Sally Spencer - Blackstone and the New World

‘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.’

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.

‘Did you hear me? I said, why don’t you take me somewhere fancy?’ Florence repeated.

‘Have you already forgotten why we’re here?’ Blackstone asked, his words edged with contempt.

‘Course I ain’t forgot,’ Florence replied. ‘I ain’t stupid , am I? Yer want me to finger Nancy for you.’

‘Exactly,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘And she won’t be anywhere fancy, will she? Because, according to you, this is where she lives.’

Florence laughed unpleasantly. ‘What a dump,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet Nancy wishes that she was back in the big house. But she can’t go back, can she? She’s burnt her bridges, an’ now she’s stuck with it.’

‘And you’re very pleased about that, aren’t you?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be pleased? She thought she could lord it over me, didn’t she? Well, now she knows she can’t.’

‘Did she ever actually say anything to show that she wanted to lord it over you?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Well, no, she didn’t say anything, not in so many words,’ Florence admitted. ‘But Mr Boone thought the sun shone out of her backside.’

‘And why do you think that was?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Could it have been because she worked harder, and more cheerfully, than you did?’ Blackstone suggested.