Read Online 31 Bond Street by Ellen Horan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen Horan
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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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 have never interfered with my choice of cases before, James, and I have never interfered with yours. I would hope you will continue to honor that,” said Clinton defiantly.
“The prosecution will build the case that Emma Cunningham is an imposter and killed Burdell for his money. Whatever money she had, she has lost. If cleared of the murder, her only recourse to pay us is another sensational court battle over the murdered man’s estate,” said Armstrong.
“Everything we know about Emma Cunningham,” Clinton replied, “is based on the ramblings of a bumbling coroner and a fevered press. When I passed by the house this morning, the crowds were more numerous than yesterday, and the newspapers are making a fortune from this ordeal. This morning’s paper already has accounts of Dr. Burdell’s feuds with his family and his shadowy business practices,” he said, patting the newspaper on his knee. “Meanwhile, Emma Cunningham will be made a scapegoat to the District Attorney’s ambitions and she will hang, unjustly, for this crime.”
“Henry, wake up! There is no value in this enterprise,” barked Armstrong. “You do not need to save every widow. Another lawyer will rally to her cause. This case will collapse our firm in bad publicity and crippling costs. I am asking you to drop this case.”
The carriage was stalled at Houston Street. The driver reported the congestion of traffic on account of the funeral. As they made their way through the snarl of vehicles, the horses neared the intersection of Bond Street. They headed into a crowd of hundreds of people, gathered along the sidewalks, noisy as if watching a parade, the curious leaning out windows. The carriage stopped again as a wagon, draped in black, drawn by four white horses, turned from Bond Street onto Broadway. Two undertakers held the coffin, and a policeman held back the crowds. As it passed, they edged northward in the wake of the funeral cortege, toward Grace Church, its Gothic marble spire sparkling white in the morning light. Armstrong spotted Oakey Hall walking briskly toward the church, wearing spats and carrying a jeweled cane.
“This is about crossing swords with Oakey Hall, isn’t it, Henry?” said Armstrong, wearily. “You want to take him down. Well, I am serious about one thing: if you remain on this case, our partnership is over.”
Clinton looked at Armstrong’s face long enough to absorb the seriousness of his words. They had worked together for over seven years, and although they often held opposing views, the relationship had always been one of respect. But Clinton sensed that this time was different.
Without another word, Armstrong gathered his cane and exited the carriage, which was now parked deep among the other carriages arriving at the entrance. Clinton sat, pondering the effect of Armstrong’s words, and just as the service was about to begin, he entered the church alone. Each bench was marked with a brass plate engraved with a family name. The newly rich had bought their pewsrecently, paying a handsome sum to the rectory, while the tottering aristocracy had inherited them, all the way back to the Dutch. There was a pew marked C LINTON , reserved three generations ago by the ancestors of his wife, and he squeezed himself in.
The mourners were rustling in their seats. The casket stood before the altar. Garlands of white lilies were piled on top, and the hothouse fragrance was overpoweringly sweet. The Rector, Reverend Taylor, mounted the podium, which was raised high, ornamented with carvings in the medieval style. The organ droned, and the congregation sang a hymn. The Rector’s eulogy bemoaned the passing of a
“So you would prefer that this woman, whom I have not even been able to properly interview, be left without a defense? You have never interfered with my choice of cases before, James, and I have never interfered with yours. I would hope you will continue to honor that,” said Clinton defiantly.
“The prosecution will build the case that Emma Cunningham is an imposter and killed Burdell for his money. Whatever money she had, she has lost. If cleared of the murder, her only recourse to pay us is another sensational court battle over the murdered man’s estate,” said Armstrong.
“Everything we know about Emma Cunningham,” Clinton replied, “is based on the ramblings of a bumbling coroner and a fevered press. When I passed by the house this morning, the crowds were more numerous than yesterday, and the newspapers are making a fortune from this ordeal. This morning’s paper already has accounts of Dr. Burdell’s feuds with his family and his shadowy business practices,” he said, patting the newspaper on his knee. “Meanwhile, Emma Cunningham will be made a scapegoat to the District Attorney’s ambitions and she will hang, unjustly, for this crime.”
“Henry, wake up! There is no value in this enterprise,” barked Armstrong. “You do not need to save every widow. Another lawyer will rally to her cause. This case will collapse our firm in bad publicity and crippling costs. I am asking you to drop this case.”
The carriage was stalled at Houston Street. The driver reported the congestion of traffic on account of the funeral. As they made their way through the snarl of vehicles, the horses neared the intersection of Bond Street. They headed into a crowd of hundreds of people, gathered along the sidewalks, noisy as if watching a parade, the curious leaning out windows. The carriage stopped again as a wagon, draped in black, drawn by four white horses, turned from Bond Street onto Broadway. Two undertakers held the coffin, and a policeman held back the crowds. As it passed, they edged northward in the wake of the funeral cortege, toward Grace Church, its Gothic marble spire sparkling white in the morning light. Armstrong spotted Oakey Hall walking briskly toward the church, wearing spats and carrying a jeweled cane.
“This is about crossing swords with Oakey Hall, isn’t it, Henry?” said Armstrong, wearily. “You want to take him down. Well, I am serious about one thing: if you remain on this case, our partnership is over.”
Clinton looked at Armstrong’s face long enough to absorb the seriousness of his words. They had worked together for over seven years, and although they often held opposing views, the relationship had always been one of respect. But Clinton sensed that this time was different.
Without another word, Armstrong gathered his cane and exited the carriage, which was now parked deep among the other carriages arriving at the entrance. Clinton sat, pondering the effect of Armstrong’s words, and just as the service was about to begin, he entered the church alone. Each bench was marked with a brass plate engraved with a family name. The newly rich had bought their pewsrecently, paying a handsome sum to the rectory, while the tottering aristocracy had inherited them, all the way back to the Dutch. There was a pew marked C LINTON , reserved three generations ago by the ancestors of his wife, and he squeezed himself in.
The mourners were rustling in their seats. The casket stood before the altar. Garlands of white lilies were piled on top, and the hothouse fragrance was overpoweringly sweet. The Rector, Reverend Taylor, mounted the podium, which was raised high, ornamented with carvings in the medieval style. The organ droned, and the congregation sang a hymn. The Rector’s eulogy bemoaned the passing of a
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