Forgotten News

by Jack Finney

  Hannah further reported that Mrs. Cunningham "cried out but did not say much," that she "seemed crazy, and tore her hair." Snodgrass "got some camphor" for the fainting Helen. Hannah rushed out to bring in the next-door neighbor. Ten-year-old George Cunningham was sent running across the street through the rain for Dr. Stephen Maine.

  Maine seems a cool, intelligent man. During that first confused hour many of the people who came in and looked at the dead man did not understand what had happened to him. His clothes were so saturated, and by morning so stiff, with blood, that it wasn't easy to make out the slits in his clothing and understand that he'd been stabbed to death. But Stephen Maine, standing with the neighbor from next door, looking down at Harvey Burdell, then stooping to touch him and feel the cold skin, saw that he'd been murdered, and how. He examined the entire room then, and the Doctor's bedroom next door; observantly, remembering all he saw, and that is why we know where the Doctor's overshoes, hat, and shawl had been placed, and that a blood-speckled Herald lay on the center table.

  Next he set his "student," who'd followed him from across the street, to guarding the door of the murder room. Snodgrass called to Dr. Maine from the floor above, and he went up to see Emma Cunningham. Snodgrass got a hat—it was raining still, and a northwest wind had come up —and ran out, and down Bond toward number 55 for Dr. W. R. Roberts, friend of both Harvey Burdell and Emma Cunningham. Dr. Maine found Mrs. Cunningham "upon the sofa," he said, and "the eldest daughter upon a chair, leaning upon a large trunk … the youngest daughter lay partly across the bed, and appeared to be in great agony." In Dr. Maine's opinion, she truly was "in a state of actual fainting, in a state of syncope," which my big dictionary says is "a partial or complete temporary suspension of respiration and circulation," and he loosened her corset.

  He thought Mrs. Cunningham "very excitable and agitated; she had a sort of hysterical action as if she felt very bad," and—giving us a clue to his own age possibly—Stephen Maine said of a thirty-five-year-old woman, "The old lady was exclaiming [in a curious phrasing, if these are really her words], 'He is dead, and I always liked him, and thought a great deal of him!' "

  But Maine "thought her 'fainting' differing from the others," and now when Emma Cunningham asked him the cause of Harvey Burdell's death, he decided not to tell her. "I knew he was killed," Maine said, "from observing his wounds," but what he told her was that Burdell had burst a blood vessel, causing a hemorrhage; I suppose he wanted to hear her reaction. "She said she was so glad to know that was the case, for she supposed that he was murdered or killed, adding at the same time that Hannah had told her that he was murdered, or had given her that idea…."

  More excited running around: Hannah, with the same idea as Snodgrass, ran out to go get Dr. Roberts. He was sleeping late this morning, having been at the Academy of Music last night; they got him up, then the three of them hurried along Bond through a rainstorm. Dr. Roberts climbed the stairs to the Doctor's office, and saw Dr. Maine and the neighbor standing at the door with Maine's student, and Snodgrass sent John Burchell running over to Fourth Street for Dr. Allen Smith, friend and former partner of Burdell's.

  And so it went. Dr. Roberts arrived, to stare down at his dead friend, then went up to Emma Cunningham's room, where he found her "crying, and the first remark I think I heard her make was that if the Doctor was dead, she could not live…." Awkwardly, as it seems to me, "I told her that if he was dead it could not be helped." Her reply mystified him: "She made a remark then, 'You don't know the secret.'…" The doctor helped Snodgrass lay her on the bed, and went back downstairs to the murder room.

  Dr. Maine returned with three cops, a couple of whom had been here before, fetched from Broadway by Harvey Burdell during battles with Mrs. Cunningham. Now one of the cops went right back to the station house to report to Captain Dilk that Burdell had died of a broken blood vessel. Dilk telegraphed this to the coroner's office, where the afternoon papers picked it up.

  Daniel Ullman finally got up from his bed, then stood in the bloody office staring at what lay on the floor. Dr. Burdell, the lawyer cautiously decided, was "evidently" dead.

  More people hurrying into the house: a dentist cousin of Burdell's named Maguire; a Dr. Knight; a Dr. Francis, sixty-seven years old, which means he was born in 1790, while Washington was President, and who knew why he was called physician: "I have been in the practice of physic for 47 years."

  Maguire found Emma Cunningham "moaning quite loudly," saying, " 'This is a horrible affair.' " Her daughter, too, "was on the sofa moaning," but Maguire "did not know if [Emma Cunningham's] moaning was sincere; it struck me that it was not," and he left the room.

  And then … Edward Downes Connery—Coroner Connery—arrived, bringing his son, who was also his assistant, and 31 Bond turned into a different place. Almost immediately, legally or not, Connery made the house a prison for some of its inmates. Thirty-one Bond became a source of sensational news, shouted through the streets every day for weeks; crisscrossing the country by telegraph; moving across the oceans by ship. And finally the house at 31 Bond became a place of inquisition as strange and at times demented as anything yet in Emma Cunningham's life.

  They searched the dead man's pockets, finding his watch stopped at 5:54; some "coppers and silver," one of the cops tells us, the silver being "six-pences, shillings, or quarters." Dr. Maine had already seen a big bunch of keys on Harvey Burdell's desk, and now they found still more in his pockets: a key to the safe at the other end of the room, a night-latch key to the house, and others. Keys, keys, keys: it sounds right for this man. Connery's son, John, then brought out his knife, slit the dead man's sleeves and pant legs, and ripped up the backs of his coat and undergarments. Then Drs. Maine and Francis pulled the stiff and bloody clothes off, and Harvey Burdell lay face up and naked now, and, said Maine, they saw "marks of redness around the neck. All of us spoke of that when we were examining [the body]. It was not done with a cord but something larger; we took it to be with his neck handkerchief. He was choked, for his tongue protruded." Dr. Francis "thought of garroting, but said nothing."

  The doctors studied the many stab wounds; counted them; probed their depths and measured their widths with instruments Dr. Knight had brought. They speculated on the kind of weapon, and on how the murder had been done. Then Dr. Maine went out to the hall with one of the cops, Davis, and they examined and noted the locations of the bloody marks there, down the length of the staircase, and a bloody print on the inside of the street door just over the lock.

  Again Dr. Roberts went up to Emma Cunningham's room, this time to tell her that Harvey Burdell had been murdered. "… it was a very solemn time," he said. "I felt very bad to see an old friend cut up so." And now, to the astonished Roberts, Emma Cunningham revealed her secret: she was the dead man's widow.

  4

  By mid-afternoon of the same day the coroner had impaneled a full jury of twelve men: where and how he got them that fast I don't know. The inquest began immediately, and it was held right here in the house, at number 31 Bond. What's more, Coroner Connery held it in the very blood-spattered room in which the murder was done. They simply picked up the naked corpse, carried it into the front bedroom next door, and laid it out on the bed, "where it presented a ghastly appearance," the New York Tribune reporter thought. Then they brought in chairs for the jury, and swore in John Burchell, the boy who a few hours earlier had opened the door of the room he now sat in, the blood he'd seen then and saw now still not entirely dry.

  Outside the house the wind pushed down the long north-south streets, flinging the rain, freezing it. Some pedestrians fell on slick new ice, signs blew down, window shutters ripped loose. Presently the wind subsided, the temperature rising, and then: "At the street crossings the rain and melted snow formed lakes varying from six inches to two feet deep. Along side streets the water rushed like a torrent…." It flooded basements, and drove rats out onto "Washington-street, South-street, the docks and the markets…." Horses strained and slipp
ed, and the cars of the "Sixth and Eighth-avenue Railroad Companies," whose tracks had been scattered with salt, were pulled through foot-deep water, causing waves. At un-flooded street crossings "enterprising boys with dilapidated brooms" swept the broad crossing-stones clear for pedestrians, to earn tips.

  Up in the murder room I'm sure a fire had been lighted—or possibly rekindled from the fire the Doctor himself had lighted only last night. And Coroner Connery, who spoke with some remnant of an Irish brogue, questioned the boy in the dental chair. Who told them what had happened here this morning, but—only a boy, and I assume terribly excited—forgot to mention John Eckel's unusually early departure. Dentist Allen Smith testified to "angry words" he'd overheard in this house, and to some of Harvey Burdell's complaints. Dr. Roberts, old friend and frequent visitor here that he was, said he knew practically nothing.

  About one o'clock a message reached John Eckel at his Stanton Street place, brought by "a boy," his bookkeeper recalled, saying that "a man was dead at his place of residence… and Mr. Eckel was requested to come home immediately … Eckel seemed much surprised…." Surprised, but when he'd left the house that morning there'd been three men still there: Snodgrass, Ullman, and Burdell. Yet now, as the bookkeeper recalled it, he did not ask which of the three was dead.

  He knew nothing at all of the murder, he told the inquest: had heard nothing all night; never heard anyone threaten Dr. Burdell; and: "That is all I know of the matter." Eckel was dismissed, and back at work within a couple of hours.

  Several doctors testified on what they'd found here, then Connery declared a recess, and had some cops search the house. They found plenty. On the floor of an attic room, in a heap of ladies' clothes, a bloody shirt mysteriously marked "Charles J. Ketcham." More blood: on a sheet, a towel, a floor matting. In the room of one of the Cunningham girls, a newspaper, dry now but bloody.

  In this empty attic room, in which Mary Donaho had been told to lay a fire, and through the window of which Dr. Parmly thought he had seen fire last night, they found ashes in that grate and scraps of woolen cloth. Still more blood on the door handle and keyhole, looking to a reporter "as if rubbed by a bloody hand."

  And in one of Mrs. Cunningham's bureau drawers they found a loaded revolver and this dagger, also bloody, said the reporter. So the prospects looked good for solving the murder when Coroner Connery and the jury reassembled; and when Hannah Conlon began to talk, they looked still better. Sitting under the gaslight of Dr. Burdell's office, this "genuine-looking Irish girl," which is a reporter's description, told Connery, jury, and the reporters who took down her account what she suspected of relations between Emma Cunningham and John Eckel … of overheard disputes and accusations … of the Thanksgiving Day miscarriage. She told of being sent early to bed last night, and other nights; of Eckel's departure before breakfast this morning … "I know no more," she finished, "If I did I would tell it if I was to go to the gallows for it."

  Time now to hear from Mrs. Cunningham. Who showed her usual determination and propensity to blunder by refusing to come down or testify. Connery hit the roof, and sent a cop up for her, threatening to have her dragged down by the collar.

  "Mrs. Cunningham presently appeared. She seemed to be very much moved by the strangeness of her position and the horrid nature of the events which had transpired beneath her roof." She "shed tears copiously," and was dressed "in black, and wore a fur cape negligently around her shoulders…. Her face is oval, high cheek bones, and slightly sunken cheeks. Thin, firm lips would seem to indicate decision and firmness of character. Her bust is full, and her figure good for her age; medium height. Her face, as a whole, is not handsome, and yet she is prepossessing when animated; her voice is soft and low, and under favorable circumstances, she would be an attractive woman. In her distressing situation, her countenance only wore an overwhelming expression of wretchedness."

  "Your name is Mrs. Emma Augusta Cunningham," said Connery, and she dropped her bombshell.

  "My name is Emma Augusta Burdell. I am the wife of the deceased."

  "How is that? Your friends say your name is Cunningham."

  "I can establish by satisfactory proof that I am the lawful wife of Dr. Burdell," she said, and then explained things.

  Yes, Harvey Burdell had accused her of stealing a note, but it wasn't true. Yes, they'd also had other quarrels: about his failure at first to keep his promise of marriage, about females he brought into the house; but she knew nothing about his murder. True, she had spoken to Hannah last night, but not to send her early to bed; she had merely "asked her if she was nearly done with her work. I told her what to get for breakfast…." She'd heard nothing all night, couldn't say who'd killed Harvey Burdell, and she brought out and handed over the certificate attesting to her marriage on October 28, signed by a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, Uriah Marvine. Why hadn't she mentioned this marriage before? Because she and Harvey had decided to keep it secret till June.

  That was enough for one day. Connery adjourned till tomorrow, and sent the jurymen home. Hannah Conlon he placed under arrest as a material witness and, unable to put up $1,000 bail, she was led off to Captain Dilk's Fifteenth Ward station house, and locked in a cell. Emma Cunningham was placed under house arrest, and cops were stationed throughout the house.

  The two girls and the little boys stayed with their mother. Eckel came home presently, and I don't know whether Snodgrass had ever left. And so, except for Ullman and Hannah, and with the additions of the cops on guard, the house was left again to the same inmates as the night before, Harvey Burdell now motionless on his bed.

  What could that evening have been like? Mrs. Cunningham and her daughters were surely allowed to come downstairs to put together a supper for themselves, the boys, and possibly the two men. What did they say, what did each think, moving up and down the bloody staircase, passing the door behind which the Doctor lay? A cluster of people stood across the street, word that the death here was murder having spread through the compact city by word of mouth. Did the Cunninghams move the drawn blinds of their rooms to peek out and down at the people standing before Drs. Parmly's and Maine's houses, staring over here to catch a glimpse of them? Did their eyes meet for a moment?

  That same evening Eckel and George Snodgrass were taken to the Fifteenth Precinct station house, as witnesses, and locked in a cell near Hannah Conlon. She saw them come in, and remarked to Eckel that "it was too bad to lock me up for no cause," but got no sympathy; it was too bad for him, too, said Eckel. Hannah said she was sorry she'd ever come to 31 Bond.

  Only one cell away from the men, Hannah sat hearing them talk, not paying much attention or feeling like talking herself, she said, but she noticed they didn't seem very upset. "In my opinion they seemed to be very happy. They seemed to have no trouble in their minds for being there. I only wished I could have felt so happy. They didn't seem to be downhearted at all at being locked up there. I didn't like to be locked up there." Resentfully, it sounds, Hannah said, "Mr. Snodgrass appeared to laugh and sing the whole night. Mr. Eckel didn't sing, but he laughed. Snodgrass hollered at me, and asked me how I liked being there. I felt very bad to be there, and was very sorry for the deceased. I said how could they be so merry. Snodgrass asked me what there was to be sorry for. I said on account of the murder of Dr. Burdell…. After a while he stopped [singing]."

  Daniel Ullman sat in the front parlor of 31 Bond that evening talking to the police. During this the undertakers arrived, and went on upstairs. I don't know whether they did any sort of embalming, but they'd come to make the corpse presentable. Soon after they arrived, Mrs. Cunningham sent word down to Ullman that she wanted to see him. He went up to her room, and "she asked me if she could not be permitted to direct the manner in which Dr. Burdell should be dressed. That she did not wish him to have a shroud, but to be dressed in his usual clothes. She seemed to be greatly agitated and excited; she said that he was hers, alive or dead. She hoped that I would speak to the undertakers."

  At t
he jail, said Hannah, "Snodgrass sung out to me in the night if I was asleep. I said I could not sleep, I was cold and wet," which meant, I suppose, that she'd been walked to the station house in the rain.

  In the morning Ullman packed and moved out of 31 Bond forever, taking a room at the St. Nicholas on Broadway. On the same morning a cop, stationed here in the house, came to Mrs. Cunningham's room, and offered a word of advice: Stop talking about the murder.

  Newsboys were out with the Sunday papers and the news that Harvey Burdell—a prominent man—had been murdered. And by afternoon: "The street in the neighborhood of the house was crowded with persons attracted thither by curiosity, but who were denied admission. The hall and staircase were also thronged by those, who obtaining admittance were unable to proceed any further. The room in which the examination was held was filled to its capacity by lawyers, reporters, and acquaintances of the deceased man….A. Oakey Hall, Esq., was present…."

  This was the district attorney, here perhaps at the coroner's request; or, with a politician's instinct for what's big, here on his own. For A. Oakey Hall was a politician above all else, well known here and now, and to become notorious in a decade or so when Thomas Nast, greatest political cartoonist of all, began endlessly caricaturing Hall in Harper's Weekly, along with Boss Tweed and the others of the infamous Tweed Ring.

  Also here in the crowded room were Mrs. Cunningham's lawyer, B. C. Thayer, and a new man, attorney Henry L. Clinton. These two were "employed as counsel for all the defendants," and whoever brought in Henry Clinton made a smart move. For Clinton was a formidable lawyer, as he would gradually demonstrate, and Eckel and Emma Cunningham needed just that. The Times, calling them "defendants," had picked the right word: Coroner Edward Connery almost immediately revealed that in his mind and ambition this inquest was really a trial, that he knew Eckel and Mrs. Cunningham were guilty, and was going to prove it.