Read 31 Bond Street for Free Online Page B

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.”
    “And did you speak the truth?
    “Yes, sir, I did.” The boy started to fidget, nervously.
    “John—do you know who killed Dr. Burdell?”
    “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