31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan

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      “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.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Clinton pulled the canvas strap that ran along the floor, tied to the driver’s leg. The Bowery stagecoach was known for its cutthroat drivers who could steer a team of horses through any morning crush. The horses whinnied as the coach strained to a stop. Clinton hopped off and headed toward the limestone row of law offices that faced the unadorned back side of City Hall.

      He waded among the newsboys, who chanted the headlines about the murder. A ragged boy stopped before him; he had the haunted, hollow look of the very hungry and wore tattered pants that were too short by a foot. Clinton reached into his pocket to sprinkle a coin into the boy’s hand when he realized that the boy was not begging but handing him an envelope with his name written on the front.

      “Excuse me, sir, this is for you,” the boy said, handing him the letter. “Mrs. Cunningham sent me, to give you this.” Clinton had left Bond Street just thirty minutes earlier, after being ejected from the house by Coroner Connery, yet somehow this boy had intercepted him.

      “How did you get to see Mrs. Cunningham?” asked Clinton.

      “I work for Doctor Burdell—before he died, I mean. Now the deputies keep me busy. I fetch the coal and water for all the rooms. I was cleaning out the chamber pot in Mrs. Cunningham’s bedroom when she gave me this. She said to run downtown and give it to you.” Clinton took the envelope and broke open the seal.

      Dear Mr. Clinton,

      Dr. Burdell was on a mission on the night of his death, of that I am certain. He may have been involved in a dangerous affair. When I heard his carriage return, I looked out my window and believe I saw others inside. Perhaps he did not enter the house alone. If you find his coachman, Samuel, I am sure you will discover who killed Dr. Burdell.

      Please send me word as to what I should do, as I will be asked to testify soon.

       Emma Burdell

      Clinton refolded the note. He noticed that Emma Cunningham signed the letter as Emma Burdell. He also remembered that she had told him that she was sleeping when Dr. Burdell returned to the house; now her letter stated that she was awake and she saw him from the window. Without the advice of counsel, she might contradict herself when asked to give testimony to the Coroner at the inquest in the parlor. Reporters were recording the proceeding, and any inconsistent testimony would go on record.

      Looking up from the letter, Clinton saw that the boy was ready to bolt. “Wait, son—” Clinton reached into his pocket, pulling out a bill. “Your name is … ?

      “John, sir.”

      “You work in the house?”

      “I am the houseboy and do errands, sir.”

      “Have you spoken before the coroner’s jury?”

      “Yes, I told them about how I found Dr. Burdell dead on his carpet.”

      “And did you speak the truth?

      “Yes, sir, I did.” The boy started to fidget, nervously.

      “John—do you know who killed Dr. Burdell?”

      “No, sir, I don’t know who done it! Really, I don’t!” he said. Clinton slipped a dollar into the boy’s hand. The haunted look on John’s face deepened. Clinton suspected that he had never held a dollar bill before.

      “I need you to help me,” Clinton said softly, placing an arm around his shoulders and leading him toward the door to his office. “Come upstairs with me. I have some food.”

      Clerks and junior staff looked up from a maze of desks. Clinton took off his overcoat, and the entire staff watched the ragged boy, no more than eleven years old, with a tousled head of blond hair, cowering at his side. Clinton paused, then addressed them, in a robust voice: “Good morning! It’s Monday morning, and there is work to do. I need to schedule a hearing on the house arrest of the people this past weekend at Bond Street. The names of the parties in custody are Mrs. Emma Cunningham, Augusta Cunningham, and Helen Cunningham.” A legal associate began to scribble Clinton’s orders, and then looked up, quill in hand.

      “How do you spell that, sir?” he asked.

      “Cunningham,” repeated Clinton. “Like it sounds. And I want someone to look up the legal code that describes a Coroner’s powers and how long a Coroner can lay siege to a crime scene. Write out a copy of the code and deliver it to the New York Times.”

      “Good morning to you, too, sir,” yelled one of the clerks, in a merry tone. “May I surmise that you read today’s headlines, and we are embarking on a new case?”

      “At the moment, I am considering it, Mr. Snarky,” Clinton replied coolly to the clerk. “And since you have such an irreverent manner, I shall assign you the task of handling the press. I want you to spend each evening at Park Row, finding out the news from the inquest at Bond Street. And you shall keep the file on all the newspaper clippings on the case.”

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