Blackstone and the New World (25 page)

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.

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

S
mall, 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.’