31 Bond Street

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“Mr. Armstrong would like you to stop over to Mr. Livingstone’s, sir,” said the messenger, “and witness his signature on these papers. They need to be filed by noon. And here’s a letter for you.”

“This came from the office?”

“Yes, sir, the morning clerk said it’s been at the door since Sunday.” It was a thin envelope on blue paper, with his name in ink across the front, in a shaky hand. When he opened the note he could see that it was written by a woman.

Dear Mr. Clinton,

I have gotten your name from my solicitor and I hope that you might come and see me. I am in need of legal assistance, but am told I can speak to no one, and have not spoken with anyone who can counsel me. This is about a murder, occurring

Friday night, at this house where I am sequestered, perhaps you have heard.

Please respond, as I am confined to house arrest, Sincerely,

Mrs. Emma Cunningham, 31 Bond Street

According to the newspaper, the murder scene had been turned over to a Coroner’s inquest, whereby the Coroner and his minions occupied the crime scene until they finished interrogating all possible witnesses, to gather facts while the crime was still fresh. In Clinton’s view, calling a jury to the scene of a murder was an antiquated custom, descended from English law, no longer suited to crime in modern cities. In addition, he knew that the Coroner, Edward Connery, was a blustery blowhard with a flair for theatrics. In Clinton’s mind, there was no greater obstacle to justice than the reckless ambition of an incompetent man.

Clinton returned to the breakfast room to find the table cleared. It was now eight thirty and his morning was slipping away. Elisabeth appeared with his overcoat.

“I’m off,” he said, distracted.

“Henry,” she said, looking at the envelope. “That’s not about the Bond Street murder is it?” She met his eye, which confirmed her guess. “There is no need for you to get involved—it sounds as if it’s turning into a Broadway melodrama.”

“From the reports, I suspect it is more like a circus, and I pity the animals in captivity,” he said. “You wouldn’t blame me if I stopped by to take a look—as a concerned neighbor, that is.”

“As a concerned neighbor, I fear you will try to give legal aid to every person at the scene.” There had been a recent lull in his workload and she cherished the calm. Elisabeth followed him to the front door, wrapping a white scarf around his neck, tenderly fretting about the cold air. From the street, he took a last look at her, shivering at the door.

“Good-bye, my dear,” he said. “Please promise me you will not make a pilgrimage downtown today to bring me lunch—it’s far too cold. It’s best to remain inside, in the warmth.”

“I will, if you promise to stay away from that murder on Bond Street,” she said blowing him a kiss.