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Authors: Beth Gutcheon
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curious about her story, but the plan had
an additional advantage, which was that for some reason the subject
irritated Edith. I asked her if she’d ever heard of Sallie Haskell, and
she just flew at me, saying it was just like me to come to a beautiful
spot and find the one morbid thing there was to dwell on.
“Morbid. Okay. Fine,” is what my diary says for that morning.
I had hoped for newspaper reports of Sallie’s trial, but Mrs.
Pease said a squirrel came down the chimney one winter and made a
pretty good mess of the old periodical files. They would have copies
up in Unionville, but good luck trying to get Edith to drive me there
5 7
B E T H
G U T C H E O N
and wait all day while I read through them. One amateur historian
named Phin Jellison had written up his version of events sometime in
the teens and published it himself. The library had plenty of copies of
that. It was a pamphlet with a horrible photograph in it of this big
bearded man in overalls lying on his back on a horsehair couch with
his head split open. It was pretty hard to look at. I wanted to know
what Danial Haskell had looked like when he still had a face, but I
never have found a picture of him. I wonder if he never had his pho-
tograph taken in life.
There was a disgusting description of what he had eaten for his
last meal, and much conflicting speculation on where the schoolteacher
Mercy Chatto was at the time of the murder, and the wife, Claris, and
the daughter, Sallie, and a boyfriend of Sallie’s called Paul LeBlond.
Mercy Chatto was a girl from the main, boarding with the Haskells
while she kept school.
Mr. Jellison was an enthusiast, but not much of a writer, so I
can’t say I learned a great deal more. It seemed none of the three
women who lived in the house would say a thing about how they had
spent the morning except to assent to what they would have done, or
usually did, of a Sunday. None of the women would have gone to
worship. Mercy generally did her wash. Sallie went to the barn to tend
her chickens and commune with the cow. Claris worked at her rug
loom or sometimes stayed abed reading the Bible.
Mr. Jellison’s money was on Paul LeBlond for the murderer. He
was a queer kind of fellow, according to Phin, an artist and foreign,
with a nasty temper.
When I exhausted the information in the library, I decided to
hitchhike out the Eastward road to see my grandparents. I thought
they must know something of Sallie Haskell. I was forbidden to
hitchhike, so I’d have to tell them Edith had dropped me at the end
of the road. I couldn’t tell them anything about how it was with
5 8
M O R E
T H A N
Y O U
K N O W
Edith and me; Edith used to justify keeping us from my grandpar-
ents by claiming they didn’t like her, and I didn’t want to do any-
thing to make her right. Besides, my grandparents wouldn’t have
liked it. Children were not encouraged to criticize their elders in
those days.
We sat on the covered porch overlooking Grandpa’s sheep
meadow, which ran down to the edge of the bay and the great stone
hulk of the granite wharf. You could see right over to the north end
of Beal; it looked close enough to swim to. Mrs. Eaton, who helped
grandmother keep house, brought out lemonade and gingersnaps.
“So what have you been up to, Miss Chick?” my grandfather
asked.
“Nella B. told me about the murder on Beal Island.”
Grandfather roared with laughter. “Oh, you’ve gotten around to
that, have you?”
I felt myself blush. I suppose it was old hat to him. No doubt
everyone in town had had a lifetime of having tourists come upon it
all shiny and new and start asking the same questions.
“I knew about it before, sort of, I just didn’t know it happened
here,” I said, on my dignity. “Did you know Sallie Haskell?”
“Oh, yes,” they both said. Oh, yes, of course, we knew the mur-
deress.
“What was she like?”
Granny could see how much I wanted to know,
an additional advantage, which was that for some reason the subject
irritated Edith. I asked her if she’d ever heard of Sallie Haskell, and
she just flew at me, saying it was just like me to come to a beautiful
spot and find the one morbid thing there was to dwell on.
“Morbid. Okay. Fine,” is what my diary says for that morning.
I had hoped for newspaper reports of Sallie’s trial, but Mrs.
Pease said a squirrel came down the chimney one winter and made a
pretty good mess of the old periodical files. They would have copies
up in Unionville, but good luck trying to get Edith to drive me there
5 7
B E T H
G U T C H E O N
and wait all day while I read through them. One amateur historian
named Phin Jellison had written up his version of events sometime in
the teens and published it himself. The library had plenty of copies of
that. It was a pamphlet with a horrible photograph in it of this big
bearded man in overalls lying on his back on a horsehair couch with
his head split open. It was pretty hard to look at. I wanted to know
what Danial Haskell had looked like when he still had a face, but I
never have found a picture of him. I wonder if he never had his pho-
tograph taken in life.
There was a disgusting description of what he had eaten for his
last meal, and much conflicting speculation on where the schoolteacher
Mercy Chatto was at the time of the murder, and the wife, Claris, and
the daughter, Sallie, and a boyfriend of Sallie’s called Paul LeBlond.
Mercy Chatto was a girl from the main, boarding with the Haskells
while she kept school.
Mr. Jellison was an enthusiast, but not much of a writer, so I
can’t say I learned a great deal more. It seemed none of the three
women who lived in the house would say a thing about how they had
spent the morning except to assent to what they would have done, or
usually did, of a Sunday. None of the women would have gone to
worship. Mercy generally did her wash. Sallie went to the barn to tend
her chickens and commune with the cow. Claris worked at her rug
loom or sometimes stayed abed reading the Bible.
Mr. Jellison’s money was on Paul LeBlond for the murderer. He
was a queer kind of fellow, according to Phin, an artist and foreign,
with a nasty temper.
When I exhausted the information in the library, I decided to
hitchhike out the Eastward road to see my grandparents. I thought
they must know something of Sallie Haskell. I was forbidden to
hitchhike, so I’d have to tell them Edith had dropped me at the end
of the road. I couldn’t tell them anything about how it was with
5 8
M O R E
T H A N
Y O U
K N O W
Edith and me; Edith used to justify keeping us from my grandpar-
ents by claiming they didn’t like her, and I didn’t want to do any-
thing to make her right. Besides, my grandparents wouldn’t have
liked it. Children were not encouraged to criticize their elders in
those days.
We sat on the covered porch overlooking Grandpa’s sheep
meadow, which ran down to the edge of the bay and the great stone
hulk of the granite wharf. You could see right over to the north end
of Beal; it looked close enough to swim to. Mrs. Eaton, who helped
grandmother keep house, brought out lemonade and gingersnaps.
“So what have you been up to, Miss Chick?” my grandfather
asked.
“Nella B. told me about the murder on Beal Island.”
Grandfather roared with laughter. “Oh, you’ve gotten around to
that, have you?”
I felt myself blush. I suppose it was old hat to him. No doubt
everyone in town had had a lifetime of having tourists come upon it
all shiny and new and start asking the same questions.
“I knew about it before, sort of, I just didn’t know it happened
here,” I said, on my dignity. “Did you know Sallie Haskell?”
“Oh, yes,” they both said. Oh, yes, of course, we knew the mur-
deress.
“What was she like?”
Granny could see how much I wanted to know,
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