Prayers for the Dying
By Tracy L. Ward
The Marshall House Mystery Series
CHORUS OF THE DEAD
DEAD SILENT
THE DEAD AMONG US
SWEET ASYLUM
PRAYERS FOR THE DYING
Willow Hill House
Ontario, Canada
Ebook Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9881334-9-5
Copyright © 2016 by Tracy L. Ward
Cover Art Copyright © 2016 by Jessica Allain
Edited by Lourdes Venard, Comma Sense Editing
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Mrs. Sue Fox,
Teacher-librarian at Manchester Public School
May your kindness and encouragement resonate on the following pages.
Gone From My Sight
By Henry Van Dyke (1852-1933)
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then, someone at my side says, 'There, she is gone'
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me - not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, 'There, she is gone,'
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, 'Here she comes!'
And that is dying...
Death comes in its own time, in its own way.
Death is as unique as the individual experiencing it.
Prologue
London, 1868— Robert Crandall could not settle the shaking of his hands even as he pushed the door shut. For a long while he stood there, trying to steady his breathing and hoping to wipe the fear from his features before he would have to turn to his wife.
“Who was that man?” Mary asked from the opposite side of the room.
Robert swallowed back the bile that wreaked havoc on his throat. What little they’d had to eat for supper earlier clawed at him from the inside.
“Robert?”
A muffled cry escaped the baby in her arms, Lucy, swaddled with one chubby leg peeking out from the nearly threadbare blanket. As if sensing her father’s unease, she began to wriggle in Mary’s arms, letting out a gurgled cry as she stretched out and retracted her limbs.
“What’s the matter?” Mary inched toward him, bouncing the now fussy child, but keeping an eye on her husband, who remained at the door.
Robert licked his lips and leaned his forehead into the damp wood of their doorframe. There was little that he could do to redirect the ill winds that had found him that night. They were coming for them unless he did what they asked.
“We have to leave,” he said suddenly. He pounded the edge of his fist on the doorframe just above his head and turned. “We’ll go to Boston, like your aunt told us to.”
Mary scoffed and then reined in a smile as Robert hurried past her. This was not going to be the family reunion she had been asking for. For months he had told her the journey was impossible, that their passage would cost too much and that jobs for the likes of him would be few. She had resigned to remain in London in their ramshackle tenement and hoped somehow they would eek out a living, with him working at the yards and she washing laundry at home. It earned them enough to see the baby fed, at the very least.
As Robert gathered their few belongings he could feel Mary’s gaze bearing down on him. She made no attempt to set the baby down to help him. Instead, she stood at the only inside door to their home, questioning him. With an exaggerated exhale of breath, he hung his head low and closed his eyes. She and the baby deserved better than this, better than a late-night escape and hurried passage over the sea.
“I haven’t the money to pay what I owe,” he said suddenly. He peeked over his shoulder and saw his wife chewing on her lower lip. “And I haven’t the strength to fight another match.”
They had been married less than a year, the baby already well on the way before they took their vows. She was so young compared to him, and remained innocent in many ways. He’d never raise a hand to her, despite the instructions given to him by the fellows at the shipyard that a regular beating made wives docile. Only if administered from the beginning, they warned. He’d sworn to protect her from all things, but hadn’t expected such a formidable foe and so soon.
“You promised me you’d never box again.”
He nodded. “That I did. I mean to keep my promise.”
Robert snatched a tin music box from a nearby shelf and began wrapping it in a faded cloth.
“They will accept nothing else? You pay or you fight, is that it?”
He avoided her gaze, licking his lips and shaking his head in disbelief. They had quarrelled on the subject many times and it never ended well. “I won’t do it, Mary.”
“You know they have been looking for her. They will find her eventually. You could erase your debt and save us the heartache.”
“She is my sister!”
Mary ducked from the room, and returned having placed the baby in the laundry basket that served as her crib. “Was your sister,” she said. “She’s all but abandoned us now. You help her escape and then she just deserts us, leaves us to fend for ourselves.”
“We have managed.” Robert couldn’t help but give a slight growl.
“For how long?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him as he crisscrossed the room.
He stopped his frantic gathering suddenly and stood at his full height. Placing his hands in his pockets, he returned her gaze. “What you ask I cannot do,” he said sternly.
Disbelief evident on her features, Mary stepped into the empty space between them. “You’d risk your own life, and mine, for the likes of her? After what she’s done?”
“Mary, please—”
“If you won’t do what’s right for your family I will.” With sudden determination, Mary snatched her shawl from the back of a nearby chair and crossed the room in three steps. She might have made it out the door if Robert hadn’t placed himself between her and the exit.
“I cannot let you do that,” he said. His face was inches from hers. “I took on the debt, not her.”
Mary returned his stare with frustration. The silence between them lasted many seconds before a single tear trailed down the crest of Mary’s cheek.
“We will find a way,” he said softly, hoping a change in tone would calm her mood. He took his wife’s face between his rough, workman’s hands. Before he was able to kiss her a frantic knock erupted at their door.
They froze in place. Their baby’s grunts from the other room morphed into fevered wails. Mary retreated to hush the child while Robert sidled to the door. He hoped the dim light of the room, two candles their only me
ans of illumination, hid their presence.
“Open the door, Crandall,” a manic voice called. “It’s Jeremiah!”
Almost before Robert could unhook the latch, Jeremiah was pushing his way through. “I saw them leave,” he said as he slammed the door shut behind him. “What in the devil are they after?”
The newly married couple exchanged glances, their expression revealing mutual apprehension. They had little enough money as it was; booking passage would require them to sell what precious belongings they had and would leave very little for a new life in America. Staying in London would only mean a much more confined space—six feet under—for all three of them.
“We are leaving for America.” Robert locked the door again, but this time he positioned a small table in front of it.
“It cannot be so bad,” Jeremiah said, his own tone quick and anxious.
“I haven’t enough money to settle my debt and I cannot get back in the ring either.”
Mary returned, bouncing the child slightly in her arms. She avoided looking at the men but that didn’t stop her from expressing her disapproval.
“How much do ye owe?”
“Twenty pounds and then some.”
Mary gasped. “Goodness gracious, Robert Alexander Crandall!”
Jeremiah turned his gaze and ran his hands through his hair. “A mighty sum.”
“An impossible sum.” Robert felt the panic rise in his chest. “I just don’t understand. I had arranged payments, but they always said I was good, you know? Like there was no need to hurry.” Robert balled his hands into fists. “I should have insisted when I had the money. But the baby, you see..?” Angered with himself, Robert turned from his friend and his wife and cursed.
Mary gently clutched the back of her baby’s head and peered over the soft wisps of hair at her husband’s friend. “Tell me this, Jeremiah, what sort of man risks the lives of his wife and child to protect the whereabouts of a known murderer?” Mary sneered at her husband.
“I haven’t any choice,” Robert snapped. “We must go to Boston.”
“Ye do have choices, Robert Crandall. Tell them where she lives and be done with it.”
“I will not turn on my sister!” He pounded a hand into the table that separated him from his new wife. Even in the dim light Robert saw his young wife blanch and clutch their baby closer to her bosom.
Jeremiah turned to Robert. “Is it true? They asked for Julia?”
Robert licked his lips. “Mary seems to think I can have my debt forgiven if I tell them where to find her.” He scrunched up his face in an attempt to stave off tears. He raised his hands to his face to hide them from his wife. “I cannot do it, Jeremiah. I will not do it. I swore I would protect her.”
“To say nothing of you protecting yer own family,” Mary said from across the room.
“Oh, shut up, woman!” Robert snapped, before turning back to his friend.
“I’ll tell ye,” Jeremiah began, “this is Thaddeus ye are talking about. If they’ve come fer the debt, it’s because they know, Robert. They know what you’ve been hiding. If you tell them you’ve known this whole time, what do you think they’ll do?”
Robert looked to his wife and child, terrified.
“Even if you don’t say a word, they’ll find her and when they are done with her they’ll come fer you next.”
“Their argument is with her. We should have none of it.”
“Leave us be, Mary. Let a man think!” Robert waved his wife away and turned from her, sickened that she would suggest he hand over his only living relative to the likes of Thaddeus.
Mary’s expression soured further, but she did not leave.
“I have to warn her.” Robert went for his jacket.
“Robert, no.”
He stopped and put a hand to his face. “Mary’s right. I can’t risk going to her myself. They’re probably in the streets now just waiting for me to leave. I’d just end up taking them right to her.”
“I’ll go,” Jeremiah said without hesitation.
Robert shook his head.
“I’ll be back before daybreak,” Jeremiah said. “Where is she?”
Robert hesitated, heaving a breath that only weighed down his shoulders more. It had been nearly a year since he last saw her and it had been a great relief to think of her far on the other side of London, protected by her place amongst other uniformed servants.
“She has a good place in a noble house in Belgravia.” He crossed the room to the cupboard and pulled a glass jar from its dusty corner. “She has protection. The master’s son—”
Mary scoffed as Robert placed the jar on the table. “The same protection Mr. Alderson offered my mother, is it?”
“Mary, please.” From the jar Robert pulled out a small wad of faded cloth with a lead figure, molded into the shape of Saint Christopher, wrapped in its folds. “Marshall is the family name. Give her this and she will know it’s from me.”
Jeremiah twisted the small, slender shape in his two fingers as he eyed it.
“We’ll take the first boat the day after tomorrow. If she wants to come with us she’ll have to meet us—”
“We can barely afford our own passage!”
“Hush!” Robert was quickly losing his patience. With the weight of the world bearing down on him he wished he had the support of his wife.
“Should I tell her why you are leaving?” Jeremiah asked, stuffing the figure into his pocket.
Robert nodded reluctantly. “She knows who they are. She knows them better than I.”
Together they moved the table that barred the door. Jeremiah nodded toward Mary as he pulled the door open just enough to slide through to the hallway. With his friend gone, the quick footfalls down the hall signalling his departure, Robert latched the door and replaced the table in front of it. When he turned to his wife he saw her crying openly, scared for the fate of her tiny child, who had done nothing to deserve such a harried existence.
“We will be all right, Mary,” Robert said, heaving a gentle sigh and running a hand over his face. “They won’t care enough to follow us across the ocean.”
Chapter 1
The wailing reached Ainsley in his dreams first before his consciousness willed him awake. He was out of bed and pulling on his trousers before he’d even been able to fully open his eyes. He glanced to Julia, his sister’s lady’s maid, who slipped out of the bed on the opposite side.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Go to him.”
All manner of scenario ran through Ainsley’s head as he charged down the dark hallway to his father’s room. Since the attack, Lord Marshall suffered greatly not only from physical ailments but mental ones as well. He awoke frequently throughout the night, attempting to call out but unable to form the words or even ring the bell rope that hung at the side of his bed.
Once he opened the door, Ainsley saw his father lying perpendicular on the bed, his lower limbs dangling over the edge, his sheets and bedclothes twisted awkwardly. His father moaned in panic.
“Father!” Ainsley came to his side. “Father, it’s all right.”
Lord Marshall looked up at his son, eyes wide with recognition, his face twisted from his attempts to call for help.
“I’m here,” Ainsley said as he pulled his father’s limp body toward him. “Lean on me. There you go.”
With a grunt and few quick breaths, Ainsley was able to pull his father back into the cushion of the mattress before systematically positioning one leg and then the other in the correct position.
Lord Marshall moaned and began patting at his son’s face as Ainsley righted the bedclothes. It was then that Maxwell, the family’s butler, appeared, dishevelled and clearly suffering from lack of sleep, much the same as everyone living at Marshall House.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Maxwell said, entering the room and placing his oil lantern on the bedside table.
Ainsley shook his head, unwilling to accept any apologies, as none were necessary. The family had end
ured two weeks of such nights, and worse days, with each person taking up the care of the family’s patriarch as required. Everyone was stretched and needing respite. But aside from their new full-time nurse, the staff was short three bodies, including a second footman and two housemaids. The last housemaid to leave was sacked. It was suspected she had been selling information about Lord Marshall’s condition to the press.
“What does he require, sir?” Maxwell came alongside the bed and leaned in.
Lord Marshall’s eyes darted between the butler and his son, but the soft, subtle trembling in his lips did not cease.
“I’m not sure,” Ainsley said, surveying the immediate area around the bed. He lit a few more lanterns and soon the room was bathed in a soft, amber light.
“I will sit with him some more, sir,” Maxwell said, repositioning a chair at the bedside.
“No, no,” Ainsley answered quickly, adjusting his father’s blankets so none of the wrinkles or folds would bother him. “I will read to him some more. He seems to like it.”
Ainsley picked up a hardcover he had set aside from the evening before. Other than his work at the hospital, Ainsley seemed to do nothing else but read to his father, an activity that calmed them both while dealing with their present circumstances. All his other interests—drinking, boxing, and gambling—were now a thing of the past. His family needed him more than ever and he needed a clear mind to do it.
Julia appeared at the door then, clutching her housecoat close around her. She paused at the door and looked on with sympathy. “Shall I fetch some tea for you, sir?” she asked.
Ainsley shook his head.
“Where have you come from?” Maxwell asked.
Julia tucked a loose tendril of hair around her ear. “From bed. Same as you, I imagine.”
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