Alice + Freda Forever: A Murder in Memphis Read online

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  Copyright © 2014 by Alexis Coe

  Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Sally Klann

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means — graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval systems — without the written permission of the publisher.

  History / True Crime / Gender Studies

  Library of Congress data available

  ISBN: 978-1-936976-60-7

  Jacket design by Adam Grano

  Interior design by Adam Grano and Dagmar Trojanek

  Manufactured in the U.S.A.

  DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  4500485180

  FOR

  ALICE MITCHELL

  (1872–1898)

  AND

  FREDA WARD

  (1874–1892)

  ALICE MITCHELL

  NICKNAMES: Allie, Alvin J. Ward,

  AJW, Freda Myra Ward

  FREDERICA WARD

  NICKNAMES: Freda, Fred, Freddie,

  Patty Sing, Pitty Sing, Sing, Serg. Jueq

  ALICE MITCHELL’S FAMILY

  George Mitchell, father

  Isabella Mitchell, mother

  Robert Mitchell, older brother

  Frank Mitchell, older brother

  Mattie Mitchell, eldest sister

  Addie Mitchell, older sister

  FREDA WARD’S FAMILY

  Thomas Ward, father

  Ada Volkmar, eldest sister/surrogate mother

  Jo Ward, older sister, NICKNAME: Joe

  William Volkmar, brother-in-law/Ada’s husband

  JUDGE, DEFENSE, AND PROSECUTION

  Julius DuBose, Judge

  Colonel George Gantt, defense

  General Luke Wright, defense

  Malcolm Rice Patterson, defense

  George Peters, prosecution

  MISCELLANEOUS

  Lillie Johnson, Alice’s best friend, NICKNAME: Jessie Rita James

  Ashley Roselle, suitor/romantic rival

  Lucy Franklin, Mitchell family cook

  WHEN I FIRST LEARNED about the 1892 murder of seventeen-year-old Freda Ward by her ex-fiancé, nineteen-year-old Alice Mitchell, I was riding a New York City subway on my long commute home from graduate school. I remember it well because I was so engrossed in the act of imagining their lives, I missed my stop—and then three more. I’d been reading a scholarly article about the case, but I kept losing Alice and Freda in the academic talk of identity politics and American modernity.1 And so I’d closed my eyes and tried to hear their voices through the dense text, to visualize their story.

  But I had little more than a train ride for such reveries. I was already a year into research on citizenship, and I was determined to be the kind of historian who focused on law, not love. Nevertheless, I slowly started collecting newspaper articles about the Mitchell-Ward case, struck by their sensational headlines and front page placement, and intrigued by the physical evidence they mentioned—love letters, a bottle of poison, a father’s razor.

  After I graduated, I worked as a research curator in the Exhibitions Department at the New York Public Library. With my personal collection of Alice and Freda materials growing, and my experience in public engagement deepening, I began to picture different ways of sharing their story. I longed to tell it on the page—as a nonfiction narrative, not a study—accompanied by the kind of stirring visuals an exhibition case offered. I imagined a book that was both written and curated. I wanted readers to see my research, to explore the archival mix, connect with the material, and draw their own conclusions.

  Six years after I missed my subway stop, I found myself walking through Elmwood Cemetery, led by Vincent Astor, a local historian in Memphis, Tennessee. I was, at this point, thoroughly consumed by the sad tale of Alice and Freda. The closer we got to their graves, the heavier my body felt. I reminded myself, as I always do when approaching that very last folder in an archive: you already know how the story ends. But the truth is, you never really know.

  Just then, as I was gingerly sidestepping graves, Vincent paused for a moment and turned to me. “If you’re remembering their names and telling their stories,” he said in a gliding, Southern drawl, “they won’t mind if you’re stepping on their toes.”

  In this book, I hope to have done just that. Alice and Freda’s names—once well known across America—are now recognized by only a small group of people, and yet, their tragic story will feel familiar. They were teenagers in love, and they planned to spend the rest of their lives together. Their relationship—plagued by issues of jealousy and infidelity from the very beginning—was fraught, in no small part, because it was illicit. In 1892 Memphis, few people had heard of same-sex love, and even fewer believed it was anything less than perverse.

  And from the moment the romantic nature of Alice and Freda’s relationship was discovered, that was all they heard: It was wrong. It was unnatural. It was impossible. It was forbidden.

  There is a good deal of fault to be found in both Alice and Freda—most clearly, of course, in Alice’s unconscionable act of violence—but two women loving each other, and wanting to make a home and a life together, is not one of them. And yet, when Freda was six feet underground and Alice behind bars, it was Alice’s motivation—love, and not the bloody murder—that was said to be insane. Alice was driven mad by a perverse passion, medical experts would testify. Their observations were recycled time and time again; more than 120 years later, today’s readers will find much of that world is sadly familiar to us.

  While I offer historical context in the pages that follow, this is very much about Alice and Freda’s short-lived romance. To tell that story—with so few primary sources, and even fewer trustworthy ones among them—I have strained to hear their voices in the archives, newspapers, medical journals, school catalogs, courtroom proceedings, and of course, their love letters. When there was agreement among sources, I made note of it, and gave those quotations priority. From the very beginning, I noticed obvious fabrications driven by various agendas, and I wrote that in, too. In order to bring the reader closer to historical actors, to hear their voices, I pulled dialogue from courtroom testimony and newspaper articles. In this same vein, the book presents the reader with over a hundred visual elements.

  Artist Sally Klann illustrated many of the documents and artifacts I found in the archives in Memphis, and also outside of it; the design motif in the chapter headings was inspired by the gates seen throughout Memphis, and in particular, the entrance to Elmwood Cemetery, where Alice, Freda, and many other people who appear in this book are buried. Sally artistically interpreted the domestic scenes and courtroom proceedings I describe in the text, illuminating intimate moments and, in darkly funny turns, imagining how the faulty reasoning of some of our historical actors leads to absurd conclusions.

  I DON’T CARE IF I’M HUNG!

  FOR DAYS ON END, heavy snow descended on Memphis. The roads were slick with ice and the wind was chilling, but for Alice Mitchell, home was no refuge. It had become her prison.

  Every morning, nineteen-year-old Alice arose from yet another sleepless night to find a landscape unaltered, a city blanketed in white. Through the frosted windowpane, she watched her father and brothers come and go as they pl
eased. No one questioned their trips downtown or suggested their business could wait until the weather improved. But the Mitchell women were governed by a different set of rules. And what would Alice say on her own behalf? The truth was not an option, and she could conjure no lie convincing enough to justify exposing herself to the tempest outside.

  So she waited, enduring one anxious, blustery day after another, until finally, darkness descended, and the house fell quiet.

  If it continued this way, she would miss Freda Ward altogether. But Alice refused to let that happen. She had made a solemn declaration, and she intended to make good on it.

  In the meantime, she could find no solace in her house, no distraction through sewing or reading. Alice had no interest in food, in eating it or making it, and yet she spent most of her waking hours in the kitchen, where she had hidden the locked box. She would spend hours studying its treasures: the love letters, the photograph, the engagement ring. It was an archive of heartbreak. It was all she had left.

  Alice had shown the ring to Lucy Franklin, the Mitchell family’s African American cook, and shared her tale of star-crossed love, how her hopes for the future had been so cruelly dashed by disapproving relations. Even though Lucy was a captive audience, she felt genuine concern for young Alice, and tried as best she could to console her. This went on for months, but Alice withheld parts of the story from Lucy, allowing assumptions to stand in the place of truth. Over time, Alice’s inconsistent narrative grew confusing, but as Lucy would later testify, it hardly mattered. As far as she was concerned, the story became secondary to Alice’s manner, unsettling to the point of distraction.

  But there was no one Alice could truly confide in. Certainly not her mother, who had forbidden her to see Freda, nor her older sisters, who had long ago dismissed her as anxious. Even Lillie Johnson, her closest friend, was ignorant of the truth, and she had been there from the very beginning.

  Only Freda knew the whole story, and she wanted nothing to do with Alice anymore. It was as if their love had never existed, her world shattered by a phantom. The box, hidden in the kitchen, was all she had left, the only proof that Freda had ever loved her.

  Before the snow had come, Alice would often claim the family’s buggy and invite Lillie to ride downtown, a social call that conveniently masked her true goal of surveillance. But the weather that week had often made prisoners of them all.

  Twenty-five days into the New Year, 1892, Alice awoke to a clear sky on the very day she needed it. It was nearly three o’clock by the time she carefully steered the newly shod horses along the thawing roads to Lillie’s house. Her friend was caring for a young nephew, but nonetheless readily accepted the invitation, wrapping herself and the boy in jackets and hats, gloves and scarves. They soon settled into the buggy alongside Alice, completely unaware of her plan. The only warning sign was carefully hidden away in her dress pocket.

  THERE WAS NOTHING UNUSUAL about two young women from respectable families spending a Monday afternoon aimlessly riding through downtown Memphis. No one expected them to spend this fleeting time between school and marriage attending college or working. There was little for them to do but check the post office, call on male relations at work, and perhaps treat their young charge to a sugary treat. But it was Alice who held the reins that day, and she had been steering the buggy toward Hernando Street all along.

  Lillie was generally obtuse when it came to Alice, to a degree a grand jury would soon find suspect. She had played accomplice on enough of Alice’s investigative missions that month to know why her friend slowed the horses to a near-halt before the widow Kimbrough’s home. Freda and her older sister, Jo Ward, had been staying there for nearly a month, during which time they had shown no interest in Alice and Lillie, once their closest friends at the Higbee School for Young Ladies.

  Lillie had adjusted to this reality, but Alice could not. The Ward sisters had moved up the river to Golddust, but visited Memphis often. In the old days, they had almost always stayed with Alice. In the weeks leading up to such happy reunions, she and Freda would exchange a flurry of letters, with much consideration given to sleeping arrangements. The goal was always to spend the night together, alone in Alice’s bed.

  But when Alice learned the Ward sisters were in town these days, it was by vigilance or luck. Her sleuthing had yielded general information about this visit—they would be coming sometime after Christmas, likely staying with Mrs. Kimbrough—but nothing more. And so, Alice went on self-imposed surveillance duty, riding and walking on Hernando Street as often as she could, hoping to see Freda through the window, or better yet, to run into her on the street.

  Alice had been trying to contact Freda for months. Her letters were returned unopened, or presumably discarded, until finally, just a week earlier, Alice received a response, though it offered her no comfort. Freda admitted to being in Memphis, but momentarily leaving on the Rosa Lee—an impossibility. The city had practically come to a wintry standstill, and everyone knew the steamers were running on an irregular schedule. Alice studied every line of the letter, each crammed full of lies and broken promises, and grew apoplectic over her ex-fiancé’s sloppy attempt to deceive her. The Rosa Lee had most certainly not gone out, and neither had the Ward sisters.

  On January 25, however, the Ora Lee was due to depart. If they had not left already, Alice seemed certain they would leave before sundown on this steamer. If she were right, Freda and Jo would have to leave Mrs. Kimbrough’s house soon. This was her moment.

  Through equal parts perseverance and chance, Alice had learned how to unravel Freda’s lies over the years, and sure enough, from atop the inching buggy, she watched as the front door of the widow Kimbrough’s home swung open—and her dear Freda emerged. She was followed by Jo and another friend, Christina Purnell. They moved toward bustling Front Street, just north of the customhouse, blithely unaware of the buggy slowly pursuing them along the busy streets of downtown Memphis. They pushed past the businessmen and workers heading in all different directions, gingerly sidestepping women clutching their skirts, all the while tiptoeing carefully over patches of ice and mud.

  This time, Alice had been right. It was clear they were headed toward the waterfront. If Freda boarded the Ora Lee for Golddust, there would be no guarantee she would return to Memphis any time soon, if at all. She might just marry one of the young men she corresponded with, and move even farther away. Alice knew this might be her last chance.

  And what did Freda know, as she made her way to the docks? She knew there was only one way out of their engagement, just as she knew Alice was not one to break promises.2

  THE SURE-FOOTED HORSES PROVED FAR STEADIER on the slippery, thawing ground than Freda, Jo, and Christina had. Distracted by frequent stops to steady themselves, they did not seem to notice when Alice’s buggy passed them. Their slow advance offered plenty of time for Alice to settle the horses in front of the post office, climb down, and watch the trio approach. Alice’s eyes locked on Freda.

  She searched Freda’s face for an invitation, open to a wide range of signals. In days long gone, Freda had gone on about the many expressions she pulled, each look imbued with meaning. And now, despite all evidence to the contrary, Alice was sure, at the moment the young women passed by, that she had seen Freda wink with her right eye. It meant, “I love you.”

  It was the sign Alice had been waiting for all along, and she took it as an invitation. The time had come.

  “Where are you going?” Lillie called out from the buggy, as Alice sprinted off in Freda’s direction.3

  “I am going to see Fred once more,” she shouted over her shoulder, using her pet name for Freda. Lillie stayed behind. The horses needed looking after, and so did her nephew, but in truth, Alice had never invited her to come along. It was not going to be that kind of parting.

  Freda was not faring well on the slippery slope. She stopped often to regain her balance, while Alice moved toward her with determination. By the time they reached the north gate of
the customhouse grounds, Alice was upon them.

  Alice reached into her dress pocket, her fingers sliding over Freda’s last letter, in search of her father’s razor. She had been carrying it around for months, waiting and plotting, but the grade leading down to the waterfront was not the destination she had imagined. Alice knew where people congregated, and where the crowd thinned. She needed to get Freda alone. There could be no intervention.

  The streets swirled with faces, both familiar and not, allowing Alice to move undetected. She had hoped it would remain this way until they reached the steamer, but Christina Purnell noticed their old friend suddenly lurking beside them. There was no more time to waste. Turning from Christina’s disbelieving eyes, Alice leaned in toward Freda’s face, as if to kiss her cheek.

  “Oh!” Freda shrieked.

  “You dirty dog!” Jo screamed as she watched blood pour down her sister’s neck, staining her dress red. She grasped the only weapon she had, the long umbrella in her hand, and lunged toward Alice.

  It was no match for the razor. Alice had only intended to harm one Ward sister that day, but the umbrella enraged her, and she turned her blood soaked razor on Jo, slicing at her collarbone.

  “Leave my sister alone!” Jo yelled, with now her own gaping wound. She had lost her only means of defense. In the scuffle, Alice had gotten hold of the umbrella, and proved more successful in using it. She lunged at Freda, knocking off her hat.

  “Alice, you dirty dog,” Jo screamed again, a last ditch effort to distract her as Freda made a dash for the boat. “You’ll hang for this!”

  “I don’t care if I’m hung! I want to die anyhow,” Alice shouted back.

  A pool of blood stood in Freda’s place, and Alice, seeing that it formed a trail toward the steamer, took off in its direction. Bleeding and disoriented, Freda struggled even more on the icy slope, allowing Alice to easily catch up.