Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  “The child is not coming. You may resume your regular duties,” Sister Elizabeth said.

  The nun nodded, rubbed some drool from the corner of her mouth, and quit the room.

  “Loretto Abbey once offered childminding services for women taking our classes. Occasionally, we were called upon to find a wayward orphan a home. We dealt with infants for the most part. It was an outreach project designed to meet the needs of the neighbourhood. We discontinued the practice once other charities were established in the area.”

  “The Mission?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Mercy circled the room and took note of the dust on the surfaces and grime on the window. “How long ago did this childminding program meet its end?” Mercy asked.

  “Almost ten years now.”

  “So if someone wasn’t aware that the program closed they would still believe you could provide that service?”

  “Yes, we’ve needed to direct a number of women toward the Mission. The child you inquire about was left at our back door. She was placed in that basket.” Sister Elizabeth indicated a small wicker basket used for laundry.

  “The mother was nowhere to be found,” Sister Elizabeth continued. “We decided to keep her here a few days in case the mother had a change of heart and returned.”

  Mercy went to the basket and picked it up with both hands. It was precisely as she had seen in Louis and Cynthia Bolton’s memories. Same size, shape, and discoloration on one side.

  “Can I see the back door?” she asked.

  The back door opened up into a courtyard, with a gravel lane and brick archway that led out to the street. It was a very secluded spot. Mercy had removed the basket from the nursery and placed it on the back step. Thankfully, Sister Elizabeth said nothing about Mercy staging the scene.

  “The basket was found here?” Mercy clarified.

  Sister Elizabeth nodded. “She was found by Harold, our groundskeeper. He comes early to receive deliveries and open the building. Our living quarters are in that end of the building,” she said, indicating a section farthest away. “To be honest, if it weren’t for him she may never have been found. So rarely do any of us come to this door.”

  Mercy nodded and stepped back to take in the scene. She remembered running away, crying. This view, the one of the basket at the back door, played prominently in Cynthia Bolton’s memories. “She wanted her to be protected from sight,” Mercy said quietly.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

  Mercy looked to Sister Elizabeth. “Oh, just talking to myself.”

  Sister Elizabeth moved to speak but hesitated. She gave Mercy a studied look. “There’s something else,” she said, “which I now feel may be related.”

  “Oh?”

  The nun led Mercy out of the courtyard and around to the front of the building. She pointed to a bare spot in the front garden where dirt had been pressed down and a little cove had been made among the bushes and shrubbery.

  “Perhaps you could tell your officer friend about this,” she said, pointing to the stone window ledge where a bloodied handprint had been marked and since dried.

  When Mercy looked beyond the pane of glass she realized the window was the one leading into Maggie’s makeshift nursery.

  Chapter 32

  When Jeremiah arrived at the station Dr. Bishop was waiting for him inside his office. He was standing on the opposite side of MacNeal and Jeremiah’s desk. His eyes had been scanning the papers that had been left on the desktop. None of them were of any particular importance but Bishop’s unsupervised presence set his nerves on edge.

  “What are you doing here?” Jeremiah asked gruffly.

  “I’m delivering my report,” he said, offering a grim smile. “Took me most of the night.”

  Jeremiah doubted that.

  MacNeal entered holding two mugs of coffee. “Oh, ’morning Walker,” he said. It took him a moment before he realized the standoff he’d walked into. “I let him in,” he said. “I was just fetching the doctor a coffee.” He raised the mug in his hand to extenuate his point and then, almost as an afterthought, handed the other one to Jeremiah. “Sir.” He left, most likely to get another for himself.

  “Where is it?” Jeremiah asked, putting the mug down on his desk. “Your report, Doctor?”

  Bishop motioned for the dossier on MacNeal’s desk. Jeremiah snatched it up and flipped open the cover.

  “It’s preliminary,” Bishop said, “but I took your direction and focused there. Clemmie had been pregnant but it was a while ago.”

  “How long?”

  “I estimate six months,” Bishop said, “give or take.”

  “How did it end?”

  Bishop blinked. “Well, it wasn’t a live birth, I can tell you that much.”

  “Was she tampered with?”

  Again, Bishop looked hesitant to answer.

  “Back room abortion, a hatchet job?” Jeremiah pressed. “Did she fall prey to one of those doctors?”

  Bishop shook his head. “No, not that I could tell. The pregnancy would have ended in miscarriage. The fetus died before it even got started.”

  “And the wound at her neck?”

  “Done from the front,” Bishop said.

  “She knew her attacker,” MacNeal said, signalling his return.

  “Yes,” Bishop answered. “It was a male. I took some measurements and it was most likely a male.”

  “And Cynthia Bolton?” Jeremiah kept his eyes on the pages in front of him, skimming Bishop’s notes as he spoke.

  “From the front. Male as well.”

  “Same hands?” Jeremiah asked.

  Bishop nodded. “It appears so.”

  “It takes a lot of anger to choke someone to death,” MacNeal said. “To stare into their eyes as you do it.”

  Bishop blanched and turned his face. “You have my report,” he said. “You can leave me out of the rest of it. Truly, gentlemen, I don’t know how you manage it day in and day out.”

  “Someone has to,” Jeremiah said. He showed little interest as the man left.

  “What do you make of it, Walker?” MacNeal asked.

  “These women are connected. I just can’t for the life of me discern how.” He took a seat at his desk. “I want you to head to Mrs. Gladstone’s and the Bolton’s neighbour, Heloise. Get a list of all the people these women would ever come in contact with. Delivery men, shopkeepers.” As he spoke, Jeremiah opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the box where he kept all his notes, forms from the hospital, and any other items relating to the case. “Where did they buy their groceries? What church did they attend? I need it all, MacNeal.”

  He felt something soft and pulled it out. It was the handkerchief he had taken from Cynthia Bolton’s. Beneath the folds he found the three pearls on a gold chain. He allowed the chain to weave between his fingers and held up the pearls to the light.

  “We still don’t know how someone as poor as Cynthia Bolton got a hold of something like this?” MacNeal asked.

  “That was my question. How indeed?”

  “Could have pilfered it,” MacNeal offered with a shrug. “Or her husband.”

  Jeremiah studied the gems for a moment, watching them roll down his palm. He laid them out on the desk in front of him. “I’ve seen this before.”

  Intrigued, MacNeal leaned forward. “At a store perhaps.”

  “No, on a person.”

  MacNeal sifted through his papers. “Clemmie had no jewellery on her when she was found.”

  “I didn’t see it on Clemmie.” Jeremiah’s mouth curled into a smile. “I saw it on her roommate, Amy.”

  MacNeal’s expression mirrored Jeremiah’s sense of elation. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, she was wearing it yesterday afternoon,” Jeremiah said. “She was playing with it while I spoke with her. This may be the key to their connection. Bring her in. I want to speak to her.”

  ***

  The maid looked nervous as Jere
miah sat down opposite her. She kept her hands off the wooden desk between them and pressed her lips together as she watched him open his notebook and lay it out in front of him.

  “Good Morning, Amy,” Walker said warmly. “I appreciate you coming in this morning. You aren’t in any trouble. I just want to ask a few questions about Clemmie.”

  The girl nodded sheepishly, her eyes wide with expectations.

  “You shared a room with her the entire time she’s worked for Mrs. Gladstone, yes?”

  The young maid looked up to Mr. Danvers, who stood in for the interview as a father would. Jeremiah saw the man nod, signalling that the girl was permitted to answer. “Yes,” she said.

  “What can you tell me about her personality? Was she nice? Quiet?”

  “She was quiet at first. Mrs. Jennings wasn’t very nice to her in the beginning but eventually they learned to get along.” Amy looked suddenly to Mr. Danvers, as if unsure if what she said was allowed.

  “It’s all right, Amy. You can speak freely,” Walker said, trying to bring her attention back to him. It would not do to have her second-guessing every answer or, worse, holding valuable information back. “The first day I was there, the day Clemmie was found, you said you had seen her with a man. Is there any chance that man could have been Nigel Gladstone?”

  Amy shook her head. “No, sir, it weren’t him.”

  “How did you know it wasn’t him?”

  “Mr. Gladstone don’t need to hide behind carriage houses to speak to us. If he wants something of us he just comes to the house an’ asks.”

  “Did Mr. Gladstone speak with you?” Jeremiah asked stoically.

  “Sometimes.”

  “About what sorts of things?”

  “About seeing his shoes shined, or that his jacket was hung properly.”

  “Anything else?”

  Amy shook her head. “No, sir.”

  Jeremiah shifted in his seat, thankful the answer didn’t indicate another improper relationship.

  “Mrs. Jennings said when Clemmie first came to the house she was sick all the time. What did you know about her sickness?”

  Amy shrugged.

  “Do you know what was causing her sickness?”

  The young maid shifted uncomfortably in her seat and couldn’t return Walker’s gaze.

  “We now know Clemmie was pregnant when she came to work for Mrs. Gladstone.”

  Amy’s eyes shot up.

  “Were you aware of this?”

  The young maid nodded, but she grew increasingly nervous, glancing to Mr. Danvers as if embarrassed. Jeremiah knew he could not ask the driver to leave the room.

  “Her pregnancy ended of its own accord. It’s called a miscarriage.”

  Amy nodded again. “It weren’t Clemmie’s fault. She didn’t do anything.”

  Jeremiah raised his hand in an effort to calm her. “Yes, of course. Our doctor has confirmed this.” Jeremiah paused. These were always the most difficult interviews. “Did Clemmie confide things to you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Did she tell you who the father of her child was?”

  Amy nodded. Jeremiah saw her eyes lift toward Mr. Danvers and back down again. He had no doubt the driver knew, as everyone in the house must know after Nigel was arrested, but still discretion was required.

  “If I write a name on this piece of paper, you can look at it and nod yes or no. Would that be all right?”

  Mr. Danvers let out an exasperated breath of air. “Is this subterfuge truly necessary?”

  “Yes, Mr. Danvers, I’m afraid it is. Will you step over there for me?” Jeremiah indicated for the man to step away and was surprised when the man did so without protest. Jeremiah wrote out the name of Mrs. Gladstone’s son, and slid the paper over toward Amy.

  She gave a nod. “Yes. That’s what she told me.”

  “Thank you.” Jeremiah pulled the paper back and ripped it up into tiny pieces. “Do you know what Clemmie’s plans were after the baby was born?”

  “She planned to give it up. She’d made arrangements with the Mission and everything. Everyone was in agreement. We weren’t to say anything about it. Not even after the baby was born.”

  Jeremiah nodded as he scanned his notes. “I’m going to show you something,” he said, opening the drawer of his desk. He pulled out the chain with three pearls “Do you recognize this?”

  Instinctively, Amy’s hand went to her throat. Under the lace of her collar she found her own necklace. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same question.” Jeremiah laid the necklace down over the top of his files.

  “Clemmie gave it to me. After the baby died.” Amy reached up behind her neck and unclasped it. “You can have it.”

  “No, certainly not. That’s not what I meant.”

  The maid looked ready to cry.

  “I just need to know where Clemmie may have gotten her necklace from. A friend, a relative?”

  “It was from the man who was taking her baby,” Amy said.

  Jeremiah sat silent for a moment before speaking. “Was this the man you saw her speaking with behind the carriage house?”

  Amy nodded. “I didn’t say anything because I was scared.” She wiped tears from both her eyes and struggled against a tremble of her lips. “After the baby died Clemmie didn’t want it anymore. She said it made her scared.”

  “Scared for the baby?”

  “No, scared because now she had to pay all that money back.”

  “What money?”

  “The money the man paid her to buy the baby.”

  “Clemmie sold her baby?”

  “She sent the money home to help her mother as soon as she got it. When the baby died she realized she’d never be able to pay it all back, not in ten lifetimes, not as a kitchen maid.”

  Jeremiah sat quiet for a moment, letting the information sink in. “Do you know who the man is? Could you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Amy shook her head. “I only saw him the one time. And it weren’t even light yet.”

  “Do you know if she ever told the man the baby had died?”

  “She didn’t want to. I told her she had to. But I don’t know if she did. I think she was avoiding it.” A sudden flash of realization hit Amy as she spoke. The girl burst into tears, burying her face in her palms. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my dear God!”

  Mr. Danvers came closer, wrapped one arm around Amy, and put a hand up as if to prevent Jeremiah from saying anything else. “I think that’s all you need, sir,” Mr. Danvers said.

  Jeremiah nodded and didn’t protest as they left his office.

  Chapter 33

  Mercy couldn’t avoid it any longer. She had to pay a visit to Jeremiah and let him know what she had discovered. Even if he didn’t believe her about what she saw, he should know about the baby. She pushed through the heavy doors of the station and was surprised when she saw him just on the other side.

  “Detective Walker,” she said, a breathy air to her words.

  “I was just coming to see you.” He guided her to the side away from the flow of traffic at the door.

  Mercy stammered. “You were coming to see me?”

  “Are you feeling all right? You look unwell.”

  Mercy’s hand went up to her hair. She could admit she probably looked less presentable than her usual self but staying up all night with a newborn baby would do that to a person. She cleared her throat. “I’ve had a long night.”

  “Wait a minute. Why are you here? Were you coming to see me?”

  Mercy had a mind to make up some excuse. She didn’t want Jeremiah thinking her presence was for anything more than solving the case. But then she thought better of it. “Look, you brought me in on this case and I can’t just walk away now,” she said. She was careful to look him directly in the eyes to show him she wasn’t going to be pushed away. “Especially after what I’ve seen and felt. I am owed the right to find the answers.”


  He was nodding but Mercy hardly noticed.

  “I am an equal partner. I’ve given you information and led you toward the truth. You should at least have the decency to trust my judgment and listen to my opinion.”

  “Yes, I completely agree.”

  “And furthermore—” Mercy stopped suddenly at his words. “Wait, what did you just say?”

  “I completely agree. I was wrong. I dismissed your opinion and it won’t happen again.”

  Mercy gave him a doubtful look. “What brought this change of heart about?”

  He touched her arm and pulled her away from the foyer, lowering his voice as he led her down the hall to his office. Mercy ignored the tingling in her arm left by his touch and tried to concentrate on his words.

  “I have to show you something,” he said, stepping back from his door and allowing Mercy to step in first.

  “Yes.”

  “I searched Cynthia and Louis Bolton’s flat. You were right, they live in The Ward.” He rounded his desk, opened his drawer, and pulled out two identical pendants on similar chains.

  Mercy’s heart stopped. She had seen one in Cynthia’s memories. “One belonged to Cynthia,” she said. “And the other?” She stepped closer to compare them side by side.

  “On Amy, Clemmie’s roommate.”

  Mercy felt her throat grow dry. “I saw these, in the window at Benson Jewellery & Clocksmiths.”

  “When?”

  “A few days ago. I saw them as part of Cynthia’s memories. I didn’t know what it meant and when I saw them in the shop window I went in and asked a few questions.”

  Jeremiah raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

  “They don’t sell these, not with only three pearls. They are part of a larger string. Someone must have fashioned something for both Cynthia and Clemmie.”

  “In Cynthia or Clemmie’s memories did you see who gave it to them?”

  Mercy closed her eyes and shook her head. “No. I only saw Cynthia pull them from her neck.”

  Jeremiah opened his box and riffled for Bishop’s report. “Cynthia had cuts on her neck. She pulled it off in haste, without bothering to undo the clasp.”

  “She was angry,” Mercy said.