Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  “I meant he could arrest you for fraud.”

  “Oh… well, I should say he very nearly did,” Mercy said. “That man has a very hard energy about him. A complete cold fish.”

  “Mercy!”

  “I haven’t had any new clients for so long, I might be a bit rusty,” Mercy explained. “Don’t give me that look. A policeman is a very difficult read. You never know where you stand with them. They’re so shifty and secretive.”

  “I imagine their work requires that of them.”

  “Please don’t defend them. I’ll never trust a police officer as long as I live.”

  Constance eyed Mercy over her knitting. “I am well aware of your distrust.”

  “And my reasons?”

  “And your reasons.” She dropped her knitting into her lap. “But Detective Walker doesn’t seem to be that sort of fellow. He was angry, yes, but not unreasonable.”

  Mercy shrugged. “They are all the same, if you ask me. It took all my energy not to shoo him from the house with my boot on his backside.”

  “And threat of arrest had nothing to do with your restraint?”

  Mercy dismissed her sister’s concern with a wave of her hand. She knew she’d never act out her vengeful thoughts but it was fun to have them nonetheless.

  “He did not seem too pleased this morning when he came by,” Connie explained. “He seems to think you are more involved with this Bolton fellow than you are letting on.”

  “In what possible way? He all but banished me from his bedside this morning.”

  “Mercy, truly? You went to him in the hospital?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? I have a right to know what he may have brought me in on.”

  Constance gave no reply. She merely shook her head in disapproval and went back to her knitting.

  “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. I am completely done with this entire thing. I can’t afford to get into anymore trouble.” She raised her teacup to her lips. “What are you making anyway?”

  “A scarf. I suppose I should make it for my niece, since I’m going to be the one caring for her when you get hauled away to prison.”

  “I’m not going to prison, not anytime soon anyway. And certainly not at the hands of Detective Walker.”

  “How do you know?”

  Mercy smiled playfully. “Just a feeling I have.”

  “Well, I certainly hope your feelings about things won’t let you down tonight. I’ve heard that many of the Mission’s benefactors are planning to attend.”

  “Yes, this is the reason I’ve come.” She put down her teacup and looked to Constance expectantly. “You must tell me all you know about those in attendance.”

  “That’s hardly fair,” Constance answered.

  “Whoever said it needs to be fair? It’s entertainment, nothing more. So, out with it. Give me all the gossip.”

  ***

  When Mercy left her sister’s house she was thankful to have the foresight to bring an umbrella. The skies had opened up while she finished her second tea. By the time she made her way to Queen Street the rain was torrential, forcing her to take shelter under the awning of Benson Jewellery & Clocksmiths. A gentleman, caught out without an umbrella, rushed past holding a newspaper over his head. Mercy turned to the window to allow him more room when a long string of pearls in the display window caught her interest.

  The necklace bore the same pearls she had seen in Louis Bolton’s memory. Only instead of a long string of continuous pearls like the ones in front of her, the necklace in Bolton’s memory was of three pearls on a string, one of each colour; cream, pink, and a luminescent grey. She had heard of black pearls before but had never seen one in the flesh, and never would have imagined seeing so many of the rare gems on a single necklace and certainly not in Ontario.

  Benson Jewellery & Clocksmiths wasn’t the type of store she frequented often. She scarcely owned a piece of jewellery herself, save for the odd brooch or family heirloom, and would never dream of using her hard-earned income on such frivolities. Paying for the upkeep of her home took up almost all of her earnings. Luxuries and adornments were not a top priority.

  A tiny bell above the door signalled her entry.

  The apprenticed clerk behind the counter was young, not much older than Edith, but he did have an air of authority about him. “May I help you, miss?” he asked, leaning gently into the glass display case.

  Mercy glanced about the store. She had only ever seen it from the outside. A long glass counter took up the storefront on one side. The other side was a wall of clocks. Mantel clocks, wall clocks, and grandfather clocks. All of them ticked, ticked, ticked away in unison. A doorway at the end of the wall led into a room where an older man sat, nearly out of view. He had a light propped on a table and he was entirely engrossed in something small in his hand.

  “Is there something I can take out to show you?” the clerk asked, bringing Mercy’s attention back to the room.

  “Yes, the pearls in the window”—she gestured with her hands—“what can you tell me about them?”

  Before she could even finish her sentence the older man in the back room was on his feet and heading toward her. He removed his loupe from his brow and placed it on a desk before meeting her in the centre of the store.

  “That is a one-of-a-kind necklace, madam,” he said, his voice hinting at a French-Canadian accent. “I had sent for the pearls myself.” He led Mercy back toward them and pulled them from the velvet-covered display box. He held them softly, as if the piece were made of ice liable to turn to liquid if handled too much. He went on to describe the pearls and the South Sea islands from where they had originated.

  “Would madam like to try them on?”

  The younger clerk pulled a pedestal mirror from somewhere behind the counter and positioned it so that when Mercy turned she could watch the jeweller drape it around her neck. The pearls seemed so misplaced against her lace blouse. She hadn’t even taken the time that morning to put on a brooch or pin at her collar, as she normally would have. The long string of pearls lay just above her breasts and shone in the light that streamed in through the window. When the jeweller stepped back from view in the mirror, Mercy couldn’t help but reach up to touch them. Their surface was soft and smooth. They had very little weight to them, it felt.

  “Magnificent,” Mercy said softly, unable to take her eyes away.

  For a moment she imagined herself buying them and tucking them away in a nice box in the back of her dresser. Only she would ever know they were there. Perhaps every once in a while she’d pull them out and wear them, to a party or an appearance, it didn’t matter. This piece of beauty was not for every day. Wearing it every day would dull its appeal.

  “How much it is?” Mercy found herself asking before she could stop herself.

  The jeweller unapologetically rhymed off a large sum. The spell was broken and immediately Mercy wanted to take it off lest she break it.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mercy said. “It is a tad out of my price range.”

  Both clerks looked as if they had heard the phase many times before.

  “They’re one of a kind, did you say?” Mercy asked, watching longingly as he returned it to the display.

  The gentleman looked hopeful but Mercy had no desire to lead him to believe she inquired in earnest. She had come to see the pearls because there was an image she received from Louis, folded in among all the others, that looked extremely familiar.

  “One of a kind,” the jeweller said. “I’ve used similar pearls before for a custom order, but I’m afraid that would be out of your price range as well.”

  Of course, which begs the question, if they were out of Mercy’s price range how had Louis Bolton got his hands on some?

  “Are pearls always this expensive?”

  “Oh, yes,” the clerk said readily. “We have some earnings, if you prefer.” He moved toward the other end of the counter. Mercy did not follow.

  She turned to the jeweller, who so far ha
d been very patient with her.

  “Just one more question, is it possible to order a necklace of two or three on a chain?” she asked.

  The jeweller very nearly laughed. “I’d never dream of such an abomination,” he said. “Pearls are meant to be worn together, a complete piece.”

  “But if you did, how much would that cost?”

  The man pulled a frown. “Each gem is a work of art constructed by nature itself.” He threw out a number.

  Still, the price was prohibitive for a man like Bolton.

  “Thank you, sirs,” she said, readying her umbrella. “You have been most educational.”

  Chapter 10

  They were coming up on the spot, approaching by foot, all the while knowing the rain was washing everything away. Even from ten paces back, Jeremiah could see all evidence of the previous day’s event was long gone, diluted and washed into the street.

  “Damn.” Jeremiah and MacNeal stopped where they had found Ms. Eaton and Mr. Bolton the day before. The street was not nearly as busy as it had been, allowing them time to look around and survey the section of roadway. “I can’t even remember exactly where they were,” Jeremiah said, turning slowly in place. “It all happened so fast.”

  He tried to mark the placement by referencing the entrance to the tavern but didn’t find it useful.

  “Your attention was clearly on one thing,” MacNeal said, his mouth busting a smile.

  Jeremiah blanched. Had MacNeal known about his efforts to track down his wife? “What precisely do you mean by that?”

  “Ms. Eaton is easier on the eyes than Bolton, to be sure. I don’t blame you for being enchanted.”

  Jeremiah would have exhaled in relief were his partner not watching him closely. “I am a married man, MacNeal,” he said.

  “You should keep an eye on that then,” MacNeal teased. “You’re giving people the wrong impression.”

  Of all the officers on the force, Jeremiah was the least likely to keep a mistress. As a child he had developed a strict sense of right and wrong and to him there was very little wiggle room between the two. Years prior he’d have felt wickedly guilty had he so much as looked at a woman who wasn’t his wife. What MacNeal implied was that somehow Jeremiah had allowed his eye to wander and that Ms. Eaton had been the one to draw his attention. This was something Jeremiah could not tolerate.

  “You were here almost as soon as it happened,” MacNeal pointed out.

  Jeremiah hoped he wouldn’t ask where he was in the moments leading up to find Ms. Eaton on the street.

  “What do you remember?” MacNeal asked.

  “I remember a crowd of people. Bolton was on the ground, bleeding. I thought Ms. Eaton was bleeding too. She was doubled over in obvious pain. I thought he had done something to her.”

  “Was she conscious when you found her?”

  “Barely.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “No. She tried to speak but I couldn’t hear anything she said.” He reached into his inside breast pocket. “At the hospital she told me about the woman.” He found his notes. “Maggie. She needed to be found, she said. She said something about a string of pearls and a laundry basket in a dark house.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “It’s gibberish,” Jeremiah said with certainty. “Meant to throw us off their trail.”

  “Trail of what exactly?” MacNeal said doubtfully. “There’s no evidence of any collusion between Ms. Eaton and Mr. Bolton.”

  “There’s something going on here, MacNeal, and I don’t like it.”

  “Eh!”

  Both detectives turned to one of the storefronts, where a man leaned out one of the doors beckoning them to come over.

  “Are ye the detectives?”

  Jeremiah and MacNeal walked over slowly. “Yes,” MacNeal said. “Did you see what happened here yesterday?”

  “Who ain’t?” the man asked. “We all heard a ruckus and came running fer the windows. Is Ms. Mercy gonna be all right?”

  “You recognized Ms. Eaton?”

  “Well, yeah. She’s mighty popular in these parts. Didn’t recognize the fella, though,” he admitted.

  Jeremiah looked through the shop window and saw it was a fabric store. Bolts of fabric were lined up from the floor to the ceiling, each in their own cubbyhole. A small display was positioned in the middle of the store and a large cutting counter took up an entire wall.

  “Is this your shop?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Yeah.” The man eyed him and turned to MacNeal. “You looking for some fabric for drapes?” The man and MacNeal chuckled. Jeremiah didn’t find the remark so amusing.

  “So you saw what happened?”

  “Well, I only saw after I heard the scream. He were falling over and Ms. Mercy were trying to keep him from hitting his head or something. I never got a good look. He was saying something to her too, like he felt he was dying and it was something she needed to know.” He turned to MacNeal again. “We opened the door to go out and help but there were just too many people.”

  “Did you hear anything?” Jeremiah asked, positioning himself at the shop door and looking out over the pavement.

  “No, not really. Just something about Maggie. That’s all I heard.”

  “Who said it?” MacNeal asked. “Was it the man or Miss Eaton?”

  “Oh, the man, he was telling her to find Maggie,” the shopkeeper said.

  MacNeal puffed out his chest slightly.

  “She was nodding too, like she was trying to calm him down, but then she looked to be in pain, like he had done something to her but I ain’t seen anything.”

  “But there were a lot of people around,” Jeremiah said.

  “No one wanted to go near. Not with all the blood.” The shopkeeper shook his head. “She were partly dragged, partly fell. I don’t know. I’ve gone over it in my head a hundred times. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking something had happened to her.”

  “She’s all right,” MacNeal said, smiling. “A little shaken, is all.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. He had been accused of having a liking for Miss Eaton, but Jeremiah wasn’t so sure it was him alone.

  “I owe everything to that woman. It would break my wife’s heart if anything happened to her,” the shopkeeper said, relieved.

  “What do you mean?” Jeremiah asked.

  The shopkeeper glanced around as if to ensure no one else was in earshot. “My wife and I went to her a few years back. Our first daughter had died, you see, in the cradle. There was no explanation for it. She just didn’t wake up. We never thought we could bring ourselves to have another. But Ms. Mercy, she told us we’d be expecting within the next two months and that it’d be a boy. She said he’d be born within the year and by golly, he was. Two weeks early too. Now, I didn’t think he’d make it in time but he did, just as Miss Mercy said.” The man laughed. “That woman has a gift, I tell ya. She’s a real gem for our city.”

  Vindicated, MacNeal smiled. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  Jeremiah couldn’t bring himself to concede defeat.

  Chapter 11

  Of all the places deemed suitable for a séance, Mercy Eaton wondered at the wisdom of choosing the Queen’s Hotel. Perhaps at the risk of the event appearing trite and macabre the hotel was meant to give the gathering a more wholesome and sedate feel. Maybe it was chosen to attract a higher calibre of attendee, one with a deep pocketbook and insatiable desire to impress their peers. It could also have been the only space available in the city that night.

  In any event, Mercy felt on display, a caricature of another world to many of the guests, someone not of their sort, someone who was only permitted to mingle with them for short bursts of time and always at their bidding. Mercy hated these sorts of things for those reasons and few more, but she needed to do them to acquire new clients and appease her current ones. The income generated by similar events was often enough to
pay her rent for the following three months, sometimes longer. This particular event was the largest she had ever done.

  The concierge at the front desk directed her and Edith to one of the rooms off the main hall. At the door Mercy could see quite a few guests had gathered already. Soft piano music played from a large gramophone set to the side while women and men in their best evening attire drank flutes of champagne and conversed excitedly.

  Before entering the room, Mercy looked to her daughter. “You look tired. Were they working you hard at school today?”

  Edith shook her head. “I’m fine, Mother,” she said unconvincingly. “I’ll go see if I can find Aunt Connie.”

  As her daughter slipped into the crowd Mercy surveyed the room from the door. A couple pushed past her, either unaware of Mercy standing there, or indifferent of it, forcing her to step back and out of the way. As they passed Mercy saw the woman’s large pregnant stomach protruding from behind an extravagant evening dress. By the looks of it, and she knew the look well, the woman appeared to be well into her last months. She was surprised the woman was even on her feet while so far along with child.

  A shadow was cast over her as Nigel Gladstone approached. “Ms. Eaton.” A commanding presence, he forced her backward away from the doorway and farther down the hall without even touching her.

  “Mother tells me you’ve advised her against the investments I proposed,” he said. His gaze was unrelenting, his tone harsh.

  Mercy shifted her feet uncomfortably and looked beyond him to see if anyone else was near. “You are mistaken,” she said. “I have no personal opinion on the matter.”

  He offered a crooked smile. “You expect me to believe you do not influence my mother’s decisions?”

  “It was the spirits.” She offered a feeble shrug of indifference. “Perhaps you aught to take up your concerns with them—”