told before she learns about it from someone else."
"I'll send a man over there for your sister."
"Thank you."
"Where is Mrs. Harper?"
"I don't know, Detective."
"And you, miss," he addressed me, "do you know where she is?"
In all the excitement, I had quite forgotten about the lady of the house.
"I haven't seen the mistress since breakfast this morning. She ate and then went up to her bedroom to rest."
"You didn't see her come down or leave the house at any time during the day?"
"No, sir. But then I've been in and out of the house doing laundry and household chores. The only person I saw all day was Miss Carrie."
"You didn't see Mr. Harper come home?"
"Yes. That's right. I did see the master come home around one o'clock. I made him a quick lunch and then went back to my duties."
"Dawson," he called to one of his underlings, "check upstairs for Mrs. Harper."
"When did you last see your parents, Miss Harper?"
"I saw my father at breakfast before he went to work. I haven't seen my mother since she died when I was five. That woman ...."
"Lieutenant," Dawson called down. "I've found Mrs. Harper."
Nora, like her husband Abraham, had been stabbed to death.
* * *
It was the most publicized crime in the history of not only Pine Harbor but also the entire state of Massachusetts. For lack of a better suspect, the police arrested Carrie Harper. Fueled by editorials in the press, public sympathy for both the accused and the victims grew. No one remained neutral. One was either outraged at the arrest of an obviously innocent young woman, incapable of such a brutal crime, or one was demanding the murderess, regardless of her sex, be hanged for the heinous crime of patricide she committed.
Throughout the ordeal—the arrest, the grand jury proceedings and, finally, the murder trial—Carrie remained calm. She never cried, never lost her composure, never raised her voice and, more importantly, never confessed to the crimes. Lucille Harper, bolstered by her strong religious beliefs, weathered the storm equally as well. She and I attended the proceedings every day and steadfastly declared our belief in Carrie's innocence.
The atmosphere during the trial resembled that of one of Mr. Barnum's circuses. Spectators crowded into the courtroom to learn the intimate details about life in the Harper household. The prosecuting and defense attorneys painted distinctly different pictures of the two victims and the defendant. It was up to the men of the jury to determine which—if either—was telling the truth.
Had Nora been a lonely, unloved woman, long ignored and unappreciated by her husband and treated disrespectfully and sometimes cruelly by her stepchildren or was she a cold, calculating woman who had married only for financial security and then treated her stepdaughters as unwanted guests in their own home? Was Abraham Harper a hard-working, loving father, bereft over the loss of his first wife, who had to sacrifice his happiness by marrying a woman he didn't love in order to do right by his children or was he a miserly, stern master who ruled his house and family with a heavy hand and a lock on the cash box?
First and foremost, however, the jury had to decide if Carrie was an innocent victim of circumstance, arrested and charged by an incompetent police force pressured to solve the case or a cold-blooded killer, a greedy young woman who had murdered her parent and step-parent to inherit her father's fortune and take revenge on her hated stepmother?
The jury had very little physical evidence to consider. There were no witnesses, no bloodstained clothing, no footprints—in short, no clues of any kind. The kitchen carving knife, the one Carrie had used for slicing roast beef at lunch, was assumed to be the murder weapon.
The prosecutor hypothesized that Carrie had sent me up to the attic for a nap, murdered her father and stepmother, cleaned up the mess and then waited in the parlor for me to wake up. He assured the jury that in my exhausted state, I was in a deep sleep and therefore could not hear two people being brutally murdered on the floors beneath me.
Perhaps the prosecution failed to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt, or maybe the twelve Victorian gentlemen of the jury simply didn't believe that a woman was capable of committing such an atrocious murder. Either way, the result was the same: the jury's verdict was "not guilty."
* * *
Shortly after she had been cleared of all charges, Miss Carrie called me into her father's study. Neither of us had gone into that room since the day of the stabbings.
"The estate has been settled. Surprisingly, Father was worth even more than I had imagined. I want you to have this," she announced, presenting me with a check for a substantial sum of money, enough to keep me in comfort for the rest of my years.
"Miss Carrie, I can't accept this."
"Of course, you can. As I've said on more than one occasion, what would any of us have done without you?"
We were both silent for some time. Then I summoned the courage to ask the question that had lingered like an unseen third person in the room.
"Why did you kill him?"
"To finish what you had started, Katie. Why kill one and not the other? I suppose in a way her death was my fault, too. You see, I knew about you and my father."
"Miss Carrie," I stammered. "I didn't have a choice. He told me if I didn't agree to the arrangement, he would find another housekeeper who would. I needed the job. I had no family, no friends, no money to live on."
"I don't blame you. I'm sure I'd have done the same thing had I been in your situation. But when I learned about the two of you, I thought I could use the information as a way to get rid of her. I had hoped that if she found out about his adultery, she would leave him, so I sent her an anonymous letter in the mail."
I was glad that Carrie knew of my guilt, for now, I could unburden my soul with confession.
"That day, after your father fell asleep on the couch, I left the study and was bringing the tray from the lunch I'd brought him back to the kitchen. Mrs. Harper was standing on the upstairs landing. She ordered me to go upstairs to her room. She told me she knew what an evil sinner I was and that I was to leave the house immediately or she would have me arrested. I was so afraid, thinking I would either starve to death or go to jail. I begged her to let me stay, but you know what a hard woman she was. Then I saw the knife on the tray. I grabbed it without thinking, and I just stabbed and stabbed."
I couldn't continue for I had broken down in tears. Carrie put her arms around me and gently rocked me like a mother would her child.
"It's okay, Katie. It's all over now."
"I told you about her," I said sniffling. "What about him?"
"I was outside reading under the tree when I saw my father come home early. I had a pretty good idea what he was up to, so I remained outside. I sat there looking at the house thinking how ugly and old and small it was. That was the same day I'd watched that new, expensive furniture being moved into the grand house on the corner of Danvers Street. I kept asking myself: why couldn't I live in a beautiful house like that? Why did Father insist on hoarding every penny he made?
"As I continued to stare at the house, I saw a movement in her window. I knew something terrible was going to happen because she was awake and you and Father were probably—you know," she said delicately. "I sneaked inside. After a few minutes, I saw you come out of her room, covered with blood. I hid behind the door and watched you strip off your bloody dress then go down to the cellar to wash the blood off your body.
"That was my chance. I pulled off my own dress and put yours on, not even bothering to fasten it. I grabbed the knife and went to Father's study. He was asleep on the couch when I stabbed him. I made quick work of it, went back downstairs, placed your dress and the knife where you'd left them and then went up to the water closet to wash the blood off. I waited for you to rinse the knife off and go downstairs to finish the laundry. Then I went back outside and returned to my seat under the tree. You didn't notice that your dress had more blood on it, and you never guessed that you were laundering away the evidence of two crimes—not just one."
"I knew it had to be you that killed him, I just never knew when or why."
"My father often told me the secret to success was acting quickly when an opportunity presented itself. I saw the opportunity of being a wealthy woman, of finally being free of my pathetic way of life, so I did just as he said: I acted quickly."
* * *
We never again spoke of the events of that hot summer day in 1892. Carrie and Lucille inherited their father's fortune. Lucille turned the family house into a home for the elderly and spent the rest of her life working for various charities. She died an old maid at the age of seventy-five, leaving what remained of her money to the church.
Carrie took her share of the Harper fortune and moved to Europe. There she married a titled but penniless English aristocrat, and the two of them managed to go through most of Abraham's money before they retired to sunny Spain to live their last days in comfort. Carrie finally died at the age of ninety-four, having never revealed the truth to another living soul.
I, the family housekeeper, a poor Irish immigrant, have outlasted them all. I live in a new age, a time when slowly but surely men are learning that the "weaker" sex is capable of not only voting, but also of holding political office, running large companies as well as entire countries, and, yes, some of us are even capable of committing murder.
This story is loosely based on the Lizzie Borden case. In 2010 my daughter and I visited the Lizzie Borden house in Fall River, MA and walked through the rooms where the murders occurred. Although the house is now a successful bed and breakfast, I don't know that I'd want to spend the night there! We also visited the graves of the Borden family at the local cemetery. (Doesn't everybody do that on their summer vacations?)
Salem got a bobble-head souvenir when he visited Lizzie Borden's house in Fall River, Mass.
