More Oddments

by Bill Pronzini

  "But it wasn't, and no one did," he said. "I had to solve poor Schneider's murder to make sure I wasn't implicated in the appropriation of the Vermilion or in the homicide itself. Now there was a challenge."

  I shook my head wearily. "You're going to return the stamp, naturally."

  "Naturally. I'll arrange for it to be found somewhere in

  Lorde's. And its 'theft' will forever remain a mystery." "What next, you maniac?" I asked him. "What next?" "Oh, I don't know," he answered. "I've sort of been considering the crown of Henry the Seventh."

  The hell of it was, I couldn't tell whether or not he was kidding . . .

  Angel of Mercy

  Her name was Mercy.

  Born with a second name, yes, like everyone else, but it had been so long since she'd used it she could scarce remember what it was. Scarce remember so many things about her youth, long faded now—except for Father, of course. It seemed, sometimes, that she had never had a youth at all. That she'd spent her whole life on the road, first with Caleb and then with Elias, jouncing from place to place in the big black traveling wagon, always moving, drifting, never settling anywhere. Birth to death, with her small deft hands working tirelessly and her eyes asquint in smoky lamplight and her head aswirl with medicines, mixtures, measurements, what was best for this ailment, what was the proper dosage for that one.

  Miss Mercy. Father had been the first to call her that, in his little apothecary shop in . . . what was the name of the town where she'd been born? Lester? No, Dexter. Dexter, Pennsylvania. "A druggist is an angel of mercy," he said to her when she was ten or eleven. "Your name comes from my belief in that, child. Mercy. Miss Mercy. And wouldn't you like to be an angel of mercy one day, too?"

  "Oh yes, Father, yes! Will you show me how?"

  And he had shown her, with great patience, because he had no sons and because he bore no prejudice against his daughter or the daughter of any man. He had shown her carefully and well for five or six or seven years, until Mr. President Lincoln declared war against the Confederate States of America and Father went away to bring his mercy to sick and wounded Union soldiers on far-off battlefields. But there was no mercy for him. On one of those battlefields, a place called Antietam, he was himself mortally wounded by cannon fire.

  As soon as she received word of his death, she knew what she must do. She had no siblings, and Mother had died years before; Father's legacy was all that was left. And it seemed as though the next thing she knew, she was sitting on the high seat of the big black traveling wagon, alone in the beginning, then with Caleb and then Elias to drive the team of horses, bringing her mercy to those in need. Death to birth, birth to death—it was her true calling. Father would have been proud. He would have understood and he would have been so proud.

  Miss Mercy. If it had been necessary to paint a name on the side of the wagon, that was the name she would have chosen. Just that and nothing more. It was what Caleb had called her, too, from their very first meeting in . . . Saint Louis, hadn't it been? Young and strong and restless—there driving the wagon one day, gone the next and never seen again. And Miss Mercy was the only name Elias wrote on his pad of white paper when the need arose, the name he would have spoken aloud if he hadn't been born deaf and dumb. She had chanced upon him down South somewhere. Georgia, perhaps—he was an emancipated slave from the state of Georgia. Chanced upon him, befriended him, and they had been together ever since. Twenty years? Thirty? Dear Elias. She couldn't have traveled so long and so far, or done so much, if it were not for him.

  In all the long years, how many miles had they traveled together? Countless number. North and east in the spring and summer, south and west in the fall and winter. Ohio, Illinois, Minnesota, Iowa, Montana, Kansas, Nebraska, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas . . . maybe all the states and territories there were. Civilization and wilderness frontier. Ranches, farms, settlements. Towns that had no druggist, towns that had druggists with short supplies or too little understanding of their craft. Cities, now and then, to replenish medicines that could not be gotten elsewhere. Saint Louis and . . . Chicago? Yes, Chicago. Oh, she could scarce remember them all.

  And everywhere they went, the people came. The needy people with their aches and pains, ills and ailments, troubles and sorrows. First to marvel at her skill with mortar and pestle and her vast pharmacopoeial knowledge; at the cabinets and tight-fitted shelves Elias had built to hold the myriad glass bottles filled with liquids in all the colors of the rainbow, and below the shelves the rows upon rows of drawers containing ground and powdered drugs, herbs and barks, pastilles and pills. And then to buy what they needed: cough syrups, liniments, worm cures, liver medicines, stomach bitters, blood purifiers. And so much more: two-grain quinine tablets, Bateman's drops, castor oil, Epsom salts and Rochelle salts and Seidlitz powders, paregorics and rheumatism tonics, bottles of Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound and Ford's Laxative Compound and Dr. Williams's Pink Pills for Pale People. And, too, in private, with their hands and eyes nervous and their voices low, embarrassed, sometimes ashamed: potency elixirs and aphrodisiacs, emmenagogues and contraceptives, Apiol Compound for suppressed and painful menstruation, fluid extract of kava-kava or emulsion of copaiba for gonorrhea, blue ointment for crab lice.

  Mostly they came during the daylight hours, but now and then someone would come rapping on the wagon's door after nightfall. And once in a long while, in the deep dark lonesome night—

  "Oh, Miss Mercy, I need help. Can you find it in your heart to help me?"

  "What is your trouble, my dear?"

  "I've been a fool, such a fool. A man . . . I was too friendly with him and now I'm caught."

  "You're certain you're with child?"

  "Oh yes. There's no mistake."

  "He won't marry you?"

  "He can't. He's already married. Oh, I'm such a fool. Please, will you help me?"

  "There, now, you mustn't cry. I'll help you."

  "You'll give me something? Truly?"

  "Truly."

  "Apiol Compound? I've heard that it's rich enough in mucilage to bring on—"

  "No, not that. Something more certain."

  "Oh, Miss Mercy, you're true to your name. You're an angel of mercy."

  And again, as always, she and Elias would be back on roads good and bad, empty and well traveled. Another town, another state—here, there, no pattern to their travels, going wherever the roads took them. Never lingering anywhere for more than a day or two, except when storm or flood or accident (and once, an Indian attack) stranded them. And as always the people would come, first to marvel and then to buy: morphine, digitalis, belladonna in carefully measured doses, Dover's powder, petroleum jelly, spirits of camphor and spirits of ammonia, bone liniment and witch hazel, citrate of magnesia, blackberry balsam, oil of sassafras, throat lozenges and eye demulcents, pile remedies and asthma cures, compounds for ailments of kidney and bladder and digestive tract.

  And then again, in one of their stopping places, in the deep dark lonesome night—

  "Miss Mercy, you don't know what your kindness means to me."

  "I do know, child. I do."

  "Such a burden, such an awful burden—"

  "Yes, but yours will soon be lifted."

  "Just one bottle of this liquid will see to that?"

  "Just one. Then you'll have no more to fear."

  "It smells so sweet. What does it contain?"

  "Dried sclerotia of ergot, bark of slippery elm, apiol, and gum arabic?"

  "Will it taste bad?"

  "No, my dear. I've mixed it with syrup."

  "And I'm to take the whole bottle at once?"

  "Yes. But only at the time of month I tell you. And then you must immediately dispose of the bottle where no one can ever find it. Will you promise?"

  "Yes, Miss Mercy. Oh yes."

  "And you must tell no one I helped you. Not even your dearest friend. Will you promise?"

  "I promise. I'll never tell a soul, not a living soul."

 
And again, as always, she and Elias would be away at the break of dawn, when dew lay soft on the grasses and mist coated the land. And sitting beside him on the high seat, remembering the poor girl who had come in the night, she would ask herself once more, as she had so many times, what Father would have said if he'd known of the mixture of ergot and slippery elm, apiol and gum arabic. Would he still think of her as an angel of mercy? Or would he hate her for betraying a sacred trust? And the answer would be as it always was: No, he could never hate her; she must have no real doubt of that. He would understand that her only aim was to bring peace to those poor foolish girls. Peace and succor in their time of need. He would understand.

  And she would stop fretting then, reassured of Father's absent pride, and soon that day would end and a new one would be born. And there would be new roads, new settlements and towns, new needs to serve—so many needs to serve.

  And one day she saw that it was fall again, the leaves turning crimson and gold—time to turn south and west. But first there was another town, a little town with a name like many others, in a state that might have been Kansas or perhaps Nebraska. And late that night, as Miss Mercy sat weary but strong at her mixing table, her hands busy with mortar and pestle while the lamplight flickered bright, a rapping came soft and urgent on the wagon's door.

  Her name was Verity.

  Names and faces meant little to Miss Mercy; there were too many to remember even for a minute. But this girl was different somehow. The name lingered, and so she knew would the face. Thin, not pretty, pale hair peeking out from under her bonnet—older than most of the ones who came alone in the night. Older, sadder, but no wiser.

  Miss Mercy invited her in, invited her to sit. Verity perched primly on the stool, hands together in her lap, mouth tight-pinched at the corners. She showed no nervousness, no fear or embarrassment. Determined was the word that came to Miss Mercy's mind.

  Without preamble Verity said, "I understand you're willing to help girls in trouble."

  "What sort of trouble, my dear?"

  "The sort that comes to foolish and unmarried girls."

  "You're with child?"

  Verity nodded. "I come from Riverbrook, Iowa. Do you recall the town, Miss Mercy?"

  "Riverbrook? Iowa? There are so many places . . ."

  "You were there four months ago. In June. The second week of June."

  "The second week of June. Well. If you say I was, my dear, then of course I was."

  "A girl named Grace came to see you then. Grace Potter. Do you remember her?"

  "So many come to me," Miss Mercy said. "My memory isn't what it once was . . ."

  "So many girls in trouble, you mean?"

  "Sometimes. In the night, as you've come."

  "And as Grace came."

  "If you say so. As Grace came."

  "You gave her something to abort her fetus. I'd like you to give me the same . . . medicine."

  "If I do, will you promise to take it only at the time of month I tell you?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you promise to dispose of the bottle immediately after ingestion, where no one can ever find it?"

  "Yes."

  "And will you promise to tell no one that I helped you? Not even your dearest friend?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you shall have what you need."

  Miss Mercy picked up her lamp, carried it to one of Elias's cabinets. When she handed the small brown unlabeled bottle to Verity, the girl removed its cork and sniffed the neck. Then Verity poured a drop onto her finger, touched her tongue to it.

  "It tastes odd," she said.

  "No odder than sweetened castor oil. I've mixed the compound with cherry syrup."

  "Compound. What sort of compound?"

  "Dried scierotia of ergot, bark of slippery elm, apiol—"

  "My God! All those blended together?"

  "Yes, my dear. Why do you look so shocked?"

  "Ergot contracts the womb, tightens it even more. So do dried slippery elm and apiol. All mixed together and taken in a large dose at the wrong time of month . . . cramps, paralysis, death in agony. This liquid is pure poison to a pregnant woman!"

  "No, you mustn't think that—"

  "I do think it," Verity said, "because it's true." She had risen to her feet and was pointing a tremulous finger at Miss Mercy. "I've studied medicine. I work in Riverbrook as a nurse and midwife."

  "Nurse? Midwife? But then—"

  "Then I'm not with child? No, Miss Mercy, I'm not. The truth is, I have been three months searching for you, ever since I discovered a bottle exactly like this one that Grace Potter failed to dispose of I thought you guilty of no more than deadly quackery before tonight, but now I know different. You deliberately murdered my sister."

  "Murdered?" Now it was Miss Mercy who was shocked. "Oh no, my dear. No. I brought her mercy."

  "You brought her death!"

  "Mercy. Your sister, all of them—only mercy."

  "All of them? How many others besides Grace?"

  "Does the number truly matter?"

  "Does it truly—! How many, Miss Mercy?"

  "I can't say. So many miles, so many places . . ."

  "How many?"

  "Thirty? Forty? Fifty? I can scarce remember them all . . ."

  "Dear sweet Lord! You poisoned as many as fifty pregnant girls?"

  "Unmarried girls. Poor foolish girls," Miss Mercy said gently. "There are worse things than death, oh much worse."

  "What could be worse than suffering the tortures of hell before the soul is finally released?"

  "Enduring the tortures of hell for years, decades, a lifetime. Isn't a few hours of pain and then peace, eternal peace, preferable to lasting torment?"

  "How can you believe that bearing a child out of wedlock is so wicked—?"

  "No," Miss Mercy said, "the lasting torment is in knowing, seeing the child they've brought into the world. Bastard child, child of sin. Don't you see? God punishes the unwed mother. The wages of sin is death, but God's vengeance on the living is far more terrible. I saved your sister from that. I brought her and all the others mercy from that."

  Again she picked up the lamp. With a key from around her neck she unlocked the small satin-lined cabinet Elias had made, lifted out its contents. This she set on the table, the flickering oil lamp close beside it.

  Verity looked, and cried out, and tore her gaze away.

  Lamplight shone on the glass jar and on the thick formaldehyde that filled it; made a glowing chimera of the tiny twisted thing floating there, with its face that did not seem quite human, with its appendage that might have been an arm and the other that might have been a leg, with its single blind staring eye.

  "Now do you understand?" Miss Mercy said. "This is my son, mine and Caleb's. God's vengeance—my poor little bastard son."

  And she lifted the jar in both hands and held it tight to her bosom, cradled it and began to rock it to and fro, crooning to the fetus inside—a sweet, sad lullaby that sent Verity fleeing from the wagon, away into the deep dark lonesome night.

  Connoisseur

  Norman Tolliver was a connoisseur of many things: art, music, literature, gourmet cuisine, sports cars, and beautiful women. But above all else, he was a connoisseur of fine wine.

  Nothing gave him quite so much pleasure as the bouquet and delicate taste of a claret from the Médoc region of Bordeaux—a 1924 Mouton-Rothschild, perhaps, or a 1929 Haut-Brion; or a brilliant Burgundy such as a Clos de Vougeot 1915. His memory was still vivid of the night in Paris when an acquaintance of his father's had presented him with a glass of the impériale claret, the 1878 Latour Pauillac. It was Norman's opinion that a man could experience no greater moment of ecstasy than his first sip of that venerable Latour.

  Norman resided in an elegant penthouse in New York that commanded a view of the city best described as lordly. That is, he resided there for six months of the year; the remaining six months were divided among Europe and the pleasure islands of the Caribbean and the
Mediterranean. During his travels he expended an appreciable amount of time and money in seeking out new varieties and rare vintages of wine, most of which he arranged to have shipped to New York for placement in his private cellar.

  It was his custom every Friday evening, no matter where he might happen to be, to sample an exceptional bottle of claret or Burgundy. (He enjoyed fine whites, of course—the French Sauterne, the German Moselle—but his palate and his temperament were more suited to the classic reds.) These weekly indulgences were always of a solitary nature; as a connoisseur he found the communion between man and great wine too intimate to share with anyone, too poignant to be blunted by even polite conversation.

  On this particular Friday Norman happened to be in New York and the wine he happened to select was a reputedly splendid claret: the Chateau Margaux 1900. It had been given to him by a man named Roger Hume, whom Norman rather detested. Whereas he himself was the fourth-generation progeny in a family of wealth and breeding, Hume was nouveau riche—alarge graceless individual who had compiled an overnight fortune in textiles or some such and who had retired at the age of 40 to, as he put it in his vulgar way, "find out how the upper crust lives."

  Norman found the man to be boorish, dull-witted, and incredibly ignorant concerning any number of matters, including an understanding and appreciation of wine. Nevertheless, Hume had presented him with the Margaux—on the day after a small social gathering that they had both attended and at which Norman chanced to mention that he had never had the pleasure of tasting that difficult-to-obtain vintage. The man's generosity was crassly motivated, to be sure, designed only to impress; but that could be overlooked and even forgiven. A bottle of Margaux 1900 was too fine a prize to be received with any feeling other than gratitude.

  At three o'clock Norman drew his study drapes against the afternoon sun and placed one of Chopin's nocturnes on his quadraphonic record changer. Then, with a keen sense of anticipation, he carefully removed the Margaux's cork and prepared to decant the wine so that it could breathe. It was his considered judgment that an aged claret should be allowed no less than five hours of contact with new air and no more than six. A healthy, living wine must be given time to breathe in order for it to express its character, release its bouquet, become more alive; but too much breathing causes a dulling of its subtle edge.