31 Bond Street (6 page)

“I only suggest this venture to those who are wealthy enough or clever enough to take such a risk. I have already seen my own money return a profit four-fold, and there is more to be had. Of course I understand if you are hesitant.”

“Well,” she said, deferring, “I do have a large sum at my disposal, but I reserve it for solid things.”

“It was not so long ago that my house on Bond Street was a farm, and now it is in the heart of town. Those who hold on to the past do not see the future beneath their feet. I would be glad to take you one day to see the land across the river.” Emma listened with courteous attention, wondering what the advantage might be of a journey to a distant marshland, instead determining, upon her return, to wander down Bond Street, her keener interest being his townhouse, at number 31.

One morning in August, Dr. Burdell did not appear on the verandah, and days went by without so much as a note. Believing he had returned to New York, Emma later spotted him at another hotel, absorbed in a business conference with another gentleman. The two men made an uncharacteristic coupling: Dr. Burdell was attired in a suit the color of flint, and the other man wore green gabardine and a yellow cravat. They sat huddled together, animated
by the topic of railroads or land or rotted docks. Disturbed by his absence, she considered taking up with another escort. Other men had approached her, mostly older men, widowers, gouty, with pink flesh that rippled around their collars, and stomachs that bloated under expensive silk vests. They greeted her, bowing a little too low, and leering, as if she were a stage girl. She decided that she would only succumb to spending an evening on the arm of such a man as a last resort.

After Dr. Burdell became elusive, Emma began to plan. She evaluated his qualities: he was around forty-five, with a smooth complexion and thick lips. He was handsome, not classically so, but in the way that men are allowed, with features that slowly align with age, and creases that deepen the personality of the wearer. He had dark eyes that squinted often, indicating that he was judging the value of what he saw. He was tall and well built. He crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously, revealing strong muscles under his freshly pressed suit.

As Emma sat at a large looking glass in her room, mounting her hair into careful twists, she thought about her future and envisioned Dr. Burdell’s townhouse on Bond Street. She imagined herself the mistress of it, smartening his surroundings with taste and flair.
The bridesmaids’ dresses,
she mused,
tulle and pearls for her daughters. A May wedding, with ornamental wreaths of dogwood before the entry of Grace Church. A starched serving girl, a cook who can prepare a proper duck.

The August days grew shorter, and with each darker nightfall, her fears returned. Augusta had failed to attract any of the single young men who strolled about the country lanes with tittering debutantes in pursuit, while Helen was followed by droves of earnest schoolboys.

Toward the end of their stay, Dr. Burdell sent an invitation to join him for dinner. Emma promptly accepted. She dressed in
yellow silk, with diamonds at the rounded bodice, cut low at the neck. Helen wore a maize and grenadine dress balanced on steel hoops; Augusta’s dress had flounced ruffles edged in lace, studded by bouquets of roses, terminating in white fringe. Dr. Burdell appeared with the flourish of a chrysanthemum in his lapel.

In the middle of dinner, his gaze wandered across the dining room. “There are some investors here,” he said, placing his napkin on the table, “who are joining me in one of my land ventures. I shall need a moment to speak with them.” He excused himself and crossed the dining room, staying at the men’s table for the length of the meal. When he returned, the girls had finished dessert and were cross and bored. Mrs. Cunningham sent them to bed, and Dr. Burdell asked her to join him for a walk in the garden. They strolled, arm in arm, along brick paths that glowed in the moonlight while fireflies dotted the lawn.

“I am anxious to see you when you return to New York,” he said, with a sudden seriousness.

“That would be delightful,” she replied nonchalantly. A path led them inside a formal garden enclosed by boxwood. Emma stopped and fingered the blade of a sundial whose base was wound, serpent-like, with ivy. The fragrance of honeysuckle blended with the scent of rose water pressed against the white skin of her bosom. Harvey Burdell’s eyes flashed seductively. He grabbed her, pressing into her with a lingering kiss. She separated after a calculated measure of time. It is done, she thought. But she would not press any gain too soon.

February 4, 1857

H
enry Clinton gazed across the East River at spots of sunlight that dappled the gold-flecked steeples of Brooklyn. Bowsprits of schooners formed an arcade across the waterfront, their hulls bobbing at their moorings. At eight thirty in the morning, he was waiting for James Armstrong to arrive from his home in Brooklyn Heights. By arrangement, they would ride uptown to the funeral of Harvey Burdell.

The Brooklyn Ferry lumbered toward Manhattan, slipping sideways, banging against the wharf, as dock hands scrambled to tighten the ropes against the pilings. Commuters hurried off: bankers with bowlers and working girls in gingham, sidestepping horse
manure and piles of snow. Clinton’s carriage tilted on its springs as James Armstrong climbed aboard.

“Morning, Henry,” grumbled Armstrong, arranging his cane, newspapers, and muffler in the small space. Armstrong began each morning in a sour mood that lasted until midday, when his dour face receded behind an inscrutable mask.

“Good morning, James,” said Clinton in a robust tone. He knew that exuberance this early in the morning irritated his partner.

“Uptown, to Grace Church,” called Armstrong. The driver pulled the reins, preparing the horses to lurch into motion. A newsboy ran up, pressing the headline against the glass.

SEVENTY THOUSAND COPIES!

OVER THIRTY THOUSAND EXTRA COPIES HAVE BEEN ORDERED,
SEE A DRAWING OF THE BODY IN ITS CASKET!

SEE DR. BURDELL’S WOUNDS IN DETAIL!

The carriage driver swatted at the boy with a whip, and he tumbled away into the crowd. “My God!” said Armstrong. “It takes eighty-one days for a ship to bring news of the insurrections in China, but the papers are full of this murder, as if the world beyond our shore had simply vanished.” The carriage turned away from the seafront, onto Pearl Street, losing view of the harbor. In the narrow jumble of downtown streets, emporiums spilled their wares onto tables and carts on the sidewalks: wigs and cutlery, adjustable bustles and India rubber gloves. Dry goods stores piled bolts of muslin and flannel; wet good stores sold fabrics from shipwrecks, still crusty with salt.

“Henry, last night I received a visit from Dr. Burdell’s brothers, Gaylord and Thomas. They called on me at home. We spoke for about two hours.”

“The Burdell brothers?” asked Clinton, surprised. “Did they come to you for legal advice?”

“No, they have an attorney to advise them about the ongoing investigation and estate matters. They came because they heard you had visited that woman.” Clinton heard the disapproval in his voice. “Henry, it is ill-advised—no I shall say foolhardy—for you to embark upon this case, and I am dismayed that you are considering it. There is a questionable marriage document, and Harvey Burdell left no will. He was wealthy; he had property in New York and in Elizabeth, New Jersey. His dental practice, although lucrative, had become a sideline for his real estate pursuits. It seems that the Burdell family believes that a defense of Emma Cunningham is an attempt to swindle them out of their brother’s estate.”

“Well, of course they do,” stated Clinton. “I am sure you know, James, that there is nothing novel about a fight among family members over a dead man’s estate. Mrs. Cunningham is being held as a witness and possible suspect to the murder, and she deserves a good attorney for her defense. I suppose the brothers would rather see her swing from the gallows than have her inherit his money.”

“The family believes that Mrs. Cunningham’s claim to be Dr. Burdell’s wife is false and may be the motive for this murder.”

“She is a woman under duress, and there are not yet any facts to implicate her in the murder. I am not sure when it was determined that she should be denied her legal rights, but suddenly, between the District Attorney, the Coroner, and the family, it appears to be in everyone’s best interest that she hang.”

“Henry, please listen,” interjected Armstrong, wearily. He smoothed the carriage blanket across his legs and cleared his throat. “My meeting last night informed me of many things. According to the Burdell brothers, Harvey Burdell was a difficult man. He had quarrels with many, and lawsuits with his own family. He may have been involved in any number of illegitimate pursuits.”

“There you have it; perhaps one of his family killed him.”

“May I continue?” Armstrong snapped. As the senior partner, he
had a habit of demanding deference, and Clinton waited for him to proceed in his long-winded manner. “Dr. Burdell had four brothers. When he was sixteen, he was ejected from his mother’s farm. It is not clear what happened, but his mother demanded that he leave, so he ran away to New York. The eldest brother, John, took him in. John was married and began a dental practice here. He paid for Harvey’s enrollment at the Pennsylvania Medical College. After receiving his degree, Harvey moved in with John and John’s rather attractive young wife.”

“I seem to remember John Burdell being involved in a scandal,” interjected Clinton, trying to gauge the direction of the story.

“Yes,” replied Armstrong, with his usual distaste. “The two brothers set up a practice together on Broadway and Franklin Street. There were quarrels between them: John accused Harvey of being intimate with his wife, and a divorce proceeding ensued.”

“Sleeping with your brother’s wife is hardly a way to show gratitude,” said Clinton.

“Harvey professed innocence in the affair. It appears that a judge came up with a costly alimony settlement in favor of the wife. Harvey offered his brother an ingenious plan—he persuaded John to sign over all of his properties to be held in Harvey’s name—as a way for John to hide his property from his estranged wife. Meanwhile, John was forced to move to Union Square and start a new practice. When John demanded his safeguarded assets returned, Harvey refused, saying he would report him for hiding his money from his wife, and soon after John became gravely ill.”

Clinton turned, gazing out the window. “James, what is your point? How does this affect my decision to take Emma Cunningham’s case?” asked Clinton, impatiently. Confined in the small space, Clinton sensed a trap. Armstrong was a shrewd lawyer. He did not engage in a lengthy discourse unless he planned to win the argument.

“Hear me out,” said Armstrong. “Harvey visited his brother upon his sickbed and drew up a will, making himself the sole executor of John’s estate. John signed it in a delirium. Then Harvey returned with a sheriff and a repossession notice, claiming his brother had debts to him. They removed all of John’s possessions, his furniture, and even the bed under the sick man, leaving him to die alone on the floor of his barren room.”

“So, you’re saying that Harvey Burdell slept with his brother’s wife, stole away his business, blackmailed him, and swindled him of his livelihood? Is there a moral to the story, James?” asked Clinton.

“Does this sound like a moral story, Henry? That is my point,” snapped Armstrong. “This case is a quagmire,” said Armstrong, wearily. “I am dismayed that you have embroiled us in it.”

“So you would prefer that this woman, whom I have not even been able to properly interview, be left without a defense? You have never interfered with my choice of cases before, James, and I have never interfered with yours. I would hope you will continue to honor that,” said Clinton defiantly.

“The prosecution will build the case that Emma Cunningham is an imposter and killed Burdell for his money. Whatever money she had, she has lost. If cleared of the murder, her only recourse to pay us is another sensational court battle over the murdered man’s estate,” said Armstrong.

“Everything we know about Emma Cunningham,” Clinton replied, “is based on the ramblings of a bumbling coroner and a fevered press. When I passed by the house this morning, the crowds were more numerous than yesterday, and the newspapers are making a fortune from this ordeal. This morning’s paper already has accounts of Dr. Burdell’s feuds with his family and his shadowy business practices,” he said, patting the newspaper on his knee. “Meanwhile, Emma Cunningham will be made a scapegoat to the District Attorney’s ambitions and she will hang, unjustly, for this crime.”

“Henry, wake up! There is no value in this enterprise,” barked Armstrong. “You do not need to save every widow. Another lawyer will rally to her cause. This case will collapse our firm in bad publicity and crippling costs. I am asking you to drop this case.”

The carriage was stalled at Houston Street. The driver reported the congestion of traffic on account of the funeral. As they made their way through the snarl of vehicles, the horses neared the intersection of Bond Street. They headed into a crowd of hundreds of people, gathered along the sidewalks, noisy as if watching a parade, the curious leaning out windows. The carriage stopped again as a wagon, draped in black, drawn by four white horses, turned from Bond Street onto Broadway. Two undertakers held the coffin, and a policeman held back the crowds. As it passed, they edged northward in the wake of the funeral cortege, toward Grace Church, its Gothic marble spire sparkling white in the morning light. Armstrong spotted Oakey Hall walking briskly toward the church, wearing spats and carrying a jeweled cane.

“This is about crossing swords with Oakey Hall, isn’t it, Henry?” said Armstrong, wearily. “You want to take him down. Well, I am serious about one thing: if you remain on this case, our partnership is over.”

Clinton looked at Armstrong’s face long enough to absorb the seriousness of his words. They had worked together for over seven years, and although they often held opposing views, the relationship had always been one of respect. But Clinton sensed that this time was different.

Without another word, Armstrong gathered his cane and exited the carriage, which was now parked deep among the other carriages arriving at the entrance. Clinton sat, pondering the effect of Armstrong’s words, and just as the service was about to begin, he entered the church alone. Each bench was marked with a brass plate engraved with a family name. The newly rich had bought their pews
recently, paying a handsome sum to the rectory, while the tottering aristocracy had inherited them, all the way back to the Dutch. There was a pew marked C
LINTON
, reserved three generations ago by the ancestors of his wife, and he squeezed himself in.

The mourners were rustling in their seats. The casket stood before the altar. Garlands of white lilies were piled on top, and the hothouse fragrance was overpoweringly sweet. The Rector, Reverend Taylor, mounted the podium, which was raised high, ornamented with carvings in the medieval style. The organ droned, and the congregation sang a hymn. The Rector’s eulogy bemoaned the passing of a member of the medical profession whose contributions would be missed. In fact, thought Clinton, the deceased had been plotting and devious, his deeds washed clean behind the façade of a fancy house.

The law has taken me to strange places, Clinton mused. What chance had he to continue this case without the backing of a wealthy firm? Alone, the defense of Emma Cunningham would be difficult. He would need to rent an office and hire a staff. He would have to wait out the inquest, try to get his client removed from house arrest, and see that she was formally charged, even if that meant her being placed in jail. Then he would need to mount a defense for a trial that would surely be the sensation of the year. For the time being, his only communication with this woman was through an errand boy at the house, not even twelve years old. A key witness, a Negro driver, was missing, most likely running for his life.

At the end of the service, Clinton stepped out into the midday glare and made his way slowly through the dense crowd. Pickpockets abounded. As the carriages were pulling away for the burial, the crowd thinned and the funeral procession receded down Broadway. The hearse, reaching the tip, would board the Hamilton Ferry; after making a journey through the ice floes of the East River, it would head up the bluffs of Brooklyn to Greenwood Cemetery, where the
coffin would be placed deep in the frozen earth, facing the departed island of New York.

Clinton headed toward home. New York was a walking town, and walking allowed him time to think. Elisabeth would be surprised to see him at midday, and he would discuss with her the events of the morning. She had already argued against him taking the case on legal grounds: that the marriage between the two would be hard to prove or disprove, as marriages are not witnessed by any legal authority of the state, but only by God, or in this case, a nearsighted clergyman. The entire case would be drowned in dueling perspectives of credibility and of character. Of course, Elisabeth was right.

But he also knew she would follow his lead and that she trusted his instincts. If he were to continue this case, there were great sacrifices to be made, and she was his best ally. After he stopped by the house for lunch, he would go back to Chambers Street and remove his books and papers. His long partnership with James Armstrong was over.