31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ