Chapter Thirteen

The sensible next step, Nellie knew as she rode the train back to New York, was to take Ingram’s suggestion and get hold of a piece of Emma’s clothing, verify that the death was a murder, link DeKay definitively to the crime, and then link DeKay to Hilton. But after the travesty in the Apollo courtroom, Nellie was too angry with powerful men like Henry Hilton to be patient and methodical. She wanted to confront Hilton and let him know she knew exactly what he had done to Emma and that she wouldn’t rest until the rest of the world knew it as well. It was a foolhardy and even dangerous approach, which she rationalized by thinking it might pressure Hilton into making a mistake. The nub of it, though, was she wanted to punch the bully in the nose and show she wasn’t afraid of him.

Arranging to see him, however, would not be all that easy. Hilton loathed the press. With unending ridicule, both Republican and Democratic papers would point out how he had colossally mismanaged and bungled the immense fortune he’d inherited and lost more money than all but a handful of men in history had ever earned. As a result, Hilton had essentially closed off all communications with the fourth estate. He particularly despised the World and Joseph Pulitzer, for the additional transgression of trumpeting one of the sensational crimes of the century, a crime that had brought pain and embarrassment to Hilton and the family of A.T. Stewart.

It was a story well-known to anyone who worked at the World, alluded to often in the newsroom. On June 2, 1878, two years after Stewart’s funeral, the body of the department store magnate suddenly disappeared from its two-story crypt, with only a ransom note for an undisclosed sum in its place. “The Missing Corpse Grave Robbery” generated twelve-point banner headlines for days and became the talk of the entire country. The public found the story of “the lifeless body of the richest man in American history, held for ransom by common thieves” abhorrent, sacrilegious, and, needless to say, riveting. A massive hunt for the corpse ensued, with the New York City police force and Pinkerton detectives pursuing every possible lead twenty-four hours a day. Then suddenly, two weeks after the corpse-napping, Hilton announced that the body had been found and returned to its grave, and the search was called off. No one was ever arrested and no ransom sum ever disclosed, and Hilton refused to say anything more on the matter.

But much of the press, especially the World, refused to let the story die. Had Hilton actually paid the ransom? Had the grave robbers been found, and if so, why hadn’t they been arrested? Was the entire matter a hoax, to distract the public from Hilton’s enormous business losses? Through it all, Hilton remained silent, and the more he stonewalled, the greater and more outrageous the speculation. He pleaded with the press to leave Stewart’s family alone, but Pulitzer knew he had a compelling story on his hands and refused to drop it, doubling and even tripling the number of reporters assigned to it. In front-page editorials, Pulitzer even wondered if Hilton had simply taken an unclaimed body from the Manhattan morgue and placed it in the Stewart crypt to put an end to the matter and free himself from exorbitant ransom demands. When Hilton, through a friendly publisher, attacked the World’s speculations as “malevolent,” Pulitzer demanded to know exactly how much had been paid to “the purported thieves”—the World always referred to the story’s grave-robbers as “purported” or “so-called”—and called upon Hilton to produce them. The public devoured the coverage, and the World sold more papers relating to “The Missing Corpse Grave Robbery” than any other story in the entire nineteenth century. Hilton became so outraged at the coverage that he brought a criminal libel suit against Pulitzer—which, of course, only prolonged the controversy and sold yet more copies of the World. (The charges were dismissed. The World headline the next day: “Court Finds for World, Hilton Can’t Find Corpse.”)

As a reporter for the World, it would be next to impossible for Nellie to meet with Hilton if she identified herself, particularly regarding a story on Emma Lazarus, and given his reclusive life and layers of security, even more difficult for her to talk her way in with a false identity. But she was absolutely determined to see him, and she knew exactly how she would approach him if she ever got the chance. Hilton, like most men with power, enjoyed ignoring rules. It was a sign of special status that he could get away with things no one else would dare try, that his money and connections could transcend accountability. One reason Hilton hated Pulitzer so much was that he had no sway with Pulitzer; this immigrant son of a Jewish mother had held his feet to the fire with the corpse-napping, against all common decency. Emma Lazarus had treated him the same way. Nellie sensed that if she could get Hilton going on this subject, he might build a head of steam so great that he’d edge into bragging about poisoning Emma—which would only make the story that much more convincing and sensational.

But how to get in to see him? She considered possibilities the entire train ride back from Pittsburg, discarding each one as either too transparent or too shabby to win her a visit with the man who had sued the World and its publisher. Finally, as they approached the massive railroad yard of New York’s Pennsylvania Station, she came up with an idea. It wasn’t perfect, and she could use it only once, but it would get her face to face with Henry Hilton.

She hurried to the World’s archives and found exactly what she wanted. Not long after inheriting A.T. Stewart’s money, Hilton had constructed one of the largest and most lavish mansions in America, Woodlawn Park, outside of Saratoga Springs. Although the property was already among the grandest in New York State, Hilton immediately added six hundred acres of surrounding land and stocked it with expensive show animals, including sixteen prize-winning stallions upon whom nothing was spared. “They have their own private train car, which takes them from the door of the home stable at Saratoga to all the principal horse shows,” wrote the Times. “They are rubbed and fairly polished by expert grooms, and their beds are immaculately clean straw.” Hilton enjoyed owning horses so much, he expanded his stock farm to dozens of Holstein and Guernsey cattle, Southdown sheep, poultry, and purebred dogs.

The house itself was extraordinarily elaborate. Its entrance included an eight-foot-high marble statue of Hiawatha created by the legendary Augustus Saint-Gaudens. The grounds had fifteen thousand trees and nearly as many bushes. (Hilton entertained thoughts of a flower garden to rival that of Versailles, but roses made him sneeze, so he kept it at a more modest level.) When first completed six years before, the grounds had been mentioned, though not reviewed, in New York’s newspapers. Since then, however, much landscaping had been added, and the gardens were now fully mature. For once, Nellie’s experience as a garden reporter would come in handy. She approached Hilton’s office in Manhattan and, using the name Elizabeth Cochran, told them she wanted to write a story on Woodlawn Park’s handsome gardens ten years later. They wired back the same day that Mr. Hilton was amenable to the story and would be delighted to show Miss Cochran the gardens himself the following day.

Nellie accepted the offer immediately. She had hoped to see Ingram first—she missed him terribly during her time in Apollo—but she had to seize the opportunity and spent much of the night reading all she could about Henry Hilton.

She took the ninety-minute ride to Schenectady on the first train out and was met at the station by one of Hilton’s employees, a brawny man with massive hands and a surly demeanor. In the hansom ride to the estate, Nellie considered engaging him in conversation to learn what she could about Hilton, but he kept leering at her, so she decided to look away and say nothing.

“Uppity, aren’t you?” he said a few minutes into the ride.

“Excuse me?”

“High airs because some newspaper hired you. You’ll be back begging for it before long. You’ll see.”

The man scared her. She could sense that the violence in him was barely under control.

“Yes, I suppose I will,” she said and continued to look away. That seemed enough to appease the man, at least for the moment.

They arrived at Woodlawn Park after riding up a half-mile-long driveway from the main road to the largest house Nellie had ever seen. A house servant met her and took her inside to a foyer that itself was bigger than any house she had ever set foot in. On the lemon yellow walls, underneath giant chandeliers and fifty-foot-high ceilings, hung huge tapestries of knights on a crusade, and off to one side was an enormous ballroom with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that made it look even larger.

“Miss Cochran.”

Henry Hilton came down the steps to meet her. He was a tall, thin man, with a pointed nose and sunken cheeks and thick, white muttonchops that extended down to his jaw. Nellie had seen a photograph of A.T. Stewart and noted that Hilton dressed and styled himself similarly. Apparently Hilton hoped that if he looked the part of Stewart, he might develop the economic touch as well.

“How was the journey from the city?” he asked expansively.

“Very comfortable, thank you. Though I did not expect so grand a destination.”

“Well, we will have to make your visit a memorable one. Would you like a cup of tea? Or something to eat?”

Hilton was much more hospitable than she had expected, almost solicitous. She knew beneath the surface he was a wretch, yet he could not have been warmer.

“Perhaps we could tour the grounds first and then have some tea?” she suggested.

“Excellent. Harold, please have some tea ready when we return.”

“Very good, sir.” The butler beckoned to a maidservant, who quickly headed to the kitchen. It was not efficiency that was driving the woman, Nellie saw, but fear.

Hilton extended his arm to escort her. “Shall we?”

She smiled and took his arm as they headed outside to stroll between two rows of tall oak trees that led out to a meadow of flowers stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a beautiful summer day and the gardens were magnificent, but with her arm in Hilton’s, she felt only revulsion. Fighting it, she played along and endeavored to put him completely at ease, listening intently as he bragged about his gardens, lord of the manor.

“I suppose you are wondering why I agreed to give a personal tour to a reporter from the World,” he said as they walked underneath a canopy of branches.

“You are proud of your grounds and welcome interest from any paper, even one with a publisher you hold in low regard.”

“That would make sense, Miss Bly, if the person touring my grounds was not looking to involve me in a murder.”

He stopped and faced her, dropping her arm. His voice had turned cold, his manner no longer inviting.

“If you suspected that was the reason for my visit,” she said, recovering as best she could, “why did you agree to see me?”

“Because I have something to offer you, something that will become the biggest story of the year, even bigger than your account of the Bellevue Women’s asylum. Or anything to do with Emma Lazarus.” He paused for effect, struggling to contain his excitement. “The defeat of Grover Cleveland in the presidential election.”

Since day one of his administration, reformist President Grover Cleveland had taken on the monstrous forces of American big business and just the year before had signed into law the Interstate Commerce Act, which asserted long-awaited government control over railroad barons. He had also waged a battle to reduce protective tariffs, a position that resonated with the newly emerging middle class but that manufacturers claimed would wreck American industries. Republicans despised Cleveland and felt he had to be stopped, and indeed he received more death threats, and greater security, than any other president had ever received. Although populists had their issues with Cleveland, most Americans recognized him as an honest man, and he was expected to win reelection. Yet here was Hilton saying he had the means to defeat Cleveland.

“And how exactly would you do that?” asked Nellie.

With trembling hands, he withdrew a letter from his waistcoat and proffered it to her. It was written on official British Government stationery and addressed to a Charles F. Murchison of Sacramento, California.

Dear Mr. Murchison:

Thank you for your inquiry, as a former Englishman, as to my advice on your vote in the U.S. presidential election in November. Because of his favorable position on free trade, President Cleveland is the Crown’s preferred candidate.

I hope I have been of assistance and wish you all good fortune.

Sincerely,

Sir Lionel Sackville-West

His Majesty’s Ambassador to The United States of America

Politics was not one of Nellie’s primary interests, but even she recognized the explosive nature of the letter in her hand. The Irish were the critical swing vote in any national election. In 1884, Democratic candidate Cleveland, the governor of New York, was headed for certain defeat when, at a dinner in New York City for his opponent, James G. Blaine of Maine, a Presbyterian minister had proclaimed to deafening applause, “We are Republicans, and we don’t propose to identify ourselves with the party whose antecedents have been rum, Romanism, and rebellion.” The Irish population, outraged at the “rum, Romanism, and rebellion” reference, turned out en masse for Cleveland and produced a narrow victory in New York State and thus the nation.

Hilton, Blaine’s biggest financial supporter and a cheering anti-Roman member of the audience that night, learned his lesson well. Britain, of course, opposed U.S. tariffs, as did Cleveland. Hilton’s political operatives had apparently gotten someone in California to pose as a British expatriate and write His Majesty’s Ambassador inquiring which candidate he should support. Incredibly, the Ambassador had delivered an honest reply. Because the Irish detested all things British, the letter Nellie held in her hands would do to Cleveland what “Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion” had done to Blaine—cost him the Irish vote and therefore the election.

Hilton beamed at his handiwork.

“Why are you offering this to me?” asked Nellie. “Why not publish it in a paper more to your liking, like the Herald or the Times?”

“Because the Irish, to the extent they can read at all, read your paper,” Hilton said with contempt.

Nellie suddenly shared the loathing so many others had felt for Hilton.

Generations of Irish oppression at the hands of the English were coursing through her veins. She wanted to give him a tongue-lashing, rip up the letter, and get to the train station and as far away from him as possible. But she was there for important information. Hilton’s comeuppance would have to come later.

“Why me?” she asked. “Why not use a reporter who writes about politics?”

“Because you are ambitious and more likely to make sure the paper publishes it.”

But Hilton had misjudged her. To Nellie, everyone in politics was corrupt. She was indifferent whether the letter was published in the World or anywhere else. Clearly, though, the election mattered a great deal to Hilton, and she intended to use that fact to her advantage. She studied the letter. If authentic, it would put a Republican back in the White House and end any possible reforms.

“Before I take this to my editor, I need to know the role you played in Miss Lazarus’s death.”

“I don’t think so, Miss Bly. You will take this letter and be grateful you’ve got the story of the year in your hands.”

“It may be the story of the year, but it will be an even bigger story if it comes out in the World. Otherwise the Irish will doubt its authenticity, won’t they, Mr. Hilton? And you know that your antipathy toward Mr. Pulitzer is mutual. You’re counting on my ambition to be so great that I will persuade him to do whatever you ask. But the truth about Miss Lazarus means much more to me than the election this fall. So if I am to do your bidding, you must do mine. I need to know what role you played in her death.”

She handed him back the letter. Hilton took her measure and knew she meant every word. Inwardly she smiled. His actions, and his face, only confirmed that he had invested too much in his plan to stop now.

“I had no role in her death,” he said.

“I have sources who say otherwise.”

“Oh?” Again he bridled at being contradicted. “And what do your sources say?”

“That you frittered away Mr. Stewart’s fortune through incompetence, but in your mind it all began with Miss Lazarus’s boycott of the downtown department store. Since then, as you steadily lost millions of dollars every year, you blamed her for your losses when in fact all the responsibility is yours.”

He went flush. No one ever spoke to him like that, certainly not a woman.

“Your sources are jealous of my wealth.”

“Not at all. One source is wealthier than you are and earned it through his own labors. He is convinced you arranged for the death of Miss Lazarus.”

He stared at her, incensed that someone would make such a charge with impunity. “Gould. You have been talking to Gould.”

Nellie said nothing, but Hilton knew he was correct.

“Well then, I shall have to extract my revenge on Mr. Gould in other ways.”

“I would be careful about taking on Mr. Gould. He said you would lose a fortune if you ever tried to engage in serious business.”

She enjoyed tossing those words his way and watching him grow flush.

“We shall see about Jay Gould and his predictions. But if I am so inept, Miss Bly, why are you here? Apparently I was able to succeed at something.”

The meaning of the “something”—Emma’s untimely death—was unmistakable. All traces of a smile disappeared from Nellie’s face. She became stone sober once again.

“Did you hire Charles DeKay to poison Miss Lazarus?”

He hesitated. And in that flicker of hesitation she knew she was right and that Gould had been right. But she needed him to say it.

“I know how much you loathe Mr. Pulitzer,” she said. “I know how difficult it must be to offer something that will mean more sales for the World and more money in his pocket. That merely demonstrates your desire that I show him your letter. But I will show him nothing if you do not answer my question about Mr. DeKay.”

“That would be tantamount to admitting murder.”

She said nothing. He looked at the letter. Nothing would happen to him, he assured himself. No one in civil authority would dare lift a finger to challenge him. And the presidential election was hanging in the balance.

“I was aware of Mr. DeKay’s close relationship with Miss Lazarus, and Mr. DeKay and I have attempted to help one another in social and financial matters in a mutually beneficial way. There. I have answered your question.”

He had done her bidding; now it was her turn. He handed her another envelope.

“Here is a copy of the letter. I will provide the original when Pulitzer agrees to publish it.”

She took the envelope. She felt sullied.

“Tell me,” she said. “How much did it please you to see Miss Lazarus dead?”

“Immensely.”

Nellie could not stand to be in his presence a moment longer. She placed the envelope in her purse and turned to leave.

“I will summon my driver,” he said.

“No, thank you. I prefer to walk.” And she headed for the long driveway.

“You know,” said Hilton matter-of-factly, “there was one thing that never made sense to me. When I turned away the kike Seligman from my hotel, I said that other Jews who had been here for generations were still welcome. I specifically mentioned the Lazarus family. And yet she gave me the back of her hand.”

“I’m surprised she gave you even that much.”