Inside Horace Greeley’s gilded mansion, it is bright and noisy and full of people, and while Walt Whitman knows most people by name, he has not personally met many of them. Mr. Bennett greets him at the door, per their agreement, and introduces him around. The men wear tailcoats and neckcloths, sipping drinks and smoking cigars, and they nod his way when Mr. Bennett calls out their names. Among others are Gerard Hallock, Henry Raymond, George Morris, and William Snowden, the very same who published Edgar Poe’s “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt.” Poe himself is hunched over in the corner, looking even worse than he did almost a week ago when Walt saw him in the Pewter Mug. Snowden sees Walt looking at his writer and pulls him by the elbow to Poe’s corner.
“Mr. Poe,” Snowden says, “meet Walter Whitman.”
Edgar Poe looks up as if awakened out of a trance. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” His voice is shaky, half-hoarse.
Whitman shakes his hand and says, “I admire your work very much.”
“Oh? Oh?” The poor author attempts to sit up but simply can’t. He’s too feeble to do more than sit where he is, and so he thanks Walt for the kind words about his work, which he discounts himself by saying, “It’s a surprise anyone takes me or my work seriously anymore.”
Walt glances at Mr. Snowden, who shoots him a look signaling that this is typical behavior for Poe.
“Well,” Snowden says to Mr. Poe, “I need to see Mr. Whitman off to his host.”
At this, Mr. Poe stiffens. He grips Whitman’s hand and pulls him close. “This is all a conspiracy.” His voice is strong and clear now. He keeps the volume low so Mr. Snowden can’t hear. “Abraham Stowe was innocent. His wife was innocent. You are correct about it all, and I will help you in any way I can, do you hear?”
Walt pulls back, awkwardly, and nods.
Mr. Snowden guides Walt to the back of the room, where he introduces him to a short man with wire-rimmed spectacles. He is bald on top, with long white hair in the back. “Mr. Horace Greeley.”
Whitman shakes his hand. “Pleasure to see you again, sir.” Greeley was a big supporter of the Stowes and held a fund-raiser in this very room for the women’s college a few months back.
“We’ve met before?”
“I am a friend of Abraham and Lena—or was, anyway.”
“Ah yes, I remember. You are the author of the temperance novel?”
“The very same, sir.”
“My wife found it instructive, but I”—he holds up his glass—“remain unconvinced.”
“Then we’ll get along very well.” Walt grabs a bourbon from the waiter’s tray and takes a drink. “An author’s life should never be confused with that of his character’s.” They clink their glasses together.
Mr. Greeley smiles. “Now, the meeting will proceed as follows: You will present your case and then we’ll vote on whether or not the committee will move forward. A simple majority rules the day.”
“Thank you for hosting this meeting,” Walt says. “It is very kind of you.”
“I’m lucky to be able to assist. It’s a tragedy what happened, and if you’re correct, perhaps we begin to set it right.”
The bourbon relaxes Walt. The whole evening has come together. None of this will bring Henry Saunders back, but he owes it to Henry to make sure Samuel Clement bears responsibility for his actions.
Walt follows Mr. Greeley to the front of the room and is just about to sit down when he sees him.
Isaiah Rynders.
Blood rushes to Walt’s face, and his stomach flips.
Mr. Rynders nods his way. His auburn hair is neatly combed, the knife scar on his forehead barely visible. Walt wonders about Azariah, and whether he is well. He makes a decision to find him when all this is over, to try and get him to safety.
Mr. Greeley sees the two men make eye contact. “You know Mr. Rynders?”
“We’ve crossed paths a few times,” Walt says.
“Let me tell you—a good man,” Mr. Greeley says. “A lot of what he does for this city goes unheralded.”
“Oh?”
“He creates jobs for the thousands of immigrants who arrive in the harbors every day. Indeed, no single man does more to maintain order in our city.” Mr. Greeley waves to Mr. Rynders. “Yes, every New Yorker owes Isaiah Rynders an enormous debt of gratitude.”
Whitman is speechless. Over Mr. Greeley’s shoulder, Mr. Rynders smiles at him, and Walt knows the entire evening is in question. How can he persuade a room full of New York’s most prominent men to go along with his premise with Rynders in the room?
“Are you feeling well, Mr. Whitman?”
“Yes,” he stammers. “Will Mr. Rynders support this meeting?”
“Oh yes,” Mr. Greeley says. “When he found out about it, he insisted on coming. Now let’s begin, shall we?”
The meeting begins with a brief welcome by Mr. Greeley, and then all eyes turn to Mr. Walt Whitman. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Whitman says. “Tonight, I ask for your help in averting another tragic event in what can already be called a disaster. As you know, my colleague, Mr. Henry Saunders, was murdered and his body found yesterday in the now destroyed Women’s Medical College of Manhattan. The young woman who ran the college, Miss Elizabeth Blackwell, is set to stand trial for his murder.
“What I am about to propose will sound grandiose and far-fetched, but please keep an open mind. As this committee knows firsthand, New York City’s legal system and law enforcement have had their challenges. Many do their jobs well, but some are corrupt. Your committee’s scathing report after the Mary Rogers murder was clear on that point and gave several compelling and accurate examples to support your conclusions. In that context, I suggest to you that Miss Blackwell’s trial is part of a larger conspiracy to protect the lucrative business of body snatching.”
Whitman glances at Mr. Rynders and takes a deep breath. He recounts the events leading up to Henry Saunders’s abduction and murder, his meetings with Frankie Clement, his confrontation with Samuel Clement at the church. “Mr. Clement made no attempt to hide the fact that he abducted Mr. Saunders. He wanted me to know. That was the whole point.”
Mr. Hallock raises his hand. “Mr. Whitman, we want to help, but what you haven’t addressed is the history of that medical college. This is the second such murder in three weeks.”
“Precisely,” Walt says. “The city hanged Lena Stowe for the murder of her husband, Abraham Stowe, and then a short time later, after Lena’s execution, Mr. Saunders is murdered in precisely the same manner as Mr. Stowe. One thing this demonstrates is Lena Stowe’s likely innocence.” Walt doesn’t want to oversell what to him is obvious, so he proceeds deliberately. “And the second thing this shows is that the same person likely committed both murders.”
The men whisper among themselves.
Whitman continues, “So either Elizabeth Blackwell or Samuel Clement committed both murders.”
“And all the evidence points to Mr. Clement,” Mr. Poe says in a wobbly voice from the back.
“Both bodies were gutted like deer,” Walt says, “not dissected. Clearly, the murderer wanted to cast blame on Lena Stowe first and Elizabeth Blackwell second by making the victims appear dissected.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Whitman”—Mr. Rynders speaks now—“the autopsy results suggest otherwise.”
“Then they are incorrect,” Walt says. “Something we also saw with the Mary Rogers case.”
Mr. Hallock stands up. “But why?”
“Well, sir. I don’t have all the answers, but Abraham Stowe’s involvement with the Bone Bill is well known, and if that legislation passes, the body snatchers are out of business.”
Whitman pauses to give them a chance to reflect on what he’s said so far.
“As many of you probably know, I witnessed Sheriff Harris’s murder—for which, despite his clear guilt, Mr. Clement was dismissed as a suspect. Yes, Mr. Warren was there, but he didn’t pull the trigger. Nobody would be the wiser if I had not been there to do a story on body snatching.” Walt gets emotional, stops. “And unfortunately, Mr. Saunders paid the price for what I saw.”
Mr. Hallock, still standing, says: “And this committee of safety would raise funds for a reward, then?”
“Yes, for information about Henry Saunders’s murder.”
Mr. Rynders raises his hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Whitman. You haven’t stated the obvious problem with your proposal: Should this committee go forward, we will, all of us, accuse the City of New York of hanging an innocent woman in Lena Stowe. A very serious charge.”
“Yes, but we will save the city from doing it again.”
“Surely this will work itself out in the courts,” Mr. Hallock says. “Why the hurry? We don’t want to show up the new sheriff with this committee.”
Walt doesn’t bring up how the courts let Lena down. Instead, he says, “The hurry is simple: A crowd of New Yorkers has gathered in front of the Tombs. They want justice, and unless we do something, they will take matters into their own hands. Thank you for your time and consideration.”
The men then discuss the merits of the case. All of them seem to agree that Walt has made a convincing case, and that if there is no doubt of Miss Blackwell’s innocence, they should act. Most of their concerns revolve around the committee’s relationship with law enforcement. Sheriff Petty is new, and he is doing, by all accounts, good work. This committee has the potential to permanently damage the sheriff’s reputation.
Mr. Hallock calls for the vote. The man nearest them, George Morris, is the first.
“Aye,” he said.
“Mr. Snowden?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Rynders?”
Isaiah Rynders makes eye contact with Whitman before he speaks. “Nay.”
Mr. Hallock writes the results in a notebook with a silver pencil. “That’s one for no. Mr. Raymond?”
“Nay.”
The rest of the vote is split right down the middle, which leaves Mr. Greeley as the deciding vote. When it is his turn, the room goes silent, and all eyes are on him. He recounts the numbers on the paper, makes a few notes, then says: “Before I cast my vote, I have a few questions.”
“Questions?” Whitman can’t contain his surprise.
“You want us to humiliate New York law enforcement by essentially taking the law into our own hands,” Greeley says. “I want to be sure of the facts before making my decision.”
He continues. “This plot you’re suggesting—it’s so elaborate. Why would this Clement dissect his victims as you suggest?”
“A clumsy attempt to frame Mrs. Stowe and Miss Blackwell,” Walt says.
“Yes, yes,” Greeley says. “Fair enough, but what about the Mary Rogers case? Our committee did not lead to its resolution. Indeed, it may have done more harm than good with regard to public perception of law enforcement. You yourself are here tonight under the pretext that New York law enforcement cannot do its own job.”
“With regard to the Mary Rogers case, most New Yorkers believe Abraham Stowe is responsible for her death.” This is difficult for Walt to say. “In that sense, many would say the committee did work.”
Mr. Poe groans from the back of the room.
“Mr. Whitman, what you are suggesting sounds so obvious that, if it’s true, then the conspiracy is so broad and far-reaching that—” Greeley pauses.
“The mayor himself might be implicated? Make no mistake, Mr. Greeley, this fact is not lost on me,” Walt says. “This is why the committee must act—it is only as a body that we can confront such corruption. We, as citizens, have to take the law back. So, please, I implore you. Vote yes.”
Mr. Greeley strokes his chin, holds up his glass. “Congratulations. It appears as if you’ve convinced enough of us.”