The church bells of New Brunswick rang sweetly that September morning, their sound drifting over quiet neighborhoods and the lazy bend of the Raritan River. It was 1922 — a year of flappers and prohibition, of whispered affairs behind respectable doors.
And behind one of those doors, Reverend Edward Hall was keeping a secret that would end in blood.
He was a handsome man of the cloth — tall, polished, with the kind of smile that won over congregations and gossiping housewives alike. His wife, Frances Stevens Hall, came from one of the wealthiest families in town. She was proper, proud, and always in control. But her husband’s eyes had wandered to someone else — a woman who sang in his church choir, a woman who looked at him like he was more than a man of God.
Her name was Eleanor Mills, and she would die for that love.
The Lovers’ Meeting
Eleanor was thirty-four, married to James Mills, a printer for the local paper. She had two children and a kind but quiet husband. But the Reverend made her feel alive — seen, wanted, chosen. Their affair wasn’t much of a secret. Parishioners whispered about the way he lingered near the choir loft after service, or how they were seen walking side by side down the dirt road near DeRussy’s Lane, just beyond the town limits.
That was their meeting place — a secluded spot under a crabapple tree, hidden by tall weeds and the hum of crickets. It was there, on the night of September 14, 1922, that Edward Hall and Eleanor Mills went to be alone one last time.
Neither of them came home.
The Discovery
Two days later, a group of teenagers cutting through the field found them. The scene was almost theatrical in its arrangement — deliberate, cruelly poetic.
The Reverend lay on his back, neatly dressed, his hat at his side. Eleanor was beside him, her throat slashed from ear to ear, her tongue nearly severed. Her scarf was tied around her neck like a grotesque decoration. Between them lay a scattering of torn love letters — his handwriting, her perfume.
Someone had placed his calling card at his feet, as if to announce the crime to the world.
The bodies were surrounded by trampled grass, and the quiet hum of insects filled the air. When police arrived, they disturbed what little evidence remained. Curious locals trampled through the field, pocketing scraps of paper and cigarette butts as souvenirs. Reporters arrived before the coroner. By sundown, the murders were already front-page news.
The Town That Pretended Not to Know
New Brunswick was a place built on appearances. The church was its moral center, and Edward Hall had been its golden son. Now, the town’s faith in both God and decency was bleeding out onto a dusty lane.
Whispers spread through parlors and barber shops. People wondered how long the Reverend’s wife had known, whether jealousy had finally spilled into violence. Frances Hall said little to the press — her eyes cool, her tone unwavering. But her wealth and family name loomed large, and soon no one in power wanted to touch the case.
Eleanor’s husband, James Mills, wept in public. He said he’d known about the affair but had forgiven her. His grief seemed genuine, though some doubted it. Others speculated that both spouses might have conspired, meeting in secret to confront the unfaithful lovers — and that something went horribly wrong.
The truth was buried under layers of gossip, privilege, and fear.
The Investigation That Never Found Its Way
The Middlesex County police bungled the investigation from the start. The crime scene was contaminated, the evidence mishandled, and the press treated the case like a sideshow. The love letters — some torn, some intact — painted a vivid picture of forbidden affection. But they told nothing about the killer.
Autopsies revealed that both victims had been shot in the head before Eleanor’s throat was cut — an execution, then a statement. Whoever had done it wanted the world to see, to be shocked, to understand that love could be punished.
Weeks passed, then months. The story refused to die. Reporters called it “The Crime of the Century.” Crowds flocked to the site of the murders, treating it like a macabre pilgrimage. Street vendors sold “souvenir maps” to the crabapple tree.
And yet, despite the hysteria, there was no arrest. Only silence — and the growing suspicion that money and status were protecting someone who should have been in handcuffs.
The Widow on the Hill
Four years later, the case was dragged back into the spotlight. A woman named Jane Gibson, known locally as “the Pig Woman,” came forward with a story. She claimed she had witnessed the murders from her mule-drawn cart the night they happened.
She said she had seen four figures near the tree — two standing, two on the ground — and heard a woman shout, “Don’t!” before gunshots cracked the night air. When she got closer, she swore she saw Frances Hall, the Reverend’s wife, standing over the bodies.
The claim electrified the press. Frances Hall, the wealthy widow, the church matriarch, accused of murder? It was a scandal made for headlines.
She and her brothers — Henry and William Stevens — were arrested and put on trial in 1926. The courtroom overflowed with spectators and reporters. The Pig Woman was the star witness, wheeled into court from her hospital bed, pale and trembling but insistent. She pointed a shaking finger at Frances Hall and said she saw her there, that night, by the crabapple tree.
But the defense tore her testimony apart. Her story had changed, her health was failing, and the witnesses who might have supported her were dismissed as unreliable.
When the verdict came, it was no surprise: not guilty.
Frances Hall walked free.
The Aftermath
The case faded, but never disappeared. The Stevens family withdrew from public life. The Reverend’s church never regained its congregation’s faith. The crabapple tree eventually rotted and fell, though locals say the ground beneath it still feels cold, even in summer.
Jane Gibson died poor and forgotten. James Mills raised his children quietly, refusing interviews. He was buried next to Eleanor — their headstones separated by a few feet of grass and sixty years of unanswered questions.
And Frances? She lived comfortably for the rest of her days, never remarrying, never confessing. She claimed to have forgiven her husband long before his death. Perhaps she did. Perhaps that forgiveness was the most frightening thing of all.
A Town’s Ghost
Even now, the Hall–Mills murders hang over New Brunswick like a fog that never quite lifts. The site of the killings is long overgrown, but the legend endures. Locals still call it “Lovers’ Lane,” though few will walk it at night.
Some say if you stand there after midnight, you’ll hear the faint echo of a woman’s voice — the choir girl’s, singing softly, her song cut short by the gunfire that ended her life. Others claim the scent of lilac perfume drifts through the field, though there are no flowers left to bloom.
But the truth, as always, is quieter than legend. It lies in the choices people make in the dark — the secrets they keep, and the ones they kill to protect.
Legacy of the Hall–Mills Case
The murders were never solved, and no new evidence has ever emerged. Yet the story endures because it reveals something timeless: beneath every town’s surface of decency, something darker waits.
In New Brunswick, that darkness came in the form of a secret romance between a preacher and a choir girl — and an act of vengeance so intimate that even a century later, it feels personal.
The Hall–Mills murders weren’t just a crime of passion; they were a sermon on hypocrisy. A warning written in blood beneath a crabapple tree — that behind the hymns and Sunday smiles, there are sins the church will never confess.