Mercy Me

  Mercy Me

  Book One, Mercy Me Mystery Series

  Willow Hill House

  Ontario, Canada

  Ebook Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9958914-5-6

  Copyright © 2018 by Tracy L. Ward

  Cover Art Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Allain

  Edited by Lourdes Venard, Comma Sense Editing

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Sophia,

  go forth and give it all you’ve got

  Chapter 1

  1890 — Nothing was more alluring to Mercy than the presence of a dead body. There was something about them and about her connection with them that gave her chills even years after discovering her gift. It was quite fortunate for her that her sister, Constance Doyle, was married to an undertaker, a rather successful one, who was able to keep her in good supply.

  “I’m not a bother, am I?” Mercy asked, knowing damned right well if she were that her only sister would never admit it. Mercy came in and out as she pleased. She was welcomed to the back rooms as if she worked there and was allowed to remain as long as she liked, especially if her brother-in-law never took notice.

  “Just get it over with,” Constance quipped. “You know I don’t like watching you do it.” Constance pressed her lips together and turned her cheek as if to look away but Mercy knew she watched. She’d always been intrigued by her younger sister’s ability.

  Mercy came alongside the body closest to her, a young male, perhaps eighteen years of age. He was covered in a thin sheet, ready for preparation. A haggard, though lovingly pressed suit, hung on a hook nearby. It was Constance who would outfit him for burial, seeing to all his family’s needs for the wake and funeral, before finally bringing the deceased to their final resting place. It was Alexander, Constance’s husband, who always took all the credit.

  The funeral home, most specifically the back room on the first floor of Constance and Alexander’s home, was where Mercy was allowed the most intimate contact with her muse.

  She licked her lips and slowly raised her hands, slipping them under the sheet. She needed to touch skin. It was close contact that would feed her all the information she craved.

  Instantly, Mercy’s vision blackened and scenes began to emerge. As usual, they were merely flashes at first, appearing in rapid succession, before melding into scenes of the young man’s life.

  A pretty schoolgirl who smelt of lilacs.

  A cold bowl of porridge.

  A rap on the knuckles by a nun’s strap.

  Mercy winced at the memory of the pain and nearly pulled her hands back. Eventually, she found the end of the young man’s life, ended prematurely by some stomach complaint. She pulled her hands away and crossed herself.

  Neither Mercy nor Constance were Catholic. Mercy in particular was not much of anything, but if her gift had taught her anything it was to never put all her eggs in one basket.

  “He led a good life,” she said with an approving nod. “Short as it was.”

  From across the room Mercy could see Constance lift her eyes heavenward. “I’m sure he’s glad to know he meets your approval.”

  Mercy ignored her sister’s words and approached the second body. It was an older gentleman aged well into his fifties, not yet dressed in his burial clothes and awaiting his turn with the embalming machine. He had luscious dark hair with more grey strands on the side, Mercy noted. If only her brother-in-law would allow such graceful aging. Alexander put product in his hair, some sort of sticky agent to keep the straight strands in place. This was one of the many reasons Mercy had never quite approved of him.

  “This one will be better. He’ll provide more salacious details,” she said, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

  “Why do you do that?” Constance asked, inching closer. “Rub your hands together? If your hands are cold, they won’t feel it.”

  Mercy shrugged. She had seen it done by a doctor once before he touched his patient and it had become habit, a courtesy perhaps, to the newly deceased. If Mercy was honest, however, she would admit that it made the sensation of touching the body all the more thrilling. Cold, dead bodies next to cold, alive hands didn’t always mix well.

  Mercy touched the man’s hand, cupping it gently with her own, and closed her eyes in anticipation. It never took long for the bodies to tell her all she needed to know. In this case, however, there was nothing. Mercy’s eyes popped open and she began stroking the man’s hands more hurriedly, as if to wake the energy, or whatever it was that fed her the images.

  “How did he die?” she asked, her voice shaking somewhat.

  “His dory capsized near the lighthouse,” Constance explained as she drew near. “Why do you ask? What is it?”

  Mercy turned her attention to the man’s face and laid both of her hands on his scruffy jowls. She was leaning over him awkwardly, her nose a mere inch from his. Nothing was making any sense. The man’s body should be giving her a number of impressions, both good and bad. She searched his face, frantic but most of all worried that she was somehow losing her gift.

  “I don’t know—”

  The man’s eyes popped open. His mouth drew in a long breath, a gasp for air that sent heinous chills up Mercy’s spine. The shock of it sent both women clamouring to get away. Constance clung to Mercy as they ran for the door screaming.

  ***

  Constance Doyle’s home was unlike anything else in Toronto. Ignoring the fact that the main floor was subjected to a constant rotation of dead bodies, the house she shared with Alexander was pristine to the point of sterility. Their private parlour was on the second floor, which also housed their kitchen, bedchamber, and a second sitting room. Years prior the third floor and attic had been fashioned into bedrooms for their intended children, children which never came. Constance, a woman nearly exiting her thirties, had long ago given up on the desire to have a child of her own and subsequently surrendered the third floor to their singular maid, Lottie, who wasn’t much of a housekeeper or cook, but was all the Doyles could afford.

  Mercy waited for her sister in the parlour, ignoring the overly sweet tea that had been set down beside her, and looked out the large window that gave a good vantage over the street below. The commotion and movement was constant with carts and carriages heading one way or the other and pedestrians filling in all the gaps between. Farther down the road a horse-drawn omnibus was stalled at the intersection, the way marred by an overturned cart of vegetables. Cabbages, potatoes, and the first harvest of August apples were strewn about, creating fodder for half-starving waifs and street riffraff alike.

  A woman across the road shooed a rabble of street children from her husband’s bake shop door before catching one who wasn’t as quick as the others by the ear. Mercy could not hear what the woman said, but she imagined a shrill voice filled with vinegar as she dragged the boy to the gutter. The baker’s wife was so focused on her lecture she did not see the young child reach down to pluck a dried patty of horse dung from the dusty roadway. Flinging the dung, the boy laughed, delighted to see his ammunition had hit its mark. Mercy chuckled as she watched the boy scurry away, weaving through the snarled traffic as the woman, shocked beyond words, dusted off the front of her bodice.
>
  “What’s so amusing?”

  Mercy looked away from the window at the sound of her brother-in-law’s voice. He stood at the stairs with his jacket draped over his arm and a troubled look on his face.

  “I hope you aren’t laughing at Mr. Morris,” Alexander said as he shuffled his way to the sideboard. Ashen and pudgy, it was clear to Mercy that he was not aging well. He carried the weight of an anvil at his midsection and appeared to have recently gained more by the way the buttons of his vest threatened to pop their threads. “His family is very grateful to have him back.” He poured himself a brandy and watched the amber liquid swirl around in his glass before downing it in one greedy gulp.

  “Is that his name? Mr. Morris?”

  “Yes.” Alexander sneered. “He’s a pillar in the community as well. I can’t say how fortunate we are that he remembers nothing of your little performance.”

  “Performance? Is that what you’ve decided to start calling it?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no need for you to keep up the charade with me. I’ve been married to your sister for eighteen years now—”

  “Eighteen rather long years.”

  If Alexander heard her remark he took no note of it.

  “—and I have yet to see you perform one unexplainable act.”

  Mercy’s jaw dropped. She could name dozens and those were just the ones she could rhyme off the top of her head.

  Alexander saw her astonishment and smiled. “It’s not as if your stories can be corroborated, I mean. They’re dead.”

  “They may be dead to you, Alexander, but they still wish to speak to me.”

  He tilted his head toward her. “Name one instance when your gift has affected any sort of change for those of us still living. Huh?”

  “How about when I discovered where Mr. Reynolds stashed his last will and testament?” Mercy could feel her throat tighten as she spoke. This wasn’t the first time she had been challenged, and it certainly wasn’t the first time her brother-in-law had been the catalyst of it.

  “Most men keep their important papers in their study,” Alexander replied with a shrug. He poured himself another glass, this time measuring out a little more than the last. “His family only had to open up each book on his shelf to find it. I have no doubt they would have discovered it eventually.” He took a sip and then inhaled a breath of delight as the liquor hit his throat.

  “Mrs. Matthews was glad to have recovered her pearls,” Mercy pointed out after a moment of thought.

  “But she would have rather not known her husband had given them to his mistress shortly before he died,” he said, the brandy glass partway to his lips.

  Mercy worked hard to hide her amusement. “That’s hardly my fault.”

  She watched as Alexander downed the rest of his brandy before turning to the sideboard to pour himself a third helping. He’d be drunk in another hour or so, Mercy was certain, but at least she’d not have to be there to see it or suffer his wrath when something set him off. Her presence alone was usually enough to make her a target. Unlike Constance, her brother-in-law was less inclined to offer her an open invitation. “For Pete’s sake, Mercy, what are you doing here?”

  “Can’t a woman visit her sister without answering to the inquisition?” She offered a playful smile but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

  “No.”

  Alexander Doyle had made his mind up about her years ago. A trollop, a floozie, a harlot, he’d called her all that and more, under his breath and straight to her face. He cared little for Mercy’s daughter and concerned himself even less with Mercy herself.

  Constance came up the stairs then, smiling expectantly, but her jubilation faded when she saw her husband had already come up from his office. “Hello, dear,” she said.

  There were two sides to Constance, Mercy had discovered. There was Connie, her sister, dearly loved and equally loving, and there was Constance, dutiful wife and helpmeet to a grump of a husband who deserved so little of her devotion. Mercy had also learned years ago that she should never say as much out loud no matter how much Alexander conspired to goad her.

  Constance eyed her husband as she crossed the room to a basket of linens, washed and then dried on the lines on their roof, and began the task of ironing and folding them. “A brandy at midday?” she asked, spying the tumbler in her husband’s hand.

  Alexander gave his wife a sideways glance and slapped down the tumbler on the sideboard, making sure Constance had seen.

  Squaring his shoulders to his wife, Alexander puffed out his chest and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Did I smell a cake baking earlier this morning?”

  Constance looked to Mercy and would have winked had her husband not been standing three feet away from her. “Not unless Lottie decided to tackle something in the kitchen.”

  Alexander snorted. “The last cake she made nearly sent me to my own grave.” He looked up as if suddenly remembering something. “I distinctly recall the smell of lemon.”

  His wife shook her head, frowning. “I put lemon in my rinse water.” She raised a napkin to remind him about the laundry. “Perhaps you were smelling that.” She splayed it out on the ironing board. “Besides, I had no time for baking this morning, you know that, what with Mr. Morris coming back from the dead and all.”

  Mercy and Constance exchanged mischievous glances.

  “Perhaps it was coming from one of the neighbours,” Mercy offered.

  Constance was quick to agree. “Yes, of course. The neighbours.”

  Alexander eyed his wife and sister-in-law suspiciously. He had never gotten used to their little inside jokes, their manner of understanding each other without the need to speak a word. He was jealous, Mercy reasoned, and always would be because nothing, not a husband or niece, could ever come between them.

  Constance’s eyes alighted. “Wasn’t the carpenter coming for a consultation at one?”

  “Damn!” He ran a hand over his facial stubble and mouth, contemplating the afternoon in front of him. “Why can’t a man ever get a moment’s peace?”

  Mercy loved watching her sister outmanoeuvre him. Constance standing up to her husband, in her own discreet way, meant Mercy no longer had to worry about her sister as she had when they first married. During their courtship, Alexander had been a true gentleman, but much of that changed the day after their honeymoon. During the early years of their marriage, Mercy had often wondered how her meek and mild sister would fare while living under the scrutiny of such a domineering man. Mercy herself had far less patience for traditional men, those men who desired a wife to be docile, obedient, and accommodating. Mercy was none of those things and never had been. She would not have wasted eighteen years of her life on such a man.

  To her credit, Constance had eked out her own methods of handling him, keeping him tethered through less obvious means. The fact that they had no children allowed her to cultivate these skills more precisely without the distraction of pregnancy, babies, and the unavoidable chaos that followed suit. Alexander was difficult but Constance was intelligent and that alone meant Mercy did not have to fear for the well-being of her sister.

  Though amused, the sisters remained quiet as he snatched up his jacket and stomped down the wooden stairs. Once he was truly gone, Constance heaved a sigh, tossed the ironing aside, and turned to her sister with a soft smile.

  “Care for some lemon cake?”

  Constance went to the kitchen and knelt before one of lower cupboards. The spot was chosen specifically for the reason that they both knew Alexander would never venture so far into that room, and if he had, he’d not be so inclined to crouch down for a look.

  Mercy met her sister in the adjoining room and together they set the table for tea.

  “What did Dr. Blair say?” Mercy asked as she watched her sister cut into the freshly iced cake.

  “Well, he said it is possible that Mr. Morris may have been unconscious when he was brought in. He said the combination of th
e cold water and the blow to the head sent his body into a deep sleep.”

  “So deep Dr. Blair issued an erroneous death certificate?” Mercy remained skeptical. Tales such as these existed, mostly passed on via old wives and fearful schoolchildren. The thought of being buried alive permeated throughout the provinces and had been dubbed “the worst way to go” by nearly everyone who heard such a tale. She shivered at the thought.

  Constance shrugged as she handed a generous slice of lemon cake to Mercy. “I am only glad we discovered the error when we did. Another hour and Mr. Morris would have… well, you know.”

  Mercy smiled at her sister’s discomfort with death.

  “Don’t you think it would be better for the family, though?” Mercy asked.

  “What? For Mr. Morris to be buried alive?” She took her place at the table opposite Mercy.

  “He was already dead in their minds. They were preparing to say their permanent goodbyes and then he waltzes back into their lives only to have to die again on them some other day.”

  Constance sighed heavily.

  “It’s cruel,” Mercy said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  She saw Constance nod from the other side of the table if only to end the argument.

  “It’s a rhetorical question, Connie. It wouldn’t hurt you to think about things with a little more reflection.”

  “Eat your cake,” she said, using the knife to point at Mercy’s plate. “I went to a great deal of trouble to get you Alexander’s share and I won’t see it go to waste. And don’t let me forget to send some home with you for Edith.”

  ***

  With a basket set into the crook of one arm and a small sack of donations in the other, Mercy exited the funeral parlour’s front door and made her way west on the sidewalk just as Alexander was bidding farewell to the carpenter in the alley. She couldn’t help but steal a glance at the handful of caskets that were piled up next to the wagon. They were all empty, of course, constructed by special order, some more ornate than others but all fulfilling their task just the same. They’d be stored in the cellar, if not occupied straight away. Mercy smiled when she caught the eye of her brother-in-law. His mood had soured further and she was glad she wouldn’t be around to make the evening even more difficult for Connie.