That Affair Next Door — Story, Setting & Ideas

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Green, Anna Katharine, 1846-1935 Project Gutenberg 2007 Not confirmed
New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Detective and mystery stories Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words 108,889
Reading time 474 min
Text sections 11

That Affair Next Door — Story, Setting & Ideas can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 108,889 words, 7 hr 54 min estimated reading time, and 11 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 18.0 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Amelia Butterworth, a self-described non-inquisitive woman, narrates her investigation into a murder next door in 1895 New York. The opening establishes her voice and window as key vantage points, while later excerpts show her midnight errand to test a theory about a bundle and an old woman.
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Editorial Edition Score 4.8/5

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  • Source metadata20 pts
  • Text length15 pts
  • Chapters / structure15 pts
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Read the Text

She did not answer; a sly look displaced the anxious one she had hitherto displayed, and she turned away.

"I don't see what business it is of the neighbors," she muttered, throwing me a dissatisfied scowl over her shoulder.

"If you've got the keys, we will go in and see that things are all right," said the policeman, stopping her with a light touch.

She trembled; I saw that she trembled, and naturally became excited. Something was wrong in the Van Burnam mansion, and I was going to be present at its discovery. But her next words cut my hopes short.

"I have no objection to _your_ going in," she said to the policeman, "but I will not give up my keys to _her_. What right has she in our house any way." And I thought I heard her murmur something about a meddlesome old maid.

The look which I received from the policeman convinced me that my ears had not played me false.

"The lady's right," he declared; and pushing by me quite disrespectfully, he led the way to the basement door, into which he and the so-called cleaner presently disappeared.

I waited in front. I felt it to be my duty to do so. The various passers-by stopped an instant to stare at me before proceeding on their way, but I did not flinch from my post. Not till I had heard that the young woman whom I had seen enter these doors at midnight was well, and that her delay in opening the windows was entirely due to fashionable laziness, would I feel justified in returning to my own home and its affairs. But it took patience and some courage to remain there. Several minutes elapsed before I perceived the shutters in the third story open, and a still longer time before a window on the second floor flew up and the policeman looked out, only to meet my inquiring gaze and rapidly disappear again.

Meantime three or four persons had stopped on the walk near me, the nucleus of a crowd which would not be long in collecting, and I was beginning to feel I was paying dearly for my virtuous resolution, when the front door burst violently open and we caught sight of the trembling form and shocked face of the scrub-woman.

"She's dead!" she cried, "she's dead! Murder!" and would have said more had not the policeman pulled her back, with a growl which sounded very much like a suppressed oath.

He would have shut the door upon me had I not been quicker than lightning. As it was, I got in before it slammed, and happily too; for just at that moment the house-cleaner, who had grown paler every instant, fell in a heap in the entry, and the policeman, who was not the man I would want about me in any trouble, seemed somewhat embarrassed by this new emergency, and let me lift the poor thing up and drag her farther into the hall.

She had fainted, and should have had something done for her, but anxious though I always am to be of help where help is needed, I had no sooner got within range of the parlor door with my burden, than I beheld a sight so terrifying that I involuntarily let the poor woman slip from my arms to the floor.

In the darkness of a dim corner (for the room had no light save that which came through the doorway where I stood) lay the form of a woman under a fallen piece of furniture. Her skirts and distended arms alone were visible; but no one who saw the rigid outlines of her limbs could doubt for a moment that she was dead.

At a sight so dreadful, and, in spite of all my apprehensions, so unexpected, I felt a sensation of sickness which in another moment might have ended in my fainting also, if I had not realized that it would never do for me to lose my wits in the presence of a man who had none too many of his own. So I shook off my momentary weakness, and turning to the policeman, who was hesitating between the unconscious figure of the woman outside the door and the dead form of the one within I cried sharply:

"Come, man, to business! The woman inside there is dead, but this one is living. Fetch me a pitcher of water from below if you can, and then go for whatever assistance you need. I'll wait here and bring this woman to. She is a strong one, and it won't take long."

"You'll stay here alone with that----" he began.

But I stopped him with a look of disdain.

Amelia Butterworth opens her narrative by insisting she is not inquisitive, yet she rises from bed to peer through her curtains when a carriage stops at the empty house next door. This contradiction defines her voice throughout: a woman who claims restraint while actively inserting herself into a mystery. The September 1895 setting in Gramercy Park is established with precise detail—the lamp “some rods away on the opposite side of the street”—and the tone is conversational, as if she is confiding in the reader. The opening chapter, titled “A Discovery,” immediately signals that her choice to look out the window is the first step in a course of inquiry whose end she will not yet reveal.

A Narrator Who Protests Too Much

Amelia Butterworth’s repeated denials of curiosity become a running joke. She states, “I am not an inquisitive woman,” then immediately describes her temptation to look out the window. Later, when she decides to walk the streets at midnight to investigate a possible hiding place for a bundle, she admits to qualms about impropriety but presses on. Her voice is sharp, self-aware, and occasionally humorous: she calls her own lie about not being afraid of men “a most abominable lie.” This tension between her stated principles and her actions drives the narrative forward.

The excerpts show her managing her household with asperity—ordering her cook to the drugstore for toothache drops as a pretext—and her maid Lena’s “round-eyed wonder” at her mistress’s late-night errand. These domestic details ground the mystery in everyday life, making Butterworth’s intrusion into the case feel both plausible and entertaining.

The Window as a Narrative Device

The window of Miss Butterworth’s house is not just a setting but a structural element. The first book is titled “Miss Butterworth’s Window,” and the opening scene hinges on her decision to look out. This vantage point establishes her as an observer who can see but not fully participate—at least initially. The carriage, the empty house, the warm September night—all are filtered through her limited perspective, creating a sense of immediacy and partial knowledge.

Later, when she ventures outside, the window remains a symbolic anchor: she leaves her domestic sphere to enter the street, but her observations are still those of an outsider. The excerpt describing her walk down Lexington Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street shows her scanning for “possible hiding-places,” applying the same scrutiny she used from her window. This shift from passive to active observation marks a key development in her role.

The Midnight Errand and Its Pretexts

In the later excerpt, Miss Butterworth concocts an elaborate excuse to go out at midnight: her cook’s toothache. She insists on accompanying Lena to the drugstore, but her real purpose is to test a theory about a bundle and an old woman seen near the crime scene. The passage reveals her methodical thinking: she wants to “judge of the possibilities” for concealing or destroying evidence. Her reasoning is precise—she notes that no plaid silk was found because it was “worn away on the murderess’s back.”

The encounter with two men on the street adds tension. Lena seizes her arm, whispering, “Two men are coming.” Miss Butterworth’s response—“I am not afraid of men”—is undercut by her admission that she told “a most abominable lie.” This moment of vulnerability humanizes her and reminds the reader that her investigation carries real risk, even as she maintains her composure.

Clues and the Reader’s Role

The excerpts offer several specific details that invite the reader to piece together the mystery alongside Miss Butterworth. The empty house, the carriage at night, the bundle, the old woman, the missing plaid silk—these are presented as fragments. The narrator does not explain their significance; she simply records her observations and deductions. For instance, she notes that the bundle was “not dropped” but “worn away,” a conclusion that implies a specific theory about the murderer’s identity.

The structure of the book, with its four parts and chapter titles like “A Discovery,” “Questions,” and “The Little Pincushion,” suggests a deliberate unfolding of information. Readers are positioned as confidants, addressed directly by the narrator (“let me tell you what I saw”). This technique creates an intimate, almost conspiratorial tone, encouraging active engagement with the clues.

Anna Katharine Green’s novel rewards attention to the narrator’s voice and the small details she chooses to share. Miss Butterworth’s insistence on her own lack of curiosity is a playful challenge to the reader: every protest invites closer scrutiny. The excerpts suggest a mystery built on observation, domestic routines, and the tension between propriety and determination. Readers may find it useful to track what Butterworth sees versus what she infers, and to note how her window—both literal and figurative—shapes the story.

Reading this, I remembered sitting by my own window, watching the streetlights blink on, wondering what the neighbors’ lit windows meant—much like Amelia’s midnight errand. My Terminal Moraine 1892 — Context and Discussion gave me that same hush, that sense of small lives leaving faint tracks in the dark. Both left me quieter than I started.

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