Читать книгу 31 Bond Street - Ellen Horan - Страница 10

Out on the street, Henry Clinton peered at his watch to fix the time. When he reached Broadway, it was just coming to life. Downtown, the avenue would be deep into the activity of the day, but uptown, at eight thirty in the morning, shopkeepers were still lowering the shutters and cranking the blinds. A block north, a flock of newsboys was hawking their papers to passersby who congregated, their breath mingling in the cold air. As Clinton approached, he saw that the length of Bond Street, with its stately row of residential homes, was lined with a curious crowd. In the course of the early morning, the news of the crime had rippled across the city. Ragged boys in striped mittens and woolen wrappers, idle shopgirls and respectably dressed men passing to work were standing before 31 Bond Street, staring up at the façade, as if there were no entertainment more festive than murder.

Clinton ventured down the block. Policemen were standing like sentinels before the entry, occasionally stepping away to push back the crowd. The front door opened, and a murmur went through the pack as the District Attorney, Abraham Oakey Hall, emerged and paused atop the stoop in the morning sunshine, his silk hat gleaming above the heads of the throng. Hall hoisted his cane and hurried down the steps until he was swallowed into the crowd. He wore a flowing cape, a silk cravat in fuchsia; his shirt linen was deep plum. Known by his middle name, Oakey, Hall had been given the nickname “The Elegant Oakey” by the newspapers for being one of the few dandies in the legal profession. Clinton and Hall knew each other well, for they had tried many cases from opposing sides of the bench. In the courtroom, Clinton found Hall’s rainbow hues to be a distraction, where the law was written, case by case, in black and white.

“Well, well,” said Hall. “If it isn’t Henry Clinton, the illustrious defense attorney, searching for his next case.”

“And here is the District Attorney, canvassing for votes at a homicide,” said Clinton.

Hall put a hand to his breast, pretending offense. “I have come to assure the people of this fine neighborhood that the perpetrator of this abominable act will be brought to justice.” Hall’s voice swelled with traces of the South. As a child, his family had migrated between the North and the South, and the District Attorney could enchant a group of New York ladies at Delmonico’s, speaking with the upper-crust tones of the Northern gentry, and then, chameleon-like, drawl to a visiting congregation of the Southern elite, who had suddenly become numerous at political gatherings all over town.

“I have heard that there are residents of this house, under house arrest, who are being denied counsel,” stated Clinton.

“An inquest is under way, and there is no need for attorneys,” replied Hall.

“A Coroner cannot refuse anyone the right to counsel if they request it,” said Clinton.

“It is not my jurisdiction to interfere with the Coroner. I’d wager you rushed here fresh from reading your morning paper. As much as you may prefer to be the first, there will be time for the piling on of lawyers later.”

“And I would wager that prosecuting this case in the full view of the press would warm the Mayor’s seat for you,” said Clinton.

“You came to elect me Mayor?” asked Hall, bowing with mock gratitude. “Or are you here to offer your calling card to the poor widow upstairs?” The district attorney slid away, leaving his insult trailing in the air. Crossing the street, Hall greeted a man in a fur-collared coat and a yellow-and-black-striped vest, and the two men strolled off, huddled together.

Clinton pushed past the bystanders and headed toward the house. That a murder would become a sensation did not surprise him, but a crime scene where people were in detention and were being denied legal counsel disturbed him. He presented his card to an officer, and as he suspected, the officer recognized his name and swung open the door. Through the gloom of the vestibule, Clinton could barely make out the group convened in the parlor. The shutters were pulled tight across the tall windows to the street, blocking out the morning light. Cigar and coal smoke hung near the ceiling, and the stale odor of tobacco, broadcloth, and damp wool permeated the room.

The double parlor had been converted into a makeshift interrogation room for the purpose of the Coroner’s inquest. Extra chairs had been brought in, and every seat was filled, with men standing along the walls and leaning against the mantel. A table on one side of the room was for the stenographers, members of the press, who were recording the interviews, word for word. The New York Times donated this service to city proceedings, and in exchange, the newspaper was permitted to print the reports verbatim, making them “The Paper of Record.”

Opposite the stenographers sat the Coroner’s jury. They were a motley crew of city dwellers: retired men in fraying waistcoats, working men in faded twill, and a few poorer souls who kept their clothes from falling away with twine. In a peculiar arrangement, Dr. Burdell’s dentist chair had been brought down from his office and placed in the center to be used as a witness chair. Since his murder forty-eight hours before, the doctor’s home had been transformed into an instrument in the investigation of his own death.

A gavel banged against a table, accompanied by the Coroner’s booming voice. Edward Connery sat framed by a gilt mirror that hung between the windows overlooking the garden.

“Order! Order!” Connery called out, his rs trilling: “I have a long list of witnesses to interview,” said the Coroner. “I will commence with the Reverend Marvine.”

Two policemen brought a confused man with oily whiskers into the room. He was led to the dentist chair, where he sat with trepidation, holding on to the arms of the iron chair as he gingerly settled himself in. He stated his name as Uriah Marvine, Reverend of the Reformed Dutch Church. The coroner got up and strutted across the room. He placed a scroll on the jury table. It was the marriage certificate, stamped into evidence by the sheriff’s office, which passed from hand-to-hand among the jurors.

“Sir, did you conduct a marriage between a man calling himself Dr. Harvey Burdell and a woman named Mrs. Emma Cunningham, two weeks ago, on January the fourteenth?” asked Connery, pointing to the scroll.

“That is my name on the certificate,” replied the Reverend.

Next, Connery presented him with a daguerreotype of Harvey Burdell, a formal portrait in silver and black tones, taken at a photography studio downtown. “Do you recognize this man as the man who came before you to be married?”

Reverend Marvine held the picture close to his face, removed his spectacles, and examined it ponderously. “I believe I recall this face, but then again, I am not sure. A great many couples come to my home to be married. But I do recall the ceremony. It took place in my parlor. It only took a few minutes. The woman described herself as a widow.”

“Did she now? Could it be possible that she arrived at your home with an imposter, or a man impersonating Harvey Burdell?” Connery asked, suddenly raising his voice.

The coal shifted in the fireplace, causing the flame to flare. The Reverend recoiled. “I would not know, sir. I never question the identity of the people who come to be married; it is not my business.” He studied the daguerreotype again. “Now that I think of it, I wonder if perhaps the man who came had hair that was falsely applied. He whispered to me that the marriage should not be published in the newspapers.”

“Is that so!” Connery exclaimed. “False whiskers?”

“The woman on the other hand, seemed eager and very fetching, and she was younger than the man.”

“The marriage is a fake,” someone whispered, and a ripple began to echo through the crowd.

“Silence!” bellowed Connery. “Could you describe the woman’s attire?”

“She wore a cloak, I believe, and a blue dress, or maybe grey. Oh I remember now, it was not a dress at all, it was a suit with black buttons!” The Reverend beamed with satisfaction as the room erupted in laughter.

“Bring her in!” Connery shouted to officers waiting outside the parlor door. Two police matrons ushered Emma Cunningham to the entrance of the parlor as a hush fell over the room. She stood just under the parlor doorway, framed by the carved moldings that rose up to the high ceiling. Her image was reflected in the tilted pier mirror, making it possible for those in the back of the room to see. She was wearing a dark dress, expertly tailored. Her hands were clasped nervously before her. Her hair was swept up with twists, and her skin was porcelain, with high color in her lips and cheeks. Her eyes were green, darkly ringed by lashes and set at a tilt. She stood perfectly still while all faces were transfixed upon her. She had an unexpected allure, a curious blend of features not often found in the drawing rooms of New York—a beauty, thought Clinton, by any standard.

She leaned to the officer at her side to whisper a question but was cut off by the booming voice of the Coroner. “Quiet!” Connery ordered. “You may not speak! You are here to be looked at, Madame, not to speak. We will interview you before this jury at a later time, and you may speak then.” Mrs. Cunningham stood before him quietly blinking back tears. “Take a look at her,” the Coroner said to the Reverend. “Study her features, for we will send her away so she does not hear the testimony.” He waved at the officer to take her away again, and they departed into the hall and up the stairs.

At her departure, the room erupted into excited whispers, and Connery rushed over to the table to bang the gavel, which had the effect of creating more confusion. “Is that the woman who came to you to be married?” he demanded.

The Reverend began to stutter in confusion. “Why, I am now more certain about the man,” he said waving the daguerreotype. “That woman has a much larger bosom than the one who came, and that is all I can say for certain.” The room erupted again, and the Coroner yelled for quiet.

“We are speaking of a matter of the utmost importance,” he cried. “There was a murder under this roof, committed while that woman and her daughters were at home. We must determine if she had a role.” Clinton listened for a while longer, then edged his way out of the back of the parlor. Disgusted, he could the see the wheels at work: Connery was leading the witness and molding the investigation toward a theory that the marriage certificate was faked. The reporters were transcribing every word, readying them for the press engines downtown, which would grease the wheels for an arrest and a criminal trial. Solving the murder quickly was a political expediency, which would quell the fears of the populace. And a hanging would be another feather in the cap of Oakey Hall.

As Clinton stepped from the room, two men at the parlor door were whispering. “I heard the Doctor had some business on the night he was killed with a large sum of money, and none of it was found. The detectives are looking for a servant, a Negro, who drove Dr. Burdell’s carriage that evening.”

“That seems to me a waste of effort,” replied the other. “That woman was after his money. The lady upstairs is the culprit, if you want my opinion.”

Clinton mounted the staircase, unnoticed. Upstairs, the hall was empty. The policemen guarding the rooms had been drawn to the drama in the parlor below. Clinton passed the room where the murder occurred and saw the profuse amounts of dried blood that covered the floor and the walls. Inside the next bedroom, the corpse was spread on a bed as doctors leaned over, intently measuring the lesions with calipers. A man peered into the lens of a microscope. After a murder, the poor went straight to the morgue; when the wealthy were victims, an autopsy included the latest techniques of anatomical science to allow the tissues and organs to be delicately probed and examined. A newspaper artist sat sketching the scene for one of the illustrated newspapers.

Clinton mounted the next flight to the third floor. An open door led to an attic, and through it he heard the voice of a police officer chastise a boy about cleaning out the chamber pots. There was no one guarding the bedrooms. The last door on the third floor was closed, and taking a guess, he turned the knob and stepped in.

The shutters were pulled tight and the only illumination came from the coal in the brazier. His eyes adjusted and he saw a figure in an armchair.

“Excuse me, Madame, for intruding,” he said. Her chair was close to the fire. She looked up with alarm, and he could now see the fearful and tired expression in her features. She studied him with wide eyes, wary of his presence.

‘Madame, please don’t be frightened. I am Henry Clinton, the lawyer that you summoned. I am with the firm of Armstrong and Clinton.”

“Oh, thank God, you have come. I asked to speak with counsel, but I was not permitted,” she said. “The Coroner has forbidden me.”

“You have a right to speak to counsel. It is the Coroner who is in error.”

“What is happening?” she whispered. “I have answered so many questions and yet no one has answered mine. This is such a terrible state of affairs.” Her voice was unsteady and trembling. Clinton pulled an ottoman close and sat next to her, leaning forward so that they could speak softly without being heard.

“You have the right to speak to counsel,” he repeated. “There is no law that says a person under house arrest in a coroner’s investigation can be denied that right. Furthermore, anything you say to me will remain in confidence.”

“I have been in my room now since Saturday,” she said, distraught. “How long must I remain here? Why am I being detained? I have already told them what I know.”

“I believe the Coroner intends that you will testify before the assembled jury downstairs, this time under oath. They will interview many people who knew the deceased, and I am presuming he will interrogate you last, so I imagine you will be here for several more days. I would strongly advise you to refuse to testify before the Coroner’s jury so that you do not incriminate yourself.”

“Incriminate myself? Am I a suspect? But I have not been charged with any crime. I am innocent!” she exclaimed.

“Regardless of your guilt or innocence, I am afraid that what you say now may have grave consequences later. Your testimony will be transcribed for the record.” He saw her confusion as the firelight flickered across her features revealing her dark lashes, now thickening with tears.

“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.