31 Bond Street (4 page)

“It is all so terrible. I have told them everything. The last time I saw Dr. Burdell was before dinner, on Friday. He had his carriage brought around. I asked him where he was going, but he did not tell me. I stayed here in my room all evening by the fire, with my daughters, sewing. The three of us went to sleep in my bedroom, around eleven o’clock. We decided to sleep together in my room because it was my daughter’s last night at home.”

“Did you hear any commotion, or any noises during the night?”

“I am generally a sound sleeper and I didn’t wake at all. I heard nothing. In the morning, the errand boy found him—he was dead!” She broke into sobs. She knocked a sewing basket from her chair onto the floor, spilling lace and ribbons. The room smelled faintly of perfume. Clinton handed her his handkerchief.

“I have been telling them the same thing over and over,” she continued. “I do not know who killed Dr. Burdell or where he went that evening. He was gone for many hours. His carriage driver, Samuel, certainly would know.”

“You told that to the Coroner and the Police Chief?”

She took a breath, trembling. It took her several seconds to compose herself and then she said, “They molested me, you know.”

“Who?”

“The Coroner, and his deputies. They made me undress before them, removing everything, including my stockings,” she said, her hands twisting anxiously at her handkerchief. “The men ran their fingers up and down my torso, looking for marks and bruises, but there was nothing. I was so ashamed and I cried out, ‘Don’t expose
me so!’” she said, sobbing anew. “Sir, you must help me. I fear for my daughters—they are so young. I am so frightened for them, you must help us.”

He watched and listened intently as she spoke. She had a shawl around her shoulders, gripping it tightly. Her eyes darted around the room, as if searching for familiar ballast. He heard the terror in her voice at the separation from her daughters, who were being kept away from her, sequestered in another room.

“Madame, I must ask you about something important—about the marriage certificate.” Clinton spoke quickly, because he sensed that time was short. “I will be blunt. You told the Police Chief that you and Dr. Burdell were married, but no one else was aware of it. Now the Coroner is trying to establish if the certificate is a fake, which might indicate your motive toward the crime, so you would gain his property as a widow.”

She gasped, as if the idea stung her. “Harvey and I met in Saratoga last summer, and shortly thereafter, he proposed. I came to live in this house and we were married privately,” she insisted. “Dr. Burdell preferred that we keep the marriage a secret, until the spring, when we were to go to Europe. He needed to complete some business, and to straighten out his affairs. It was his choice to keep it a secret and I complied.” Clinton strained to listen, for her voice was whispery and faint.

“I will see that you get legal representation. But first, here is my advice,” he said. “For now, you must remain silent. Do not speak to anyone without a lawyer present.”

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open and a police officer entered. “What are you doing in here?” he shouted at Clinton. “The Coroner has given orders that no one may enter this room!”

Clinton stood up, reflexively. “I am a lawyer. I am having a conference with this woman with her permission, as is her right.”

“These rooms are off bounds to lawyers. She has no right to speak to anyone.” The policeman lunged toward him, but Clinton dodged and moved toward the door.

“There is no such requirement. No one can be denied counsel. I will speak to the Coroner myself,” Clinton said, moving swiftly to the hall and toward the stairs, with the officer following behind him. He started downstairs while the officer yelled loudly after him, “A man has been in to see the witness. I tried to prevent him!”

Clinton reached the last flight, just as Coroner Connery was rushing from the parlor to see the cause of the commotion. The crowd spilled out after him: jurymen, journalists, detectives, and officers, all crowding into the hall, looking up at Clinton, who was now stopped, poised on the staircase, midway down. Clinton remained where he was and addressed the group below: “Gentleman, I have just been speaking with the lady you have in custody. She has every right to consult with me, as a member of the legal profession.”

“I will not allow anyone to go stealthily into the prisoner’s room for any reason whatsoever,” bellowed the Coroner. “Tampering with a witness is against my orders!”

“I did not go stealthily, for there is no restriction against a member of the legal profession having a private consultation with a citizen, upon their request.”

“I did not say stealthily with any design to malign you, sir,” the Coroner replied, with mock deference. “I am the one in charge here, and Mrs. Cunningham and her daughters cannot elect to talk to anyone until their sworn testimony before me.”

“Is this woman to be interviewed as a witness or is she a suspect?” asked Clinton. “That is what I demand to know. If she is a suspect, then the law provides that no person can be imprisoned without charges made. I will present you with a writ of habeas corpus if I must. She cannot be held under arrest unless she is charged with a crime.”

“She is under arrest in her own home, which is a different matter entirely. Perhaps she is a suspect or perhaps she is a witness. I am the one to decide that.”

Clinton moved down the last steps. “It will be a simple matter to test your interpretation of the law before a more competent authority than yourself. I will obtain an order from a judge, if I must.”

“Go ahead,” said Connery, seething like a child rebuked, “but I speak to you in the presence of the jury and the press—we do not need law here! This is my investigation.” He pointed to a policeman and shouted, “Get some committals made out. I want them here, so that I can send to prison any person who interferes with my orders.”

Clinton walked solidly past the officers, to the outer door, and exited the house. From atop the stoop he met a blast of bright morning light; the crowd before 31 Bond Street had grown larger. It was almost ten o’clock and downtown his clerks would be busy at their desks. It was time to get to his office—he had just come across his next case.

C
linton pulled the canvas strap that ran along the floor, tied to the driver’s leg. The Bowery stagecoach was known for its cutthroat drivers who could steer a team of horses through any morning crush. The horses whinnied as the coach strained to a stop. Clinton hopped off and headed toward the limestone row of law offices that faced the unadorned back side of City Hall.

He waded among the newsboys, who chanted the headlines about the murder. A ragged boy stopped before him; he had the haunted, hollow look of the very hungry and wore tattered pants that were too short by a foot. Clinton reached into his pocket to sprinkle a coin into the boy’s hand when he realized that the boy was not begging but handing him an envelope with his name written on the front.

“Excuse me, sir, this is for you,” the boy said, handing him the letter. “Mrs. Cunningham sent me, to give you this.” Clinton had left Bond Street just thirty minutes earlier, after being ejected from the house by Coroner Connery, yet somehow this boy had intercepted him.

“How did you get to see Mrs. Cunningham?” asked Clinton.

“I work for Doctor Burdell—before he died, I mean. Now the deputies keep me busy. I fetch the coal and water for all the rooms. I was cleaning out the chamber pot in Mrs. Cunningham’s bedroom when she gave me this. She said to run downtown and give it to you.” Clinton took the envelope and broke open the seal.

Clinton refolded the note. He noticed that Emma Cunningham signed the letter as Emma Burdell. He also remembered that she had told him that she was sleeping when Dr. Burdell returned to the house; now her letter stated that she was awake and she saw him from the window. Without the advice of counsel, she might contradict herself when asked to give testimony to the Coroner at the inquest in the parlor. Reporters were recording the proceeding, and any inconsistent testimony would go on record.

Looking up from the letter, Clinton saw that the boy was ready to bolt. “Wait, son—” Clinton reached into his pocket, pulling out a bill. “Your name is…?

“John, sir.”

“You work in the house?”

“I am the houseboy and do errands, sir.”

“Have you spoken before the coroner’s jury?”

“Yes, I told them about how I found Dr. Burdell dead on his carpet.”

“And did you speak the truth?

“Yes, sir, I did.” The boy started to fidget, nervously.

“John—do you know who killed Dr. Burdell?”

“No, sir, I don’t know who done it! Really, I don’t!” he said. Clinton slipped a dollar into the boy’s hand. The haunted look on John’s face deepened. Clinton suspected that he had never held a dollar bill before.

“I need you to help me,” Clinton said softly, placing an arm around his shoulders and leading him toward the door to his office. “Come upstairs with me. I have some food.”

Clerks and junior staff looked up from a maze of desks. Clinton took off his overcoat, and the entire staff watched the ragged boy, no more than eleven years old, with a tousled head of blond hair, cowering at his side. Clinton paused, then addressed them, in a robust voice: “Good morning! It’s Monday morning, and there is work to do. I need to schedule a hearing on the house arrest of the people this past weekend at Bond Street. The names of the parties in custody are Mrs. Emma Cunningham, Augusta Cunningham, and Helen Cunningham.” A legal associate began to scribble Clinton’s orders, and then looked up, quill in hand.

“How do you spell that, sir?” he asked.

“Cunningham,” repeated Clinton. “Like it sounds. And I want someone to look up the legal code that describes a Coroner’s powers and how long a Coroner can lay siege to a crime scene. Write out a copy of the code and deliver it to the
New York Times
.”

“Good morning to you, too, sir,” yelled one of the clerks, in a merry tone. “May I surmise that you read today’s headlines, and we are embarking on a new case?”

“At the moment, I am considering it, Mr. Snarky,” Clinton replied coolly to the clerk. “And since you have such an irreverent
manner, I shall assign you the task of handling the press. I want you to spend each evening at Park Row, finding out the news from the inquest at Bond Street. And you shall keep the file on all the newspaper clippings on the case.”

“Yes, sir,” Snarky said, subdued, not that he minded mingling with the reporters who clustered in knots along the printing house row, sitting on crates in the alleys, chomping on the stumps of wide cigars, gambling at cards, while waiting for news of fresh crime from the police precincts.

“And,” said Clinton, “the next time she comes, would someone please tell my wife—we don’t need any more food.” Clinton took John to a shelf piled high with tins. Almost every day, Elisabeth stopped by the law office with more baked goods. With Clinton always between the jailhouse and the courts, no matter what time she came, she hardly ever found him in.

Clinton opened a tin of shortbread. “Here we go, John. These are fairly fresh. I believe she brought these over Friday.” John raised a triangle of cake and jammed it into his mouth. His eyes widened, embarrassed, when he heard the laughter of the clerks.

Clinton led John into his office, away from the eyes of the curious staff. He shut the door and sat John down to finish his cake. “John, you have been at the house awhile, am I correct?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said dutifully, his mouth still full.

“And you know Mrs. Cunningham and the other servants? Do you know the carriage driver, named Samuel?” The boy began chewing faster and eyed the door without answering.

Clinton now reached into his pocket and sorted through some coins until he found a penny, shiny and new, dated 1857, with a flying eagle stamped on the copper. He offered it to the boy, and his face lit up at the sight. As he suspected, it was the bird on the shiny coin that intrigued him; paper currency had little meaning.

“I don’t know where Samuel is,” he protested, “I swear to it.”

Clinton patted him on the back. “John, I need your help. Here’s what I need you to do. I want you to go back to 31 Bond Street, and do your job, and each day, come here and fill me in on what is happening inside the house. Can you do that?” The boy nodded. “Can you leave the house without being missed?”

“The police officers send me out for food and provisions, and such. I can pass the officers at the door anytime,” said John.

“Good. I want you to be my eyes and ears.” Clinton opened another tin—this box was filled with taffy. He placed it before the child, who added the candy to his bulging pockets. Clinton lifted a page of stationery from a stack on his desk and started penning a note. “I am writing a letter for you to give to Mrs. Cunningham. Make sure no one sees you.” The boy nodded.

Clinton led John out past the clerks, escorting him out the office door, to the hallway. “Remember, John,” he whispered, “it’s important to be discreet,” said Clinton as the boy nodded and fled away.

Clinton stepped back inside and encountered a thin-skinned, elderly gentleman standing at the edge of the room, struggling into his coat.

“The Livingstone papers, Henry. It was a simple request,” James Armstrong said as he put on his hat.

Clinton slapped his head. “I am remiss, James. I completely forgot about them. I apologize. Instead, I went to the inquest at Bond Street. It’s a circus there, and in the ensuing chaos, I neglected to stop for Mr. Livingstone’s signature. I’ll send one of the juniors right now to take care of it.”

“No need, Henry, no need.” Armstrong sighed. “I’ll go myself. No need to ruffle a client’s feathers, especially when the feathers are as richly hued as Josiah Livingstone’s.” Armstrong spoke with a forced nonchalance, masking his anger, leaving the impression that running off in the downtown traffic was a pleasurable morning outing. Armstrong settled into his deep cashmere coat with a
banker’s collar, lined with fur. “As for this Bond Street business, I suppose you should tell me what kind of mess you’re getting the firm into. I heard that this past summer, this same widow was seen around Saratoga, husband hunting.”

“James, the corpse is barely cold, and rumor, not fact, are giving high color to this investigation.”

“Enough,” said Armstrong, with impatience, opening the door to leave. “I will be going to Dr. Burdell’s funeral tomorrow to pay my respects to the family. His brothers engaged me to handle a property dispute back in ’54. I imagine they are shocked by this weekend’s violence, as am I. I would like you to join me in the carriage tomorrow morning. On the way to the church, you can explain to me what you are doing in the middle of this.”