Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her closer, lifting her onto her toes. “Miss Eaton, you are walking on very thin ice.”

  His breath reeked of whisky and his grip was tight enough Mercy was sure he would leave a bruise. She wriggled slightly and tried to pull her arm from his grasp. “I am merely a messenger,” she said, wincing against the pain. She used her other hand to pry his fingers away. Her efforts proved useless. She was entirely at his mercy.

  After staring at her for a few seconds more he released her. “Leave business to us who know better,” he said, adjusting his coat and cuffs. “Keep to your cards and trickery.”

  Even after he left, slipping into the gathering with a self-satisfied smile, Mercy stood in the hall rubbing her arm to disperse the pain. The man reminded her of her stepfather. Men like that expected obedience and eagerly sought opportunities to exert their control.

  Constance appeared at the doorway. She looked to the lobby of the hotel and nearly went back to the gathering before spying Mercy farther down the hall.

  “Everyone is asking for you,” she said. “What’s the matter?”

  Mercy shook her head. “Nothing.” She had no interest in alarming her sister. It would only serve to prove that Mercy couldn’t stand on her own.

  “Let’s go then.” Constance made a sweeping gesture with her arm, directing Mercy to head into the gathering.

  A round table with six chairs had been placed at the centre of the room. More chairs circled this like an audience ready for a performance. The few dozen attendees, mostly men and women of considerable means, stood about chatting excitedly. There was no telling what they expected of their evening. Entertainment? Communication with a departed loved one perhaps? It didn’t matter. Most were there simply to rub shoulders and write cheques for the Mission. None of this would prevent Mercy from offering a good show. She was an old hat at this. So why exactly was she feeling so nervous?

  Constance led her to the centre of the room where Mrs. Gladstone stood. Nigel stood nearby, his expression light and inviting, revealing nothing of his behaviour earlier.

  “There you are!” Mrs. Gladstone explained cheerily. “I wanted you to meet some dear friends before we got started.” She turned to a couple and gestured for Mercy to come forward. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Percival Forsyth.”

  The couple in question was the pregnant woman and husband who had brushed past her so hurriedly in the hall. If they were aware of their insult, they made no effort to correct it. The woman nodded politely while her husband merely looked over, as one would read a note over another’s shoulder. Mercy could not help but notice the way Mrs. Forsyth rested her hand on her protruding belly, as if she were drawing attention to it and revelling in the remarks and well wishes it afforded her.

  “Emmaline Forsyth’s mother was a dear friend of mine from school,” Mrs. Gladstone continued. “Isn’t it precious that she would find herself with child at the exact same age as her mother.” She flashed a giddy smile and looked at Mercy expectantly.

  Mercy nodded. “Yes, a true blessing indeed.”

  The woman was in her late thirties at least, fairly old to be only now having her firstborn.

  “There was a time when none of us thought it would ever come to pass, Percival,” Mrs. Gladstone said, wagging a finger at Mr. Forsyth. “Most people hop to it a bit quicker than that. I know, I know, God sends them forth on his timing, but one has to ask the question: what took you so long?”

  Her question was made in jest but the mood had already soured. Percival and Emmaline didn’t seem to appreciate Mrs. Gladstone’s harmless comments. The look on their faces gave Mercy cause to fear for their forthcoming child. Mrs. Gladstone could see the change in mood as well.

  “Ms. Eaton, could you please ask any spirits who visit tonight if Emmaline’s child is a boy or a girl?” Mrs. Gladstone asked.

  “Oh, please don’t,” Emmaline said quickly. “Let’s not ruin the surprise.”

  “It’s good enough for us to know we may be having twins,” Percival chimed in.

  “Twins?” Mrs. Gladstone nearly choked on the word. “Imagine that, Ms. Eaton, twins!”

  Mercy smiled with the knowledge she really had nothing of substance to add to the conversation. “Congratulations,” was all she could muster.

  “When have the doctors said they will be born?” Constance asked.

  “Soon, I hope,” Emmaline said. “They are getting difficult to carry around.”

  “You look like you are handling it well enough,” Mercy said before she could stop herself.

  Edith drew up alongside Mercy, a tumbler of punch in her gloved hand. Constance soon fell in slightly behind.

  “I expect those babies to be born before I get back from Dundas,” Mrs. Gladstone said, wagging a finger in jest. “Now, tell us what you have been up to lately, Ms. Eaton,” she said. “I may not have spiritualist powers but I can tell you’ve had something rather pressing on your mind.”

  Mercy gave a glance to Constance, unsure what to say.

  “Does it have anything to do with the excitement the other day?” Percival offered. “I read you were involved somehow.”

  Mercy feigned indifference. “Where did you read such a thing?”

  “The Empire,” Emmaline said. “My husband only ever reads The Empire.”

  Mercy nearly snarled at the mention of what was now her least favourite paper in the city.

  “Mother saved a man’s life.”

  Mrs. Gladstone gasped and clapped her hands together in excitement.

  “Edith, please.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it? A man was shot and my mother rushed to save him.”

  Mercy saw Constance place a hand on Edith’s upper arm, a signal to stop speaking. Immediately, Edith’s face blanched.

  “Save him, did you?” Percival asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I can’t say I have ever heard of a woman saving a man’s life,” Emmaline said, nearly laughing at the suggestion.

  “I didn’t actually save him,” Mercy admitted. “I merely broke his fall.”

  “Did this man say anything to you?” Percival pressed.

  “It all happened so fast,” she answered honestly.

  “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, our guest of honour needs a few moments to prepare before we get started,” Constance said, breaking into the circle.

  Mercy felt herself being led away.

  “Thank you, Connie. I wasn’t entirely sure what to say,” Mercy said quietly so only her sister could hear.

  “It’s best not to say anything. They’ll make up their own minds about it anyway.”

  “Did you see the way Emmaline was looking at me? Like I had put strychnine in her champagne.” The more Mercy thought about it the more upset she became. “If that woman’s having twins I’ll eat my own hat.”

  “It may not be twins,” Constance said. “You know doctors have no way of predicting this.”

  “If she expects to carry twins for a full term she’s delusional.”

  Constance smiled knowingly. Their mother had birthed a set of twins, two boys one year older than Constance.

  “How can people with so much money be such dunces?” Mercy asked.

  Behind them Mrs. Gladstone clapped her hands and entreated everyone to take their seats.

  “Both their families are very rich,” Constance said. “Percival’s father is Walter Forsyth, the manufacturer.”

  “Really?”

  “Apparently, he’s been trying to bribe them into having a child. Percival is the only son after all.”

  “Bribe them how?”

  “Money, of course. He said they’d not get a penny after he passes, nor would he be able to keep the factories. They’d all be given to the foreman.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what I heard, at any rate.”

  Mercy looked over her shoulder and saw everyone was taking their seats. “Quick, what else do you know?”

  “Well,” Const
ance said, leading her a few more steps away, “Catherine Smith is here. The lady in purple. Her aunt passed away and no one can find the will. There’s six living children and they all want a piece of the pie but Catherine was the only one who cared for her these last few years.”

  Mercy nodded. “What else?”

  Constance gave her a rundown of all the tidbits of conversation she had overheard while they waited for their spiritualist to arrive. There were a number of stories and not all would make it into Mercy’s performance, but too much information was certainly better than not enough.

  “And Amanda Clements, the woman in the veil, her husband was discovered stepping out with his secretary,” Constance added.

  “Another woman.”

  “No, a man!”

  “My goodness, Constance, you have been holding out on me.”

  “I just don’t want to see you struggle like you did with that detective.”

  “That was a one-time thing.”

  “Well, try not to make a repeat performance. These people paid good money and you ought to give them what they came for.”

  “Fear not, Constance. I have everything well in hand.”

  “Ms. Eaton,” Mrs. Gladstone called from the centre table. “We are ready when you are.” She made a sweeping gesture with both arms. “Mrs. Doyle, the lights, if you please.”

  Chapter 12

  The fat candles at the centre of the table were lit, oozing their melted wax down their sides and spilling out onto the tablecloth. They served as the only light for the entire room. Mercy could see the people who had taken seats around the table but no more. The surrounding audience had been swallowed by the blackness, allowing her to concentrate on the people immediately in front of her. Everyone at the table held hands in a circle. Once the room was quiet, Mercy lifted her face upward and closed her eyes.

  She began to hum, not a melody but rather a low tone in a steady stream. Then she stopped and drew in a deep breath. “Spirits,” she said, adjusting her voice to the lower end of her range, “we gather to hear your words. We seek to know what you know. We ask that you come toward us, that you surround us, that you whisper in our ears.”

  A thump resonated from under the table. Nearly everyone in the room jumped. A few gasps rang out. There was another thump. And another.

  Mercy could hear the people in the audience shifting about and she suppressed a smile. It was only her foot beneath the pedestal table, a hard sole at her toe knocking the underside of the wooden pedestal legs.

  “Thank you, spirits,” Mercy said. She bowed her head. “Everyone seated at the table may release hands and press your palms into the tabletop. No one must put their hand beneath the table,” she said. “It will break the circle and the spirits will leave.”

  “When can we ask our questions?” one lady seated beside her asked.

  Mercy placed her hand over the lady’s and gave a small squeeze. “All in due time.” She took a breath and refocused her energy. “Spirits, if you are here give us a sign.” Slowly, she released the air from her lungs. The flames on the candles flickered and a fresh chorus of gasps rang out.

  “Did you see that?” someone in the audience said.

  “There’s no draft,” another answered. “The room is completely sealed.”

  A single knock sounded.

  Mercy pulled her feet back from the pedestal supports slowly so no one would notice.

  “Is there a woman seated at the table whose first name starts with C?”

  The woman next to her gasped. “My name is Catherine.” Mercy could hear the tremble in the woman’s voice.

  “Catherine, your mother,” Mercy stopped herself. “No, someone who was like your mother wishes to speak with you.”

  In the candlelight Mercy could see tears welling in Catherine’s eyes. “Aunt Winifred is here?”

  “Did your Aunt Winifred call you by a nickname?” Mercy asked. “Did she call you her Pussycat?” The woman had to have at least twenty cats herself, considering how many hairs clung to her purple gown.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “She is calling you her Pussycat now.”

  Mercy saw the woman sit up at attention. “Where is she? Is she standing next to me?” Without waiting for an answer the woman turned to look behind her. Mercy snatched her wrist before her hand left the table.

  “Keep the circle sealed,” she said in a hushed tone.

  “Yes, of course.” Catherine kept her hands on the table but continued to search the darkness. “Aunt Winifred, are you here? Come forward. Speak to me.”

  “She says you’ve been sad,” Mercy said.

  “Well, yes, I have. She only passed last month.”

  “And you have been looking for something.”

  “Her will. Ask her where it is. Aunt Winifred, where is it? Ask her.”

  Mercy laid a calming hand on top of Catherine’s. “Winifred, your family seeks the hiding place of your last will and testament. Speak through me,” she said. “Use my energy to speak.”

  The room waited in enraptured silence as Mercy took in a few deep breaths. “She says… she says… you will find it in something with a lid.”

  “In something with a lid.” Catherine repeated Mercy’s words slowly.

  A child in another part of the hotel cried.

  “A teapot perhaps or cookie jar.” Mercy closed her eyes tightly, trying to block out the noise. The sound of the child was very distracting. “She won’t say anymore. She’s too weak. She’s not been dead long enough to build up her strength.”

  “Oh.”

  Mercy lowered her head again and closed her eyes. “I feel a number of spectres nearby,” she said. “They all wish to speak.” Would somebody please tend to the child? Mercy could hardly concentrate.

  The candle flames flickered again. And then came a rap, causing a woman in the front row to jump.

  “Someone sat down beside me,” she said.

  Mercy turned her head to look at her. She could always count on one or two eager people in the audience. They’d hear or feel things that weren’t there, all because of the suggestion within the performance in front of them. It was almost as if individual brains try to make sense of what cannot be explained by creating an explanation. People like this made Mercy’s performances all the more convincing.

  The woman pointed to an empty seat beside her. “I felt it,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. “Something sat down next to me. I felt their movement on my arm.”

  “Extraordinary,” Mercy said.

  A murmur stirred in the room as the spectators began talking among themselves.

  The child’s wailing grew louder and intensified. She was beginning to think the child was in the room.

  A woman shrieked, bounded from her chair in the audience, and landed on the lap of the man next to her. “Something pulled my hair, Jeffery,” she said, clinging to him in fright.

  In the darkness, Mercy could see the man trying to console his wife, who was obviously shaken.

  “Perhaps your curls merely became caught on something,” he offered, not entirely convinced himself.

  “There is nothing there to get caught on,” she said, somewhat angered at his dismissal.

  A man from another row stood up and went to the chair in question and tilted it forward and backward, giving it a thorough inspection. “It has to be a trick,” he said.

  Mercy could feel herself losing control of the gathering. She needed to bring everyone’s focus back to the table. “Everyone remain calm,” she said. Some people at the table were pulling their hands away, frightened by what was happening. “Keep your hands on the table,” Mercy snapped. “Lest you break the circle.”

  Warily they complied, moving their hands toward the centre. Eventually, the man returned to his seat, not yet satisfied that some trickery wasn’t involved. Mercy closed her eyes in an effort to compose herself. She could feel her heartbeat quickening and her patience running thin. All the while the baby
cried and no one took notice.

  “Would someone please remove that baby from the room?” Mercy asked. “I cannot concentrate.”

  A murmur erupted in the room again but the child’s cries did not stop. Mercy could have sworn it grew louder, closer even as they waited for the parent to take the child from the room.

  “Children are not permitted,” she said at last, turning in her seat to look about.

  The crying continued, louder and more insistent. No one in the darkness moved to leave. Abandoning the circle, Mercy stood and turned to her audience.

  “Is common courtesy so rare nowadays?”

  As she spoke the overheard lights flickered on and the crying stopped immediately. Mercy scanned the audience. There was no child. And no evidence that anyone had just left the room.

  Constance stood at the light switch. No one else had moved.

  “Ms. Eaton,” Mrs. Gladstone said from her front row seat, “Is everything all right?”

  Mercy closed her eyes and bowed her head. “I’m fine,” she said after a moment’s rest. “I just thought I heard something.” When her gaze lifted she saw the look of concern on her sister’s face. “You may turn off the lights now,” Mercy directed her. “We should continue.”

  Chapter 13

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Jeremiah heard a loud thump and felt his desk shake. He pulled his head up from his arms, which had been folded on his desktop, and saw MacNeal circling his desk. He realized he had been sleeping. Had he been smiling? A feeling of loss overtook him. He hadn’t had anything to smile about in a long time.

  Resisting the urge to stretch, Jeremiah ran a hand over his face and his mind gathered itself from dreamland. As the seconds passed a sick feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. He had been dreaming of her, hadn’t he? Yes. Ms. Eaton had entered his dream. He shook off the tingling sensation in his right hand where she had touched him.

  MacNeal took a seat at his own desk a few feet away and eyed Jeremiah suspiciously. “It’s late,” he said. “Why aren’t you at home?”

  “Not much to go home to these days,” Jeremiah said plainly.