Mercy Me
Page 3
“Just a precaution, miss,” Walker said, urging her forward. “I shall be in to speak with you before long.”
The prospect of being interviewed unnerved Mercy greatly. She looked over her shoulder as the uniformed nurse guided her through the arched hospital doors. Shoulder to shoulder, the officers stood watching her as she went, perhaps murmuring to each other as well. Discussing the extent of their trust in her, she imagined. She needed to watch her words carefully, to avoid any further enquiries into her life at home. Above all else, she needed to protect Edith.
At the end of a long, darkened corridor the nurse finally turned and ushered Mercy into a dimly lit office. In addition to gold-embossed textbooks and certificates of achievement, the peculiar room also housed an intriguing array of human organs. Neatly preserved in jars and bottles of various sizes, the specimens were displayed proudly along the farthest wall while a prim skeleton, authentic and complete, watched over them from the corner. Mercy hesitated at the door and looked over the collection wide-eyed.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the nurse said as she pulled a chair away from the desk. “It’s the only private room available.”
Mercy took a seat where the nurse indicated.
“I will return in a moment with some water to wash that cut,” the nurse said, before slipping from the room.
Cut? After pulling off her gloves, Mercy raised a hand to her face and was startled to find a small cut along her jawline. She hissed at the pain she felt when she touched it.
As the seconds ticked by, the urge to just get up and leave grew stronger. She couldn’t risk them finding out about Edith, the evidence of her indiscretion, but she couldn’t just leave. A sudden departure would surely raise suspicion. It was best if she stayed, answer whatever questions they asked of her. They’d not bother her further, not if she were careful.
As she waited, the jars that lined the walls called out to her. Not in voices, but in a feeling, a similar feeling to how bodies of the dead called for her to read them. They wanted their stories told, their secrets finally unlocked. Apparently, body parts were just as desperate for her attention as complete corpses were.
Mercy found herself eyeing the specimens obsessively, wondering if they would reveal something of the person they once belonged to. Mercy bit down hard on her lower lip, willing herself to remain in her seat and cursing the nurse for taking so long. She raised a hand to shield her line of vision and then began rubbing at the back of her neck. Her palms began to sweat, a biological protest to her denial of a basic need.
Stop it, she told herself.
The door opened and the nurse slipped in, a tray of medical items in her grasp. She wheeled a stool from behind the door and set it opposite Mercy. Without a word she prepared a cloth with a bit of water and lifted Mercy’s chin with her fingers. “I hear you hit the pavement,” she said.
“Yes.” Mercy’s memory of it was sketchy but she remembered the man and she remembered the fear in his eyes as he clung to her. “That man who was brought in before me, has he died?”
The nurse glanced up to Mercy’s eyes and pressed her lips together in hesitation. “He’s in surgery, ma’am.”
“Of course.”
Once the wound was cleaned, the nurse lifted Mercy’s hand and began cleaning the scrapes on her knuckles. How exactly she’d endured so many wounds without a clear memory of it was a mystery, but then again she hadn’t exactly been paying heed to much more than what the man said to her and the images Mercy’s close contact with him had brought about.
Never before had Mercy received images from a living person. Such a break from tradition was enough to unnerve anyone, but especially Mercy, who had only come to accept her gift after realizing they manifested under certain parameters.
Mercy tried hard to steady her breathing and raised a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. She felt her fingers grow warm, tingling against the allure of the specimen jars. She trained her eyes to remain on the nurse. With each second that passed, her resolve weakened. “Are they real?” Mercy asked, not even allowing a quick glance.
The nurse looked over at the shelves and then gave an apologetic wince when her eyes met Mercy’s. “Yes,” she said. “Dr. Needles is rather fond of them, I’m afraid. I apologize if they bother you. We are almost done.”
“They aren’t bothering me.” Mercy wiped the sweat accumulating on her free hand on the fabric of her skirt. The desire to handle the organs was like an insatiable inch that demanded to be scratched. For years Mercy satisfied this need by visiting her sister’s house, sometimes sneaking downstairs when the funeral parlour was closed just to have access to the bodies stored there. It was the proximity mostly, as if the deceased were calling to her. She never questioned the ethics of her gift. The families were rarely involved and she only ever touched their hands or sometimes their face. She never thought to ask permission because permission was nearly written in the air. The souls of the departed wanted their stories to be told, and were the ones who insisted she do it.
In that small room, the invitations were plentiful and relentless. She didn’t hear voices, per se, but the number of specimens combined with the circumstances surrounding their immortal preservation placed a heavy demand on Mercy, who was in no position at that moment to concede.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, perfectly.” Mercy let out a concentrated breath. “Are we almost done?”
Before the nurse could answer, a tiny rap came from the door. Detective Walker appeared and nodded toward Mercy. “A few questions, ma’am.” He stood over them, hands in his pockets while the nurse finished seeing to Mercy’s wound. “Your full name for my notes, ma’am.”
“Mercy Marigold Eaton.”
Mercy M.E., as her sister often liked to point out.
“Eaton!” The nurse nearly squealed at the word. “Are you one of the Eatons?”
“Hardly.”
As a child she had never realized the notoriety in the name. Timothy Eaton had only just opened his store on Queen Street and had yet to permeate the surrounding townships with his catalogue and money-back guarantee. The name Eaton was just a name bequeathed to Mercy at birth. Now the Eaton complex dominated the better part of two city blocks with factories, warehouses, and a three-storey department store with an elevator. Since moving to the city, Mercy could scarcely go anywhere without a reminder that she wasn’t one of that lot. Canadian royalty the Eatons were. Not this Eaton. Mercy was happy to afford her bay and gable house on D’Arcy Street and had no need for any such familial connections. Not that she wasn’t above using a perceived connection periodically. In fact, that was precisely how Mercy was able to have her daughter enrolled at Loretto Abbey, a Catholic school for girls not far from where they lived. To this day, the sisters still believed Edith was some sort of distant cousin.
As soon as Mercy denied any relation, she regretted it. Perhaps if she could have convinced Detective Walker of a connection he’d look at her a little more like an innocent and less like a confessed murderess.
“Are you married? Is there someone we can notify that you’ve been in an accident?”
Mercy shook her head. “No,” she said.
“The man we found you with, do you know his name?”
“No. I haven’t any clue who he is.”
“Who is he in relation to you? A friend?”
“If I don’t know his name why would I classify him as friend? I’ve never met that man before in my life.” Mercy wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his questions but held her tongue.
“Then why did he attack you?”
“He didn’t attack me,” Mercy said, feeling the sweat returning to her hands and brow. “I was on my way home when he stumbled into me. He was injured and I was compelled to help.”
“He stumbled into you, how?”
“I don’t know. I was distracted by the carriage that nearly crushed me under its wheel. I didn’t see where he came from.”
Walker pu
lled out a small, leather-bound notebook from his pocket. “Witnesses claim he walked straight toward you. They say he recognized you.”
“Certainly not.” Mercy hissed at the pain as the nurse treated the cuts on her knuckles with some tincture.
“He spoke to you. What did he say?”
The memory was clear in her mind as much as the images his words invoked. A woman, Maggie, was lost and there was a baby… or something. Mercy shook her head slightly and closed her eyes trying to banish the unpleasant memory from her mind. “There’s a woman. Maggie, he said her name was. She needs to be found.”
Walker began writing furiously in his notebook. “Who is Maggie?”
Mercy ignored him and closed her eyes to remember. “There was a laundry basket of linens and a string of pearls but…” She was confused and didn’t know how anything fit with anything else.
“There was no laundry basket at the scene,” Walker explained.
Mercy shook her head. “No, not in the street. It was in a warehouse. A dark warehouse with only a single beam of sunlight. I saw…” The images had flashed too fast and Mercy found it difficult to remember them. “I think he lives in The Ward.”
Walker flipped through his notebook and skimmed the pages. He shook his head in protest and Mercy realized she shouldn’t have said anything. A man like Detective Walker would never believe her.
“Look, I’ve told you everything I know,” she said as the nurse tied off the bandage that circled her palm.
Jeremiah cracked a half smile, which quickly faded when Mercy jumped to her feet. She pulled a calling card from her sleeve and presented it to the nurse. “Send word when the gentleman is out of surgery,” she said, “whatever the outcome.”
The nurse nodded feebly and looked down at the small type on the card.
Mercy slipped out of the room, squeezing her medium frame between the detective and the edge of the threshold. It was a relief to be free of that room, away from the droning hum of the specimens. Each footstep down the hall relaxed the constriction Mercy had felt by such close proximity to them.
“Miss Eaton, what exactly is a spiritualist?”
When Mercy turned she found Detective Walker had followed her, the card she had presented to the nurse in his hand.
“I’m sorry?” Mercy discovered years prior that it always proved wise when faced with opposition to pretend to be hard of hearing before answering such pointed questions. The added pause allows a potential inquisitor to calm whatever emotions her profession stirred inside them so that she could better win them over. She still had her work cut out for her when it came to skeptics, but at least she knew how to stack the deck in her favour.
“Your card says you can call upon the dearly departed.” He almost laughed but stopped himself when Mercy’s expression did not flinch.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s absurd.”
“Is it? I hadn’t realized.” She knit her fingers together in front of her and tilted her head slightly to the side while meeting his gaze. They stood in silence for what felt like hours, studying each others’ expressions, Mercy unmoved, the detective waiting for the anticipated confession.
Seconds passed before Sergeant MacNeal approached, somewhat out of breath, Mercy’s basket in his grasp. “Our man’s name is Louis Bolton. One of the nurses recognized him from a previous visit here,” he explained. “He’s been shot in the arm and the torso.”
Walker jotted the name down in his book and when he lifted his eyes from the page they went straight to Mercy.
Remembering the basket in his hands, MacNeal turned to Mercy. “I believe this belongs to you, ma’am. I spotted it on the street.”
Mercy allowed a break in her hardened demeanour and offered a closed-mouth smile. “Yes,” she said, accepting the rounded bottom basket. “Thank you, sir.” Mercy peeked inside and saw that the dish had broken in four pieces and that the lemon cake, wrapped in a thin cloth, had littered the inside of the basket with crumbs and icing.
“I hope the dessert wasn’t for a special occasion,” MacNeal said.
“My daughter can live without it,” Mercy said.
“Daughter?” Walker said, entering the exchange.
Mercy fought the urge to close her eyes in defeat. Internally she cringed, and cursed her stupidity, but externally she maintained a practised smile of nonchalance.
“I thought you said there was no one we should notify?” he pressed.
“I can’t afford to have her worry,” Mercy explained, forcing a lighthearted tone. “Besides, I will be arriving home shortly, will I not? You cannot detain me indefinitely.” She raised an eyebrow.
“I have no intentions of detaining you,” Walker said.
“Excellent.” Mercy tucked the handle of her basket into the crook of her arm. “Find Maggie, Detective,” she said. “I fear she’s been strangled. When you find Maggie you’ll have your answers.” Mercy turned to leave.
“Who’s Maggie?” she heard MacNeal ask as she walked away.
“How do you know so much about these things?” Walker called out after her.
“I can’t help myself, detective,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s what I do.”
Chapter 4
Mercy felt light and transparent as she exited the hired carriage that had taken her home. The shock of the afternoon’s events engulfed her during the extended ride, which was further complicated by traffic and the evening bustle. Mercy could have walked but was glad she spared herself the humiliation of walking the streets in her bloodstained dress by summoning a cab. Never before had she been so glad to stand on the pavement in front of the three-storey house she shared with her daughter, Edith.
“Will you be all right, miss?” the driver asked as Mercy snapped the carriage door back in place. It was clear he still wondered as to the state of her appearance but Mercy was disinclined to satisfy his curiosity.
“Yes, quite all right now,” she answered. She passed him some money to pay her fare. He tipped his hat and was off before Mercy had a chance to step back from the curb.
The house was typical for that part of Toronto. It was attached on one side to a mirror identical and fell in line to a row of similar abodes on both sides with three steps to the front door and a small portico shielding the doorway from the elements. Mercy’s house only bore one thing that distinguished it from all the others; a discreet sign in the front parlour window advertising Mercy as a spiritual medium. “Ms. Eaton, spiritualist and speaker for the dead” was in bold type while the less noticeable phrase “by appointment only” was positioned underneath.
The small, almost inconspicuous sign was enough to ensure Mercy and Edith were not bothered by anyone who wasn’t a client. Mercy had long given up on the notion of befriending the neighbours and had decided it was far better for her to keep to herself anyhow. If passed in the street, those who lived next door would quickly avert their eyes, perhaps believing Mercy to be a witch of some sort, afraid she’d be able to place a hex on them for something as innocent as starting a conversation. Perhaps it did not help when Mercy threatened to turn the neighbour’s boy into a newt when she found him torturing a stray cat that had the misfortune of wandering up to the wrong stoop.
“You should have told him you’d turn him into a mouse and make him the poor creature’s play thing,” Edith had said when her mother relayed the story to her later.
Mercy conceded that her daughter’s threat had more panache but she had to think of something fast and Shakespeare was the first thing which came to mind.
The stray became a welcome addition to the family soon after. Edith called him Raven due to his shiny black coat and her love for the work of Edgar Allan Poe. Mercy never took a liking to him. Too independent, she said, cursing him frequently for disappearing days at a time only to return with nary an excuse for his absence.
“Like my father,” Edith said once.
“No,” Mercy corrected sternly. “Nothing like your father.”
Mercy and Edith had occupied the slender house for nearly all of Edith’s fourteen years. In the beginning Mercy was lucky enough to afford it; but now, with business thriving, her capability for a higher rent rose as well. Mercy would never dream of leaving. What the exterior lacked in adornments the interior made up for in comfort. Anyone who stepped past the threshold would clearly see a woman of independent means able to keep her clients at ease and her daughter well provided for. It was a dream Mercy never conceived possible in those early years as a young unwed woman. So many landlords turned her away when their questions regarding a husband went unanswered. Mercy was forced to remain vague about her means for an income, which never helped matters. Her fortunes took a turn when her sister’s husband, using his connections with the funeral parlour, inquired on her behalf. It was only after their moving crates arrived and the key to her new house was in her hand that she decided he may not have been the miscreant she originally mistook him for. It was, however, one of only a handful of times he had ever been nice to her.
At the front door Mercy took in and released a concentrated breath. She had no desire to alarm her daughter, whom she had no doubt would already be worried about her late arrival home. Nothing could be done for the bloodstains on her dress, however, and that was certainly something Edith would notice.
Once inside the door Mercy dove for the stairs. She could see the edge of Edith’s skirt in the kitchen, the rest of her obscured by the wall.
“Mother, you’re late.” Edith peered around the door frame just as Mercy ran up the stairs. “Mother?”