Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  She tripped on something unseen on the ground and could feel the basket tumbling away from her. Mercy braced herself for the fall but found herself on a bed, the mattress stained, the sheets providing warmth from the chill in the air. There was a man’s body at her side. Satisfied. Then the man was out of the bed. He was hazy but large. Dressing. Mercy couldn’t make out his face but his hands, large and soft, were pulling her up. Forcing her. His cufflinks were circles of gold with multi-pointed stars etched into them. The same hand hit her, threatened her. In the muffled din Mercy heard him yelling at her, threatening her. Mercy was terrified.

  And then the vomiting started. Unrelenting and all-consuming. She hid behind a tall, well-dressed bed hurling into a chamber pot, terrified and looking to the door at every reprieve from the sickness. She mustn’t be seen. She had to be quiet.

  Now a man was yelling at her, flicking her chin with his hands as she tried to swat him away. Mercy could feel the burning sting on her face as his open palm hit her. He pushed her to the ground and stood over her. “Whore!”

  It was Nigel Gladstone.

  Then the weeping started. Guttural wailing. And all the while, fear morphing into loneliness.

  Hot kitchen work. Bank notes. Bread kneading. More bank notes. Hands raw from scrubbing cast iron.

  All of a sudden, Mercy couldn’t breathe. She arched her head back searching for air, trying to open her airway as the pressure on her throat mounted. She felt the need to cough, the muscles of her throat jerking, trying to free itself from the vice holding her. There was no image. She struggled in complete darkness. She could feel nothing around her but the pain and then the panic as she felt herself slowly slipping away into nothing.

  Chapter 24

  The halls at Edith’s school were awash with the sounds of a baby crying. The few pupils who had arrived early stood in groups of three or more, each trying to guess the source of the crying. Edith didn’t bother saying anything to any of them. They wouldn’t have acknowledged her words anyway. With books in hand, Edith headed straight for the makeshift nursery at the end of the hall.

  The door was not locked and no one stopped her from entering. No one was in the room at all with the child, who lay on her back, limbs jutting out from her torso in quick punctuated movements. As Edith approached, she saw the baby’s face was red from screaming.

  “Goodness, little one.”

  She quickly dropped her books on a nearby table and pulled up the child from the cot. First, she changed her nappy, throwing the soiled one in a nearby bucket which overflowed with all the others waiting to be washed. Then she searched the room for a bottle of milk. All the while, Edith held the child in one arm, bouncing her gently, which seemed to soothe the baby a little.

  She found a bottle near the rocking chair with a little milk remaining. This seemed to do the trick. The baby made quick work of the small amount of milk but before she completely ran out, the door opened and Sister Elizabeth appeared.

  “Oh,” Sister Elizabeth looked surprised, “Where is Sister Maryanne?”

  “She wasn’t here when I got here,” Edith explained.

  Sister Elizabeth paused for a moment but then turned to leave.

  “The baby was left by herself,” Edith said, catching her before she left. “And her nappy was completely soaked through.”

  Sister Elizabeth eyed the child.

  “I need more milk,” Edith added just as the last drops were sucked from the bottle.

  Sister Elizabeth shrugged. “I’m sure Sister Maryanne will be back in a moment.”

  Edith nearly growled after she heard the click of the latch catching. With the bottle empty, the baby became restless. Within a few seconds the crying began once more.

  Chapter 25

  Mercy woke up in a creamed-coloured room and realized she had been placed on a hospital bed. Her vision was hazy but she could tell she was in a larger ward room with curtain partitions, metal and fabric contraptions that could be moved about at will and that sectioned her off from the other patients. She heard a cough from the bed beside her but she could not see anyone beyond the white curtains. She moved to sit up but was forced to stop. The pain at her throat was excruciating. Swallowing was out of the question. Mercy closed her eyes and willed the pain away. She didn’t dare reach up to feel her neck. She already knew it was irritated red and most likely swollen from the inside out.

  She wondered if her injury was worse than the last time. The pain during her vision had been worse, she knew that much. Asphyxiation was a brutal way to die. And Mercy had already suffered such a death twice. The room began to spin. Until the dizziness subsided there was nothing she could do but lay back on her pillow.

  That woman had led a truly austere life. Mercy shuddered at the memories. The loneliness remained with her most. The feeling that not a soul cared for her in the world. Even after the experience had passed Mercy resonated with the pain of it. Nigel Gladstone had been there, but Mercy could not for the life of her reason why.

  The sound of feet shuffling on the floor next to the bed forced her eyes open. When she looked she saw Walker’s shoes on the opposite side of the partition. He was seated in a chair, hunched forward, the light from a nearby window giving definition to his silhouette. Mercy couldn’t help but watch. He had no idea she had awaken. He ran a nervous hand through his hair before leaning back in his chair and then hunching over again.

  There was a noise in the hall beyond. He looked up. Mercy heard the familiar voice of MacNeal as he came to Walker’s side. “Is it as bad as before?”

  “Worse. Much worse.”

  Mercy glanced to the bedside table and saw an enamel basin half-filled with water, tainted with blood. Her blood, she supposed. A few bandages lay about with blotches of blood on them as well. Instinctively, Mercy reached a hand up to her nose and felt the crusty remnants shifting deep inside her nostrils.

  “She’s been out cold for more than an hour,” Walker added. “We’ve tried everything to wake her.”

  “Your missive said she’d stopped breathing,” MacNeal said.

  Silence followed. Mercy thought she saw a faint nod from Walker. “The doctors said it was only two minutes but it felt much longer than that.”

  “Scared you, did it?” MacNeal let out a small chuckle on the end of his words.

  “Of course it did.” Walker’s voice betrayed his impatience. “If she dies how do I explain it to Mrs. Doyle or Edith, for that matter? I’d never forgive myself.”

  “There ain’t any other reason for your concern?”

  “What the hell are you implying, MacNeal?”

  Mercy smiled at Walker’s vehement denial. The detective had been flirting with her and his own partner had noticed as well.

  “Nothing, only that… well, I’ve noticed your face lights up when you talk about her. I thought perhaps—”

  “You grow too bold in your assumptions.” Walker’s voice grew harsher with each syllable.

  Through the curtain Mercy watched Walker lean forward to steal a peek through the gap in the curtain. Instantly, she closed her eyes and tried to relax the muscles in her face so he would not know she was awake. Why she cared about his possible embarrassment she could not say. Only that she wasn’t ready to give up this insight into Walker’s unguarded world.

  “I haven’t the slightest interest in this woman beyond what she can provide for this case,” he said coldly. “Watch your tongue, MacNeal. I am a married man.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. My apologies.”

  Walker cleared his throat. “What have you discovered in my absence?”

  “Mrs. Gladstone has returned from her sister’s,” MacNeal said.

  “Has she?”

  Mercy perked up in bed. Mrs. Gladstone?

  “As you can imagine, she’s is quite upset about the news. I didn’t interview her. I figured that was something you’d like to see to.”

  “Of course.”

  “But she did say she would personally see
to all funeral expenses once we no longer have need of the maid’s body. She even mentioned she like to see the girl buried in her family’s plot in Mount Pleasant.”

  “Isn’t that extraordinary… why would Mrs. Gladstone agree to such a thing as that?”

  MacNeal shrugged. “Guilty conscience, perhaps.”

  “Certainly not!” Mercy pulled the covers off her quickly. She pushed herself up from her pillow and had her feet on the ground by the time both officers pulled back the curtains. “I’ll have you know that Mrs. Gladstone is the kindest, most giving person I have ever met. If she has agreed to pay for all funeral expenses, then she does so out of the goodness of her heart and nothing more.”

  During her speech, Mercy pulled her boots from the floor, put them on her feet, and began lacing them up. She ignored the dizziness until the very end, when she was forced to brace herself against the foot rail and wait for the room to stop spinning.

  “Ms. Eaton, you must lie down,” Walker implored. “You are not well.”

  “I am well enough, thank you.” She shook off his hand as he tried to guide her back into bed. “I will not lie here useless while a friend of mine, a dear friend of mine, faces such a tragedy.” She turned her gaze to Walker. “You should have said the woman on that slab was from the Gladstone house.”

  “How was I to know you had any sort of connection to them?” Walker asked.

  Mercy huffed but left the question unanswered as she adjusted her skirt over her knees and made sure all her clothes were fastened to her body before standing up.

  “Ms. Eaton, you’ve had quite the ordeal,” MacNeal said. “You shouldn’t walk anywhere.”

  “I am more than capable of walking, thank you.” She did not mean to glare at him but the pain at her throat was excruciating and the room did indeed feel as if it were made of gelatin. She spied her hat hanging off the edge of one of the partitions and moved forward to retrieve it. “Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must go to Mrs. Gladstone.”

  She made one successful step before the floor spilled out from under her. She collapsed to the ground, accompanied by the clanging and scraping of metal as she knocked over one of the partitions and a small table beside it.

  “Ms. Eaton, are you all right?” MacNeal asked, kneeling at her side.

  When Mercy raised her head, she could see Walker standing over her, suppressing a laugh. She closed her eyes from embarrassment more than anything else.

  “The only thing hurt is her pride,” Walker explained, slowly coming to her other side.

  Mercy turned to MacNeal. “I must see Mrs. Gladstone. She must be beside herself.”

  MacNeal nodded. “I just came from there.”

  “She needs me. I must go to her.”

  MacNeal looked to Walker, who now knelt at Mercy’s other side.

  After a moment’s pause, the detective nodded. “We will take you to her. But if I suspect your illness is worsening or that your recovery is in jeopardy, I am bringing you right back here, you understand?”

  Mercy nodded like a child scolded for licking the spoon. “All right,” she said. “I understand.”

  ***

  Mercy had been to the Gladstone House but never while it was in a state of mourning. Mrs. Gladstone had come to Mercy only after her husband had died and by then she had already been grieving for over a year. As the police carriage pulled up to the front of the house, Mercy spied Mr. Danvers and one of the maids fastening black cloth swaths along the front porch railings. Another already adorned the front iron gate. The flowerpots on either side of the front door, which were usually filled with brightly coloured blooms, had been removed and were replaced with two pots filled with calla lilies and assorted dark green foliage.

  Mr. Danvers and the maid bowed their heads as Mercy and Walker approached the front door, but before the detective raised his hand to ring the bell the maid spoke. “You may go straight in, Ms. Eaton,” she said. “Mrs. Gladstone said she knew you would come.”

  Mercy gave a slight nod in thanks and allowed Detective Walker to open the door for her. Inside, the mood was sombre. Mercy could feel the energy on the place, subdued and empty, a stark contrast to the light and welcoming atmosphere that was present during previous visits. A maid, with an oversized vase of flowers in her arms, rounded a doorway at the end of the hall and stopped abruptly at the sight of them.

  “Oh, thank goodness you are here, Ms. Eaton. Mrs. Gladstone is in such a state. She will be ever so glad to see you.” The maid was quick to usher the pair to the back of the house and through a doorway that led to an enclosed porch. Among the white wicker tables and lounge chairs sat a daybed festooned with ruffled laced pillows and soft, thick quilts. Among the covers Mrs. Gladstone reclined, her slight figure nearly hidden by the adornments. In her hand she crumpled a lace handkerchief as she stared out over the side garden.

  Mrs. Gladstone raised her gaze as the maid entered, revealing puffy red eyes and nose. “Come, Janis,” she said, beckoning her maid. “See that these are all washed, yes?” The maid gathered up the spent handkerchiefs that had been discarded to a small table at the daybed’s side.

  “You have visitors, ma’am,” the maid said as she followed her mistress’s order. “Ms. Eaton has come to see you.”

  At the news, Mrs. Gladstone lifted herself from the pillow. Once she saw that indeed Mercy had come, her forlorn features gave way to a relieved smile. “Oh, merciful heavens! Mercy has come.” Mrs. Gladstone pressed her open palms together and looked to the heavens in thank you. “Please Ms. Eaton, come sit.” She motioned for the maid to bring a chair closer to her side. Once Mercy had seated herself, Mrs. Gladstone glanced behind her. “Why did you feel the need to bring an escort?”

  Mercy gave a small smile as Mrs. Gladstone took up her hands.

  “This is Detective Jeremiah Walker,” Mercy explained. “He told me about what happened.”

  As if on cue, Walker spoke. “If you are feeling all right, Ms. Eaton, and if it is permissible to you, Mrs. Gladstone, I’d like to have a look at Clemmie’s room.”

  Mrs. Gladstone nodded. “Yes, of course. Anything to help. One of the maids can show you where.”

  Once he had returned to the house, Mrs. Gladstone squeezed Mercy’s hand and pulled it closer toward her.

  “What did he mean, if you are feeling all right? Is something the matter?” Mrs. Gladstone asked.

  Mercy forced a smile. “Nothing is the matter,” she said, ignoring the light-headedness that had not left her since they disembarked the carriage. “My only thought has been of you,” she said, hurriedly changing the subject. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  Mrs. Gladstone coughed into her handkerchief, and appeared weakened from it. “It’s a horrid thing, I will tell you. Never in my life could I imagine such a tragedy befalling this house.”

  “She was new to your staff, yes?”

  “Clemmie had been hired as a replacement for Laura, after you told me she was making away with the silver.”

  Mercy nodded slowly, ignoring the nausea that circled around in her stomach. It wasn’t Mercy who had determined Laura was pilfering Mrs. Gladstone’s silver. Mrs. Gladstone had deduced as much with only the slightest guidance from Mercy herself.

  “Clemmie had worked for my son, Nigel, for a time before I brought her on here,” Mrs. Gladstone continued. “Oh lord, if my husband could see the shambles this home is in now.”

  “It isn’t your fault, Mrs. Gladstone. Nor would anyone believe that you or any of your staff are responsible.”

  “Then why does it hurt so?” Mrs. Gladstone ran the handkerchief under her nose. “I should have done more for the girl. I should have helped more with her troubles.” She tossed the handkerchief to the table, beginning a renewed pile.

  “What sort of trouble?” Mercy asked.

  Mrs. Gladstone waved her hand dismissively. “Normal troubles for young girls, I suppose. Those who are pretty and attract the attention of men.”

  “She h
ad a beau?”

  Mrs. Gladstone hesitated. “I do believe so, yes. That is the root of all her troubles, my dear.” She looked away from Mercy then, concentrating on a new handkerchief she had pulled from her sleeve. “That… is… the root of it,” she said slowly.

  Chapter 26

  Clemmie’s room was in the attic, complete with a deeply slanted ceiling and tiny dormer window. Two beds, narrow and low, were pushed to the opposite walls with only a small opening between them. On the wall were two hooks for each maid and a chest of drawers with only three drawers. Both beds were neatly made, the room had recently been swept and the window was ajar, the only reprieve from the warming afternoon sun.

  After only a precursory glance it was clear to Jeremiah that the maid owned very little save for a change of clothes. He went to the window and looked down into the garden. He could see the assigned constables pacing their grid back and forth in the yard. They had found nothing of worth. If they had, they would have told him. From his vantage point he could see the rear of the carriage house and the stand of cedars beyond. Amy may not have been fibbing when she said she had seen Clemmie with a man.

  Refocusing on the room, Jeremiah ran his hand along the window ledge. He got down on his knees to peer under the bed. He checked for hidden crevices in the floorboards. Through it all he found nothing. Not even a forgotten pair of shoes. Just before he reached for the chest of drawers Amy rounded the doorway of the room.

  “Oh goodness!” She placed a hand over her chest in fright.

  “Sorry, Miss Amy,” Jeremiah said, straightening his stance. “Which drawers were Clemmie’s?”

  “The bottom one,” she answered quickly. “She didn’t mind. She said she didn’t have much anyway.” The girl absentmindedly played with a chain at her throat.

  Jeremiah nodded and then crouched down on his knees to open the drawer. Inside he found a comb, a small Bible, a few hairpins, and a single apron. There was nothing else. Not a single card or note. No diary or letters. Not even from the girl’s mother in Cork.