Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  “What did you see?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

  Mercy looked at him, not entirely surprised at his direct line of questioning. She gave a half smile. “Let’s not waste time,” she said.

  “You appear in good spirits. I thought maybe the effects weren’t as great as they originally appeared.”

  “She was strangled,” she said, “but you knew that already.”

  “Who did it?”

  Ms. Eaton shook her head.

  Jeremiah threw his hands up.

  “It doesn’t work like that!” she said defensively. “The body has ways to protect the mind from horrors. We shut down and chose not to hold on to things that are too painful.”

  “She has to have seen her attacker.”

  All hints of defiance drained from her features. “She was terrified.” She closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head, as if mentally flipping through a reference book. “I saw Mr. Bolton, I think. Briefly.”

  “Louis Bolton?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  Belief had no place in any of Walker’s investigations. He either had to know for certain or the information was meaningless.

  Mercy released a sniffle and then reached up to her face to touch her upper lip. “My nose was bleeding.”

  “Yes.”

  Her hand moved to the top of her head. “And my hair? Did I lose any hair?”

  “Why would you lose your hair?”

  She closed her eyes. “There was a man,” she said slowly. “He hit me in the face and then grabbed me by the hair.”

  Jeremiah stepped forward. “He grabbed you, not the woman? Not Maggie?”

  “Yes, Detective, he grabbed us both.” Ms. Eaton was unapologetic in her admonishments. She returned his gaze determinedly and without remorse, something Jeremiah was going to have to get used to. “Don’t you understand? My reality is different from yours. I see things no one else but the deceased has seen.”

  Mrs. Doyle and MacNeal re-entered the room, a tray of tea in MacNeal’s hands along with a solitary glass of water.

  “I’m just supposed to believe you at your word?” Jeremiah asked, ignoring the others in the room for one moment longer.

  “You’re going to have to if you have any hope of ever finding that woman’s killer,” Mercy answered so only Jeremiah could hear. A second later, Mercy was on her feet, using the arm of the sofa to steady a slight sway in her stance. Constance presented the tumbler to Mercy.

  “Thank you,” Mercy said, taking the glass.

  A troubled look flashed over Mrs. Doyle’s face and she looked to Jeremiah. Before anyone could say anything, Mercy was heading for the door.

  “You are just going to leave?” MacNeal called after her.

  Mercy looked over her shoulder at Jeremiah and then turned her gaze to MacNeal. “She was hunted for a long time before they finally caught her on Elm Street.”

  MacNeal looked to Jeremiah.

  “That’s where you found her, isn’t it?”

  “Who told you this?” Jeremiah looked to MacNeal and then Mrs. Doyle.

  “No one told me, Detective. I saw the street sign,” Mercy explained. “She had just had a baby not a month ago.” Mercy pulled her hat and gloves from the nearby chair. “Should I recall anything else, I shall summon you immediately. Good day, gentlemen.” She smiled at Constance. “Sister.”

  Chapter 17

  Mercy ignored the wobble in her legs as she walked out her sister’s front door and made her way down the street. She could feel Detective Walker’s eyes on her from the second-storey window and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at him. She knew she couldn’t walk the entire distance home as she would have any other day. Her vision was blurry and her breathing shallow as she stood at the curb and raised a hand to signal the omnibus.

  The fact that the sensations remained for her entire journey home did not worry her. These things had happened before and she knew she should be used to it. She knew the images would remain with her for days. She’d wake a sweaty mess gasping for air. She’d lose track of where she was, and even who she was, periodically as her mind re-calibrated back to Mercy Eaton, and not the dead woman on the table. This experience was nothing new.

  There was something else, however, that had Mercy running for her stairs as soon as she walked through her front door. She dropped her hat and gloves partway up the stairs and charged for her room. Once in front of her vanity mirror she stopped. She could feel the man’s hands on her long after she had opened her eyes and there in the mirror, with the top button of her blouse undone and pulled back, she could see how red and bruised his grasp had made her skin.

  Mercy ran her finger over the injury, willing it to be a phantom effect of her abilities, and was surprised when she felt the sting deep in her throat. It hurt to even swallow, as if her throat would close for good were she not careful. Mercy dropped her hand and closed her eyes. This was something she had never experienced before.

  Damn that infuriating man!

  She could see the concern in Constance’s eyes when he gestured for the woman at the end. He knew she had been murdered and Constance had known as well.

  Mercy opened her eyes and wiped a tear from her lower eyelid. Over thirty-five years old and she was still mocked and subjected to these so-called tests. It was more entertainment than anything else, Mercy had come to understand. As a child they’d done the same to her, the Eaton family freak show. A performing bear who could be coerced and taunted with sweets if only she could perform her little acts of spiritualism. Had Jeremiah Walker only subjected her to such a horrid test to appease his desire for a private performance?

  A knock sounded from her front door, so loud and determined she nearly jumped. It had better be that man come to apologize. If not, she hadn’t a care to ever speak with him again.

  Mercy hastily did her button at her throat and scurried for the door. As she went down the stairs she thought of a thousand admonishments for Detective Walker but once she snapped the door open they scattered from her mind.

  “Hello, Ms. Eaton.”

  Percival Forsyth stood on her narrow porch while two men stood in the front garden, one on each side of the walkway. At the road sat an ornate carriage, black and bedecked in gold overlay and silver accessories. Inside, Mercy could see the faint outline of a woman, most likely Emmaline.

  “I hope we are not disturbing you.”

  Mercy stammered to reply. “My apologies. Did we have an appointment?”

  “No.” He flashed a charismatic smile, slipped a hand into his pocket, and then met her gaze again. “I’m sorry. My wife insisted we come.” He glanced back to the carriage. “She’s becoming a bit antsy of late. Desperate to have her child in her arms, you know.”

  “Naturally.”

  Percival looked only slightly older than Mercy herself, perhaps in his forties, with greying, recently trimmed hair and a clean-shaven face. He was tall, maybe not as tall as Detective Walker but just as imposing. There was something else about him, something that triggered Mercy’s unease. He stood inches from her, leaning in ever so coolly, looking down at her with expectation. He looked as if his requests never went unanswered. He was a man who was used to getting his own way.

  As if seeing her hesitation, the man reached over to the glass that framed her front door and tapped where her modest sign was adhered to the inside of the window. He then glanced over his shoulder to his accompaniment and lowered his voice. “Our inquiry is of a sensitive nature,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Mercy nodded and stepped back. “By all means have Mrs. Forsyth join us.”

  Once Percival and Emmaline stood in her foyer side by side, Mercy gestured for the parlour to the left with a sweep of her arm. They walked in as Mercy pushed the front door back in place. When she entered the parlour Percival was at the farthest end of the room and lifting up her tablecloth to peer beneath the table. Emmaline stood at the window, rubbing an open palm back and forth o
ver her large stomach.

  “You’ll find no parlour tricks here, Mr. Forsyth,” Mercy said, annoyed that he would even presume such a thing.

  He smiled and let the tablecloth fall back in place.

  Without warning Mercy plucked Raven, who had been curled up sleeping, from her chair and banished him from the room. Before he had a chance to return she closed the pocket door and turned back to her visitors.

  “Is this where the magic happens?” he asked, glancing about with an amused look on his face.

  “Most days,” Mercy admitted.

  “You saw her last evening, Percy,” Emmaline said, still peering out the window. “The magic follows wherever she leads.”

  Mercy wasn’t so sure about that. She gestured for the chair. “Would both of you like to take a seat?”

  “Do we have to?” Emmaline asked, turning her head to look over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” Mercy answered. “It depends what you would like me to do. Are you here for a reading of the cards or for a specific question?”

  The husband and wife exchanged glances. “What’s the difference?” Emmaline asked.

  “Well, if you have a specific question I can try to contact the spirits directly to find the answers you seek. The cards can offer a more general description of things that have happened or are about to happen. I don’t need to personally know your questions but hopefully the cards can provide some direction for you if your needs are of a more sensitive nature.”

  The front door opened and Edith fluttered into the foyer. Mercy made for the pocket doors to close them but wasn’t quick enough.

  “Mother, why are there two men standing guard in the garden? I feel like they should be dressed as garden gnomes.” She took one look into the parlour and froze. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not realize you were with clients.”

  “Your daughter, Edith, yes?” Emmaline asked, finally turning in place to face the room.

  Edith nodded but Mercy could only bring herself to smile as she gently nudged her daughter from the threshold and pulled at one side of the pocket doors. “Go see to your homework,” she said.

  “Edith was my mother’s name,” Emmaline said, smiling at Edith as Mercy pulled the doors to a close. “I’ve always thought it was a delightful name.”

  Mercy had a suspicion that wasn’t entirely true.

  “Are you Catholic?” Percival asked, most likely spying Edith’s school uniform before she was forced to leave.

  “No,” Mercy said quickly. “It’s just a really good school.”

  “Children are precious, aren’t they? A product of one of life’s strongest emotions.” He looked to his wife, who stood awkwardly silent at the window.

  “I think I would prefer a reading of the cards,” Emmaline said, suddenly interested in what was happening in the room.

  “Of course.” Mercy gestured for the table. “Shall we?”

  Once his wife was seated Percival hovered behind his chair, hands gripping the back as he watched Mercy slip down into her seat. Mercy got the distinct feeling neither of them entirely wanted to be there. Their mannerisms were hesitant and slow. They seemed uncommitted to the task even though somewhat interested in the outcome.

  Ignoring Percival’s penetrating stare, Mercy pulled her tarot deck from the hutch behind her and placed them in a pile at the centre of the table. Then she moved both her hands over the table, palms up, one hand on either side of the stacked deck. “We must join hands,” she said, looking specifically to Percival, who remained standing, “so we can open the circle.”

  After a brief moment, he sat but merely rested his arms on the edge of the table, resisting the suggestion that he should put his hands in hers.

  “Humour me, Percy,” Emmaline said.

  Percival laid one hand over Mercy’s and gave the other to his wife. Mercy fought the urge to quickly snap hers back. His energy was hot, sending a burning sensation over the flesh of her palms and up to her elbows. Closing her eyes, Mercy tried to redirect the heat to the floor but it would not move. All her standard techniques for protection, mental redirection, and soothing colour replacement proved ineffective, leaving her with the ever-present distraction of his strong aura.

  The taste of bile and blood crept up into her throat, nearly choking her. And her ears began to hum. It was a low, base sound at first but after a few seconds passed, Mercy noticed the noise grew louder inside her head, churning like waves on a beach, before a solitary female scream erupted for her senses only.

  Mercy pulled her hands back.

  “Is something wrong?” Emmaline asked.

  Mercy was quick to shake her head. If she was made uncomfortable it would not do well to explain it to her clients. The way in which she had become successful was to never turn anyone away and she wasn’t about to turn her back on that now. “Just give me one moment,” she said, with her eyes still closed.

  “Mrs. Forsyth, place your hands on the cards please. Close your eyes and, in your mind, ask the spirits your question.”

  Once Emmaline pulled her hands away, Mercy fanned out the cards in a semicircle. “Chose one card.”

  Emmaline did as instructed, pulling one card across the table toward her. Mercy overturned it to reveal a Queen of Pentacles. “I believe this denotes your work with the Mission,” Mercy explained. “The Queen of Pentacles is representative of good sense and problem-solving abilities. This card is here to reassure you that you can handle your newest journey.” Mercy instructed her to pull two more cards. The first was Ace of Swords. “You have a singular objective which you cannot be deviated from,” she explained. “You must be a very determined woman.”

  “She is,” Percival said.

  The third card was The Tower, a card that made Mercy’s eyes widen slightly. “I’m not sure this means anything to you,” she said hesitantly. “Sometimes the cards are difficult to read.”

  “What does it say?” Emmaline asked.

  “It means you have no choice,” Mercy explained. “Things have become out of your control. The action you are deciding on must go forward. It will be disastrous.” Mercy couldn’t stop herself. She explained the card as she knew its meaning but could not apply it to their life.

  “What do you mean disastrous?” Percival asked. “Should we do it or not?”

  “Like I said, you have no choice.”

  Percival and Emmaline recoiled from the table, pulling their hands back and exchanging glances.

  “I don’t know what this means for you,” Mercy tried to explain. “I only know the meaning of the cards. You must move forward. You have no choice.”

  The mood in the room soured. Mercy could see by the look of displeasure on Emmaline’s face that the reading wasn’t what she was expecting. “What do the spirits say?” she asked. “Have they told you the choice we are facing?”

  “I can tell it’s a difficult choice,” Mercy said, “but no, they have not. Unfortunately, you’ll have to ponder these discoveries on your own to discover their meaning to you. I apologize if these cards do not pertain to your expectant child.”

  Something changed in Emmaline’s eyes when Mercy spoke of the birth. Her face did not move from its pasted half smile, but in her gaze Mercy saw the change.

  “Thank you very much, Ms. Eaton,” Mrs. Forsyth said. “You have been most helpful.”

  The pair stood up from their chairs and headed for the door with Mercy behind them.

  Mercy pulled open the pocket doors and stood aside. When Percival passed he turned and presented her with a few folded bills, large denominations.

  “For your time,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Mercy pinched two fingers around the offering.

  “And we would appreciate if you told no one about our meeting here today.”

  Mercy nodded. “Of course. You have my discretion.” She stood at the front door long after she closed it.

  “She knows nothing,” she heard Emmaline say from the front porch. “A complete fra
ud.”

  Chapter 18

  Station No. 2 was overrun with people, but Jeremiah hardly noticed as he followed MacNeal through the double doors and into the main lobby. Neither had said much since leaving the company of Mrs. Doyle, especially Jeremiah, who seemed more out of sorts than usual.

  “I don’t believe I’ll ever get the image out of my head,” MacNeal said.

  Jeremiah looked up. “Do you think she will be all right?” he asked. “Ms. Eaton, I mean.” He wished their parting hadn’t been as abrupt as it was. He would have felt better about it all if she had at least looked well, but Jeremiah’s keen detective’s eye noticed the tremor in her hands and voice even as she berated them. “I should never have asked her to do such a thing.”

  “Ms. Eaton is made of sturdier stuff than you and I previously realized,” MacNeal said.

  Jeremiah didn’t doubt that. She had proven as much that very morning, and yet, as he absently paced to his desk, he wondered if she was merely playing the part, not wishing to let on how disturbing her experience had been.

  “Can anyone help me?”

  Walker’s attention was pulled to the desk, where a young woman pushed her way between two gentlemen, one a second-class constable filling out paperwork.

  “Excuse me, miss,” the constable said, somewhat harshly. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  The woman glowered at him. “I’ve been instructed to wait at that bench, where I have been seated for nigh an hour while others such as him”—she gestured to the portly man on the opposite side of her—“waltz in with a complaint about stolen turnips!” She positioned herself between the man and the constable and even elbowed him slightly when he tried to push her away.

  Walker kept a close eye as the constable tried to force her back from the desk.

  “You’ll have to wait, miss,” he said.

  She pushed his hands away. “My friend is missing and you care more about his damned root vegetables!”