Читать книгу 31 Bond Street - Ellen Horan - Страница 14

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 CLINTON, 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.