Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  Just before reaching it, the door opened inward, revealing MacNeal and a few others on the other side. Percival turned back to the room, pulling his wife along with him, searching for the next closest exit. They didn’t make it more than one step before Emmaline fainted.

  Jeremiah ran into the room, dropping to his knees at Mercy’s side. Her hand still held fast to Bolton’s. Blood was dripping from her nose. He forced her to release Bolton’s hand and held it close to him. “Ms. Eaton.” He touched the side of her face.

  In that moment, with scores of officers streaming into the building from all entrances, Jeremiah was lost. The only thing he could think of was all the words that remained unsaid. He thought of all the times he had wanted to smile in her direction, or pay an unannounced call. He thought of all the times he had been fixated on the movement of her lips and nothing more. Good God, how he had been such an ass, a hard-nosed, pinched-face, undeserving ass. He couldn’t let her die. She had to wake up. She had to know how he felt.

  “Ms. Eaton, you need to wake up for me,” he said, pulling her from the floor and resting her upper body on his lap. “Open your eyes. Mercy! Mercy, please.”

  Her eyes opened slowly and her hand tightened around his. “It was her,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was her the whole time.”

  Jeremiah held the side of her face and nodded. “It’s all right,” he said. He made sure she saw his smile. “It’s all right. I’m here now.”

  Her eyes closed again and her hand relaxed. He realized someone was standing over them.

  MacNeal cleared his throat. “Were you two having a moment?” he asked when Jeremiah looked up. “Because it looked like you were having a moment.”

  Chapter 38

  There were others in the room. Mercy could hear their voices and sense their presence even before she opened her eyes. She smiled into her soft pillow at the thought of Walker being there, concerned for her safety, perhaps even taking a protective stance for her recovery. Her smile quickly faded when she thought of Edith and how fearful she would be. Perhaps it was still early enough Mercy could go home and pretend nothing had happened. Her daughter would never need to know that she’d had a gun pointed at her.

  Mercy forced herself to open her eyes to see at least who was around her and figure out why they were talking so anxiously.

  “Oh thank God!” Constance dropped to her knees at the side of the bed. She folded her hands in front of her as if praying. Behind her stood Edith, who began crying into her open palms.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Mercy pushed herself higher on the pillow. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

  Her words did nothing to calm the sobs coming from both of them. She was in a hospital bed, not unlike the one Louis Bolton had been in when she came to see him. The bed and immediate area surrounding it were partitioned off from the rest of the ward room, a special accommodation allowed for her part in what was likely to be a very high-profile murder case, she imagined.

  “Goodness, you two are acting as if I were on death’s door.” Mercy found their reaction somewhat amusing. She smiled and turned her gaze to the figure on the opposite side of the bed.

  “You’ve been out cold for days, Ms. Eaton,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “You can forgive their outburst if you knew how worried we all have been for your recovery.”

  “Days?” Mercy could scarcely believe it. It had been a mere few minutes by her estimation. Just enough time to transport her there and get her set up in a bed. “What do you mean I have been out for days? Constance?”

  Her sister broke out into a new round of sobs as Edith used the foot rail to hold herself up.

  “I thought I was going to be an orphan, Mama.”

  “Oh, honey.” Mercy beckoned her to come close for an embrace. “No, you aren’t an orphan and you shall never be,” she said, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I’m so sorry I frightened you. And you, Constance.” Mercy reached over and grabbed her sister’s hand.

  “Promise me you won’t do anything so ill-advised again!” Constance said.

  “Yes, of course, I won’t willingly let myself fall into the hands of murderers ever again.”

  “Mother, this is serious.”

  Mercy shrugged and stifled a laugh. “It’s not as if I had planned to do any of this. Tell me you believe me.”

  Both Edith and Constance looked doubtful.

  “I believe you imagined you were doing the right thing,” Mrs. Gladstone said, reaching over and grabbing Mercy’s arm. “There are not many people willing to go to such lengths to bring justice to strangers. That makes your Mama a rare breed, indeed. And I commend her for it.”

  Mercy smiled. “Thank you. I hope you are not vexed with me on account of your son.”

  “Don’t think of it. I know I certainly don’t want to.” Mrs. Gladstone drew in a breath. “After he was released from questioning I realized I had not been holding him to account for his wayward actions. I immediately struck him out of my will, something I should have done a long time ago.”

  Mercy’s heart sank. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gladstone…”

  “Don’t be. I’ve left a goodly amount to the Mission, this here hospital, and a sizable amount to you, dear Edith.”

  “Me?”

  Mrs. Gladstone patted Edith on the upper arm. “I have a feeling you are going to be a far better steward of my fortune than he ever would have been.”

  “Mama!”

  Mercy gave her daughter a sympathetic look. “Mrs. Gladstone, we couldn’t possibly accept such an offering.”

  Edith opened her mouth in protest but closed it again after one look from her mother.

  “You must take it,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “I cannot do anything for that poor girl, Clemmie. I now know had I offered her more assistance she would not have fallen prey to such monsters.” Mercy saw tears welling up in Mrs. Gladstone’s eyes. “And I must live with my cowardice every day for the rest of my life. Let me know I have done some good, yes?”

  Mercy could see her daughter begging silently for her to accept.

  “All right, Edith may accept it.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Gladstone.” Edith wrapped her arms around the woman.

  “Gentle now, gentle. Old women like me are not as agile as we used to be.” Mrs. Gladstone was smiling by the time Edith pulled away. “Well, now that I know you have returned to us from the other side, I must make my leave. It warms my heart to see you are none worse for the wear, Mercy darling.”

  “Thank you for staying by my side, Mrs. Gladstone.”

  “Are we still keeping to our Monday afternoon schedule?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Very well. Until Monday then.” The old woman smiled and slipped between the partitions.

  Mercy turned to Constance in a near panic. “What about the baby?”

  “The baby is fine. She’s in the care of one of Mrs. Gladstone’s maids,” Constance said. “There’s no need to worry on that account.”

  “I imagine that isn’t a permanent solution,” Mercy said.

  “No, it’s not,” Constance agreed.

  “Oh, can we keep it, Mother?”

  Mercy and Constance chuckled. “No, darling. It’s not a kitten. We can’t just bring a baby into our lives. Think of what it will mean for your schooling and my work.” Mercy shook her head. “The child needs someone who wants a baby, not someone like me.”

  Edith immediately looked to her childless aunt.

  A look of panic struck Constance. “Me?”

  “Why not? You and Alexander have wanted a child for some time,” Mercy said.

  “I wouldn’t know the first thing about taking care of a child.”

  Mercy smiled. “We never do before we start.” She looked to her daughter.

  “Oh dear, how will I ever explain this to Alexander when he returns?”

  “Don’t tell him. Just wait and see if he notices,” Mercy said.

  Constance
chuckled. “I knew you would say something like that.”

  ***

  Every fibre of her being told her not to but Mercy kept walking down Robinson Street anyway. It was twilight, that hazy time between the final wisps of sun and total darkness. She should be at home resting, not walking the darkened streets by herself. She couldn’t help herself, though. She was drawn to that street, that house, that man.

  Walker’s doorbell was louder than she expected and even as she pressed the button she questioned her motives. She hadn’t seen him since the day in the warehouse. The day they finally caught up with the Forsyths. There was no telling his reaction when he saw her. Perhaps he felt their acquaintance had met an end. He no longer needed her assistance. The case was solved. Constance told her he had come to the hospital to check on her a few times.

  “He seemed agitated,” Constance had said, on the day Mercy finally left the hospital. “Not his normally guarded self.”

  He may have come to see her while she slept but once she woke she never saw him while in the hospital. Maybe word of her recovery hadn’t reached him or maybe he hadn’t cared.

  The light in the foyer had already been on but the bell brought Walker’s silhouette forth. He opened the door wearing dusty clothes and shirt buttoned only halfway up.

  “You’re out of the hospital,” he said, startled. He quickly fastened the remaining buttons and ran a hand through his hair as if to tame its wildness. “No one told me.”

  “I’m supposed to be resting at home,” Mercy said.

  “But you came here?” He slipped out the doorway and closed the door behind him, scarcely giving Mercy even a glimpse to the insides. “I’d invite you in but…” He glanced over his shoulders, searching for the proper way to explain.

  “Propriety,” she offered.

  “Yes. Um… I’m moving.”

  Mercy stammered. “Are you going far?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Not far. It’s good to see you so well.”

  She pressed her lips together and tried to arrange her words. She had practised what she was going to say so many times on her way over but now that she was looking at him again, her confidence eluded her.

  “I came because… well, I imagine things have turned back to normal. You’ve resumed your regular work and soon I will resume mine.” She took a breath. “And we will have no reason to cross paths.” Was she sounding desperate, lonely even? “I just wanted you to know that I can help, if you need me to. Any time.”

  “I don’t know.” He looked genuinely doubtful. “I wouldn’t want to put you through any more…” He made a gesture with his hands, searching for the appropriate words. “I don’t want you to be in harm’s way.” He seemed to be struggling.

  Mercy kept her gaze on him, anticipating some sort of declaration of interest. She felt it. She felt his concern for her, his attraction to her. She felt the same for him.

  “I don’t think I could handle seeing you in that state again,” he said, meeting her gaze squarely.

  He wasn’t free to say any more. She knew this. As a married man he was bound by law and decency to remain loyal to his wife, a wife who had failed to remain loyal to him. This reality seemed to pain him greatly, causing him to dance a waltz of avoidance. He wasn’t permitted to say anything but that didn’t mean Mercy couldn’t.

  “I love you,” she said, blurting out the words as if it hurt to hold them in. The relief she felt after having spoken them made her smile. “I love you and I understand why you can’t love me back. I can’t decide whether that makes me hate you—”

  “Hate me?”

  “Or love you all the more.”

  The pained expression on his face, a mixture of regret and stoicism, was almost too much for Mercy to bear. “Now that I’ve said that, we can part as friends and nothing more.” She thrust a rigid right hand toward him. He took it reluctantly. “Goodbye, Detective Walker.” She turned on her heels and started down the steps.

  “Mercy, wait!” He touched her hand, coaxing her back. “Mercy, I—”

  A crash sounded in the house behind them, a sound of metal and snapping wood. Walker opened the front door. Mercy came close behind him and peered over his shoulder.

  On the floor in the middle of the foyer sat a woman, a scratch on her face from the wooden crate she had just fallen into. The rest of the crate’s contents had spilled out onto the floor.

  “Ruth?”

  It was Walker’s wife, gone for six months and returned at the most inopportune time. Mercy could have killed her right then and there.

  “Who leaves a crate in the middle of the hall?” Ruth asked, her speech slurred and her motions exaggerated. “I could have broken my neck!”

  Walker scowled. He made no effort to go to her and pull her from the tangled mess on the floor. “How did you get in here?”

  “The back door.” Ruth gave a laugh, shortened by the realization of his anger toward her. “You have to help me, Jeremy,” she said, crawling toward him. “I’m in a boatload of trouble. Heaps of it. It’s bad, honey.”

  Ruth was at his feet, clawing his pant leg for his hands, which remained at his sides. She forced him to help her up.

  “They want to see me hang,” she said, clasping her neck as if the noose stung her already. “They won’t rest until I swing.” She began to sob, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shirt.

  He guided her away from the door. Once they were all inside, Mercy turned and closed the door to the street.

  “Who? Who wants to see you hang?” Jeremiah asked.

  Ruth grabbed his shirt and pushed herself toward his face. Mercy could see the familiarity, the intimacy they once had, the intimacy that still remained. She felt as if she were witnessing something private and sordid. She wanted to run but couldn’t bring herself to leave Walker in such a state of confusion.

  Ruth buried her face in Walker’s chest. “You must hide me,” she said between sobs. “You can’t let them find me. No one must know I am here, understand?” A new round of wailing began.

  Instinctively, he raised a hand to console her.

  “No one must know where I am!”

  As his wife spoke, Walker raised his gaze to Mercy, who still stood dumbfounded at the door. “I think you aught to stay a while longer, Ms. Eaton,” he said, returning to his formal way of addressing her. “I may need your assistance after all.”

  About Tracy L. Ward

  A former journalist and graduate from Humber College's School for Writers, Tracy L. Ward is the author behind the best-selling Marshall House Mysteries which tells the story of morgue surgeon, Dr. Peter Ainsley, and his highborn sister, Margaret Marshall, as they solve crimes using early forensic science. Mercy Me is the first book in a new series set in 19th century Toronto. Currently, Tracy lives on a rural property outside Barrie, Ontario with her husband and their two teenagers.

  To find out more about Tracy’s books follow her on www.facebook.com/TracyWard.Author or visit her website at www.gothicmysterywriter.blogspot.com