31 Bond Street Part 4

"Sleeping with your brother's wife is hardly a way to show grat.i.tude," 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 a.s.sets 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 b.u.mbling coroner and a fevered press. When I pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 partners.h.i.+p 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 facade 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 hea.r.s.e, 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 G.o.d, 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 partners.h.i.+p with James Armstrong was over.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Clinton entered the house, dropped his hat on the hall table, and then went to the back parlor where a fire was crackling and woodsmoke was curling from the hearth. Elisabeth was deep in her favorite chair, with a book on her lap. She had a tangled look when she was reading, far away inside a story. She looked up and brushed some hair from her face. He sank into an armchair with his coat still on.

"You're home for lunch! What a surprise. Was it a hard morning?"

"It was," he said, slumping back. Elisabeth got up and sat on the arm of his chair and started to unwrap his scarf. She put a finger across his temple and traced the lines of his forehead. He let his eyes close under the warmth of her touch. Then she lifted the coat off his shoulders, and he s.h.i.+fted, allowing her to gently remove each arm from a sleeve, like she was undressing a young boy. Next, she sat down on a footstool and began to unb.u.t.ton his boots.

"I rode with James to the funeral. I met him at the ferry."

"Well that's enough to wear a person out-a carriage ride with James Armstrong and then a funeral. Was it very oppressive?"

"Both were quite oppressive."

"Well, at least you are done with that dentist. Too bad I can't say the same about James."

"Actually, Elisabeth, I have some rather startling news." She was still sitting on the stool by his feet and looked up, wary.

"Henry?" her tone was chiding, but he heard the tinge of alarm. She knew him too well, and this was not going to be easy.

He sat forward and took hold of her hands, holding them in his, examining them as if they were part of a strange species.

"First of all, I have decided I am taking on the case."

"Oh, Henry, I suspected you would! Are you really defending that woman?"

"Yes."

"You have decided this for sure? I hope you have thought it over-this case is a runaway train."

"I was going to discuss it with you again after I conferred with James, which I just had the chance to do, this morning."

"Is he in favor of this folly?"

"No, he isn't. Not at all. I can't say he is in favor of my taking this case."

"Well, that's something to commend him. At least he still has some sense behind that rigid facade."

"Elisabeth, we've come to an impa.s.se." He had been rubbing her hand, and she pulled it away with a stunned look on her face. "Not you, darling," he said. "James and I. We've had a parting of the minds."

"But that's been the nature of your partners.h.i.+p all along. I suppose you two will always disagree."

"No-we shan't disagree again, because I am no longer with the firm." Clinton slumped back in the armchair, as if overwhelmed by the morning's events. "I have quit, or perhaps it was James that fired me."

She let out a gasp. "Henry, you are not serious? It came to that?"

"It did. But believe me, it is for the best. I was too comfortable there. I was not doing good work, and I was becoming something of a clown in the office-an affable, but righteous, defender of the oppressed. James was not happy working with a criminal lawyer who defended anyone without a substantial merchant's bankbook. So I shall strike out on my own. I didn't plan for it to happen this way, but it is for the best."

"But what about the Burdell murder? How can you keep on the case? What will you do?" Elisabeth spoke softly, bewildered. He had just sacrificed his job and a large salary and a lesser wife would lash out, or even cry. She had a look on her face now that he had seen before-concerned, but ready to listen. When they had first met he would tell her a story about defending a hardened criminal, with all of its gruesome details, and she would be moved by his pa.s.sion for securing the rights of both the innocent and the guilty. She would listen quietly, letting him ramble on, until he realized that he had piqued her intellectual curiosity, and she was mulling over the legal arguments, her mind leaping to the best conclusion.

Now, he sensed an opening, and he ran with it. "Darling, this case is a runaway train. It's a runaway train to the gallows. Everyone who has been inside 31 Bond Street in the few days since the murder-Coroner Connery, the District Attorney, the Mayor, the Chief of Police-have a vested interest in pointing the finger at Emma Cunningham. They've found the perfect scapegoat in a bedroom upstairs. It's as if they had commissioned a newspaper artist to draw up a portrait of a fictional murderess, and pinned her name to it. They've captured Emma Cunningham in a large frame and pasted the word guilty at the bottom. They'll pa.s.s the ill.u.s.tration off to the papers, all the while hoping that mob justice will finish the job."

"But what if she actually did it? You barely had a chance to interview her. Henry, what if you are defending evil?"

"I only interviewed her for a short period, but she is a woman not unlike yourself. She is a woman whose home was turned upside down during a circ.u.mstance of violence. I saw her terror at that upheaval. Regardless of her feelings for the murdered man, I saw that her surroundings were her greatest security. A woman does not desecrate her own home. Why would she commit this violence if it put her children at jeopardy and brought about everything she feared most?"

Elisabeth dropped a moccasin from her lap, and she sat, bewildered. "You really intend to keep on it?"

"I intend to. I intend to get an office, small as it may be, and prepare a defense, and take the case to trial. It will be difficult, but I believe that I am up to the task. Perhaps only I can do it. I will need money to float us for a while. The firm owes me money, and I'll take a loan out against this house. But I promise you, darling; I will pay the loan back, every cent of it. You shall see."

She closed her eyes for a minute. He could not tell if she was going to cry or lash out at him.

The cook appeared at the open door of the salon. Seeing them sitting so still, she cleared her throat and then rapped lightly against the doorjamb. Clinton swiveled around.

"Mr. Clinton, Mrs. Clinton, there's a boy come round by the kitchen door. He comes from your office. He has some things for you."

"A boy? Oh, yes. I'll come down," said Clinton. He stood up and slipped his stocking feet into the moccasins. He helped Elisabeth up, and they followed the cook downstairs where the boy, John, was standing just inside the kitchen door with a cardboard folder wrapped in string.

"John, my boy," he said.

"I went to your office to find you, like you asked, sir, and they sent me here with a package," the boy said, offering the doc.u.ment case.

"John, this is Mrs. Clinton, and this is our excellent cook, Mrs. Fullerton. As you see, between the two of them and these ovens, we have an unending source of shortbread."

Elisabeth pulled out a kitchen chair for the boy.

"John is the young lad who worked at 31 Bond Street," Clinton explained, "and had the misfortune of finding his master's body. He continues on as a houseboy under the Coroner's regime." Clinton undid the string on the package.

"Are you hungry?" asked Elisabeth. John gave a shy shrug, but she was already reaching for some kitchen flatware and a napkin. "Mrs. Fullerton, pull him off a piece of the beef. And serve him some vegetables if they are ready." Clinton unwrapped the parcel and looked over the papers.

"James certainly has not wasted time. This is the formal dissolution of the partners.h.i.+p."

Elisabeth glanced at him as the cook placed a slab of roast beef on John's plate and served up some roasted carrots and a potato. The boy began to eat the food hungrily.

"I'll give you a basket to take with you," she said. "Are they feeding you enough there, at the inquest?" Elisabeth asked John, concerned.

"I think his meals were scarce before, and now he's just sc.r.a.ping by," said Clinton, placing the legal papers on the edge of a cupboard. John tried awkwardly to slice the beef, which was very rare, and he chewed it with difficulty.

"Be careful swallowing now, if you're not used to red meat," said Elisabeth. She began to cut his meat for him in small pieces. "Henry, do you remember Thayer?" she asked.

"That young lawyer, fresh out of Columbia?"

"Yes, the fellow who came to dinner with his wife. They were going to have a baby; Thayer, wasn't it?"

"Barnaby Thayer. Why do you ask?"

"He will do the work of ten James Armstrongs," Elisabeth said. "He is bright and eager and has trial experience. I was very impressed by him." Clinton was always amazed by how her mind worked. She had scarcely absorbed the news and she was jumping past him, already staffing.

"Mrs. Fullerton," continued Elisabeth, "Mr. Clinton is the head of a new law office handling the Bond Street murder," she said.

"My word!" said the cook, turning around from the stove with wide eyes. "The world will be watching this one."

"If you're going to be placing bets, keep in mind, we are the underdogs," said Clinton, putting his arm around Elisabeth and squeezing her tightly. But the worry was not gone from her eyes, and he was terrified of disappointing her. He would go to the bank in the morning for the loan. There would be a slow reduction of niceties, of the things she was accustomed to, like flowers and chocolates and jewelry he brought home as a surprise, and their trips to Hastings in the summer months, where she grew a profusion of roses that rippled along trellises around the cottage.

"You are a courageous woman to be married to me, Elisabeth Clinton Clinton."

"Brave or foolish, it is the way I want it," she said back to him.

"Let's hope our roof holds out. With a new mortgage, that nasty leak will have to wait." He had been planning to hire a workman to make repairs to the roof of the townhouse after the winter thaw.

"If the roof fails, we'll live under the stars."

CHAPTER NINE.

September 1856, New York City Emma sat toward the back of Taylor's, a ladies saloon, facing the plate gla.s.s, watching the men a.s.semble on the street like black figurines, checking their watches. As soon as she had returned to New York from Saratoga, Dr. Burdell had sent her a stream of invitations-to tour upper Manhattan in his carriage, to dine at Delmonico's, and this evening, to the theatre, to see the Booth brothers in a Shakespeare play. It was a glorious evening, so clear that the city was framed by an iridescent sky and the windows along Broadway shone blood red with the setting of the New Jersey sun.

She sipped from a crystal gla.s.s, tasting the raisin flavor of a strong brandy, and poked at the flakes of a creme Napoleon with the p.r.o.ng of a tiny gold fork as yellow cream flowed from its crevices. She lifted each forkful to her mouth carefully, without altering her posture or the balance of her enormous hat.

I am so tired of widowhood, she thought. She had met her deceased husband, George Cunningham, when she was only fifteen, Helen's age. He was a prosperous merchant, more than twice her age, and he had turned to watch her when she pa.s.sed him on the Brooklyn Promenade one Sat.u.r.day evening. She went to the railing, looking out at the harbor, and he came over to point out the s.h.i.+ps. He reached in his pocket and offered her a dollar. "Would you walk with me?" he asked. He was more distinguished than the mechanics and seamen that strolled along the river walk and offered local girls a trinket to hook arms for the length of the waterfront, and at the end of the walk they'd offer another trinket for a kiss. Somehow she felt safe on this gentleman's arm, his elbow at her side, in wool broadcloth, scented with fine pipe tobacco. He'd gaze far away across the milky harbor, then back at her, with a caring glance.

They sauntered arm in arm until they reached the end near the sailors' bars by the ferry slip. He bought two tickets for the boat, and they went to Manhattan, to the Broadway Hotel, which she thought to be the finest place she had ever seen, with a large room that dripped with damask, and he cuddled up against her all night, like a man would a wife.

The experience was a far cry from the weathered frame house on Myrtle Avenue near the Naval Yard, where her father reigned over his children with a wooden board from the broken picket fence. He beat her with it when she returned the following day, never asking where she'd been all night. Rigid with determination, Emma brought all her clothes in a canvas bag when she met Mr. Cunningham the next day, and she never went home again.

He put her up in the city, in nice hotels, and soon after, in a house. When Augusta was born, he rented a larger one on Irving Place, and he never failed to pay the rent. He remained with his wife in his large mansion on the Brooklyn side of the river. "Take pity on me," he would say, "she is sickly," if Emma tearfully implored him to stay longer after a short visit. His wife was an unseen specter, frail and nervous, that hovered for years until she finally pa.s.sed away when Augusta was seven and his second child, Helen, a toddler. After a ten-month absence, which Emma took to be a proper mourning period, George reappeared and brought them into his Brooklyn house, a gloomy pile, filled with the odor of dust and decay and room after room of family heirlooms. She became its mistress; it was more like a mausoleum, having encased an invalid for years.

They married quietly. Afterward, George retreated into his study with a tumbler of scotch and rarely emerged. His company, Cunningham & Cunningham, bottled spirits, liquor being the family fortune and its downfall. In a short matter of time, George's drinking accelerated his own bad health, and he acc.u.mulated debts while casks of whiskey remained untended at the wharves. In 1854, he went out west to recoup his fortune and gambled the rest of his inheritance on prospects in San Francisco, returning with less than he started with, the gold rush being mostly over. He caught a feverish ailment there and died of complications from it when he returned, like a plague that claimed those who chased after gold. Her husband's decline had seemed so fast-as if a demon had foreclosed upon his soul, secretly targeting her as well.

But Harvey Burdell is so solid. He rarely drinks. Emma's eye was trained casually toward the restaurant window, watching for Dr. Burdell's arrival. If he came early, she would put on her gloves slowly, smoothing the soft leather on each finger, making him wait. When he did show up, he was twenty minutes late, which sobered her mood like the bitter swig of a root tea. She summoned her gaiety and joined him on the twilit street between the swaying of women's hoops as the evening traffic thinned on Broadway.

They walked to the theatre, and he told her about his day, which included a difficult dental surgery, a story that lasted halfway to Astor Place. After his story was finished, they sauntered along in silence. After a long pause, Emma ventured to ask softly, "Why is it that you have never married?"

He gazed sternly ahead. "I have no reason to marry," he answered. "At forty-six, I enjoy my solitary pursuits. I enjoy female companions.h.i.+p, but an independent arrangement suits me best."

"I do not know what you mean," she replied coolly, "by an 'independent arrangement.'"

"Oh, yes you do, my dear," he said dismissively. "I am not an anxious schoolboy, and you are not an ingenue. You are no doubt aware, at our age, that there is no need to hide behind convention. We can be free of the constraints that society places upon the young. There are many couples, quite prominent in New York, that remain unmarried, retaining their separate residences and who enjoy the physical side of marriage. It is a most sophisticated arrangement."

The response stung. "I am indeed aware of such independent couples," Emma said, choosing her words, carefully. "But I would have difficulty with such an arrangement myself. I have my daughters to think of. At their tender age, it is important that my actions stand as an example. They are still young, and I could not steer them toward marriage if I, myself, did not respect the vows." He wants me, she thought, but is it love? For a moment she felt a twinge of panic, as if he had seen into her past. No, she a.s.sured herself, it was more likely that he had a bachelor's dread of trespa.s.s, and she should tread lightly.

"As for your lovely daughters," he replied, forcing a light tone, "a sensible parent requires only a large bank account to snare a successful suitor. And once that is secured, the job is done." He laughed, clearly hoping to change the subject.

"It is not so simple as that," she replied, her voice edging upward. "Even with means, a parent needs to be vigilant. This city provides many traps for young ladies. Many suitors are not what they seem. Some are scoundrels, intent upon a large dowry. A parent must protect a daughter's interests."

"If a suitor cared more for the fortune than the bride, he would need to be after a hundred thousand dollars to make it worth his while," he said, looking at her, to gauge her reaction.