Eddie feinted with his left fist, and Blackstone sidestepped, putting himself in just the right spot for the real attack, which would come from the knuckleduster on Eddie’s right hand.
Oh, this was really too easy, Eddie thought, in the split second before he realized that his knuckledustered right hand was travelling though empty air, and that his nose felt as if it was exploding.
‘First law of street fighting, Eddie,’ Blackstone said, as he grabbed the other man’s arm and bent it right up around his back. ‘If you don’t get control in the first two seconds, you’ll never get it.’
‘You son-of-a-bitch!’ Eddie mumbled, as he tried to breathe through his broken nose.
‘Collect up anything you want, and we’ll take it with us,’ Blackstone told Nancy.
Eddie was starting to struggle again.
‘If you keep doing that, I’ll have to break your arm,’ Blackstone warned the young thug.
‘Break it anyway!’ Nancy said.
‘Anything to oblige,’ Blackstone told her.
And he did just that.
Blackstone booked Nancy into a modest but pleasant boarding house near the Mulberry Street police headquarters, and then took her to the equally modest restaurant across the street for lunch.
‘An’ what happens to me now?’ Nancy asked, after she had wolfed down her food.
‘That’s up to you,’ Blackstone told her. ‘As I told you before, you can’t go back to the van Horne mansion, but I’m sure Mr Boone can find you a position in another house, if that’s what you want.’
Nancy smiled. ‘He’s a nice man, that Mr Boone,’ she said. ‘A good, kind, helpful man. And so are you.’
‘Could we talk about Jenny, now?’ Blackstone asked.
Nancy nodded. ‘Yes. What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me about when you first began to suspect that something was wrong,’ Blackstone suggested.
‘It’s hard to put a finger on it,’ Nancy told him. ‘A couple of months after she’d left the orphanage to work for the O’Briens, Jenny began to talk about a boyfriend. But she did it in a shy, teasing way — like she was proud of it, but worried about it all at the same time, if you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘To be honest, I thought she was making him up at first. Some girls do that. But when she kept on about him, I started to believe he was real. And that’s when she told me he wasn’t a boy at all — he was a man.’
‘Inspector O’Brien?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s why you would never go to the O’Briens’ house yourself? Because you knew what he was doing to her?’
‘If I’d seen him in the flesh, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself scratching his eyes out.’
Blackstone laughed. ‘I believe you’d have done just that,’ he said admiringly. ‘What advice did you give her?’ he continued, more seriously.
‘I told her to tell her mistress, Mrs O’Brien, that the master was interfering with her.’
‘But she wouldn’t do that?’
‘No. She said that they were in love, and that soon they were going to run away together.’
‘But you didn’t believe that?’
‘Of course I didn’t believe it. I knew exactly what was going to happen to her.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Jenny was thirteen when she got the job with the O’Briens. The maid she took over from was sixteen, but she’d been working for the O’Briens since she was thirteen. I asked Jenny to see if she could find out about the maid before the one she replaced, and it turned out that she joined the household at thirteen and left at sixteen, as well. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
Blackstone nodded. ‘When they reached a certain age, he no longer wanted them.’
‘And that’s just what would have happened to Jenny, too. I told her it was going to happen — but she didn’t believe me. But it did happen, didn’t it? Just like I knew it would. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when you told me that she’d killed herself.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Blackstone asked softly.
‘It was about a month ago, just before I ran away with that bastard Eddie Toscanini.’
‘Why didn’t you contact her after that?’
A single tear ran down Nancy’s cheek and spattered on the table cloth. ‘Eddie wouldn’t let me,’ she said.
‘I see.’
Nancy shook her head, violently. ‘I’m lying to you,’ she said. ‘And I’m lying to myself as well. If I’d really wanted to get in touch with her, I’d have found a way, whatever Eddie said.’
‘But you didn’t want to?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Eddie had promised me a grand life if I’d run away with him, but it didn’t take me long to realize I’d made a big mistake.’
‘No,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘I imagine it didn’t.’
‘And that’s why I couldn’t face Jenny, you see. I’d been a big sister to her. I’d tried to guide her. And then I’d gone and done something stupid like that myself. I was just so ashamed.’
She was a good kid, Blackstone thought tenderly. Better than that — she was a lovely kid.
‘I’ll be going back home to England soon,’ he said. ‘But I want you to write to me. You can write, can’t you?
‘Yes. They taught us to in the orphanage.’
‘And when you write to me, I want you to tell me all about how you’re getting on.’
‘I’d like to do that,’ Nancy said.
‘And if you ever need anything, you’ve only got to tell me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.’
‘You’d. . you’d do that for me?’
‘Yes, I would,’ Blackstone said.
And also for Jenny, who would have wanted to see you happy after she’d gone, he thought.
There was one more thing he needed to say, and though he dreaded saying it, he knew there was no choice, because Nancy had the right to know.
‘I’m going to tell you something that will shock you,’ he said to the girl. ‘Are you ready for it?’
Nancy swallowed, and then nodded her head. ‘I’m ready.’
‘When Jenny died, she was three months pregnant.’
‘Oh God,’ Nancy moaned. ‘Is that why she killed herself?’
‘No, that wasn’t the reason at all,’ Blackstone told her. ‘She killed herself because she believed she’d betrayed her master.’
TWENTY-SIX
It was a late New York City afternoon, and the sun was beaming benevolently into the reception room of the O’Briens’ modest apartment, where three people — Meade, Blackstone and Mary O’Brien herself — were taking afternoon tea.
It was a thoroughly pleasant — thoroughly civilized — event, and Mary insisted that Blackstone try one of the buttered scones that she had baked especially in his honour.
‘I know how you English people like them,’ Mary said.
‘We do like them,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘We do more than that. We crave them.’
‘And you simply can’t buy them in any shop in New York. I know — because I’ve tried to.’
Blackstone tasted the scone, conscious of the other two watching him, waiting for his reaction.
‘It’s delicious,’ he pronounced.
And so it was.
There was other confectionery on offer, too: dainty cakes and chocolate eclairs stuffed with cream.
‘They’re lethal for anyone who’s watching their weight, but I just can’t resist them,’ Mary said. She sighed wistfully. ‘But I suppose I shall have to learn to resist them in the future, because they’ll be well beyond my budget.’ A smile drove the wistful expression from her face. ‘But I don’t have any right to complain,’ she continued. ‘I have my children and I have my memories, and that’s more than many women can say.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Just think of poor Jenny, for example.’
Mary gave him a slightly odd expression — one which suggested that she considered the remark to be highly inappropriate, but was too much of a lady to actually say so.
‘I know this is a painful subject for you,’ said Meade, showing more sensitivity than his English colleague had done, ‘but I’ve been informed that Jenny’s body is now ready to be released for burial.’
‘Thank you, Alex,’ Mary said gratefully. ‘I’ve spoken to her pastor, and most of the arrangements have already been made.’
‘But I’m afraid I also have an apology to make,’ Meade continued, sounding slightly uncomfortable.
‘An apology?’ Mary repeated.
‘Yes. You said that the thought of Jenny being cut up — after all she’d been through — was painful to you. And you asked me — through Sam — to try and prevent the morgue from conducting a post-mortem.’
‘Yes?’
‘And I’m sorry, but by the time Sam told me of your wishes, it was already too late.’
‘So there was a post-mortem?’
‘Yes.’
Blackstone began to count silently to himself. One. . two. . three. . four. . five. .
He had reached twenty when Mary O’Brien finally said, ‘Have you read the post-mortem report yourself, Alex?’
‘Yes,’ Meade told her. ‘And so has Sam.’
Blackstone started to count again, but this time he had only reached four when Mary said, ‘So you both know that she was pregnant?’
‘We’re assuming that your husband was the father of the child,’ Meade said. ‘Is that right?’
Mary sighed again. ‘My husband was a great man,’ she said, ‘and like so many great men, he had his tragic flaw. With Shakespeare’s Othello it was jealousy, with Macbeth it was ambition-’
‘And with your husband it was a fondness for little girls,’ Blackstone interrupted.
Mary O’Brien shot him a look of sudden loathing.
‘Not girls,’ she said. ‘Just one girl — and a girl who was young rather than little. In many ways, Jenny was old beyond her years, so much so that I believe it was she who initiated the relationship, and not Patrick.’
Blackstone felt an anger rising in the pit of his stomach. ‘So you’re blaming the child, rather than the man, are you?’
‘And once he realized what a terrible mistake he’d made, Patrick did his best to put the situation right,’ Mary continued, ignoring the comment. ‘He could have kicked her out on the street, claiming someone else had gotten her pregnant, which is what men who’ve found themselves in his position have done from time immemorial. He could have taken her to an old crone with a knitting needle, who would probably have killed her. But he didn’t do either of those things. Instead, he sought out the best medical care that was available in New York City.’
‘You make him sound like a hero,’ Blackstone said.
‘He was a hero,’ Mary responded sharply.
‘So you knew, all along, that Patrick was looking for an abortionist?’ Meade asked.
‘I knew that he was looking for the most qualified person to carry out the medical procedure, yes,’ Mary said, with a slight edge of disappointment in her voice at Meade’s new-found crassness. ‘When Patrick realized that Jenny was pregnant, he told me immediately. He confessed to me!’
‘What a handy thing confession really is for you Catholics,’ Blackstone said. ‘Do something wrong, confess and say you’re sorry, and it’s all over. Of course, Jenny didn’t go to confession, and neither did any of the girls who preceded her, because you got them from a Protestant orphanage.’ He paused, as if he had just received a revelation. ‘Do you think that’s why your husband chose a Protestant orphanage over a Catholic one, Mrs O’Brien? Because there was no confession?’
‘You have insulted my faith and you have insulted my husband, who — despite his weakness — was a good man,’ Mary said angrily. ‘And now I must ask you to leave.’
‘She’s right,’ Meade said to Blackstone. ‘You’ve insulted both Catholicism and Inspector O’Brien. And I think you should apologize.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Blackstone said contritely. ‘I expressed myself very poorly — very insensitively.’
‘Indeed you did,’ Mary agreed, not even looking at him.
‘I think we’d both better leave,’ Meade said.
‘Yes, I think that would be for the best,’ Mary concurred.
Alex Meade stood up. ‘But before we go, I must help you to clear away the tea things.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mary told him.
‘Nonsense!’ Alex Meade protested. ‘You must be tired out, now that you no longer have a maid, and the least I can do is help you clean up the mess that we’re responsible for.’
He brushed the crumbs from all the plates on to a single one, then stacked all the plates on the tray. That done, he collected up all the cups and saucers and lined them neatly along the other side of the tray.
‘Would you like to show me where the kitchen is?’ he asked, lifting the tray clear of the table.
‘Really, Alex. .’
‘I’ve picked it all up now. I might as well carry it through to the kitchen.’
Mary sighed softly. ‘It’s this way,’ she said.
Blackstone watched the two of them leave the room. Alex Meade’s style was very different to his own, he thought, but the young man was shaping up into being a fine detective — and in a few years he would be quite formidable.
Mary and Meade returned to the reception room. The expression on Meade’s face suggested he had quite forgotten the recent unpleasantness — and the expression on Mary’s clearly indicating that she hadn’t.
‘So Patrick confessed to you about what he’d done,’ Meade said, as if he were merely carrying on the earlier conversation.
‘Yes, he did,’ Mary replied. ‘And I forgave him.’
‘Just as I’m sure you’ve forgiven Sam for his stupid comments earlier,’ Meade suggested.
There was a slight pause, then Mary said, ‘Of course.’
‘Is there any of that whiskey left?’ Meade asked.
‘Whiskey?’
‘The whiskey that we used to drink a toast to Jenny. If memory serves me well, there was quite a lot still in the bottle when we’d finished.’
‘Well, I certainly haven’t touched it since then,’ Mary said, sounding slightly sulky.
‘Then why don’t the three of us — three friends — drink a final toast to Patrick, who, for all his failings, was still a great man?’ Meade said.
Mary walked over to the sideboard without a word. She poured three glasses of whiskey, and handed two of them — one for himself and one for Blackstone — to the sergeant.
Meade passed Blackstone his glass, and then took a sip of his own.
‘Wonderful,’ he pronounced, smacking his lips. ‘Just the thing for a man with a hangover.’ He paused for a moment to let the whiskey work its magic, then continued. ‘Since you knew that Jenny was pregnant, Mary, did you also know that Patrick went to Senator Plunkitt for advice?’
‘Yes,’ Mary said. ‘I thought that was a mistake from the start, and the moment Patrick began talking to Plunkitt, he realized for himself that I was right.’
‘And you knew about Dr Muller?’
‘Of course.’
‘One thing that’s been puzzling me is how his killer knew where to find your husband,’ Blackstone said.
‘Alex!’ Mary said, looking warningly at Meade.
‘It seems like a perfectly reasonable question to me,’ Meade said. ‘I can’t see why anybody would object to Sam asking it.’
‘You see, he’d probably never been to the Bayern Biergarten before in his entire life,’ Blackstone continued. ‘According to the witnesses we spoke to, he certainly acted as if the place was unfamiliar territory to him. And the only reason he went to it on the night he died was because he’d agreed to meet Dr Muller there. So I repeat, how did the killer know he would find him there?’
‘The man could have followed him,’ Mary said, her hostility to Blackstone reaching new heights.
‘That’s true, he could,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But if he had done that, he would surely have had countless opportunities to shoot the inspector before he went inside. So why prolong things? Why not just get it over with?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mary said.
‘I’m more inclined to the theory that the killer knew he would be there, and waited in ambush for him to come out,’ Blackstone continued. ‘But who did know about the meeting? Well, there were only two people — your husband himself and the abortionist.’
‘You must put a stop to this now, Alex,’ Mary appealed to Meade. ‘You must stop it, if not out of respect for me, then at least out of respect for my husband, to whom you owe so much.’
‘You’re forgetting the mistress, Sam,’ Meade told Blackstone.
‘Ah, yes, the mistress,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘When she went to see Dr Muller, to tell her that the abortion was no longer necessary, she must also have asked the doctor where she had been intending to meet Inspector O’Brien. But I have two problems with this whole “mistress” story.’
‘Please, Alex!’ Mary said.
‘And what problems are those?’ Meade asked.
‘The first is that the “mistress” said she’d miscarried. But it wasn’t the “mistress” who was pregnant at all.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Meade agreed. ‘It was Jenny!’
‘And the second problem is that O’Brien didn’t like women — his penchant was for young girls. So was there ever a woman in her twenties who went to see Dr Muller? Or was there, instead, a trained actress in her thirties, pretending to be a woman in her twenties?’
‘Just what are you suggesting?’ Mary demanded.
‘And then there was the killer,’ Blackstone continued. ‘The witness we talked to said he was a boy of fourteen or fifteen, judging by his size. But say he wasn’t a boy at all — say he was, in fact, a woman.’
‘Are you accusing me of killing my own husband?’ Mary asked.
‘It would have been wiser to wait until after the abortion had been carried out before killing him,’ Blackstone said. ‘But you couldn’t wait, could you? Your rage simply wouldn’t let you.’
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