31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       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 shifted, 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 unbutton 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.”

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