‘I’ve still got it. I used to look at it sometimes and pretend that he was my papa. Isn’t that silly?’
‘No, it’s not silly at all,’ Blackstone said, as a wave of helplessness and inadequacy swamped him. ‘It’s sweet.’
‘And when you came to the apartment that time, with your friend, you reminded me of my magazine papa.’
So that was what this was all about, Blackstone thought.
‘I wish I had been your papa,’ he said. ‘I would have been proud to be your papa.’
‘Would you. . would you hold my hand?’ Jenny asked timidly.
Blackstone looked to the doctor for guidance, and the doctor mouthed back that it would be all right, as long as he was very, very gentle.
Blackstone took Jenny’s hand, and the girl gripped his with what little strength she had left in her.
‘You slit your own wrists, didn’t you, Jenny?’ he asked softly. ‘Nobody helped you. Nobody else was involved.’
‘Nobody,’ Jenny confirmed, almost dreamily. ‘I did it all by myself.’
‘Tell me how you did it.’
‘I waited until the mistress had taken the children off to Central Park, and then I went into the kitchen and took a sharp knife out of the drawer. I. . I. .’
‘Gently, Jenny,’ Blackstone cooed. ‘Take it gently.’
‘I took the knife back to my bedroom. I wanted to get it all over and done with straight away, but somehow I–I just couldn’t. I must have sat staring at that knife for hours before I got up the courage to use it.’
Not hours, though it may have felt like it, Blackstone thought. But an hour at least.
He could almost see her, sitting there on her bed, looking at the sharp knife she was holding in her trembling hands, and willing herself to find the strength to end it all.
‘If I’d done it just a few minutes sooner, I’d have been dead by the time Mrs Kenton arrived,’ Jenny said plaintively. ‘When you see her, tell her I’m sorry for upsetting her, will you?’
‘There’ll be no need for that,’ Blackstone said, with feigned heartiness. ‘You’ll be able to tell her yourself in a day or two.’
‘No, I won’t,’ Jenny said, with a certainty that was quite chilling. ‘You know I won’t.’
‘Why did you do it, Jenny?’ Blackstone asked, still softly. ‘Whatever possessed you to want to end your life?’
‘I did it because I’m no good,’ Jenny told him. ‘I did it because I’m a very wicked person.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Blackstone said soothingly.
‘You don’t know,’ Jenny said, with as much passion as her weak state would allow. ‘You’ve no idea.’
Up until perhaps a minute earlier, he’d firmly believed that the reason she’d asked to see him was because he’d become her new father figure — a living breathing replacement for the picture she’d cut out of the magazine.
And that was probably just what she believed, too.
But there was so much more to it than that, Blackstone was now starting to realize.
Jenny knew she was going to die, and something deep within her — perhaps the soul she was probably only vaguely aware she even possessed — was driving her to unburden herself before death took her.
And that was why he was there.
Not as a replacement for the man whose picture she cut from the magazine at all, but as a father figure in a much more traditional sense — as a priest, who was supposed to hear her confession and grant her absolution.
‘I’m sure you could never have done anything that other people would consider even remotely wicked,’ he said.
‘Wicked,’ Jenny mumbled, almost deliriously. ‘Wicked.’
‘But if you want to tell me about these so-called terrible things that you think you’ve done, I’ll be happy to listen,’ Blackstone assured her.
‘I betrayed the master,’ Jenny said. ‘He was never anything but kind to me, and I betrayed him.’
The knot in Blackstone’s stomach was now so tight that he was finding it difficult to breathe.
‘How did you betray him?’ he asked.
But from the strange look which had come into Jenny’s eyes, he doubted she could even hear him any more.
‘He’s dead because of me,’ Jenny whimpered. ‘He’s dead because I betrayed him.’
‘Jenny, listen to me!’ Blackstone said desperately. ‘Try to hear what I’m going to say to you.’
But it was hopeless — she was too far gone now.
‘It wasn’t a bullet that killed the master,’ Jenny whispered, her voice so faint that he had to lower his head closer to her mouth to even hear what she was saying. ‘It was me!’
Her grip on his hand had been growing weaker and weaker as she spoke these last few poignant words, and now there was no grip left at all.
The doctor, who had been watching the whole scene from a distance, now stepped forward and placed a finger on Jenny’s neck.
He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s gone, I’m afraid.’
Blackstone just stood there, looking down at the dead girl.
‘You can let go of her hand, now,’ the doctor said.
‘What?’
‘She can’t feel you any longer, so there’s no point in you continuing to hold her hand.’
No, there probably wasn’t, Blackstone thought. And yet his own hand seemed reluctant to release its grip.
‘There are things to do,’ the doctor said, a hint of impatience entering his voice. ‘We have to wash her and lay her out. We’re going to need the bed.’
Blackstone forced his fingers to open and Jenny’s arm flopped back on to the bed.
He turned and walked towards the door, and as he did so, he felt his eyes start to prickle. It was a long time since he could last remember crying — but he was crying now.
SEVENTEEN
There was only enough space for a single bed, a night-stand and a small wardrobe in Jenny’s bedroom, but given her former life at the orphanage, thought Blackstone — who knew all about orphanages himself — it must have seemed unimaginably luxurious to the girl.
He looked down at the blankets and sheets which covered the narrow bed, and which were themselves covered with a dark brown stain.
How Jenny had bled!
How she must have lain there in quiet despair, watching her life slowly seep away!
‘Where are Isobel, Emily and Benjamin?’ he heard Meade ask from somewhere behind him.
‘At the moment, they’re with Mr and Mrs Barlow, our neighbours,’ Mary O’Brien replied. ‘But they can’t stay there for much longer.’
‘Why not?’
‘It wouldn’t be fair to the Barlows. They’re very willing to help, but they’re old people, and it must be a strain on them having even three well-behaved children around.’
‘So if they can’t stay with the neighbours, what are you going to do with them?’
‘The children must come back to the apartment.’
‘Is that wise — after what’s just happened here?’
‘This is their home,’ Mary said firmly. ‘And if it contains unhappy memories — as it unquestionably does — they must learn to come to terms with them. Because you can’t live your life by running away from unpleasantness or pretending it never happened.’
‘I still think you should consider. .’ Meade began.
But Mary had left his side and was already standing next to Blackstone and looking down at the bed.
‘I’ll have to clean this up before they get back,’ she said. ‘I can at least spare them that.’
‘If there’s anything we can do, you know that you only have to ask,’ Meade said.
‘I do know that, and I’m very grateful for it,’ Mary told him. She began stripping the sheets and blankets off Jenny’s bed. ‘I’d like to throw these away, but I simply can’t afford to. Still, the stains will hardly show if Jenny boils them really. .’ She faltered. ‘Jenny won’t be boiling them, will she?’ she continued, with a choke in her voice. ‘Jenny will never be boiling anything again.’