Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  Jeremiah shook off the blood from his hand and pulled out his handkerchief from his inside pocket. “How long since she was put there?” he asked, as he wrapped the handkerchief around his wound.

  “An hour, maybe two.”

  “Any witnesses?” He tied off the cloth using his good hand and his teeth.

  “Not one. Are you going to be all right?”

  Jeremiah nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They arrived at the scene to find the coroner had already been summoned. Jeremiah had known him for many years and had decided long ago that he didn’t like him. He smoked more than a chimney and often smelled worse than any of the taverns that dotted Queen Street. But worst of all, he wasn’t known to take his duty seriously. He’d let crucial information languish among the papers of his desk and was not entirely forthcoming with details that should have been included in his reports.

  Jeremiah found he had to oversee nearly everything the man did so as to ensure he got all the pertinent information. The fact that the surgeon was there before him or MacNeal did not bode well for the onset of the investigation.

  “So nice of you to join us, detectives,” Dr. Bishop said as they approached the scene. “What happened to your hand?”

  “I’m fine,” Jeremiah said, gesturing to the body. “What do we have?”

  The doctor was standing over the body of a female. She was fully clothed but her meagre dress was smeared with mud and grit. She lay on her back, her eyes open to the slit of dark sky above them between the buildings. Her blond hair fanned out into the mud, one arm spread wide beside her, the other bent around a discarded crate as if she had tried to use it to hold her up before she finally died.

  “Who is she?” Jeremiah asked, more so to himself than anyone around him.

  “That’s your job, detective,” Dr. Bishop said. “I’m just here to declare her dead.”

  “I imagine your job is a bit more involved than that.” Jeremiah couldn’t stop his resentment from coming through with his words.

  Bishop shrugged, his nonchalance indicating the type of details Jeremiah could expect in his report. “Another Irish guttersnipe makes no difference.”

  Jeremiah chose to bite his tongue. The woman was most likely Irish—most women of a certain age in The Ward were. She had a slim wedding band on her left hand. Jeremiah believed Dr. Bishop’s assessment to be inaccurate and loose on many details. At the very least, the woman was someone’s daughter, and someone’s wife.

  “Can I get a cause of death?”

  “Strangulation,” Bishop answered.

  “How can you tell?” Jeremiah asked.

  The doctor pressed his lips together and gestured in the direction of the woman’s head as if the evidence were as plain as day. “Marks at her throat are consistent with strangulation. The assailant could be female, though I highly doubt it. Most likely a male. She must have said something about his pecker to make him off her.”

  “You believe she was a prostitute?” MacNeal asked.

  Bishop threw his hands up. “Like I said, that’s your job, detectives. Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife made some Cornish hens for this evening’s supper. I’ll have my report for you in a few days, detectives.”

  To Jeremiah’s annoyance the doctor left. Only two uniformed constables remained to block off the scene while Jeremiah and MacNeal knelt down to examine the body. MacNeal saw what Jeremiah did and lifted her left hand from the mud.

  “Perhaps it was her husband,” he said.

  Jeremiah hadn’t ruled out the possibility.

  Holding the woman’s chin, Jeremiah turned her face to the side. He found a thin red line running parallel to her jaw. He shifted her head the other way and found a matching one on the other side.

  “Scratches,” he said. “Here and here.”

  MacNeal brought his lantern closer. “Isn’t this the woman the spiritualist medium was speaking about?”

  “Ms. Eaton?” Jeremiah narrowed his gaze, recalling their conversation in the hallway of St. Michael’s.

  “Didn’t she say something about a woman strangled. How could she have known about such a thing?”

  Jeremiah’s didn’t flinch. “Because she’s involved.”

  “You don’t believe it was the spirits who told her?”

  Jeremiah scoffed. “She doesn’t communicate with spirits anymore than I communicate with Prime Minister Macdonald.”

  Chapter 14

  Mercy wasn’t expecting anything extraordinary out of her day. In fact, she would have preferred a more mundane one to make up for the last few days, which had only served to make her look more and more like the eccentric everyone mistook her for. The moment she stepped out her front door and saw Alistair George at the sidewalk she knew such a day would not be possible. He stood next to the sapling installed at the curb, looking over his notebook. Mercy could tell his intention was to wait for her by the way he faced her front door.

  Mercy would have pushed Edith back inside in the hopes of avoiding any interaction with him but she was too late. Her daughter, ready for school, was already standing next to her on the stoop.

  “You don’t have to walk me, Mama,” Edith said, as she watched Mercy put the key in the lock.

  Mercy purposely avoided looking in Alistair’s direction. “I would like to,” she answered plainly. She dropped her key into the pocket of her skirt and when she looked up she saw the reporter making his way toward their front walkway. With a slight growl, Mercy nudged her daughter along, guided her left on the sidewalk, and set a quick pace down the street.

  “Who’s that man?” Edith asked.

  “No one.”

  “If he’s no one then why do you keep looking back at him?”

  Mercy ignored the question.

  “You are acting very strangely,” Edith said. “Is this about last night? You had Aunt Connie and I scared nearly to death.”

  Mercy shook her head. “This isn’t about last night. I don’t know what that was. I could have sworn I heard a baby crying. It sounded so real.” She saw the look of panic on her daughter face and offered her a sideways smile and a joke to lighten the mood. “I am certainly glad those days are over.”

  A little farther south they were forced to pause at the intersection to wait for an opening in the traffic.

  “Mrs. Eaton, one word if I may?” Alistair asked, coming up behind them.

  Edith tried to turn to look but Mercy nudged her to look forward.

  “Mama!”

  Finally, there was a break and Mercy stepped forward, nearly dragging her daughter along beside her.

  “Mrs. Eaton!”

  “That man is calling out to you,” Edith said. “I believe he wants to speak with you.”

  On the opposite corner, Mercy gave an exasperated exhale. “He merely wishes I would give a comment on the trouble I experienced the other day.” She looked over her shoulder again and saw him hurrying his pace as an automobile sped toward the intersection. “In this instance, I am inclined to agree with Detective Walker and withhold comment.”

  “Detective Walker told you not to say anything?” Edith said, her voice hushed.

  “No, I merely agree that nothing should be said.” She turned her head to see Alistair a few paces behind them.

  “Mrs. Eaton!”

  Edith stopped, shaking off her mother’s attempts to pull her along. “My mother is Ms. Eaton, thank you kindly.”

  Mercy noted the slight incline of Edith’s chin as she spoke. How had her daughter grown to be so confident?

  “My apologies. I—”

  Edith wouldn’t let him speak. “We both wish for you to stop following us. Good day.” She could have looked down her nose at him if she was only six inches taller.

  Mercy was thankful and slightly embarrassed by her daughter’s little performance. She should have been the one to demand they be left alone, not a girl of fourteen.

  Edith made a point of slipping her arm into Mercy’s so they could continue on their
way. They did not get two paces further before the reporter called out to them again.

  “I intend no harm, Ms. Eaton.” He emphasized the word Ms. a little too boldly for Mercy’s liking. “I only wanted to see if you had heard the news.”

  Mercy stopped and did a quarter turn to face him. “News? What news?”

  “It’s your man—”

  “Detective Walker?” Edith spoke before her mother could stop her.

  “I have no man,” Mercy said quickly, sending a gaze of warning to her daughter. She turned to him squarely then, dropping her daughter’s arm and taking a step toward him. As she did so Jeremiah’s face flashed to the forefront of her mind. He was a police officer, yes? Anything could have happened in the night. Anything could snuff him out in the end. She wanted to hear, to know as much as she wanted to turn on her heels and pretend Alistair had never spoken the words.

  A moment passed as the reporter regarded her, perhaps picking up on her hesitation.

  She raised her own chin then, channelling the strength her daughter displayed moments earlier. “I repeat, I have no man,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “And I have no need of one.”

  “Yes, of course.” He glanced to his notebook. “It’s only… Mr. Louis Bolton has gone missing from his hospital bed. He slipped from Detective Walker’s grasp earlier this morning.”

  “Has he?” Mercy didn’t attempt to hide her surprise.

  “I thought perhaps you had come in contact with him or perhaps you knew his whereabouts.”

  “Contact with whom? Detective Walker?”

  “No, Mr. Bolton.”

  “Certainly not.” Mercy found herself bristling at the suggestion. “You are not so very talented at listening to other people, are you, Mr. George? I am merely a Good Samaritan, nothing more. Any connection I may have had with Mr. Bolton is at an end. There is nothing else I can say on the matter.”

  Mercy turned to her daughter.

  “Mr. Bolton?” Edith asked quietly. “Is that the man from the street?”

  Mercy shot an annoyed glance to Alistair. “Yes, Edith. The very one.” She pulled at Edith’s arm, gently enticing her to move farther along the street. “You’ll be late for school if we don’t hurry.”

  “But that man…” Edith glanced over her shoulder while Mercy refused to pay him anymore attention. “He’s writing something down in his notebook.”

  “So be it,” Mercy said. “I haven’t the time or inclination to fret about what he will or will not say in his paper tomorrow.”

  “But Mama.” Edith forced her mother to stop.

  Mercy closed her eyes and would have closed off her other senses as well if it meant a reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the morning rush. The séance the night before and the chaos it caused in her mind made her weary. Her lack of sleep didn’t help either.

  “You could offer to help find Mr. Bolton. Tell them what you saw—”

  “I did tell them! They don’t believe in my abilities.”

  “Make them believe. I’ve seen you do it a thousand times over.” A soft, proud smile spread over Edith’s face. “You won over Uncle Alexander.”

  “Resignation to one’s existence does not equal acceptance,” Mercy answered dryly.

  They turned a corner and Edith’s school came into view. They stopped at the front gates and Edith turned to look at her mother directly.

  “Edith, I don’t think you understand. Sergeant Walker does not want my help. He has all but asked me to stay out of his investigation. I’m lucky they don’t have me listed as a suspect by now. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I were.”

  The smile of anticipation once so evident on Edith’s features vanished at her mother’s words.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, but there really isn’t anything more I can do. I swear from this day forward I won’t involve myself in anything that doesn’t concern me.”

  “I’m not sure you have much of a choice at the moment.”

  Mercy’s face fell. “Why do you say that?”

  Edith pointed back from where they had come. Mercy looked over her shoulder and found Detective Walker standing a few paces behind her with a deep scowl on his face. MacNeal, who stood at his side, looked far more approachable.

  “Good Lord,” Mercy said.

  ***

  A part of Edith wanted to stay and find out what Detective Walker wanted, but her mother wouldn’t let her. She was forced inside with little more than a look. Once inside, though, she was distracted by the muffled cries of the little one at the far end of the hall. Edith headed straight for the noise and cautiously pushed open the door so she could peer inside. Sister Maryanne stood at the window bouncing the baby in her arms while the child whimpered.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Edith asked.

  Sister Maryanne jumped at Edith’s voice. “Oh heaven’s above,” she said somewhat breathlessly. “I didn’t hear the door.”

  Edith came forward and allowed Sister Maryanne place the baby in her arms. “How was she last night?”

  The nun made a waving motion with her hand before placing it on her forehead. “It’s all a blur,” she said, close to tears. “I don’t believe I have ever been so tired in my life.”

  The baby seemed to settle in Edith’s arms instantaneously.

  “Thank goodness you are here, my dear,” Sister Maryanne said. “Such a gift you have with her. You can let a woman rest her bones for a while, yes?” The nun took a seat in a creaky, wood rocker and threw her head back. She closed her eyes and fanned herself.

  Edith rocked the baby gently and went for the window that overlooked the front lawn. Her mother was still standing on the pavement talking with the detective.

  “I saw your mother talking to someone,” Sister Maryanne said sleepily. “Who is he?”

  Edith smiled when she saw her mother slipping into the police carriage. “That’s Detective Jeremiah Walker,” she said, “with the police.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s my mother’s beau, or at least he will be, once she decides to stop despising him.”

  Chapter 15

  Once Edith was safely out of eyesight, Mercy turned on her heels and met Walker and MacNeal without hesitation.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said.

  “Good morning, Ms. Eaton,” Walker said.

  MacNeal tipped his hat to her and smiled. He looked far more friendly than Walker, who looked down on her with an expression that teetered between resentment and indifference. He gestured to the left, indicating a police carriage that had pulled up to the curb with a team of two horses and driver at the ready. “Would you care to join us for a little interview?”

  Mercy knew it wasn’t a request so much as a command. She glanced to the schoolyard at her side and saw a pair of nuns side by side at the school door eyeing them. Walker must have seen them as well.

  “Come now, Ms. Eaton. Let’s not create a scene.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him as she pulled up the hem of her long skirt and moved for the carriage steps. “Does he bullyrag everyone into doing what he tells them?” Mercy asked MacNeal as she accepted his offer of a hand to help her climb inside.

  “Nearly always, ma’am,” he said as she took a seat on one of the benches. As the two officers took a seat opposite her, Mercy realized she was in the same carriage in which they transported her to the hospital the other day. It was either the same one, or the fleet of carriages all looked the same.

  “This feels familiar,” she said. “Detective Walker, I am beginning to think you are obsessed with me.” She gave a wry smile and pasted it there even as she lifted her eyes and saw the sour look on his face.

  MacNeal laughed but stopped short when he too took in the look on his partner’s features. He cleared his throat and then directed his attention to Mercy. “Ms. Eaton, you may or may not be aware—”

  “She’s aware.”

  Both MacNeal and Mercy looked to Walker, startled by his direct words.

/>   “Mr. Bolton has left St. Michael’s suddenly,” MacNeal continued.

  “He fled,” Walker injected. “I had been trying to extract some information out of him and he bolted.”

  “Perhaps your methodology in approaching people is a little rusty,” she said. “What’s that saying?” Her eyes searched the carriage as if she were trying to recall something. “Ah yes, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

  MacNeal snorted. When Walker looked to him scathingly he offered a quick apology. In that instant, Mercy decided she liked MacNeal and believed him to be a good balance to Walker’s unflinching manner.

  “I believe you know more about this man than you are willing to admit,” Walker said, keeping his eyes trained on her.

  Mercy avoided his gaze for a moment. She pressed out the folds of her skirt, licked her lips, and raised her gaze. “You are right, Detective,” she said, “There are things I have not told you.”

  The police officer smiled and allowed himself to sink back into the bench of the carriage, satisfied and self-assured.

  “We’d be most appreciative of any new information you can give—”

  Walker pressed a hand into MacNeal’s arm, forcing him to stop. Once the carriage was silent, Walker nodded to Mercy and then folded his arms over his chest. “Proceed, Ms. Eaton.”

  “This may come as a shock to you both,” she said. “But I suppose I cannot hide it any longer.”

  Walker slipped to the edge of his seat and knit his hands together in front of him. Mercy could tell why he had become an officer of the law. He relished the chase, the puzzle that needed solving and the satisfaction that accompanied its conclusion. “Yes?” he pressed.

  Mercy liked her lips. “I have a gift,” she said at last, biting back a smile. “I can read people—”

  Walker threw up his arms in exasperation. “Enough!” he said. “We know that’s not true.”

  “I can read people after they die.”

  The carriage went silent.

  She knew her confession would only serve to sour him more. He had been so assured that she was somehow connected to Louis Bolton, that any crimes he was involved in were Mercy’s crimes as well. She enjoyed those few moments of torment against Walker. Knowing how badly he wanted the connection to be true and nearly verifying his hunch, it was almost too much fun to be had in such a short amount of time.