“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 from the room, two men at the parlor door were whispering. “I heard the Doctor had some business on the night he was killed with a large sum of money, and none of it was found. The detectives are looking for a servant, a Negro, who drove Dr. Burdell’s carriage that evening.”
“That seems to me a waste of effort,” replied the other. “That woman was after his money. The lady upstairs is the culprit, if you want my opinion.”
Clinton mounted the staircase, unnoticed. Upstairs, the hall was empty. The policemen guarding the rooms had been drawn to the drama in the parlor below. Clinton passed the room where the murder occurred and saw the profuse amounts of dried blood that covered the floor and the walls. Inside the next bedroom, the corpse was spread on a bed as doctors leaned over, intently measuring the lesions with calipers. A man peered into the lens of a microscope. After a murder, the poor went straight to the morgue; when the wealthy were victims, an autopsy included the latest techniques of anatomical science to allow the tissues and organs to be delicately probed and examined. A newspaper artist sat sketching the scene for one of the illustrated newspapers.
Clinton mounted the next flight to the third floor. An open door led to an attic, and through it he heard the voice of a police officer chastise a boy about cleaning out the chamber pots. There was no one guarding the bedrooms. The last door on the third floor was closed, and taking a guess, he turned the knob and stepped in.
The shutters were pulled tight and the only illumination came from the coal in the brazier. His eyes adjusted and he saw a figure in an armchair.
“Excuse me, Madame, for intruding,” he said. Her chair was close to the fire. She looked up with alarm, and he could now see the fearful and tired expression in her features. She studied him with wide eyes, wary of his presence.
‘Madame, please don’t be frightened. I am Henry Clinton, the lawyer that you summoned. I am with the firm of Armstrong and Clinton.”
“Oh, thank God, you have come. I asked to speak with counsel, but I was not permitted,” she said. “The Coroner has forbidden me.”
“You have a right to speak to counsel. It is the Coroner who is in error.”
“What is happening?” she whispered. “I have answered so many questions and yet no one has answered mine. This is such a terrible state of affairs.” Her voice was unsteady and trembling. Clinton pulled an ottoman close and sat next to her, leaning forward so that they could speak softly without being heard.
“You have the right to speak to counsel,” he repeated. “There is no law that says a person under house arrest in a coroner’s investigation can be denied that right. Furthermore, anything you say to me will remain in confidence.”
“I have been in my room now since Saturday,” she said, distraught. “How long must I remain here? Why am I being detained? I have already told them what I know.”
“I believe the Coroner intends that you will testify before the assembled jury downstairs, this time under oath. They will interview many people who knew the deceased, and I am presuming he will interrogate you last, so I imagine you will be here for several more days. I would strongly advise you to refuse to testify before the Coroner’s jury so that you do not incriminate yourself.”
“Incriminate myself? Am I a suspect? But I have not been charged with any crime. I am innocent!” she exclaimed.
“Regardless of your guilt or innocence, I am afraid that what you say now may have grave consequences later. Your testimony will be transcribed for the record.” He saw her confusion as the firelight flickered across her features revealing her dark lashes, now thickening with tears.
“It is all so terrible. I have told them everything. The last time I saw Dr. Burdell was before dinner, on Friday. He had his carriage brought around. I asked him where he was going, but he did not tell me. I stayed here in my room all evening by the fire, with my daughters, sewing. The three of us went to sleep in my bedroom, around eleven o’clock. We decided to sleep together in my room because it was my daughter’s last night at home.”
“Did you hear any commotion, or any noises during the night?”
“I am generally a sound sleeper and I didn’t wake at all. I heard nothing. In the morning, the errand boy found him—he was dead!” She broke into sobs. She knocked a sewing basket from her chair onto the floor, spilling lace and ribbons. The room smelled faintly of perfume. Clinton handed her his handkerchief.
“I have been telling them the same thing over and over,” she continued. “I do not know who killed Dr. Burdell or where he went that evening. He was gone for many hours. His carriage driver, Samuel, certainly would know.”
“You told that to the Coroner and the Police Chief?”
She took a breath, trembling. It took her several seconds to