Wasting no time, Mercy undressed and readied another skirt and blouse. She gave a quick glimpse into the mirror at her dressing table and saw the injury to her face, a measurable scrape to her chin where she hit the pavement.
“What’s the matter?”
Mercy turned at the sound of her door creaking open and hastily pulled the fresh blouse up to cover her camisole. Edith saw the bloodstained dress first and then her gaze found Mercy. “Oh my goodness! Are you all right?” She crossed the room before Mercy had a chance to protest.
“It’s not my blood,” Mercy explained. “Well, at least not most of it.”
Edith patted at her mother’s face, running a delicate hand over the wound that had scabbed over. When Mercy tried to brush her touch away Edith saw the bandage at her hand.
“Was it Uncle Alex?”
“Edith!”
“You always said he was more than capable.”
Mercy discreetly pulled the clean blouse on while her daughter was preoccupied with the stains on her dress. “Can you get that in some cold water?” she asked her daughter.
“You still haven’t told me what happened,” Edith said, gathering up her mother’s soiled clothes.
“I will but like you said, I am late.”
Many of her clients made appointments in the evening. If it was a group séance the cover of darkness was best for Mercy’s trickery. Much of her success was attributed to group gatherings. Her solo clients naturally filled in the inevitable gaps in her datebook.
“Did any of the neighbours see you?” Edith asked as she left down the hall.
Mercy chuckled slightly at the thought. “Wouldn’t that have been interesting?” Mercy leaned toward the vanity mirror and pulled a few hairpins to correct some of the loosened curls. “Mrs. Fanshaw already believes I’m less spiritualist and more lady of night.”
Mrs. Fanshaw was the widow who lived next door, the one who gave Mercy the most amount of grief. She could find fault with anything given half the chance. Either Mercy’s sidewalk hadn’t been cleared of snow well enough, or her rose bush had grown over the fence. Twice in the previous year Mercy had been scolded for their noise level. The first was to admonish their heightened noise level. “One can scarcely hear themselves think the way you two carry on,” she had said from the safety of her own stoop. The second was to complain that their home was too quiet, leaving Mrs. Fanshaw to envision any number of misdeeds.
“Too bad she didn’t see you,” Edith said, her voice sounding more distant as she made her way down the stairs. “I’d like to have seen the look on the old goat’s face. Some days I wish she’d just kick the bucket already and leave us alone.”
Mercy pulled her hand away from her hair slowly. “What has she done now?”
No answer came.
“Edith?”
Mercy found her daughter in the small room behind the kitchen, filling one of the trough sinks with water. “Did something happen today?”
Edith didn’t look up. She pressed her mother’s dress into the cold water and together they watched at the blood released from the cloth and swirled around in the gentle current. “She spat on the pavement as I walked by.”
“Oh, honey.”
“Everyone saw it. Some of the smaller boys down the lane ran out and did their best to mimic her.” Edith plucked up the laundry plunger and held it like a billy club for a brief moment before slipping it in the water. “Serves them right when their dirty chins got smeared with their own filth.” She began pumping the plunger up and down, moving the clothing around, her anger accentuating her movements. “It was quite funny, actually.”
Mercy was reluctant to smile. She hated that her reputation in St. Andrews reflected so badly on her daughter, the only person in the entire world she cared anything about. The neighbourhood kids and crones could spit at her all they wanted but seeing her daughter treated so boiled her insides.
Leaning forward Mercy planted a kiss on Edith’s forehead. “I’ll speak with her.”
“Mother, no. It will only make it worse.”
Edith was right, as she often was. The last time Mercy stood up for her child they were greeted with a heap of dead mice and rats on the doorstep the next morning. It wasn’t just that Mrs. Fanshaw hated them so much, it was an entire neighbourhood that was so willing to follow her lead that disturbed Mercy the most. “Well, we could move.” Mercy turned, pulling at the bottom of her blouse so it puffed out at the waist correctly.
“I didn’t say I wanted to move.” Edith agitated the water more forcefully.
Mercy let out a concentrated breath. “Sounds like it’s been a long day for the both of us.”
The doorbell rang out, summoning Mercy to the front door. Her first client of the evening had arrived.
Edith smiled. “And it’s not over yet.”
Chapter 5
Mrs. Renee Gladstone was a mainstay on Mercy’s client list. She came a minimum of once a week and had done so for the previous ten years since her husband died. With only one surviving child, a grown son, and a large home filled with a constant rotation of servants, Mercy had come to realize that Mrs. Gladstone needed to connect with someone, anyone, and it needn’t necessarily be her dead husband.
“Mrs. Gladstone!” Mercy ushered her inside and promptly took her client’s coat as it was shrugged from her shoulders. “I’m so happy to see you.”
A woman in her seventies, Mrs. Gladstone was nearly twenty years behind in fashion. She wore a long, trailing black taffeta with a slight bustle. Adorned with faded cream-coloured lace, and a rather long string of pearls, Mrs. Gladstone removed her wide brimmed hat and presented it, and the hatpin, to Mercy. Her long satin gloves hid her wrinkled and deformed hands, made so by severe arthritis. In ten years Mercy had only seen the woman remove the gloves once and that was only because Mercy told her it would better help their cause.
“Do you think Henry is up to speaking with us today?” Mrs. Gladstone asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“I don’t see how he could stay away.” Mercy smiled and gestured for Mrs. Gladstone to head into the parlour.
At the centre of Mercy’s reading room sat a round table beneath a moderate chandelier. The table was covered with a deep red cloth, which performed its duties well by hiding the tools of Mercy’s trade, items fastened to the bottom of the wood that could be pulled out in the cover of darkness. There were two chairs, but others were available in the four corners of the room and could be pulled out when needed.
Along one wall stood a large armoire that Edith would sometimes use to hide her presence while a full séance took place. It was from there that she could create flashes of light or extend a rod to rock the chandelier. She’d even been able to pluck a man’s hat from beside him on the table, sending it to the ground while he wasn’t looking. When Edith was younger it had become a game to see what she could do. The pranks grew so out of hand that Mercy was forced to rein her daughter in lest their trickery be discovered. It certainly hadn’t been a typical upbringing for Edith, but she fulfilled her role well and for that Mercy was thankful.
The work they did was dishonest, yes, but Mercy had done well to reframe the reality in her head enough so that she did not feel sorry for it. Her clients wished to speak with the souls of their loved ones and in Mercy’s mind it did not matter if the images and events were conjured, not as long as her clients believed. Oftentimes, those who sat across the table from her left with a sense of peace and gratitude for having been reassured that whoever they lost was not suffering and somehow lived in another plane of existence. A few moans and groans from the armoire did not create belief. It merely reinforced what Mercy’s clients were so desperate to believe from the start.
Besides, the entirety of her work did not rely on distraction and pranks conducted in the dark. Mercy had become very adept at reading people. She could pose questions and force connections that were only partially confirmed by her audience. She’d throw out random letters or numbers an
d allow her clients to draw the connections themselves. If she found herself grossly off the mark she’d crack a joke, slap her hand on the table, or create a diversion to take the focus off her gaff.
Once, with the desire to create a spectacle, she had even feigned possession. Having read about a rather large séance that took place farther up the St. Lawrence, all manner of clients were eager to see a real live possession—but after a dismal failure at recreating such a scenario, Mercy came to realize she was not well enough suited for the task and abandoned the idea altogether. Afterward, she simply said that possession was a myth and that any spiritualist who claimed such skills were charlatans and fakes. Her refusal to perform in such ways had only served to strengthen her client base, not hinder it.
With Mrs. Gladstone and Mercy seated opposite each other, they placed their hands on top of the table. Mercy turned her palms to the ceiling and Mrs. Gladstone took a gentle hold of them without being asked. The room had grown dark as the day turned to night with only the small array of candles lit between them bathing them in a soft glow. Mercy closed her eyes and tilted her face upward as she had done a thousand times. Normally, this would have been her signal to Edith that she was ready, though she hardly ever required her daughter’s assistance with Mrs. Gladstone.
Mercy steadied her breathing, pushing down the sense of uneasiness that always flared up right before she was to give a reading.
“Henry says you are tired today,” Mercy said without opening her eyes.
“Oh my, well, yes.” Even in the dark Mercy could tell Mrs. Gladstone was blushing.
“There is something…” Mercy’s voice trailed off and she tilted her head slightly to the side. “You should see a doctor.”
“But I—” Mrs. Gladstone pulled one of her hands away and placed it on her chest. Mercy opened her eyes slightly and peered at Mrs. Gladstone through the slim opening. The woman huffed and fidgeted, even more than was usual.
“Renee.” Abandoning all the pretenses, Mercy squeezed Mrs. Gladstone’s hand and looked her squarely in the eyes. “You shouldn’t ignore it.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke. Over the years she had begun to view Mrs. Gladstone as a grandmother and she couldn’t bear the thought of her not being there one day. Their bond had become intimate and special, something that went beyond client and spiritualist.
“I have been feeling a bit of pain in my chest,” the old woman confessed, her voice shaky.
“Renee, you must summon a doctor when these things happen.”
“Yes. Of course. It’s silly of me to think they will go away on their own.”
Mercy squeezed her hand and smiled. “And your reading spectacles. You have found them.”
“Yes, right where I left them.”
“You told me you thought someone had taken them,” Mercy said, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, I must be losing my sense, my dear. I do believe this business with the silver has addled me. I’d never thought to mistrust my staff until you told me it was Laura who was hocking pieces of silver one piece at a time.”
“That wasn’t entirely my own doing. I think you knew who the culprit was deep down inside.”
“Yes, but I never allowed myself to entertain the thought until you and Henry told me.” She tapped the top of Mercy’s hand twice. “Imagine the cheek of that girl.”
“And the new maid, has she earned your trust at least?”
Just a few months prior Mrs. Renee had taken on a second kitchen maid, in a house that employed nearly ten people already for the service of a single resident, Mrs. Gladstone herself. At the time, Mercy had told Mrs. Gladstone she could easily make do without replacing Laura but the old woman approved the hire despite Mercy’s, and Henry’s, cautions.
“Trust? No. The girl seems mismatched among the others. So brooding and melancholy. I’m beginning to regret taking her on.”
“As I recall, Henry told you not to hire on the girl, did he not?”
Mrs. Gladstone nodded. “Yes, he did indeed. It’s just”—the old woman hesitated—“I feel such pity for her, as I do all my staff. Imagine spending your days waiting on the likes of me.” A small laugh escaped her as she spoke.
Mercy squeezed her hand again. “You must think better of yourself,” she said. “If you don’t speak kindly of yourself no one else will either.”
Mrs. Gladstone smiled. “You are so wise, Mercy dear. Henry and I have benefited so much from having you in my life. I wish you could have met him… while he lived, of course.”
“Of course. Now, you didn’t invest in the scheme your son presented to you? You know Henry and I don’t approve.”
“Oh yes, I told Nigel about what Henry said and he wasn’t pleased, not a bit. He told me he wouldn’t take no for an answer and that he’d ask me again in a week’s time. And the more I thought about it the more I realized I didn’t want to invest either. I love my son but, well, he hasn’t the best business sense. He’s nothing like his father at all.”
The two women sat at the table for nearly an hour chatting. Occasionally, Mercy would bow her head and pretend to listen to the spirits. Toward the end of their session Mercy pulled out her tarot cards and allowed Mrs. Gladstone to choose one which would help guide her until her next appointment.
Mercy turned the card upward slowly on the table and pushed it toward Mrs. Gladstone so she could see it in the dimming light. “The Fool. You must learn to trust your own instinct. You have many answers already inside you, but you are letting self-doubt drive your decisions.”
Mrs. Gladstone nodded, heeding Mercy’s message with a grave expression. “Yes, my dear,” she said. “I will endeavour to do as you wish.” Mrs. Gladstone smiled broadly as she shakily stood up from her chair. “Really, Ms. Eaton, you ought to let me compensate you more fairly.”
Mercy pressed her lips together. “My current rate is fair enough,” she explained as she walked her client to the door.
Just before they reached the double pocket doors Mrs. Gladstone turned and placed her gloved hand on Mercy’s chest. “Take it for Edith.”
Mercy squeezed Mrs. Gladstone’s hand and bent in low so she could look her client in the eye. “Edith and I have all we need. I only ask that you return next week.”
They walked into the hall.
“But what about the benefit?” Mrs. Gladstone grew alarmed as Edith walked toward them with the woman’s coat. “You haven’t forgotten, have you? I’ve convinced all my friends to come.”
Mercy remembered the poster outside the Mission.
“Of course,” Mercy said. “Have many tickets sold?”
“Like hotcakes! We may need to do another one next month just to accommodate all who want to attend. I must say, I am so looking forward to it.” Mrs. Gladstone took in Mercy’s expression. “If it’s too much, dear—”
“Not too much at all. I’m glad to help.”
“You look spent.”
“It’s been a tiring day,” Mercy said.
Mrs. Gladstone wagged a pointed finger at Mercy as she allowed Edith to help her with her coat. “I can see that, dear, now that we are in the better light. What sort of trouble is your mother getting herself into?” she asked Edith.
“That is precisely what I’d like to know,” Edith said, handing Mrs. Gladstone her hat.
Mercy opened the door and was glad to see Mrs. Gladstone’s driver standing on the step waiting to help his mistress to the carriage.
With the door closed after Mrs. Gladstone left, Mercy turned to her daughter and smiled. “Don’t encourage her.”
A dark figure near the kitchen caught her eye and Mercy’s heart jumped before recognition hit her. “What are you doing here?”
Detective Walker sauntered down the hall, turning his bowler hat in his hands. “I heard you offer spiritual readings.”
Not to the likes of you, she found herself thinking. The thought of showing care and concern toward an officer of the law was almost too much to bear. She wanted him out. It did not
matter how much she would appreciate the revenue.
Mercy’s expression soured as she pressed down the creases in her skirt at her hips. “I’m afraid I haven’t the time. You’ll need to make an appointment.” She dodged into the reading parlour and busied herself.
“I have an appointment,” Walker said, following her into the room. “I came twenty minutes ago and your daughter said you had an opening, so I waited in the kitchen.”
Mercy was suddenly self-conscious, thinking of the many house chores which needing tending. She hated the idea of a police officer in her house but also hated to think someone had seen her breakfast dishes still sitting on the counter unwashed.
“My kitchen?”
“Yes.” He fought a smile. “Miss Edith is a very gracious host.”
“Is that so?” Mercy’s chest heaved as she tried to suppress her frustration. His presence was making an already long day exceedingly longer.
“Ms. Eaton, if you expect me to believe your story about a woman named Maggie, that she’s been strangled, you’re going to have to give me a little proof of your abilities.”
Mercy nodded with an even expression, trying not to reveal the true panic she felt by his proposal. She couldn’t say why she had said anything about Maggie being strangled. Everything else had come to her as part of Louis Bolton’s memories. That one detail, however, seemed to come from nowhere.
“Will you excuse me for one moment? I’d like to get a quick glass of water.”
Mercy ducked out of the room and hustled down the hall to the kitchen. She found Edith clearing the table of cups and saucers, and a small plate of tea buns.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Edith said before Mercy could say anything. “I couldn’t turn him away.”
“It’s all right. It’s better to appease him and send him on his way,” Mercy said quietly. “What did you find out about him?”
Edith gave a quick glance down the hall. “Hardly anything. He’s a tough nut to crack,” she added, “in more ways than one.”
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