Have Mercy

By Tracy L. Ward

Mercy Eaton vowed to never set foot inside the Mercer Reformatory for Women again after spending nearly a year confined to one of its holding cells. When her beau, Detective Jeremiah Walker, asks for her assistance with a murder case involving the prison, Mercy outright refuses.

When she realizes the ghost who’s been relentlessly haunting her for days is the same murdered woman Walker came to speak to her about, Mercy is forced to reconsider.

Before long Mercy finds herself deep in the prison’s clutches, embroiled once again in the sordid nature of unjust imprisonment and confronted by demons she’d long since left at the prison gates. As her relationship with Walker hangs by a thread, and with her sanity in question, Mercy puts everything on the line to solve the young woman’s murder and to finally put her own tortured past to rest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy L. Ward
• Release date: Aug 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777842406

Tracy L. Ward

A former journalist and graduate from Humber College's School for Writers, Tracy Ward has been hard at work developing her favourite protagonist, Peter Ainsley, and chronicling his adventures as a young surgeon in Victorian England. Her website can be found at www.gothicmysterywriter.blogspot.com. Tracy Ward is currently working on the second book in the Peter Ainsley mystery series. She lives near Barrie, Ontario with her husband and two kids.

Book preview

Prologue

Toronto, 1890—Mercy was lying facedown on a hard wood floor, thankful for the cool radiance that soothed her skin and calmed her nerves. Her nose was bent, pressed into her by the solid mass that was her bed. Her forehead, however, could not bend. Instead, it had become part of the floor, set in the wood and varnish, tingling with the sensation of something not quite there. She could feel the water that had pooled, which now gelled like gravy left in the pot to cool. She knew if she moved, the water would suction her to the floor and cling to her skin, so she remained still, carefully noting the feeling in her body parts.

Her shoulders were slack, pulled apart by the weight of gravity that seemed to press into her from above. Her arms were at her side, laying as if discarded, unimportant, an afterthought. And her fingers were numb, accented by random and sudden pings of electricity of which she had no control.

She could sense people around her, walking, observing. She could see the shadows formed by their shoes as they walked around her head and shoulders. They shuffled, their hard soles scraping the dirt and sand of the floor, grinding them into the crack in the separated plank of wood right next to her head. When she looked, she could not see much beyond their shoes. She found herself mesmerized by them, watching as the tips of their toes pivoted this way and that. The sound beneath their soles echoed in her ears. There was a light source somewhere, she could tell by the shine of the shoes, but she could not move. Solidified to the floor, Mercy waited. She waited for them to touch her, to move her, to eventually help her up from what felt like her grave.

She tried to speak, moving her mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, she managed to blow dust from the floor, sending up a cloud about her head. A second later she could feel the wisps of dirt cascade back to her face, tickling her ears, pricking the back of her neck. An inhale brought the dust and sand from the floor into the back of her throat. The sensation choked her but she could not cough. The discomfort sat there in her throat, where another pain lay dormant.

The world flashed white and Mercy found herself lying on her back, looking to the cracks and chipped paint of the ceiling. The people around her drew close, leaning over her as if she were a specimen, something to be observed. There was a peculiar expression on their faces as they peered down at her. Their eyebrows knit together, their mouths were slack, their gaze piercing.

It was Mercy’s mother, unforgiving and ashamed. Beside her stood Mercy’s stepfather, his face sour and sinister. Mercy’s eyes went all around the circle, recognizing each of her five elder brothers before landing on Constance, the only one of them to look on with pity. Mercy opened her mouth to speak but the pain at her throat intensified. Frozen to the floor, Mercy couldn’t even raise her hand to her throat in reaction to the discomfort.

Constance was speaking, but Mercy could not hear what she was saying. Intently, Mercy watched, trying in vain to decipher exactly what her sister said. She wasn’t speaking to Mercy but she was pointing at her and yelling, or at least she appeared to be yelling, though Mercy could not hear a sound. The entire room was filled with deafening silence, the sort of low-level hum that would drive one mad. Whatever Constance was saying she was clearly passionate about it, driven to the verge of rage, contorting her face and jerking her pointed finger about.

Was she trying to convince them to help? To lift Mercy from the ground?

A tear formed in the outer edge of Mercy’s eye as she watched. After a moment the tear spilled over, forming a trail down the side of Mercy’s face, draping over the peaks and valleys of her ear before being lost in the strands of her hair. Mercy’s back began to feel wet, then the backs of her heels. She felt the fabric of the sheet-like dress she wore lift as the water rushed upward, swallowing Mercy inch by inch.

Cold, piercing water rushed over her and, before she knew what was happening, she was engulfed. She lost sight of her sister within seconds and then she felt her lungs fill despite keeping her mouth tightly closed. Pain radiated from her chest and her body silently screamed for air. She was dying again. She was going to drown.

Mercy lifted her shoulders from her bed, gasping for air. She could still feel the pain in her throat. She could feel the rapid beating of her heart with her hand at her chest. Ironically, her throat felt dry and cracked. She grasped for the glass of water on her bedside table and drank it down in its entirety. It was a dream, another dream of death, this time in the shape of her family and the water that consumed her.

Chapter 1

What is this place? MacNeal asked.

MacNeal and Jeremiah Walker stood in the shadow of an imposing three-storey building, the structure reminiscent of a workhouse in the old country, a government institution that served as a prison with its barred windows and heavy front doors. Ivy clung to the brick walls, rising gangly from the sliver of dirt that held their roots, and intermingling as it rose higher and higher up the front façade. Their presence, meant to soften the building’s hard exterior, served the opposite purpose by making it resemble something more of a derelict tomb than a revered societal institution.

It’s the Mercer Reformatory for Incorrigible Women, Walker said, the words sticking in the back of his throat as he took in the structure. His heart had quickened at the sight of it and now, standing beneath the arch of the doorway, Jeremiah questioned his ability to remain objective. He forcibly uncurled his fists and slid his hand into his pocket.

This is the place Ms. Eaton spoke of, yes? MacNeal asked, unaware of his partner’s discomfort. Didn’t she say Miss Edith was born here?

Unable to speak, Jeremiah nodded and tried to banish the thought of sweet Edith as a newborn, defenseless and at the mercy of her mother’s jailers.

MacNeal let out a long, drawn-out whistle. He seemed taken in by the structure, and the knowledge of personally knowing someone who was once housed there.

Jeremiah would have preferred MacNeal not have mentioned it. Ms. Eaton was dearer to him than anyone else in the world. Knowing she had once been an inmate was one thing, facing the reality of what her stay actually entailed was another. He was not looking forward to stepping through those doors and seeing for himself the undoubtedly squalid conditions hidden there.

The heavy wooden door opened as they stood. Detectives, yes? a smallish woman asked. She wore a dust cap over curly, black hair and an apron that was fashioned more like a pinafore, covering the majority of her skirt and blouse.

Detective Jeremiah Walker and my partner, Sergeant MacNeal.

She beckoned them to come forth and pushed the door wider to make room for them. I’m Mrs. Agnes Righthouse. Please, come quick.

Her feet moved hurriedly beneath the layers of her skirt as she led them down a long hall. Ahead of them, there was a gathering of young women and girls at one door, each one leaning in over the others, trying for a better view of what awaited the policemen. Mrs. Righthouse was quick to shoo the bystanders away.

That’s enough now, she said, her mouth forming into a bit of a growl. Go. Gid on wid ya.

Most dispersed without protest but a few offered defiant stares and sauntered slowly from their place at the door. It was a challenge, Jeremiah realized, an unmistakable act of control over a situation in which they had none. Jeremiah felt the young women’s eyes on them, men in a place where women were the dominant sex.

Beside him, MacNeal blushed under the attention but Jeremiah felt his skin crawl, wanting the women gone so he could conduct his duties without their scrutiny.

This way, please. Their escort waved her hand for them to follow her into the room.

Watch your step, handsome, a young woman behind Jeremiah said. It’s a bit gnarly in there.

When Jeremiah looked over his shoulder to see who had spoken, the young woman winked and offered a smirk as Mrs. Righthouse shooed her farther down the hall.

My apologies, Detective, she said. These young ladies—

Jeremiah put up a hand. No explanation necessary.

Mrs. Righthouse appeared taken aback by Jeremiah’s acceptance. Yes, well, if you please, Detective Walker.

MacNeal was already well into the room by the time Walker made his way to the door. The dead woman was on the floor, facedown. Her blond hair, stringy and damp, cascaded from the back of her head and fanned out slightly on the floor. The clothing she wore was no more than a flour sack, thin, threadbare fabric that covered her from collar to ankle. Her legs were ramrod straight, her arms at her side. As Jeremiah circled the body, using what little space the room afforded him, he saw that the bottom of her feet were soiled grey.

Are the women here not permitted shoes? he asked, turning his gaze to the woman at the door.

She pointed to the bed, where a pair of brown shoes with thin soles sat partially hidden by a sheet on the bed. We do not permit them laces, she said, on account of the number of abominable things they chose to do with them.

MacNeal returned Jeremiah’s gaze, both of them aware of what she alluded to. Women were not immune to the desperation of a prisoner’s experience. They were just as capable of ending their own suffering as male prisoners.

When was she discovered? Jeremiah asked.

This morning. She was discovered by one of the girls come to empty her pot.

Jeremiah turned to the corner of the room where Mrs. Righthouse pointed. A metal bucket, rusted on the rim and handle, sat empty, but he’d never venture so far as to say it was clean. These doors are locked at night?

Yes.

No cellmate?

Virginia was released three days ago.

No one had access to this room after light’s out?

No, sir. I make sure of it.

Jeremiah knelt at the dead woman’s head to get a better look at her wound. Her forehead lay flat on the cement surface. The normal curvature of her head was gone and the body appeared to be an extension of the floor. There was a small amount of blood, congealed after oozing from the wound. From this angle her hair looked less blond and more ashen, stained and soiled by soot and grime. Jeremiah rubbed a clump between two fingers, pressing the strands apart. There was a crispness to it, like a freshly starched shirt.

He thought to smell the hair as well but knew he’d be scrutinized not only by the woman at the door but also by his partner. There’d be plenty of time later to explore his mounting theories, when the body was safely housed at the city morgue.

What’s her name? MacNeal asked.

Anne Chilton.

And her crime?

When Jeremiah looked up, Mrs. Righthouse released a deep exhale and made a point to lower her shoulders. Jeremiah could not decide if she was annoyed by all their questions or merely agitated by the fact she didn’t have all the answers.

From the hall came the sound of rapid footsteps, boot heels on an unforgiving surface. What is this? A giant of a woman appeared at the door, flustered and angered at Mrs. Righthouse. It appeared as if she did not realize MacNeal and Jeremiah were in the room. I said take her away. Dr. George can see to her. Let him deal with it. I need this roo— She stopped mid-sentence when she bothered to survey the room. "What is this?" she asked curtly, her eyes fixated on Jeremiah.

Detective Inspector Jeremiah Walker. This is my associate, Sergeant Scott MacNeal. We are of the Toronto Police.

This is Ms. EmmaJean Lawson, Mrs. Righthouse said from the door.

How do you do, ma’am? MacNeal said, nodding his acknowledgement.

Her expression remained unfazed. But why are you here? she snapped.

We were summoned, MacNeal said, glancing to Jeremiah, the faint sound of laughter on his words. Naturally.

Not by me, she quipped.

A death has occurred on this premises, Walker said.

The woman snorted. Which is not all that uncommon. Her manner was callous, unaffected by the misery of those in her charge.

For a second Walker entertained the thought that Mercy had once been under this woman’s care. He banished the thought as quickly as it had arrived, knowing if he let it linger it would only bring forth his most base instincts.

You argue that injuries such as these are common in this institution? Walker asked, keeping her gaze and hardening his expression.

His challenge only appeared to amuse her. A smile tickled the edges of her lips. She relished in her power, basked in it, it would seem. While I will admit the circumstances in this case are rather uncommon, the end is not. It’s an unfortunate fact, Detective…?

Walker.

Detective Walker, but is a fact, nonetheless. Had these women had any care for their ultimate well-being they would not have committed the offense which brought them here.

And what was Miss Anne’s offense, exactly? MacNeal asked, his pencil at the ready.

Ms. Lawson finally turned her gaze to the dead girl on the floor. Her mouth twisted slightly, as if trying to pull the information from her memory. A moment passed before she turned to Mrs. Righthouse. The other woman stammered and her shoulders lifted into a shrug.

I’ll have to check our records, Ms. Lawson said. She lifted her arm as if to guide them from the room. Now if you don’t mind, gentlemen, I have two porters on the way to clean this mess up.

MacNeal shifted toward the door, but Walker raised his hand, telling him to stop.

Absolutely not, Ms. Lawson, he said.

The woman blanched. The expression on her face told Walker she had scarcely ever been told no before. I beg your pardon, she said.

This young woman will not be moved. This room will stay exactly as it is until we are finished with our investigation.

And when exactly do you expect that will be?

Walker went to the door and placed his hand on the inside knob. Mrs. Righthouse was standing to the side, her boney hand still clutching the key.

I’m sure it won’t be long, he said, gingerly pulling the key from the older woman’s hand. A month or two, perhaps a bit more. He closed the door slowly, pressing them both out of the room inch by inch. He watched through the narrowing crack and flashed a smile before pushing the door the rest of the way into its frame.

He heard a muffled growl from the other side of the metal.

Do you really believe it will take us so long? MacNeal asked, a look of worry on his face.

Absolutely not. I just said it to piss off the old witch, he said. For now, I don’t want this body moved, not until we can get as much information as we can from it.

Are you thinking of calling in a specialist? MacNeal asked, as Walker knelt down beside the body. A certain unorthodox specialist?

The thought had crossed my mind, Walker said with a breathy air.

You think Ms. Eaton will ever want to come back here, even if it is for just an hour or two?

Walker shook his head. I know she won’t. I certainly did not want to walk through those doors. I don’t have much choice, Walker said. Do you really think either of those women outside this room is going to give us the real story of this place?

MacNeal said nothing. Together they stared at the body, marvelling at the brutality of it.

I need her, MacNeal, Jeremiah said, without taking his eyes from the body. I’ve been trying to avoid it, but this time I really need her.

Chapter 2

Mercy inhaled at the sight of them, a long steadying breath to centre herself. Her cheeks flushed pink at the realization that Jeremiah had come to see her, but her heart thumped rapidly when she realized MacNeal was at his side. She knew almost as soon as she saw them this was not just a friendly visit.

She gave Jeremiah a demure smile before bidding farewell to the clients she was seeing to the door. Do not worry, Mrs. Henson, she said as airily as she could muster. We have everything well at hand and will have it all ready for the service on Friday.

Mrs. Henson and her sixteen-year-old son, his face stoic, bid Mercy farewell with punctuations of gratitude. Mercy had spent the better part of the day sitting with them both in the small office at the back of the building. It had once been Alexander Doyle’s office, a place for him to drink between clients and hide from the work he’d passed on to his wife, Constance, Mercy’s sister. Now, with Alexander dead, the entirety of the work was laid at Constance’s feet, not that the new situation changed much as far as workload for her. Regardless, Mercy had taken it upon herself to ease her sister’s burden and spent most of her days at the funeral home, seeing to the details, to save her sister the inconvenience.

With Mrs. Henson gone, Mercy pulled the door closed and used her gloved hand to slide the lock to bolt the door.

What’s with the gloves? she heard MacNeal whisper to Jeremiah behind her.

When she turned, she saw Jeremiah waving his hand at his side, a signal to quiet down. She pretended she hadn’t seen and plastered a smile on her weary face. How can I help you gentlemen? she asked, aware that her tone lacked the lightheartedness she was aiming for.

Walker took a step forward, as if assigning himself the role of intermediary. Something happened today, he said, his words slow, methodical. He turned slightly to look over his shoulder at MacNeal, who looked even less assured and ready to run from the building. Something distressing that we feel requires your assistance.

Mercy huffed. My assistance? She didn’t bother to hide her amusement. It must be quite serious if the Toronto Police are asking for my assistance.

Their request for help wasn’t entirely foreign. In recent months she had proved her mettle on two high-profile cases within the city’s limits and had made herself invaluable at finding clues and sussing out murderous motivations. She wasn’t a stranger to the police force but, oh, how she wished she could be.

Her amusement was more of an act, a role she had recently decided for herself, one that would distance herself not from Walker, but from his work at least. He looked unfazed by her dismissive response. It was entirely possible he had been anticipating it.

It is, he said, quite serious.

Mercy swallowed. Whatever it was, she had no desire to know. She had lived a life of blissful ignorance until six months ago and she was desperate to return to those days in which her only concern was for her fifteen-year-old daughter, Edith, and her work.

It’s a young woman—

Mercy raised her hand, a gloved palm facing them both. I don’t wish to hear another word. She couldn’t bring herself to look at either of them. I’m sorry, but I haven’t the time. I’m helping my sister, as you can see, and I have my own commitments regarding my own business, of which I have been somewhat neglectful. I simply cannot take on any further responsibilities. She trained her gaze to meet Jeremiah’s. I hope you understand.

He stammered. I do, it’s just… Ms. Eaton…

It involves Mercer, MacNeal blurted out. A woman died in her cell and we need you to tell us how and hopefully by whom.

Jeremiah closed his eyes slightly and bowed his head. It was clear he hadn’t wanted to mention that just yet.

Oh, I see, Mercy said, smiling. Your intention was to deliberately keep that a secret until after I had agreed to help you, is that it?

No, absolutely not, Walker said quickly, taking another step forward. He took a breath as if realizing his words had come out punctuated and angry. It wasn’t my intention to withhold anything from you. His words were sincere, Mercy knew this, but still her frustration could not be abated. I know the last case was difficult on you—

On me? Only me?

On all of us. Now, I’ve respected your wish for distance and I don’t speak of work when we are together, out of respect for you and your decision, but this case… this case is different.

How so? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. She closed her eyes and chided herself for letting her guard down even for a brief moment.

We need to know about the place, MacNeal said, ignoring Walker, who tried to stop him from speaking. We need to know who runs the place and what the routines are.

MacNeal.