The Hand on the Wall(2)
Albert’s gaze fixed on his wife, Iris. She was holding a child in a yellow blanket. He was so full of feeling that the room seemed to distort; the beams of the ceiling appeared to bend down to him as if to catch him should he fall as he made his way to her and the child in her arms.
“She is beautiful,” Albert said. “She is extraordinary. She is . . .”
His voice failed him. The baby was bright pink, all balled fists and closed eyes and wails of awareness. She was life itself.
“She’s ours,” Iris said quietly.
“May I hold her?” said someone on the other side of the room. Albert and Iris turned toward the woman in the bed. Her face was flushed and glazed in sweat.
“Of course!” Iris said, going to her. “Of course. Darling, darling, of course.”
Iris gently placed the baby into Flora Robinson’s arms. Flora was weak, still half under the influence of the drugs, her blond hair stuck to her forehead. The nurses pulled the sheets and blankets up over her, tucking them around the baby in her arms. She blinked in amazement at the tiny person she had produced.
“My God,” she said, looking down into the infant’s face. “Is that what I’ve done?”
“You’ve done marvelously,” Iris replied, peeling some of the damp locks back from her friend’s forehead. “Darling, you were a marvel. You were an absolute marvel.”
“May I have a moment, please?” Flora said. “To hold her?”
“It is a good idea,” the nurse said. “For her to hold. It helps the baby. She will have to nurse soon. Perhaps, Herr Ellingham, Frau Ellingham, you can outside go? For a moment only.”
Iris and Albert retreated from the room. Leo had gone back downstairs, so they were alone in the hall.
“She hasn’t said anything about the father, has she?” Albert asked quietly. “I thought she might during . . .”
He waved his hand to indicate nine hours of labor and the birth process.
“No,” Iris whispered back.
“No matter. No matter at all. Should he ever appear, we will deal with him.”
The nurse stepped into the hall, bearing a clipboard with official-looking forms.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you have a name for the child?”
Albert looked to Iris, who nodded.
“Alice,” Albert said. “Her name is Alice Madeline Ellingham. And she will be the happiest little girl in the world.”
EXCERPT FROM TRULY DEVIOUS: THE ELLINGHAM MURDERS BY DR. IRENE FENTON
Since his wife and daughter’s kidnapping, since the murder of Dolores Epstein, all during the trial of Anton Vorachek—Albert Ellingham kept the search going. Vorachek’s murder on the courtroom steps didn’t slow Albert Ellingham down, even if it appeared that the one person who may have known Alice’s whereabouts was dead and gone. Someone knew something. No expense was ever spared. He appeared on every radio show. He spoke to every politician. Albert Ellingham would go anywhere and meet anyone who might know where his daughter could be found.
But on November 1, 1938, the police and the FBI were dragging Lake Champlain, looking for Albert Ellingham and George Marsh. The pair had gone out for an afternoon sail on Albert’s boat, Wonderland. Just before sunset, a massive explosion ripped through the peaceful Vermont evening. Local fishermen scrambled into their boats to get to the spot. When they arrived, they found fragments of the doomed vessel—pieces of charred wood, singed cushions that had been blown into the air, small brass fittings, bits of rope. They also found something much more disturbing: human remains, in the same state as the boat itself. Neither Albert Ellingham’s nor George Marsh’s body would be recovered in their entirety; enough pieces were found to establish that both men had died.
There was an immediate investigation. Everyone had a theory about the death of one of America’s richest and greatest men, but in the end, no case could ever be made. That Albert Ellingham had been killed by a group of anarchists seemed the most likely answer; indeed, three separate groups claimed responsibility. With the death of Albert Ellingham, Alice’s case began to go cold. There was no father’s voice saying her name, no tycoon handing out cash and making calls. A year later, the war started in Europe, and the sad saga of the family on the mountain paled in the face of a much greater tragedy.
Over the years, dozens of women would come forward claiming to be Alice Ellingham. Some could be dismissed right from the start—they were the wrong age, had the wrong physical attributes. Those who passed the basic tests would be seen by Robert Mackenzie, Albert’s personal secretary. Mackenzie conducted a thorough investigation into each claim. All were proven to be false.
Passing years have revived interest in the case—not just about Alice but also about the kidnapping and what happened on that terrible day on Lake Champlain. With advances in DNA analysis and modern investigative techniques, the answers may still be within our grasp.
Alice Ellingham may yet be found.
LOCAL PROFESSOR DIES IN TRAGIC HOUSE FIRE
Burlington News Online November 4
Local professor Dr. Irene Fenton from the University of Vermont’s history department died in a house fire yesterday evening. Dr. Fenton, who lived on Pearl Street, was a twenty-two-year member of the faculty and the author of several books, including Truly Devious: The Ellingham Murders. The blaze began around 9 p.m. and was believed to have originated in the kitchen.