‘So she trained to be an actress, and ended up playing Lady Macbeth on Broadway,’ Blackstone said, remembering the poster on the wall of Inspector O’Brien’s office.
‘How did you know that?’ Meade asked, astonished.
Blackstone grinned. ‘I’m a detective, remember,’ he said. ‘A famous Scotland Yard detective.’
‘I still don’t see how you could have. .’
‘So was Mary any good as an actress?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I’m too young to have ever seen her on the stage myself, but Patrick — who was very proud of her — kept some of her reviews.’
‘And what did these reviews say?’
‘The only one I remember clearly was on her Lady Macbeth — which I still haven’t worked out how you could possibly have known about,’ Meade said, studying the other man’s face for clues.
Blackstone grinned again. ‘A magician never reveals how he does his tricks,’ he said. ‘So what did the reviewer say about her?’
‘He said that despite the fact she was actually far too young to play the role, she was stunning in it. And I think she must have been, because even though she’s not exactly beautiful — as you’ll soon see for yourself — she had scores of admirers, and dozens of marriage proposals, several of them from millionaires.’
‘And yet she chose to marry Patrick O’Brien, an honest — and therefore relatively impoverished — policeman.’
‘Yes, she did. And you’d have understood the reason for that if you’d ever met him,’ Meade said, with a sudden passion. ‘Patrick wasn’t particularly imposing physically, and you certainly wouldn’t have called him handsome, but there was an honesty and integrity about him which could be quite overwhelming at times. It was almost like. .’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘It was almost like being in the presence of a column of pure white light.’ Meade looked down at his hands, as if he thought he’d embarrassed himself. ‘I think I must sound rather foolish to you,’ he mumbled.
‘Not at all,’ Blackstone assured him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with-’
‘We’re here,’ Meade interrupted, as if eager to leave further discussion on the subject behind him.
He rang the doorbell and it was answered by a woman in her mid-thirties who had a prettiness about her which owed more to character than to anything purely physical.
It could only be Mary O’Brien herself, Blackstone thought.
The woman favoured Meade with a weak smile. ‘It was good of you to come, Alex,’ she said.
‘It was the least I could do, Mary,’ Meade replied awkwardly. ‘This is Sam Blackstone,’ he continued, gesturing towards his companion. ‘He’s a policeman from England. He just arrived today.’
‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Blackstone,’ Mary O’Brien said formally. ‘Welcome to America.’
She held out her hand, and Blackstone took it. Her palm felt cold, and though there was some strength to her grip, it was obviously costing her a considerable effort to maintain it.
There was a short, awkward silence, then Meade said stiffly, ‘Though the main reason for our call was to offer you our condolences, there is also a secondary purpose.’
Mary nodded, as if she’d been quite expecting him to say something of that nature.
‘You’re the one who’ll be investigating Patrick’s murder, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Meade confirmed.
Mary nodded again. ‘I could not have asked for anyone better,’ she said. ‘Do you wish to ask me some questions?’
‘If you can bear it.’
‘I can bear anything that needs to be borne,’ Mary said firmly. ‘But we can’t talk on the doorstep. You must come inside.’
‘It’s not necessary.’
‘You must come inside,’ Mary repeated. ‘But since I haven’t yet told the children of Patrick’s tragic death, I’d be grateful if you did not mention it in their presence.’
She led the two detectives down a pleasant (though modest) hallway into a modest (though pleasant) living room. Then she walked over to the door at the far end of the room and called out, ‘Where are you, children? We have visitors who would like to meet you.’
The three children — a boy and two girls — appeared almost immediately. The boy was probably around eight or nine, the younger girl eleven, and the elder thirteen. They were all dressed neatly — if not expensively — and carried themselves with an air of children who had been taught how to behave.
‘You already know Mr Meade, but the other gentleman is Mr Blackstone, who is visiting us from England,’ Mary O’Brien said. She turned to Blackstone. ‘And these are my children, Isobel, my elder daughter, Emily, her sister, and Benjamin, my son.’
The two girls curtsied prettily, but Benjamin (as if he had already sensed that he was now the man of the house) boldly stepped forward and held out his hand to Blackstone.
‘Very nicely done, children,’ Mary said approvingly.
‘Thank you, Mama,’ the three said in quiet unison.
‘And now,’ Mary continued, ‘since we grown-ups wish to talk amongst ourselves, I would be grateful if you would go to your own rooms for a little while.’
‘Of course, Mama,’ the children said, and dutifully left the room.
‘Please be seated,’ Mary said, indicating two armchairs, and when Blackstone and Meade had sat down, she continued. ‘This is normally a coffee-drinking house, but in honour of Mr Blackstone, we will have tea today.’
‘There’s no need. .’ Meade began.
But Mary, who had sat down herself, had already picked up the small brass bell which lay on the occasional table and was ringing it.
A girl, dressed in a simple maid’s uniform, appeared almost immediately at the door.
‘We would like a pot of tea, Jenny,’ Mary said. ‘You remember how I taught you to make tea, don’t you?’
The maid looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Good, then see you follow the procedure extremely carefully, because this gentleman — being an Englishman — is something of an expert when it comes to the question of tea.’
She had said it lightly, almost as a joke to put the girl at ease, but Jenny took it deathly seriously.
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I always do my best.’
‘I know you do,’ Mary said, kindly.
The girl couldn’t have been more than two or three years older than Isobel O’Brien, Blackstone thought, as he watched the maid leave, but there was a world of difference between them. Isobel, while she clearly knew her place in the order of things, was open and confident. Jenny, on the other hand, had a pinched, haunted face and wore her insecurity like a thick, suffocating blanket.
‘You’re quite right, Mr Blackstone, she is a frightened little thing,’ Mary O’Brien said.
‘I never meant to. .’ Blackstone began.
‘Other people we are acquainted with hire their maids through agencies,’ Mary said. ‘We take ours from the orphanage, and because my husband is the man he is, he invariably chooses the girls that, for one reason or another, no one else wants to take. They are always difficult at first, but I persevere with them, and train them until they are first-class housemaids. And then Patrick finds them a position in a much grander establishment, and we begin the process all over again.’ She gulped. ‘I’m talking about him as if he were still alive, aren’t I?’
‘That’s understandable,’ Blackstone said.
‘And worse than that, I’m talking as if I disapproved of what he did, and I never meant to suggest that. He was right to help the girls to better themselves — he wanted everyone to better themselves.’
‘I’m sure he did,’ Blackstone said soothingly.
‘You really shouldn’t be alone in this apartment, you know, Mary,’ Meade said.