“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.”
“Yes, sir,” Snarky said, subdued, not that he minded mingling with the reporters who clustered in knots along the printing house row, sitting on crates in the alleys, chomping on the stumps of wide cigars, gambling at cards, while waiting for news of fresh crime from the police precincts.
“And,” said Clinton, “the next time she comes, would someone please tell my wife—we don’t need any more food.” Clinton took John to a shelf piled high with tins. Almost every day, Elisabeth stopped by the law office with more baked goods. With Clinton always between the jailhouse and the courts, no matter what time she came, she hardly ever found him in.
Clinton opened a tin of shortbread. “Here we go, John. These are fairly fresh. I believe she brought these over Friday.” John raised a triangle of cake and jammed it into his mouth. His eyes widened, embarrassed, when he heard the laughter of the clerks.
Clinton led John into his office, away from the eyes of the curious staff. He shut the door and sat John down to finish his cake. “John, you have been at the house awhile, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said dutifully, his mouth still full.
“And you know Mrs. Cunningham and the other servants? Do you know the carriage driver, named Samuel?” The boy began chewing faster and eyed the door without answering.
Clinton now reached into his pocket and sorted through some coins until he found a penny, shiny and new, dated 1857, with a flying eagle stamped on the copper. He offered it to the boy, and his face lit up at the sight. As he suspected, it was the bird on the shiny coin that intrigued him; paper currency had little meaning.
“I don’t know where Samuel is,” he protested, “I swear to it.” Clinton patted him on the back. “John, I need your help. Here’s what I need you to do. I want you to go back to 31 Bond Street, and do your job, and each day, come here and fill me in on what is happening inside the house. Can you do that?” The boy nodded. “Can you leave the house without being missed?”
“The police officers send me out for food and provisions, and such. I can pass the officers at the door anytime,” said John.
“Good. I want you to be my eyes and ears.” Clinton opened another tin—this box was filled with taffy. He placed it before the child, who added the candy to his bulging pockets. Clinton lifted a page of stationery from a stack on his desk and started penning a note. “I am writing a letter for you to give to Mrs. Cunningham. Make sure no one sees you.” The boy nodded.
Clinton led John out past the clerks, escorting him out the office door, to the hallway. “Remember, John,” he whispered, “it’s important to be discreet,” said Clinton as the boy nodded and fled away.
Clinton stepped back inside and encountered a thin-skinned, elderly gentleman standing at the edge of the room, struggling into his coat.
“The Livingstone papers, Henry. It was a simple request,” James Armstrong said as he put on his hat.
Clinton slapped his head. “I am remiss, James. I completely forgot about them. I apologize. Instead, I went to the inquest at Bond Street. It’s a circus there, and in the ensuing chaos, I neglected to stop for Mr. Livingstone’s signature. I’ll send one of the juniors right now to take care of it.”
“No need, Henry, no need.” Armstrong sighed. “I’ll go myself. No need to ruffle a client’s feathers, especially when the feathers are as richly hued as Josiah Livingstone’s.” Armstrong spoke with a forced nonchalance, masking his anger, leaving the impression that running off in the downtown traffic was a pleasurable morning outing. Armstrong settled into his deep cashmere coat with a banker’s collar, lined with fur. “As for this Bond Street business, I suppose you should tell me what kind of mess you’re getting the firm into. I heard that this past summer, this same widow was seen around Saratoga, husband hunting.”
“James, the corpse is barely cold, and rumor, not fact, are giving high color to this investigation.”
“Enough,” said Armstrong, with impatience, opening the door to leave. “I will be going to Dr. Burdell’s funeral tomorrow to pay my respects to the family. His brothers engaged me to handle a property dispute back in ‘54. I imagine they are shocked by this weekend’s violence, as am I. I would like you to join me in the carriage tomorrow morning. On the way to the church, you can explain to me what you are doing in the middle of this.”
July 1856, New York City
When the first heat of July settled over the city, Emma Cunningham booked one of the last staterooms on the Albany steamer for herself and her daughters. Then she telegraphed the Congress Hotel in Saratoga Springs for a suite. To economize, she dismissed the maid, struggling to move the furniture to the center of the parlor, pulling dust sheets across the upholstery and shutting off the gas, preparing to close the house on Twenty-fourth Street herself. She folded her evening dresses, packing them in sturdy trunks, and wrapped her daughters’ flimsy frocks and bloomers, camisoles and muslin sleeves.
A pile of bills lay ignored upon the desk. She gathered them and pushed them into a drawer. Widowed the previous summer, she had moved twice with her daughters, and soon the lease on this house was up, with the rents everywhere getting higher. In the tall pier mirror, she caught her image surrounded by the sheeted furniture as dust motes floated around the parlor. In the silvery tableaux, she imagined she saw the indistinct images of dancing ladies and gentlemen, apparitions swirling under a chandelier.
I am so weary of black, she thought. If she left the city, where no one knew that her mourning period was not yet over, she could wear color again. There was no reason to spend the summer in the city while neighboring townhouses were shuttered and silent, as entire families fled the heat. Both daughters were rapidly nearing a marriageable age, and if they remained in New York, sitting in a hot parlor, the summer months would unravel aimlessly with no social visits, no parties, or suitable young men. She had drawn from her dwindling savings to buy the tickets to Saratoga where there would be concerts