31 Bond Street (20 page)

‘Miss Donahoe…,” Thayer began, his voice trailing off, as if he were still formulating his thoughts in his mind. “Madame…,” he began again. Alice pulled herself upright, readying herself, with a look of scorn. “Let me understand something. Did you say there was a halter around Dr. Burdell’s neck? Was it a real rope or an artificial rope?” Thayer asked, speaking with a puzzled tone.

“Well, sir, the imaginary kind, the kind a lady holds over a man, to keep him in her command.”

“Do you mean the kind of rope a wife might pull to bring her husband home from the taverns?” asked Thayer, bringing laughter from the spectators.

“Dr. Burdell hardly drank,” she said emphatically. “I always considered him very refined—a correct gentleman.”

“And Mrs. Cunningham? Was she a proper lady?”

“Oh, heavens no! As a mother and a widowed lady, it was most improper for her to be in his room late at night.”

“Is it improper for any wife to be in her husband’s room at night?”

“Well, if I could look through the keyhole, I could tell you if it was improper or not.” Again the room erupted in laughter, and Alice seemed to take pride in her bawdy joke.

“I trust you never did look through your employer’s keyhole, did you Miss Donahoe?” and Alice blushed at the insinuation. “On the night of the murder,” he continued, “on Friday night, January thirty-first, did you observe any unusual behavior?”

“I was not there in the evening of the occurrence, if you please.”

“You did not sleep in your bedroom in the attic with Hannah that night?”

“That was my usual place to sleep, but I was not there, because I gave my dismissal.”

“Wasn’t it Mrs. Cunningham who dismissed you from your job that very morning?”

“Mrs. Cunningham got it wrong,” Alice replied, brashly. “I took leave on my own accord.”

“Is it true that Mrs. Cunningham went looking all over the house for you and found you in the basement?”

“After I finished in the bedrooms, I was feeling poorly and got a cold in my feet and felt ill, so I went to the basement to rest.”

“Did she find you in the cellar with a whiskey bottle, and you could hardly stand?” The spectators shuffled and murmured. Oakey Hall pursed his lips, listening.

“No, sir, that is not the case,” replied Alice, tartly. “I had the rheumatism, and I went down to the cellar for a rest.”

“Did you go down into the cold basement to drink whiskey and
when you became intoxicated you could not stand up? And did your mistress tell you she would have to let you go because you drank too much?”

“That’s not true!” said Alice, indignant. “If she saw me on the ground, it was because I was going down on my knees to say a prayer to God.”

“Were you intoxicated on the morning of January thirty-first? Answer the question, yes or no,” said Thayer.

“Please allow me, sir,” said Alice imploringly, turning to the Judge.

“I asked you, yes or no!” Thayer said loudly.

The Judge interrupted: “Mr. Thayer, let her give her own explanation, in her words.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alice said, nodding to the Judge. She settled in her seat and continued her tale, now speaking to the Judge. “I had been doing very poorly. I am a poor girl, and I get cold in my feet and my hands get the rheumatism. I feel poorly in the wintertime and I was…”

“Witness, you have not answered my question.”

“Mr. Thayer, I have asked that she have time to speak without interruption,” Judge Davies said. “Miss Donahoe, you must speak to the question of whether or not you were intoxicated during the day of January thirty-first. Please take your time.”

“Sir, if I had some liquor, it was but a little bad brandy. In wintertime the cook sometimes adds it to the soup, and it made me ill. I did not ask for it, for I am not accustomed to having it. No, sir, after I had my meal, I went down into the cellar and I took a fainting fit, or a spasm—and I fell to the ground. Mrs. Cunningham came looking for me. She was mistaken, thinking I was in my cups. I was never in the beastly state of intoxication that I have seen Mrs. Cunningham in!”

The room erupted in laughter, which was suppressed by the rapping of the Judge’s hammer. “Sir,” Alice implored, “I am but a poor person, and I have to depend upon myself,” she whined.

As the laughter subsided, Clinton glanced around to see the effect. The jury and spectators had a sneering look. As he swiveled slightly he caught a glance at the door, where he saw Snarky, bobbing urgently, handing something to the court attendant. The attendant came forward and dropped a note before Clinton on the defense table. It was a ripped scrap of paper folded in two and Clinton opened it to see the words: “Stansbury off list. Husband Tammany fixer.” Clinton allowed himself a deep breath as the news sank in. Hall had just lost an important witness, slated after the maid. She was the woman who had come to rent rooms in the house from Dr. Burdell the very same day as the murder. Unlike the servants, who carried grudges, this woman had no prior contact with the defendant and had a simple but damning message—that she came to the house to lease the upper floors; that Dr. Burdell intended that Emma’s and her daughter’s rooms would soon be vacated. Her message, if true, was troubling, for it could be inferred that Dr. Burdell wanted Emma gone. The tip from Snarky meant that the woman’s husband had a link to ward politics, and perhaps to payoffs, and the party bosses feared the exposure. Clinton lifted his eyes to focus back on the testimony and kept his facial muscles still, but if he could allow himself a spontaneous response to both the note and Thayer’s performance, it would be a smile as broad as a schoolboy’s.

“Let me make sure your statement is clear,” resumed Thayer carefully, allowing the room to settle and Alice’s words to linger in the air. “You witnessed the defendant, Emma Cunningham, in a drunken state?”

“Well I certainly suspected….”

“Do not give me your opinion. Answer me, yes or no? Did you ever witness Mrs. Cunningham heavily intoxicated?”

“Well if you put it so clearly, I was always told to leave the room when she was sneaking the bottle.”

“Yes or no!” Thayer was standing next to the jury box and he thumped on the railing for emphasis.

“Please, sir…,” she said in a whining voice.

Thayer continued with a soft voice. “Then let me redirect your testimony to the facts of which you can be aware. Let me ask you, then: have you ever been jailed for the habits of intoxication?” he asked quietly.

“Objection,” said Hall.

“I have not!” burst the maid before the Judge could answer. “I was only taken to the jailhouse two times, but that is because they thought I was another girl. I have never been known to imbibe in excess.”

Thayer nodded and began to speak, but she rambled on.

“I am not addicted! I take but small sips. I have my references here and I will give them to the Judge.” She fumbled with some papers in her thin purse.

“There is no need,” said Thayer. “The witness is dismissed.”

January 31, 1857

A
t Tompkins market, Emma wandered the stalls while the locksmith finished copying the keys. Her cape was huddled around her and her hood was up, shadowing her face. The locksmith’s shop on the Bowery had a forge in the back. He had pressed the two keys into the wax and poured the metal in the impression, but the cooling and filing would take the better part of an hour, so she roamed the maze of the market stalls. Once she had the keys, she could return the key ring to its nail by the pantry cupboard where they belonged.

The bell of St. Mark’s in the Bowery tolled and then the bells from the faraway church towers began, each one starting up at a different moment, chiming in a dissonant pattern. The sky was broodingly dark and the canvas on the stalls snapped when a gust came through, but so far there had been no heavy gales or falling snow. She returned to the locksmith and urged him to hurry. He gave her the copied keys, one for Dr. Burdell’s office door and one for his bedroom door.

She hurried down the alley behind Bond Street, her cape flap
ping at her heels as the wind bore down from behind. Her foot twisted on an irregular cobblestone and she nearly stumbled. She slowed—ahead she spotted Samuel leading the horse out of the alley door of the stable, stopping to fit the bit in a horse’s mouth. She was almost upon him, so it was not possible to pass without him seeing her.

He looked up at her approach. “Madame,” he said, with quick nod. The horse’s head hung, obedient and patient.

“Is Dr. Burdell taking the carriage right away?” she asked.

“He will be leaving for the bank and then will use the carriage for the evening. He has bid me to rig her up and meet him at the bank.”

“What is his business? Where is he going tonight?”

He looked at her warily, as he had earlier in the morning. “I am the servant, Ma’am, I only drive the horse.”

His cryptic answer and his perceived loyalty to his master triggered her fury. She confronted him. “Is he going to a business meeting?”

“Ma’am, please be obliged that he goes many places,” he said.

“Or is he going to the hotel to see his mistress?

“That I can’t say.”

“Samuel,” she said in a loud whisper, “surely you know where he is going, and what business he conducts?”

“I don’t, Ma’am,” he said, looking uncomfortable. She thought she saw the bright whites of his eyes flash under his dark brow. His haunted look made her crazy. She stepped forward, close to him, as if she were going to challenge him, and by reflex he grabbed her by both wrists and held them tight in his fists, so that her skin twisted and it hurt. His eyes bore down on her, and he hissed an angry whisper,
“If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!”

She gasped. He was close to her body. “Let me go, what has
possessed you?” She wriggled and tried to pull from him, but the steel grip of his muscles only made her small bones feel as if they might snap. And then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he dropped his grip, letting her arms drop. He stepped away from her. It was clear his action had stunned him as much as it stunned her.

“How dare you put your hands on me. You have overstepped all decency. I will see that you are dismissed!”

“Madame, you would do me a service to relieve me of this duty.”

She rubbed her wrists furiously. “I shall report that you have tried to brutalize me,” she mumbled, sensing now that he was truly afraid.

“I beg your pardon, I am just trying to warn you, Madame. This is no place for a lady,” he said and stumbled backward a step.

She regained her sense of urgency. “From now on, you will listen to me. If you know what is good for you, you will follow my orders,” she said. “Tomorrow I will need the carriage for the entire day. It is Saturday, and you will do as I say—you will drive Helen to the train. Then you will come back for me. I have a rendezvous at one o’clock.” She spoke with an emphatic tone that implied
it is understood.

“Madame, if your daughter is getting on a train tomorrow, I bid you get on that train with her.”

Disturbed by the encounter, she was anxious to get back to the house. “My travel arrangements are my own affair,” she stated, hurrying away.

Emma passed though the garden gate, shut the back door quietly, then put the key ring on the hook by the cupboard in the pantry. She entered the kitchen, removing her cloak. Hannah was busy at
the stove with her back turned and seemed intent on ignoring her, so Emma headed upstairs. She glanced at the hall table and saw that her envelope to Mr. Wicken was gone.

“Has Augusta been gone with Mr. Wicken?” she asked John, who was sitting on a stool by the door.

“Mr. Wicken has taken her,” he said. “They left in his phaeton. It’s a fast runner, an open racer with gold lines painted on the side.”

“And where is Dr. Burdell? Would I find him in his office?” she asked.

“He has walked to the bank,” the boy answered. “And then he goes to supper, he is out for the evening.” Confirming what she had heard from Samuel, she went straight up to the second floor. At Dr. Burdell’s door, she pulled the new keys out of her pocket and slipped one in the lock. The door creaked open along the carpet and she shut it quickly behind her and locked it from the inside. Alone in the office, she gingerly looked around, hearing only the gentle sizzing of the gas in the burners. The coals in the fireplace were aglow, burning like rubies. The writing table had a ledger laid across it, open. She glanced at the notations of entries next to patients’ names. She opened a drawer in the desk. It held inks and instruments for writing. She went over to the washbasin, where the paneling made way for little cupboards. She tapped on a panel, and it swung open, revealing powders in apothecary jars, but no papers. Her hand was shaking so much that she held it to her breast to calm it down, feeling her beating heart under her dress. She needed to calm her nerves.

There was a safe between the desk and the fireplace. She had often seen Dr. Burdell when his office door was open, bent over the low safe, shuffling through it. The safe took a key and not a combination. It must be hidden somewhere nearby, she thought, to give him easy access. She felt behind the ornate gold mirror that hung over the mantel and fingered the edges of the mantel cornices, feel
ing for anything that might have a small ledge to hide the key. Her heart was still beating fast as she urged herself to focus on finding her deed.

On the top of the mantel were two glass bell jars; inside each one was a specimen of a human jaw on display. She moved them carefully to each side, to look behind them. As she was rearranging them back into position, she spotted a glint of metal. She stood on tiptoe and peering inside one of the jaws from above, she saw it—a small gold key.

She lifted the glass and dipped her fingers into the jawbone behind the row of teeth, and pulled out the tiny key. She quickly knelt down to the level of the safe and fumbled with the latch. Inside the safe was an assortment of business papers placed on the shelves, many rolled and tied. She pulled out a document, on yellow paper. She opened it and saw that it was a lease—made out to Mr. and Mrs. Ezekiel Stansbury. Shocked by the clear evidence that the lady Dr. Burdell had interviewed was to take over her place as housemistress in her rooms, who had come that very morning, she rashly threw the lease in the fireplace, where it caught on the coals and burst into a quick flame. Half of the paper fell forward and sat curled on the firestone, with its ink turning brown. Frightened, Emma grabbed the poker and pushed it back into the coals until it burnt and disintegrated into a feathery ash.

She returned to the safe, now focused on finding her deed. There was another scroll inside, wrapped and tied. As she reached for it, she heard the jingling of bells on a horse’s neck, the sound of a horse stopping before the house. Was it Augusta returning or Dr. Burdell? She listened to the faraway sound of the front door opening and closing in the hallway below. She could not take a chance of being discovered, so she grabbed the scroll and stuffed it in her pocket.

She jammed the safe shut and locked it, her heart beating. She lifted the bell jar and dropped the key into the jaw and immediately realized that she had dropped it into the wrong one. She dipped her finger inside the bone, but it slipped out of the grip of her finger until finally she pinched the key and placed it under the next jar. She heard voices muffled, down below.

She rushed into the wardrobe passage that led between the office and the bedroom, her skirts brushing against the cabinets as she passed. It led to the other side, to his bedroom, which was dark, with the velvet drapes drawn and the door to the hall closed and locked. She fumbled in her pocket for the new keys. She found a key and, trembling, slipped it into the lock to let herself out, but before she turned the key, she heard the tread of a footfall on the hall carpet coming up the stair. She froze, listening through the door. Then she heard the key click in the keyhole of the office next door. He was back.

She stood still, not daring to move. Dr. Burdell was bustling around in the office, as if he was looking for something. Her hand held the scroll tight. She tried hard not to breathe. She heard the faint rustle of his movements in the other room. She fumbled again with the key and slipped it into its lock.

Then she froze again at the sound of his heavy step entering the wardrobe passage and the loud tread of his boots on the wooden floorboards where there was no carpet. Terrified, she expected him to appear in the bedroom and see her there, huddled against the door, poised to flee. Then she heard the scraping of a heavy drawer and the sound of wood banging. He was pulling out the drawers of the wardrobe cabinets, which were built solidly into the wall and always stuck. She could hear the wood shriek as he yanked it.

She took advantage of the commotion and turned the key quickly and opened the bedroom door, pulling it softly across the
carpet just enough to slip out and then slowly pulled the knob from the other side so that it made hardly any sound. She slipped the key back in, turning it around in the hole until it clicked. Then she turned and ran up the high staircase to the third floor. At the top, she waited just long enough to listen to the sound of her own heart battling inside the cave of her chest: he didn’t emerge from either door; he wasn’t chasing her; he hadn’t heard her after all.