31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan
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his deputies. They made me undress before them, removing everything, including my stockings,” she said, her hands twisting anxiously at her handkerchief. “The men ran their fingers up and down my torso, looking for marks and bruises, but there was nothing. I was so ashamed and I cried out, ‘Don’t expose me so!’ “she said, sobbing anew. “Sir, you must help me. I fear for my daughters—they are so young. I am so frightened for them, you must help us.”
He watched and listened intently as she spoke. She had a shawl around her shoulders, gripping it tightly. Her eyes darted around the room, as if searching for familiar ballast. He heard the terror in her voice at the separation from her daughters, who were being kept away from her, sequestered in another room.
“Madame, I must ask you about something important—about the marriage certificate.” Clinton spoke quickly, because he sensed that time was short. “I will be blunt. You told the Police Chief that you and Dr. Burdell were married, but no one else was aware of it. Now the Coroner is trying to establish if the certificate is a fake, which might indicate your motive toward the crime, so you would gain his property as a widow.”
She gasped, as if the idea stung her. “Harvey and I met in Saratoga last summer, and shortly thereafter, he proposed. I came to live in this house and we were married privately,” she insisted. “Dr. Burdell preferred that we keep the marriage a secret, until the spring, when we were to go to Europe. He needed to complete some business, and to straighten out his affairs. It was his choice to keep it a secret and I complied.” Clinton strained to listen, for her voice was whispery and faint.
“I will see that you get legal representation. But first, here is my advice,” he said. “For now, you must remain silent. Do not speak to anyone without a lawyer present.”
Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open and a police officer entered. “What are you doing in here?” he shouted at Clinton. “The Coroner has given orders that no one may enter this room!”
Clinton stood up, reflexively. “I am a lawyer. I am having a conference with this woman with her permission, as is her right.”
“These rooms are off bounds to lawyers. She has no right to speak to anyone.” The policeman lunged toward him, but Clinton dodged and moved toward the door.
“There is no such requirement. No one can be denied counsel. I will speak to the Coroner myself,” Clinton said, moving swiftly to the hall and toward the stairs, with the officer following behind him. He started downstairs while the officer yelled loudly after him, “A man has been in to see the witness. I tried to prevent him!”
Clinton reached the last flight, just as Coroner Connery was rushing from the parlor to see the cause of the commotion. The crowd spilled out after him: jurymen, journalists, detectives, and officers, all crowding into the hall, looking up at Clinton, who was now stopped, poised on the staircase, midway down. Clinton remained where he was and addressed the group below: “Gentleman, I have just been speaking with the lady you have in custody. She has every right to consult with me, as a member of the legal profession.”
“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.
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.”