Mercy blanched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Walker certainly wasn’t the tall, muscular type, but he held an air of strength, using his imposing personality to fill up the room.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice how handsome he is,” Edith said.
“That’s lovely, dear,” Mercy said. “While you’re surveying the goods I’m going to be hung out to dry. You have to give me something.”
“I told you, he’s straight and narrow. We barely got beyond pleasantries.”
Mercy pulled at her blouse and patted at the curls of her hair. It had been a long time since a new client had made her so nervous. “Well, I’ll simply have to try my best.”
Mercy made her way down the hall, slower this time, and appeared at the door.
Walker eyed the table. “So do we sit here?” he asked.
Mercy wasn’t entirely sure if his request was made in earnest. Had he come to mock her? If so, Mercy wasn’t inclined to play along. Against her better judgment, she nodded and took a seat opposite him. She licked her lips nervously as she gathered the tarot cards from the table.
“I didn’t come here just for a reading,” he said, laying his hat down on the table to the side and lacing his fingers in front of him.
Mercy shifted uncomfortably. What precisely had he come for then? Judging by the way he regarded her, playful and lighthearted, Mercy could hazard a guess. His intention was to flirt with her.
Mercy found herself bristling at the suggestion. She was a confirmed spinster and no man, no matter how enticing, would be successful in changing that. She’d not stoop so low as to acquire a husband, not for all the money in the empire, and certainly not a husband the likes of Jeremiah Walker, a police detective to boot! It was clear she’d need to lay down some ground rules before allowing the reading to go any further. Seconds passed while Mercy thought up a curt reply, but before she could say anything Walker cut in.
“You seemed very nervous at the hospital. I wanted to make sure you are all right.”
She sat frozen, allowing the silence to pass as she ran his question through her mind once more. Suddenly, she felt embarrassed for allowing her vanity to colour a clearly mundane question.
“I’m fine,” she said, raising her shoulders slightly, hoping he hadn’t noticed her slight disappointment.
Mercy had been ignoring the pain of her wounds on her chin and her hand, but most of all she had been ignoring the lingering effects of experiencing that man’s life. She could still hear the baby crying in the background of her mind. Despite all this, and Walker’s concern for her, there was no way she intended to tell him any of it.
She fanned the tarot cards out in front of her. “Would you like to choose a card?”
She watched him intently as he used one finger to pull a card from the semicircle, all the while trying to pick up anything that would help her find a starting point. With new clients she’d often start with assumptions about their profession, perhaps the neighbourhood they lived in. She’d look for clues about them, their clothes, their hairstyle, their manner of speaking. So much could be found in seemingly random clues.
His state of dress, for instance, clean and freshly pressed, showed her that his mother had taken great care of him, a standard that he maintained well into adulthood. She could not pick up on anything regarding his father but that wasn’t unusual. Imprints of fathers were much harder to pick up.
If he were any other first-time client she’d present a random number as a starting point and wait for him to connect it to something in his life. A date on the calendar with significant meaning perhaps. A birthday. Or the number of years, months, or weeks since he’d last seen either of them, but most likely his mother, as it seemed he’d had a better relationship with her. It didn’t matter really. Anyone who came to see her was eager to make connections, even when there weren’t any.
Detective Walker was entirely different, however. She knew she could not just fish for clues in such a way. She needed to hit the nail on the head; a perfect bullseye was the only way to win him over.
The look on his face alone denoted someone who was in mourning. A medium wasn’t needed to decipher that.
“Turn the card over,” she said.
Death.
He looked genuinely concerned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He cleared his throat and raised his gaze to meet Mercy’s. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“It doesn’t always mean a literal death. It can mean a figurative one. The end of something like a relationship. Has someone left you at the altar recently, Detective Walker?”
Detective Walker remained quiet for some time, studying Mercy across the table. Something told her she had hit a mark. Perhaps not the mark but certainly a sore spot for the hardened police officer. The bait had been a complete fluke, but it was those coincidences that granted her such a loyal clientele. He had fed her enough information thanks to his demeanour and dress that these tiny nonverbal confirmations he gave her became the icing on the proverbial cake. His manner became hardened and guarded during their short period of silence. Mercy could feel the chill from across the table.
“No,” he said. “I was not left at the altar.”
Mercy wasn’t entirely sure she believed him but decided to move on. She gathered the tarot cards and placed her hands on the table, palms up. She smiled. “Well then, if you want to do this properly you’ll have to give me your hands.”
Walker hesitated. He unknit his fingers and laid his palms down.
“It’s only for a moment,” she said reassuringly.
Apprehensively, Walker slid his hands over the tablecloth and laid his hands on hers. The jolt was immediate, sending a rush of warmth up Mercy’s arms to her cheeks. She closed her eyes and willed the sensation away. Such an intimate touch so soon after meeting was exceedingly distracting. Mercy could feel her mouth twitching into a smile.
“I’m ready,” she said with a breathy air.
“Ready for what exactly?” Walker asked.
Mercy didn’t reply. “I can feel her hand on my shoulder.”
“Whose hand?”
Mercy heard Detective Walker shuffle in his seat. “She’s giving me a name but I can’t make it out. Something that starts with a ‘J’. A father figure perhaps?”
Mercy opened one eye slightly so she could read Detective Walker’s facial features. He cocked an eyebrow, forcing Mercy to open both eyes completely. “Anyone in your family whose name starts with a J?”
He chuckled. “Sure there are. Plenty of them. Aren’t John and James the most popular names for males? And you know right well that my name is Jeremiah.”
“I did not. You were introduced as Detective Walker and nothing more.” Mercy bristled at his suggestion. “Now, are you going to tell me or not?”
“My father’s name was John.”
She nodded. He said the word was. That was her best clue yet. “I’m getting a sense that he wishes to say something to you.” Mercy let go of Walker’s hands and laid her palms flat on the table. She put her head down and closed her eyes again. “You and your father were very close.”
“Hardly.”
“Your mother is telling me to remind you what he was like when you were younger,” Mercy said. “Before you were an adolescent.”
“My father abandoned us when I was two.” He pulled on the lapel of his jacket. “He isn’t dead and you are a charlatan!” He rose suddenly, sending his chair toppling behind him.
Mercy raised her head in surprise as her heart lurched. “But you referred to him in the past tense.”
Detective Walker nearly snarled as he buttoned his coat. “I always refer to him in the past tense because I’d rather he were dead. It would save me the trouble of looking over my shoulder wondering if he’s been let out of Don Jail. And my mother, who is very much alive, lives but two miles from here.” He leaned his knuckles into the table. “You are a fraud of the worst kind, preying upon the bereaved for you
r own financial gain!”
As he turned on his heel and marched for the door a panic erupted in Mercy. Never before had she made such blunders. Detective Walker had been so hard to read, so different from all her other clients. Her throat went instantly dry and her legs shook as she chased after him.
“Please, please!” She stopped him from exiting the room. “I have no other means of providing for my daughter. I will do anything, anything, just do not take this any further.”
Their bodies inches from each other, Mercy could feel the heat of his anger as he looked over her, disgusted by what he saw. “Have no fear. I have no interest in sending you or that delightful young woman to the poorhouse. I was almost prepared to believe you with regards to this Maggie woman, and her string of pearls, but clearly you haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. Let’s hope we never have to see each other again lest I do something we both regret.”
Mercy bowed her head in defeat as he slid open the pocket doors and stepped out into the vestibule. The sound of the front door slamming drew the tears from her eyes and down her cheeks. With her heart heavy she dropped her forehead into the wood of the door.
She was a fraud. She knew that. She couldn’t summon the dead anymore than she could sew a straight line. It wasn’t the first time someone had cast her aside on that basis. But it wasn’t supposed to matter what anyone else thought. She was supposed to be strong and tell herself that she didn’t need Detective Walker’s approval, or anyone else’s for that matter. So why, when it did happen, did it hurt so much?
Many times over the years she had wished she had never touched her dead father’s hand. He had been laid out in the parlour, two facing chairs and a board holding him off the floor, ready to be dressed in his Sunday suit.
How different would her life have been had she simply closed the parlour door and walked away. She could have gone to console Constance, or her mother, who had been weeping without pause for two days. Mercy had never been good at leaving well enough alone. Even at seven years old she wanted to see for herself. The slightest touch was enough. His life took over her, sending wave after wave of memories, feelings, and ultimately death into her small body. It had been horrific and very vivid, enough to send her into a fit of hysterics screaming from the room.
No one believed her. Even after being able to describe his life, all that she had learned about it, and the important things he had wanted her to know, her family did not believe her. And that hurt more than the visions had.
It was her grandmother who told Mercy why she had been given such a gift. She was the seventh child of a seventh child. Her grandmother had called it a blessing. Mercy saw it as a curse. It had made Mercy an island, separating her from the rest of the family and the community. She was completely alone. And worst of all, Jeremiah Walker, and many others like him, continued to make her feel alone.
As Mercy stood there at the door, he walked away disappointed, angry, and unconvinced. How much longer, she wondered, could she endure such a life where the dead were her only steadfast companions?
Chapter 6
As it happened, Jeremiah Walker did not live far from Mercy, his home not dissimilar to her own in style or comfort. But unlike Mercy he had not lived there very long. He undid the top button on his shirt as he stepped onto the landing that led to the curved front door. No one such as Edith waited for him with biscuits and tea. The fire in the kitchen stove had gone out hours before and his dinner sat cold on a china plate in the kitchen. Mrs. Landry from four houses down came for two hours each morning to straighten the house and perhaps bring some sundries, knowing Jeremiah was unlikely to acquire his own.
It hadn’t always been like this. There was a time not so long ago when Jeremiah’s wife would have seen to such things, difficult as it was for her. He had willed himself to believe she was adjusting well to their home life. He had even come to hope that before long a child would add to their marital bliss. Now with his wife gone he realized their domesticity was never as strong as he imagined.
Jeremiah let his coat fall onto the back of the kitchen chair as he reached for the cloth that hid his food. Cold roast beef and boiled potatoes. Again. He allowed the cloth to fall back into place before turning to stoke the coals in the stove.
At any other time in his life the discovery of Mercy’s fraudulent acts would have astonished him, but now she was simply another spoke in the broken and bent wheel of the city. He’d discovered long ago how to prioritize his benevolence. While he found her acts loathsome he opted to save his energies for large cases, ones with farther-reaching consequences. Besides, if what she said was true, that she was merely providing a means of income for the care of her daughter, then so be it. Who was he to interfere on such a trivial matter?
As far as he was concerned, he’d never see her again, which would save him from experiencing the heart palpitations he felt when he was around her.
Chapter 7
The next morning Mercy walked with Edith down Spadina Avenue before planting a kiss on her cheek and parting ways on Queen Street. Knowing her daughter was safe at school, Mercy headed to St. Michael’s Hospital. Newly established in the innards of the former Baptist Church, the hospital was small compared to the Hospital for Sick Children, smaller still than Toronto General. Its arched doorway and enclosed hall looked gloomier than it had the day before. The sounds of construction taking place outside morphed into the wails of the sick and pain-stricken inside as Mercy stepped through.
A nurse was hunched over a desk in a small room just inside the doorway. She did not look up even as Mercy lingered in the office doorway.
She cleared her throat and pulled her umbrella closer to her chest. “I’m here to see a gentleman named Louis Bolton,” Mercy explained. “He had surgery yesterday.”
With a prim attitude to match her pristine uniform, the nurse narrowed her gaze. “You and that man behind you.” She gestured with her chin and when Mercy turned she saw a lanky man smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the wall. When their eyes met, he smiled and scratched his pencil mustache with his thumbnail.
“Bolton won’t be permitted any visitors today, I’m afraid.” The nurse grabbed a ledger from her desk and ducked out of the room. “Police orders.”
“But you don’t understand.” Mercy found herself following in protest. “I was there when he”—Mercy gulped—“was shot.”
The nurse stopped and turned to Mercy as if to study her.
“I only need to ask him a few questions. I believe I am owed as much.” Mercy gestured to the cut on her chin. With the hospital at capacity, Mercy doubted the woman had time to argue and she certainly wasn’t getting paid enough to personally guard him. “I’ll be quick,” she added. “I promise.”
“All right,” she said. “Ten minutes.”
The men’s ward room of the hospital was vast with each iron cot occupied, all the patients suffering one ailment or another. A sprinkling of nurses attended them all and Mercy wondered how any of them could manage it with the persistent moaning and unforgiving smell. Each bed was just wide enough for each patient and the space between was barely wide enough for a person to stand. Mercy glanced to the chalkboard along the wall, where last names were listed with their bed number. Mr. Bolton was in bed twelve.
Wrapping her hands tighter around her umbrella, Mercy walked down the aisle on the left with determination. At the foot of the bed Mercy paused. Louis lay on his back, perfectly still and motionless. Mercy looked around, wondering if anyone had come to check on him recently. If he were dead his body could tell her more, she might even be able to determine who killed him, if his soul were willing to give up such information.
A jolt went through her hand, causing her index finger to spasm as her arm hung at her side. The pull was so very great, as it always had been. The evening before she had dreamt about the specimens in the jars. It was as if her subconscious were taunting her for allowing such a grand opportunity to slip away. It was a compulsion, clear
ly, and as embarrassing as it was, it was also invigorating, and that made Mercy less inclined to stop.
She stepped closer to the bed and placed her hand over the top of his. His eyes sprung open and he jerked his hand away. Mercy yelped and stepped back, clasping both her hands over her heart.
“You scared me, Mr. Bolton,” she said, laughing slightly when he looked at her.
He wasn’t as amused.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how often that happens.” She licked her lips and took a step forward again. “My name is Mercy Eaton.”
He continued to look at her with disdain.
“Not that kind of Eaton,” she offered quickly. “You fell onto me when… well, when you were injured.”
His jaw clenched and his gaze shifted.
“Are they feeding you enough? Would you like some water?” She glanced about for a glass and pitcher but saw nothing.
“Why have you come?” he asked, his tone gruff and his expression hardened.
“You said you needed help. You said Maggie needed help.”
At the mention of Maggie, Mercy saw a twinge of fear in his eyes.
Mercy took a step forward, breaking the distance between them in half. “Is that your wife? If you tell me where she lives I can go deliver a message—”
“Maggie is not my wife,” he answered sharply.
“Oh,” Mercy stammered. He was married, she had felt as much. Perhaps he had a woman on the side as well. He certainly wasn’t the first man to have such an arrangement. “I can get a message to your wife and Maggie and I won’t tell either of them—”
“Look!” He snapped a strong hand around her wrist and pulled her toward him. “You don’t know what you are talking about and you don’t know what you are getting yourself involved with.” He glanced to other beds and then lowered his voice. “You seem like a nice person. I’m sorry for getting you involved in this.” He released her wrist and looked abashed for his outburst.
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