The Blue Last

what so many of them did. His mum would tell him, when he asked about their present awful state, that she was so sorry things had gone to the bad for them.

Da died, he would say, as if he were explaining things to her. But she didn’t seem to like to speak of his father because it pained her so much.

She’d talk about their old home in County Clare. Ah, beautiful it was! But never mind; we’ll get back there when things improve, so.

Benny looked down at the pages of David Copperfield. It was something about Steerforth. Benny thought about David’s mum, how pretty she was. And so had his own been. Prettier, he bet. Images of County Clare floated in his mind: the rough coast and the sea, the great smooth rocks worn down by the waves’ onslaught, and fierce weather, the kind that met Steerforth and David when they went to visit Peggotty.

Good books, his mum had said, will always keep you in good stead. Good books, Bernie, are important. Read as much as you can.

His name was really Bernard, but he had so much trouble getting his tongue around that r when he was tiny, it came out “Benny.” As names you start out with will stick, so had his.

“Here we are, dear,” said Miss Penforwarden, who had come with the tied-up parcel. There was also a small book, which she tied with string so Sparky could carry it. “It’s for young Gemma,” said Miss Penforwarden.

It wasn’t wrapped, so Benny could see the title: Name Your Cat. “She’s not even got a cat.”

Benny and Sparky left with the books.

Eight

Gemma was already at the back gate when Benny and Sparky got there, as usual holding the doll dressed in its “baptismal clothes”(Gemma called them), a bonnet and a biscuit-colored and dingy dress, its length covering the feet and trailing down. This doll remained nameless; she could not decide. Last time, she had been through the Qs and must now be up to the Rs.

The gate creaked back and he entered the rear garden of the Lodge. The top of the gate was higher than Gemma’s head. She was nine and the butler, Barkins, was always telling her she was too old for dolls. Benny had said that’s ridiculous, you can never be too old for something you really liked.

Benny asked, “What’d you want this cat book for?” Sparky had dropped it at her feet and himself trotted off, over to the pond, which he seemed partial to. Probably to watch the big goldfish.

“I mean,” Benny continued, as she leafed through it, “the only cat around here is Snowball and she’s got a name. And she’s Mrs. Riordin’s cat, anyway.”

“It’s what she had at the Moonraker. It’s the only book on names. I’m into the Rs. There’s Ruth, Renee, Rita, Renata-”

“Renata? That’s not a name.”

“It is, too. I saw it on a book cover. It’s the person who wrote the book. Then there’s Roberta, which I don’t like at all-”

“You don’t like any of them; you never do. Next comes the Ss. You could name her Sparky.”

Gemma looked at him, shaking her head. “I’m not naming her after a dog.”

Benny was practical; Gemma wasn’t; she seemed to live in Never-Never Land, or at least went straight there the minute she saw Benny. That was actually what she called the great gray pile of stone that was Tynedale Lodge: Neverland.

“Let’s go sit in the tree.”

They were still by the gate. Benny said, “Mr. Barkins doesn’t like me hanging around.”

Gemma sighed. She was always being put out by Benny. “Well, this doll-” she thrust the doll in its grimy, trailing dress toward him “-doesn’t like being unbaptized, but it is.”

Benny tried to make a connection between the two things but couldn’t. “Miss Penforwarden sent some more books.”

“I know. Let’s open them.”

“No.” He followed her to the beech tree, which was her favorite place to sit. It was enormous, sending out roots that themselves looked prehistoric. Gemma had wedged a board in between the trunk and a thick branch. It was roomy enough for both of them and near the ground. If they straddled the board, they could each lean against the trunk and the branch.

She set the doll between them and reached for the parcel. “Let’s see.”

“Gemma!” He wheeled the parcel upward.

“I need to see if they’re about poisoning.”

He forgot and let the parcel down. She grabbed it.

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you somebody tried to poison me.” Humming a scrap of a song, she carefully undid the string. She looked at him out of eyes like agate. The green swam in them.

Benny fell back against the trunk. “Not that again! Why’d anyone want to?”

Matter-of-factly, she said. “For my money.” She had removed the brown paper and picked up one of the books.

“What money? You don’t have any money! I tried to borrow fifty P from you a couple weeks ago and you said you didn’t even have that.”

“Not to loan out, I didn’t.” She was looking through one of the books.

Benny gave up and looked across the lawn at the “baptismal pool”; Sparky was still there, peering over the edge.

Gemma said, “There’s nothing much in this one except a lot of rubbishy gardens.”

Benny leaned forward and she turned the book so he could see it. He was looking at queerly sculpted garden topiaries. He frowned. “That’s Italy somewhere.”

“Italy. Oh.” She looked around, thinking. “Wasn’t that where this family kept poisoning each other?”

Benny reflected. “I don’t know. Med-something? It’s like ‘medicine.’ Gemma, why do you always think somebody’s trying to murder you? First it was shooting. You thought you were being shot at.”

“I was being. They missed.” She turned a page. Another garden.

“Then after that, it was somebody trying to smother you.”

“Yes.” She opened the second book. “Look.” Holding the book open in front of her face so that only her eyes were visible peering over the brown calfskin binding, she tapped at the page.

Benny leaned closer. The illustration was an outline of a human form showing a map of arteries and veins. The direction of the blood flow was indicated by arrows. He frowned. “So?”

“It could show a person how the poison gets in your blood and travels around and where it travels.”

Benny took it and looked at the spine. “It’s just a medical book.”

She looked up at the sky, as if the cloud formations held an answer. “But it’s got poisons in it. A list of them. Look and see.”

“No. Gemma, be sensible. You’re too young to have somebody want to kill you. And don’t tell me again it’s your money.”

Incensed, she said, “I am not too young. Even babies get murdered.”

“But that’s different. That’s because-” For the life of him he couldn’t think of one good reason. Then he hit on one. “They make too much noise or they’re always crying and the parents go daft listening to them. And it’s-ah- impulse, that’s what. It’s not-” What was the word? She was looking at him as if maybe he’d finally come up with something that would save her. It made Benny feel terrible; she really believed what she was telling him. If no amount of reasoning could dislodge this notion from her mind, Benny thought he would go at it from a different angle. “We’ll have to narrow down who’s doing this. It’s only one person we’re looking for, isn’t it? I