An old couple — almost certainly Patrick O’Brien’s parents — stepped forward. Their obvious suffering was matched by their obvious pride — or so it seemed to Blackstone — and the moment they had retreated from the grave they gathered up their grandchildren and put their arms around them.
Other relatives and friends came next — enacting the same ritual, adding their own handfuls of soil to the grave in which the remains of Patrick O’Brien would soon be allowed to rest in peace.
And then it was all over. The mourners began to move away from the grave, and Blackstone himself was about to turn and take his leave when he saw Mary O’Brien make a discreet — but urgent — gesture which indicated that she wanted him to stay.
It was another five minutes before the handshakes and condolences were finally dispensed with and Mary was free to join him.
‘Sergeant Meade sends his apologies,’ Blackstone said. ‘He wanted to be here himself, but he couldn’t make it.’
He had left it vague, hoping that the widow would, too.
But that kind of evasion seemed not to be a part of Mary O’Brien’s nature, and instead of simply nodding, she said, ‘What I think you mean, Inspector Blackstone, is that Alex is following up a lead in the investigation into my husband’s murder.’
‘Yes, that is what I mean,’ Blackstone admitted.
‘I’m glad he couldn’t come,’ Mary O’Brien said. ‘He’s worshipped my husband, you know, ever since Patrick addressed his Harvard debating society. He would have found the funeral very hard to take.’
She’d hit the nail on the head, Blackstone thought admiringly. Meade’s staying away had had nothing to do with his being the best man to watch the brothel. He hadn’t come to O’Brien’s funeral because it would have been too painful for him to come.
‘But it was very good of you to act as his representative,’ Mary O’Brien said. ‘I want you to know that it’s very much appreciated.’
‘It was the least that I could do out of respect for a fellow officer,’ Blackstone replied.
And the moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake — knew that he’d inadvertently reminded Mary of something she’d probably been trying very hard to forget.
‘It is a pity that most of his brother officers in the New York Police Department did not feel under the same obligation as you do,’ Mary said, confirming his worst fears. Then she paused for a second, before continuing. ‘Do you think I sound bitter?’
‘Perhaps,’ Blackstone said carefully. ‘And if you are, then I think you have every right to be.’
‘I’m not bitter at all,’ Mary said, with what seemed to a fierce conviction. ‘And shall I tell you why?’
‘If that’s what you want to do.’
‘I have always believed that we must do the right thing, however much inconvenience — however much pain and suffering — that might cause us,’ Mary told him. ‘And Patrick — though he was sometimes weak, as we are all sometimes weak — did just that. So you see, Mr Blackstone, the fact that there are so few policemen here is not to be taken as an insult to his memory — it is a rather to be regarded as a tribute to the way in which he did the right thing, whatever the cost to himself.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ Blackstone said.
But he was thinking, it still hurts you, though, doesn’t it, Mary? You’d still have liked to see those ranks of blue standing by the grave.
‘And now that I have buried my husband, I must bury poor Jenny,’ Mary O’Brien said. ‘And I would like to do that as soon as possible. I have a new life ahead of me — a hard one, it is true, but one which must be lived, nevertheless — and I can’t begin that journey until Jenny is laid to rest.’
‘I can understand that,’ Blackstone said.
‘I knew you would. You are a kind man. A sensitive man. In that way, you share many of my husband’s qualities.’ Mary paused for a second. ‘Do you know when they will release Jenny’s body to me, Mr Blackstone?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Blackstone admitted.
‘But, surely, since you’re a policeman yourself. .’
‘I’ve really no idea how they do things over here. But if you asked me to guess, I would say they’ll probably release the body as soon as the post-mortem has been completed.’
Even viewing her through her veil, Blackstone thought that Mary O’Brien looked shocked.
‘The post-mortem?’ she repeated.
‘In England, it’s customary, in a case like this. In America, for all I know, it may even be a legal requirement.’
‘Isn’t the point of a post-mortem to find out how someone died?’ Mary O’Brien asked.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘But everyone knows how she died!’ Mary protested. ‘There’s no doubt about it in your mind, is there?’
‘None at all,’ Blackstone answered. ‘She slit her own wrists. She even told me so herself.’
‘Then why can’t they spare the poor child that last indignity? Why do they have to cut her open?’
‘As I said, it’s probably the law.’
‘The law!’ Mary replied scornfully. ‘And when is the law ever enforced in New York City? Only when it’s convenient! Do you think the Carnegie family or the Morgan family would have to wait for a post-mortem before they were allowed to bury their dead? Of course they wouldn’t! Because they have power! Because they have influence! But because I’m a poor widow, I must wait — I must put off the moment when I can leave the past behind me and begin the struggle that will be the rest of my life. It’s hard, Mr Blackstone. It’s very hard.’
‘I know,’ Blackstone said, sympathetically.
‘Make them give me Jenny’s body soon,’ Mary begged, and she was crying now. ‘Please make them give me the body.’
‘If I thought it would do any good, I’d certainly try,’ Blackstone told her. ‘But I’m only a visitor, and I have no influence here.’
‘What about Alex Meade?’ Mary asked. ‘Do you think that he has any influence?’
‘I would imagine he has some, even if it’s only through his father,’ Blackstone said. ‘Though whether it’s enough to get you what you want. .’
‘Then speak to him,’ Mary pleaded. ‘Ask him to do what he can — however little that might be.’
‘I will,’ Blackstone promised.
‘And find my husband’s killer, Mr Blackstone,’ Mary said, with a certain firmness in her voice. ‘Help me to close that door behind me, too.’
TWENTY-TWO
Small, scrawny children were playing lethargically in the dirt. Bent old women were hobbling painfully — and fearfully — away from the saloons, clutching bottles of the cheapest booze available in their gnarled and withered hands. Gangs of boys were gathered at street corners. Small groups of men gambled away money which could have been used to feed their families. Five Points looked much as it had done the day before, Blackstone thought — and as it would probably always look, until some more honest, more caring city council pulled the whole area down and replaced it with something fit for human beings to live in.
‘I don’t want to be here,’ Florence, the peevish scullery maid, whined. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Stop complaining,’ Blackstone said curtly. ‘It’s better than having to work in the kitchen, isn’t it?’
‘Why don’t you take me somewhere fancy?’ Florence suggested in a sickly sweet voice, as she ran her index finger up and down the lapel of his jacket. ‘If you was nice to me, I could be very nice to you.’
Blackstone angrily brushed the girl’s hand away.
She would end up as a whore, he thought. She would be driven to it by her own laziness.
But she would not be the kind of whore that Trixie was — working in a fancy midtown brothel, servicing customers who had specially asked for her, and saving for the day when she could open an establishment of her own. No, Florence’s future was altogether bleaker. She would become one of those women who lurked in the shadows on street corners, and whose only appeal was that she carried something between her legs which offered the men who used her some fleeting satisfaction at rock-bottom prices.