31 Bond Street (19 page)

E
mma fished in her purse and jiggled the large key in the front door to unlock the heavy bolt. She could tell by the hat on the hall table that Dr. Burdell had now returned home. The errand boy came forward to take her coat.

“Are there patients waiting?”

“None today, Ma’am. Since it is Friday,” he said. “Dr. Burdell has been settling his business and is going out to his bank and other errands.”

She rushed past him, upstairs, past the closed door to Dr. Burdell’s office where the light above the transom was burning bright. She would take the deed right away, downtown to Mr. Billings, for safekeeping. She hurried to the third floor and closed her bedroom door behind her. She sat on the vanity stool, pulling off her gloves. She opened the drawer, and as her hand entered the space, her fingers grazed the wood at the bottom of the drawer and she moved her hand around inside where it encountered the four sides of the drawer. She moved it again and again before she dared to look down and confirm what she sensed—that the drawer was empty and her document was not there.

She reached around and around, pulled the drawer open wide, but it was empty. Then she yanked the opposite drawer. Bottles and crèmes rattled as she pulled the drawer out too far, causing the contents to spill to the floor.

She was overcome by a sense of alarm. Perhaps she had forgotten and placed the deed inside the closet. She ran to her armoire and began thrashing to get to the shelves, pushing aside her muslins and petticoats. She pulled everything out, causing clothes and fabric to fall in a pile, creating more hiding places and confusion, clawing harder as a surge of panic came rushing over her in waves.

She hadn’t put the deed in her armoire or in her closet, nor under the mattress or behind a picture frame. She let out a muffled cry of despair at the certainty of what she had known at the first moment she put her gloves in the drawer–Harvey Burdell had taken her deed.

The minutes passed and Emma fell to the ground defeated, sitting in a pile of scattered clothes and the disorder of her room. Fractures were spreading deep into the most believing parts of her, and the fearful emotions that now began to rise up were mixed with outrage. Harvey Burdell would rue the day that he had the effrontery to enter her room and remove her possession. With her heart still beating heavily, she stood up, tossing the clothing that was in her way. She knocked over the vanity stool as she made her way to her door and headed downstairs. The sight of Dr. Burdell’s closed door so invoked her outrage of the theft that she was overcome with the urge to confront him, her anger and agitation rising to a pitch. With one knuckle, she knocked, pounding loudly and insistently.

There was no answer so she put her ear against the door and envisioned papers lying across the desk, and on top of them, her deed. She turned the knob.

“Emma.” She jumped back, startled to see Dr. Burdell behind her, coming up the stair.

“I am looking for you,” she said defiantly. He stopped at the top stair, facing her. She was blocking his door.

“Step aside, I have work to do,” he said dismissively.

“You have taken my deed,” she said.

“What? I have done no such thing.”

“You have, and you have lied to me about its worth.”

“You are mad. I have no interest in something that is valueless. Nor do I intend to pay you for it. You have lost your chance and my offer is withdrawn.”

“You have stolen it and are selling it.”

“Move away from my door. I am expecting a visitor and I have business to do.” Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and John answered it, and then she heard the singsong voice of a woman. Her mind raced with the urge to confront Dr. Burdell—to chastise him for his betrayals, his infidelity, and his scurrilous behavior.

“You have been out every night with another woman, and your treatment of me has been dishonorable!” she declared.

He sighed. “If you say so.”

“Did you not promise to marry me and say that after we were to be married that we were going to Europe?” her voice was rising, incredulous.

“Yes, I suppose you are right.” His tone was resigned, as if he were talking to someone whose mind was addled.

“And that we would live in this house as husband and wife, or move to Fifth Avenue?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Is anything the truth? Do you lie to get your way? Do you believe that my daughters and I are just figurines for you to move about for your own purposes? That I wouldn’t see a magistrate and bring a suit against you for breach of promise?”

He glowered, now rising to anger himself. “Will you leave me alone? I have a visitor. She is waiting downstairs,” and he pushed
Emma aside and entered the office, shutting the door in her face, and turning the lock.

Rattled, she banged at the door vehemently, repeatedly calling out, loudly, “You will regret this. You have taken my papers, and I will see that they are returned to me.”

Her mind raced to the fact that she had nothing to show the Commodore, and if there were any delay in presenting the deed, he would suspect she was a fraud. Then she remembered Mr. Billings—he knew of the transfer of Augusta’s dowry and kept slips of paper marking her transactions. He would certainly be able to help her secure her rightful claim to the land. And she thought of Ambrose Wicken. She could appeal to him for advice; as Augusta’s suitor he would have an active interest in the matter. She rushed back to her room and went to her desk, where she took out her note paper and still standing, hastily penned a note,

She sealed the envelope with a drip of wax and hastily wrote Ambrose Wicken’s name on the envelope and then headed downstairs to place it on the hall table. In the foyer, she passed the visitor who had just rung the bell, a plump, middle-aged woman who
nodded anxiously and said, “Good morning, Ma’am.” Emma rushed by with barely a nod and spoke to John.

“When Mr. Wicken rings to take Augusta for a ride, please see that he has this letter,” she told him.

Next, she determined that she would get the keys from Alice so she could use them to examine Dr. Burdell’s room, after he had gone out. When she reached the kitchen, Hannah started complaining right off.

“I won’t be able to finish the bread, because I have run out of yeast. There is none in the larder, for no one has kept up with the provisions.”

“Where is Alice?” snapped Emma.

“Doing the bedrooms, I suppose.”

“She is not upstairs, Hannah. She has not been seen since I returned.”

Hannah avoided Emma’s eyes. “Am I supposed to make bread rise without yeast, and also to keep track of the parlor maid?” she muttered.

“You are insolent! Where is she? Is Alice in the basement?”

“I don’t have eyes at the back of my head to see where she goes while I am at the stove.” Furious, Emma marched into the pantry, which served as a washing room. There was a door to the back garden and another door to the basement. Emma opened the basement door and stepped onto the rickety stair that descended down into the cold space, feeling her footing on the crooked boards. High windows emitted discreet shafts of murky light, and as she descended, she made out the shadows of iron cranks that served the dumb waiters and deep stalls of inky black coal set against the fortresslike walls. She heard a cough and as her eyes adjusted saw Alice, seated on a crate.

“Alice!” She heard rustling, “Is that you?”

“I came down here because I am feeling poorly,” the girl said. “I have a cold in my feet, and needed to rest.”

“I am looking for the keys, do you have them?”

“I don’t leave ’em around, ’cause I know you’re always lookin’ for ’em.” Alice slurred.

“You are drinking whiskey!” Emma exclaimed. Beside Alice was a barrel, with a bottle of whiskey on top.

“It’s a cure for my rheumatism, just as my doctor says.” Alice sat with her legs loose in front of her, her skirts askew. She leaned over and stretched her legs out, and as she did so, she became unbalanced and toppled sideways, falling right off the crate.

“Get up, and give me the keys, I say!” ordered Emma. Alice scrambled to her feet and tottered toward Emma at the stairs. Alice clutched her apron and pulled the large ring from its pocket, clasping the key ring to her breast, in a challenge.

“Give them to me!”

“You always wanted these keys, now, didn’t you?”

Emma rushed toward her and snatched the keys. She abruptly slapped Alice across the face. Alice shrieked and toppled forward onto the bottom stair. She sat on the stair, holding her hand to her face, mumbling curses. Emma declared, “I am dismissing you immediately, for drunken conduct. You are rude and insubordinate. I want you out of this house.”

“Dismiss me? I should speak with the Doctor, first, so I might tell him how you was spying on his meetings, and stepping out of bounds, all over this house.”

“Go upstairs!” said Emma. Alice gripped the banister and crawled forward up the rickety staircase with Emma behind her. When they reached the top, Emma opened the back door to the yard and pushed Alice out, who stumbled into the cold. Emma stepped out after her, pointing to the back gate.

Alice stood, shivering in the yard, where the snow was drifted against the fences. She let out a loose, petulant cry and rubbed her
face, as if the combination of the cold air and the sting of the slap had stunned her sober.

“Be gone, before I fetch the police.”

Alice turned and stumbled toward the back gate, whining, “There’s a better place to work than here, I declare. There is many a lady who wants my services. I shall be placed in a finer home than this,” she said, staggering toward the alley.

Back inside, Emma closed the door to the yard. She walked into the pantry and was about to enter the kitchen when she heard someone speaking through the door.

“And what about the water?” It was the voice of the lady she had seen upstairs in the hall.

“There is a sink with a pump to the cistern in the back,” answered Dr. Burdell, who was in the kitchen as well. What was he doing there? He never entered the kitchen.

“No running pipes from the street? Well, it is a spacious kitchen and I have made do with less. And it’s a good cook that keeps a house in shape, I always say.”

“Hannah is a formidable cook,” replied Dr. Burdell. “She works from five in the morning to ten o’clock at night, except Sunday, when she leaves after a midday meal.”

“I do my best, sir,” said Hannah. “Even when my provisions are low.”

“What about the lady who has the position, now?” asked the woman.

“She will be leaving shortly,” said Dr. Burdell.

“Is there any problem?”

“No, no problem. She will be sailing for Europe, any day now, with her daughters.”

“Europe! Well, some say it’s a superior place, but I don’t understand why some folks aren’t happy with what they find here at home.”

“Mrs. Stansbury, if you are interested in moving here, I have prepared a lease for your use of the upstairs floors, in exchange for your housekeeping duties.”

“Now that I have seen the whole house, I am certain I shall be happy here. My husband is getting on in years, and he will be most comfortable. I shall bring him by tomorrow to look over the lease and to sign it.”

“Very well,” said Dr. Burdell, and Emma heard them exit the kitchen, their footsteps pounding as they went up the stairway above her head. There was no exit from the pantry except through the kitchen, unless she went out to the backyard and followed the alley out to Bond Street, and then reentered the front door. Emma pondered the conversation—she was going to Europe? She let several moments elapse and then stepped through the kitchen door.

Hannah looked up at her, with a mirthful look on her face. “I didn’t know you was going on a trip, Mrs. Cunningham,” she said.

“Oh, keep your mouth shut, Hannah.” Emma took a market basket from the kitchen table, and grabbed her hooded cloak, which hung on a peg. She rushed out of the kitchen and left under the stoop, heading to the Bowery.

May 6, 1857

H
enry Clinton passed through City Hall Park on his way to the courthouse. The cherry blossoms gave off a heady fragrance and the white marble columns on the façade of City Hall glistened through the branches. Clinton stopped next to the fountain to tie his shoe as cool water flowed through lion’s head medallions into a sequence of bronze pools. In the sequestered stillness of the early morning, one got the impression that civic life was still conducted in a sylvan glade in Ancient Greece.

At the courthouse steps, he dropped a penny in the hand of a newsboy. Heading inside, he scanned the headlines, all of them about the trial. “Prosecution’s case continues with Servants to testify today.” Near the bottom of the page, his eye caught a single item: “Abraham Oakey Hall a Mayoral Nominee; Party Leaders shift support from Mayor Wood.” Although the mention was small, Clinton was astonished by the brashness of the timing. It was as if the party leaders were anticipating a win by way of a verdict for the prosecution. Clinton snapped the paper shut and dashed up the steps.

In the defendant’s room, Emma sat at a table, waiting for the court session to begin. A group of stocky matrons hovered. “Will it be much like yesterday?” she asked Clinton as he arrived, referring to the long day inside the courtroom.

“Today, the servants are at the top of the roster,” said Clinton. “This will be more difficult. Try not to show emotion, even if you think they are not telling the truth.” It was best that her face was hidden under a veil, for the strain of these months in jail was clearly wearing her down. The jury would be searching for signs of guilt, ready to read into her slightest expression a vision of Lady Macbeth, wringing her hands in blood.

An officer announced it was time to enter the court. Emma carefully positioned the veil over her head and headed to the courtroom with Augusta and Helen. In their seats, they sat with their hands clasped together, each girl in her fashionable garb, a somber veiled figure between them.

Clinton sat at the defense table as the courtroom buzzed with the preparations of spectators anxiously struggling for seats. The preliminaries were delivered and silence descended. The court crier announced the first witness: Hannah Conlon. As she positioned herself into the chair, she looked like a cook, even without an apron. She had a ruddy face and wore a clean gingham dress. Her white fluted collar was the only indication that she was not spending the day in the kitchen. She crossed her palms, as if sitting for a portrait. Uncomfortably elevated in the witness box, she appeared determined to mimic the airs and manners of her superiors.

Oakey Hall slowly led Hannah through the familiar details of the crime, how the servant boy arrived and screamed for her to run upstairs; how Mrs. Cunningham and her daughters ran downstairs at the commotion; how Augusta dropped dead away in a faint; and how no one had the presence of mind to send the boy out to find help, except Hannah herself. She shuddered at the memory, clasp
ing her hand to her heart. “Oh, Lord,” she said, crossing herself, “it was the very worst calamity.”

“Did Mrs. Cunningham attempt to go to his aid, or to assist him in any way?”

“She didn’t weep. There was no move to go near him. I don’t know if she expected
me
to go to him, but I could see that his head was nearly unattached. The blood was running ankle deep. There was nothing anyone could do, that was plain to see.” Spectators in the gallery gasped.

“Did she appear mournful, or distraught?”

“I recollect her words, she said ‘I saw him before suppertime, just last night.’”

“And she stated this calmly?”

“She said it matter of fact, that was all. Like she didn’t have a care in the world. She didn’t even send the boy to the precinct house.” There was the hint of an Irish roll to her r’s, but she was straining to suppress them. Clinton listened, glancing at Emma. Her hands were now at her lap, twisting and retwisting a handkerchief.

Oakey Hall continued his interrogation of the cook, and her observations of the household. Hannah was dogged in her presentation, outlining the chores and routines and insisting at every chance that she was overworked, and making her resentment against her mistress plain. Hall swaggered back and forth in his peg trousers, his blond pompadour oiled and waved. He had the habit of patting his cravat, to make sure it was securely tucked into his vest, like a bird puffing his colors. He deftly moved the witness through the sequence of the events and the jury remained alert.

“Did Dr. Burdell bring a visitor into the kitchen, on the day that he died?”

“He did, sir, a lady was coming in to look at the house, Dr. Burdell was showing her all the rooms.”

“And where did you see her?”

“She came into the kitchen, and she said that she would be pleased to take the rooms upstairs and to take Mrs. Cunningham’s place.”

“Did Dr. Burdell or the lady say why she was replacing Mrs. Cunningham?”

“Why, he said she was leaving on a long trip, faraway, to Europe, I believe.”

“Would you state Mrs. Cunningham’s manner and appearance, later on that night, on the evening of January thirty-first?”

“Well, she appeared regular, but she came down to kitchen earlier than usual and ordered me to go to bed.”

“At what time?”

“It was about ten o’clock and I had much work to finish up in the kitchen.”

“And did you go up to your room at that time?”

“Well, I had myself the rest of the pork, and I went upstairs at ten thirty.”

Hall repeatedly inquired on the point, as to why she was asked to retire early, with Hannah repeating herself, until the Judge finally intervened, saying, “We have heard from the witness sufficiently on this matter.” After more questions about Hannah’s sleep patterns and her insistence that she heard no noises all night, Hall finally retired the witness.

Clinton stood. He aimed to conduct a swift cross-examination without appearing to be unsympathetic to the cook. He knew that with every question, the jury would be pondering his intent. By questioning less, he caused them to ponder deeper.

“Mrs. Conlon,” began Clinton, “did Dr. Burdell discuss his daily plans with you?”

“Why no, sir, he didn’t come to the kitchen much at all, that was the housemistress’s job.”

“Did he discuss his business or his travel with you?”

“No, sir, I was not privy.”

“Did he discuss any travel arrangements he was making with Mrs. Cunningham, to go to Europe together, perhaps?”

“Why no, I didn’t hear nothing about that.”

“Now, you said that Mrs. Cunningham came to the kitchen on the evening of January thirty-first. Was she expecting Dr. Burdell home at his usual time?”

“He usually returned by eleven o’clock, and she told me to fill the water basin.”

“She asked you to put fresh water in Dr. Burdell’s basin?”

“She asked me to carry up the water, and place it in his water basin on my way to bed. It wasn’t my duty, but there was no chambermaid.” Hannah sniffed.

“Did you take the fresh water upstairs?”

“I did. I filled a pitcher and I carried it all the way upstairs and placed it in his water closet in the hall.”

“Did you see Mrs. Cunningham after that?”

“I saw her in her bedroom as I passed by on my way to the attic. Her door was open, and she was packing some things.”

“Did she say anything else to you?”

“No, she just bade me good night. She called out, ‘Good night, Hannah.’”

“Thank you, Ma’am, that is all,” said Clinton, nodding and turning quickly to his seat; his only intention was to show that a person’s actions could be given sinister overtones, or simply be seen as part of an everyday routine.

Next, the chambermaid was called. Alice Donahoe stepped up, wiry, her lanky hair topped by a Sunday hat. As Hall queried the witness, he sprinkled artificial flatteries among his questions with his elongated drawl, appearing to show the housemaid respect. He
asked about her duties and about the layout of the house. “During your period working at 31 Bond Street, did you ever have any difficulty with your master?” he asked Alice.

“Never, sir, by any chance,” said Alice with emphasis. “Dr. Burdell was a respectable gentleman, one of the finest.”

“Did you have difficulties with the housemistress?”

“With Mrs. Cunningham! There wasn’t nobody in the house that didn’t have trouble with her.”

“Objection,” said Clinton from his chair.

“I will ask the witness to refrain from speaking for others,” said the Judge.

Hall continued. “Madame, to your knowledge, was Mrs. Cunningham married to Dr. Burdell?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Clinton called out loudly, now raising himself from his seat. “Questions about the marriage are prohibited from this proceeding by prior order and such inquiries are barred from testimony.”

The Judge looked squarely at Oakey Hall and stated: “Mr. Hall, I will remind you, the matter about which you speak is being litigated in another courtroom. There will be no questioning on the subject.”

“Excuse me, I withdraw,” said Hall, fiddling with the architecture of his large cravat.

The Judge spoke to the jury and said, “The jury shall disregard this question, and make no inference from it.”

“Let me ask the witness, then,” Hall continued, “since you attended to Dr. Burdell’s bedroom, did you observe from the bedding, that two persons slept in his bed?”

“Objection!” said Clinton.

“Overruled, the witness may answer that,” said Judge Davies.

“Well,” hinted Alice coyly, “on certain mornings, I saw that the covers was mussed and the pillows looked used, like two was sleep
ing there instead of one. I found hairpins on the mattress.” Her eyes darted about, and she leaned forward. “What went on in the room, I can only guess,” she said.

“Was it a regular occurrence that you found the bedding disheveled?”

“Regular enough,” she said. “Up until the month of January. On some nights, the bed wasn’t used at all. Dr. Burdell was spending his nights out. He’d come back in the early morning, wearing the same clothes he had on the day before.” At this mention, there was a stirring throughout the courtroom, at the implication that Dr. Burdell had a mistress, planting the idea of jealousy as a motive.

“Were others in the house aware of his habits of sleeping away from home?”

“I kept quiet and didn’t talk about it because I was worried that I might be compromised if I told tales. I have been a chambermaid in New York for seven years. It was the depth of winter, and I feared to lose my job.”

Clinton listened, subdued. He had to be careful. Too many objections might elicit sympathy for the working girl. He hoped that if she spoke long enough, she would hang herself.

Alice gave off a rattling cough and Hall was quick to offer her a glass of water from a tumbler. “Thank you, sir; I’ll thank you for it.” She drank from the glass.

“Did you ever observe the defendant, Mrs. Cunningham, entering Dr. Burdell’s room when he was not at home?”

“Oh, my, she went in there many times. The Doctor always kept his rooms locked. I saw her entering that room when he was away, I cannot tell a lie about it.”

“Miss Donahoe, I trust you are telling us the truth, and honoring your oath and your duty.”

“I saw her with my own eyes. One time, I even saw her listening at the door to the parlor. Dr. Burdell was inside with a gentleman.”

“So would you say she was in the habit of tracking his movements?”

“She certainly kept a watch on him. She had a halter around his neck, that’s for sure. I may not be a lady, but I knows about the truth.” The room was hushed and Alice’s voice was rising.

“And on the day of the murder, was she keeping track of his movements?”

“She was all over the house, checking on everything. When I was downstairs, passing by the stair, there was a big argument.”

“Which day was this?”

“Why, Friday, sir, the very day he was slaughtered.”

“Can you tell me the nature of the argument?”

“She was at his door, banging. It was about some papers or a paper that was stolen. Then I went about my business. I headed to the basement. That’s when she came down looking for the house keys.”

“Did you give her your house keys?”

“She grabbed them away from me, just as you please.”

“Afterward, what did you do?”

“I tried to prevent her from taking them. I told her, with all due respect, that she could not have them, they were the possession of the Doctor. Then she slapped me just as hard as she pleased, and it sent me reeling.” There were faint gasps from the audience. “I told her I would not work in such a place. I told her I was finished, and that I would not suffer in such a way. I went to the back door and left that very day, without even getting my things.” Alice appeared distraught and reached for her glass of water. Hall stepped forward with a look of concern and refilled her tumbler from the pitcher. When she finished sipping down the water, she coughed again, and gasped, as if she was having trouble breathing. Hall paced, patiently.

After she had sipped some more water, Hall deliberated and
then said, “Miss Donahoe, I do not want to disturb you any further. That shall be all. I thank you for your testimony.” He quickly retreated, for she had served her purpose.

“Does the defense wish to cross-examine this witness?” asked Judge Davies, who looked at Clinton squarely, but the task was to be Thayer’s. “Yes, Your Honor,” replied Thayer, standing up, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Easy,” Clinton whispered, sotto voce as Thayer edged behind, approaching the bench. By agreement, Clinton would show deference to witnesses, as he had with Hannah, and allow Thayer to be the one to go on the attack. It seemed insincere to a jury when a lawyer shifted his stance. Thayer had an aggressive nature, which was valuable when impeaching a witness, but untethered, at cross-examination, it could leave the least credible witness looking wounded and sympathetic. Clinton hoped that the young lawyer was up to the task. The workingmen in the jury would have little sympathy if the defense badgered the servants. Alice, however, was hostile to the defendant, and discrediting her testimony would take a certain amount of skill and finesse.