31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan

base was wound, serpent-like, with ivy. The fragrance of honeysuckle blended with the scent of rose water pressed against the white skin of her bosom. Harvey Burdell’s eyes flashed seductively. He grabbed her, pressing into her with a lingering kiss. She separated after a calculated measure of time. It is done, she thought. But she would not press any gain too soon.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      When a man dies, who can say what deep stains may have rested, at one time or another, upon his soul? What crimes (untouchable, perhaps, by the laws of men or the rules of society) has he committed, either in evil wishes, or in reality?

      Walt Whitman

       February 4, 1857

      Henry Clinton gazed across the East River at spots of sunlight that dappled the gold-flecked steeples of Brooklyn. Bowsprits of schooners formed an arcade across the waterfront, their hulls bobbing at their moorings. At eight thirty in the morning, he was waiting for James Armstrong to arrive from his home in Brooklyn Heights. By arrangement, they would ride uptown to the funeral of Harvey Burdell.

      The Brooklyn Ferry lumbered toward Manhattan, slipping sideways, banging against the wharf, as dock hands scrambled to tighten the ropes against the pilings. Commuters hurried off: bankers with bowlers and working girls in gingham, sidestepping horse manure and piles of snow. Clinton’s carriage tilted on its springs as James Armstrong climbed aboard.

      “Morning, Henry,” grumbled Armstrong, arranging his cane, newspapers, and muffler in the small space. Armstrong began each morning in a sour mood that lasted until midday, when his dour face receded behind an inscrutable mask.

      “Good morning, James,” said Clinton in a robust tone. He knew that exuberance this early in the morning irritated his partner.

      “Uptown, to Grace Church,” called Armstrong. The driver pulled the reins, preparing the horses to lurch into motion. A newsboy ran up, pressing the headline against the glass.

      SEVENTY THOUSAND COPIES!

      OVER THIRTY THOUSAND EXTRA COPIES HAVE BEEN ORDERED,

      SEE A DRAWING OF THE BODY IN ITS CASKET!

      SEE DR. BURDELL’S WOUNDS IN DETAIL!

      The carriage driver swatted at the boy with a whip, and he tumbled away into the crowd. “My God!” said Armstrong. “It takes eighty-one days for a ship to bring news of the insurrections in China, but the papers are full of this murder, as if the world beyond our shore had simply vanished.” The carriage turned away from the seafront, onto Pearl Street, losing view of the harbor. In the narrow jumble of downtown streets, emporiums spilled their wares onto tables and carts on the sidewalks: wigs and cutlery, adjustable bustles and India rubber gloves. Dry goods stores piled bolts of muslin and flannel; wet good stores sold fabrics from shipwrecks, still crusty with salt.

      “Henry, last night I received a visit from Dr. Burdell’s brothers, Gaylord and Thomas. They called on me at home. We spoke for about two hours.”

      “The Burdell brothers?” asked Clinton, surprised. “Did they come to you for legal advice?”

      “No, they have an attorney to advise them about the ongoing investigation and estate matters. They came because they heard you had visited that woman.” Clinton heard the disapproval in his voice. “Henry, it is ill-advised—no I shall say foolhardy—for you to embark upon this case, and I am dismayed that you are considering it. There is a questionable marriage document, and Harvey Burdell left no will. He was wealthy; he had property in New York and in Elizabeth, New Jersey. His dental practice, although lucrative, had become a sideline for his real estate pursuits. It seems that the Burdell family believes that a defense of Emma Cunningham is an attempt to swindle them out of their brother’s estate.”

      “Well, of course they do,” stated Clinton. “I am sure you know, James, that there is nothing novel about a fight among family members over a dead man’s estate. Mrs. Cunningham is being held as a witness and possible suspect to the murder, and she deserves a good attorney for her defense. I suppose the brothers would rather see her swing from the gallows than have her inherit his money.”

      “The family believes that Mrs. Cunningham’s claim to be Dr. Burdell’s wife is false and may be the motive for this murder.”

      “She is a woman under duress, and there are not yet any facts to implicate her in the murder. I am not sure when it was determined that she should be denied her legal rights, but suddenly, between the District Attorney, the Coroner, and the family, it appears to be in everyone’s best interest that she hang.”

      “Henry, please listen,” interjected Armstrong, wearily. He smoothed the carriage blanket across his legs and cleared his throat. “My meeting last night informed me of many things. According to the Burdell brothers, Harvey Burdell was a difficult man. He had quarrels with many, and lawsuits with his own family. He may have been involved in any number of illegitimate pursuits.”

      “There you have it; perhaps one of his family killed him.”

      “May I continue?” Armstrong snapped. As the senior partner, he had a habit of demanding deference, and Clinton waited for him to proceed in his long-winded manner. “Dr. Burdell had four brothers. When he was sixteen, he was ejected from his mother’s farm. It is not clear what happened, but his mother demanded that he leave, so he ran away to New York. The eldest brother, John, took him in. John was married and began a dental practice here. He paid for Harvey’s enrollment at the Pennsylvania Medical College. After receiving his degree, Harvey moved in with John and John’s rather attractive young wife.”

      “I seem to remember John Burdell being involved in a scandal,” interjected Clinton, trying to gauge the direction of the story.

      “Yes,” replied Armstrong, with his usual distaste. “The two brothers set up a practice together on Broadway and Franklin Street. There were quarrels between them: John accused Harvey of being intimate with his wife, and a divorce proceeding ensued.”

      “Sleeping with your brother’s wife is hardly a way to show gratitude,” 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 assets 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 space, 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