‘I’m a New York City police officer, and you’re not,’ Meade had said. ‘I’m the one with the shield.’
‘But this isn’t a police operation,’ Blackstone had countered. ‘Not an official one. I don’t need a shield to make sure that O’Shaugnessy’s keeping to his side of the deal.’
‘Anyway, I know what to look out for, and you don’t,’ Meade had said, almost frantically. ‘There are hundreds of ways to smuggle supplies into the brothel. Ways which I’d spot, and you’d miss entirely.’
It was all nonsense, Blackstone had thought.
But he hadn’t argued the point further, because they both knew the real reason that Meade didn’t want to go to the cemetery.
Blackstone looked beyond the cortège, to the chapel which lay ahead. It was an impressive and ornate structure, with a cupola at its centre, and a pair of elaborate towers, one each side of the arched doorway. It looked like no Christian building he had ever seen before. Rather, it reminded him of the mosques he had known during his soldiering days in India.
The cortège drew up in front of the chapel. Mary O’Brien and her family emerged from the first carriage, Commissioner Comstock and the Chief of the Detective Bureau from the second.
The third carriage had been carrying the six police officers in full dress uniform who were to act as pall bearers. They heaved Patrick O’Brien’s coffin on to their shoulders and carried it into the chapel. The rest of the mourners soon followed them.
Now there were only two of them left out in the chill air — the driver of the hearse, and the policeman who was far away from home.
It was a strange funeral in some ways, Blackstone thought. The hearse and the carriages were lavish — almost in the extreme. Yet most of the mourners were, judging by their dress, from a humbler background.
He found himself wondering how someone in Mary O’Brien’s financial position could have afforded such an expensive send-off.
And then he realized that, of course, she wouldn’t have needed to.
Because Patrick O’Brien had been a serving officer, killed in the line of duty, and it would be the New York Police Department, not Mary herself, that would be footing the bill.
But that, apparently, was all the support that the department was prepared to give, for though there was a fair turnout of other mourners, there was a notable absence of policemen.
Blackstone recalled the funerals of brother officers that he had attended back in England. There had been rank upon rank of blue-uniformed men around the graveside, standing stiffly to attention and paying their last heartfelt respects to their fallen comrade. The sense of loss which filled the air had been enough to make a grown man cry — and many of the grown men there had, indeed, succumbed to it. And later, when they had finished politely sipping their glasses of port with the widow, they had taken over a whole pub and got blind drunk.
No one in the New York Police Force, it would appear, had liked the honest, upright policeman. No one would later drink to his memory. speaking of the dead man in terms which shifted from admiring to the maudlin and then going back to the admiring again.
No, it was even worse than that, Blackstone admitted to himself. Most of the officers, involved in illegal activities as they were, would be glad that he was dead — and it was looking more than possible that one of those officers had actually ordered his death.
‘You look like a man deep in thoughts about mortality, which is about right for a funeral,’ said a voice just to his side.
Blackstone turned to look at the speaker. He was a man who appeared to be only in his mid-thirties, though his complexion was already mottled with broken red veins.
‘Are you a friend of Patrick O’Brien’s?’ Blackstone asked.
‘A relative,’ the other man replied. ‘His cousin.’
Blackstone held out his hand. ‘I’m Sam Blackstone.’
‘And I’m the black sheep of the O’Brien family,’ the other man said. ‘The name’s Dermot.’
‘What makes you the black sheep?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Now isn’t that just obvious?’ Dermot replied. ‘It’s the drink that brought about my current status, sir!’
But he said it so lightly that Blackstone couldn’t help smiling.
‘Yes,’ Dermot mused, ‘in many Irish families there’s serious competition for the title of chief drunk, but the O’Briens are a relatively sober lot, and I achieved my eminence without really trying.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in the chapel?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Wouldn’t be welcome,’ Dermot said. ‘Oh, Patrick wouldn’t have minded — he was always one to tolerate weakness in others — but his parents would. They’re almost as ashamed of me as they are proud of their son.’
‘And they were proud of him, were they?’
‘Bursting with pride! And I’m proud of them for being proud of him.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Patrick’s father is a cobbler, and his mother is a cleaner,’ Dermot said. ‘They’re not as poor as they might have been if they’d stayed in the old country, but America’s been no picnic for them, either.’
‘Yes?’ Blackstone said, still not quite getting the point.
‘Patrick was a bright feller, and everybody knew it from the start. If he’d put his mind to it, he could have been a successful Wall Street lawyer by now, and his aged ma and pa could have been living in the lap of luxury. But he didn’t want to be a lawyer. He wanted to be a policeman, and — by God — an honest policeman. And did his parents stand in his way? Did they try to persuade him to chase the big bucks? No, sir, they did not! They gave him all the support and encouragement that any son could wish for.’
‘How do they get on with his wife?’ Blackstone asked, curious.
‘With Mary? They get on famously with her — and who wouldn’t? And they adore them three grandchildren of theirs.’
The chapel doors opened and the pall bearers emerged, carrying the coffin on their shoulders.
‘I’d better be going,’ Dermot O’Brien said.
‘Come to the graveside with me,’ Blackstone urged him. ‘The family won’t mind.’
‘Ah, there speaks a man who doesn’t know the family,’ Dermot said, without rancour. He looked briefly at the coffin and then at Blackstone again. ‘Most Irishmen go to the wake and show their respect for the dead by getting roaring drunk,’ he continued. ‘Did you know that?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Blackstone said.
‘But me, I’m a contrary sort of feller,’ Dermot told him. ‘For one day — and one day only — I’ll be showing my respect for Patrick by staying sober.’
Then he turned, and walked quickly towards the cemetery gates.
Blackstone stood some distance from the open grave, watching as the priest closed his prayer book at the end of his final act in what — as with all funerals — was a series of final acts.
The priest stepped back, and Mary O’Brien — black veiled — took his place at the edge of the grave. Once there she stood perfectly still for a few seconds, gazing into the distance — as if already contemplating life without her husband — then she bent down, took up a handful of soil, and threw it on the coffin.
Her children followed her example. Isobel, the eldest daughter, seemed unable to even look into the grave, and when she released her soil, some of it missed completely, and landed instead on the edge of the hole. Emily, the younger daughter, did look into the grave, but with an expression on her face which said she had no idea what was going on, or why she was even there. Benjamin — who was both the baby of the family and the man of the family — behaved with a dignity which went well beyond his years, looking down at coffin with an intense sadness, but — though biting his lip — refusing to cry.