The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman
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“Are you his friend or his enemy?”
“His friend,” Shakespeare replied.
“His company played here six years ago,” Fottingham said. “The troupe was very well received. Whitman was particularly impressive. He and that other one, who was quite a bit younger.”
“Richard Burbage.”
“Yes, that was the name,” said the alderman. “But you weren’t with them.”
“I wasn’t in London at the time.”
“Where is your birthplace?”
“Warwick.”
“Never made it this far north before?”
“Not until this day,” Shakespeare said. “Mayhap Harry passed through here recently?”
“Harry passed through here yearly,” Fottingham said. “On his way down from his visits with his cousin, Lord Henley.”
“You knew Harry well?” Shakespeare asked.
“Hardly at all,” said Fottingham. “But Harry is hard to miss. He’s a noticeable man physically—big and hairy. But as big as Harry is, tis his voice that is most memorable.”
Shakespeare said, “He played it as if it were a viol—deep and beautiful. His soliloquies could bring one to tears.”
Fottingham saw moisture in the younger man’s eyes. He stared at Shakespeare and said, “What happened to Harry?”
Shakespeare whispered, “He was murdered.”
“God’s blood, that’s horrible!” Fottingham seemed genuinely surprised. “Henley never said a word. When did this happen?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Where was he done in?”
“In the open countryside about fifteen miles from here. He was found dead, stabbed, left to rot in a sheep’s cot.”
“Good heavens!”
Neither one spoke. Fottingham suddenly squinted his eyes with suspicion and asked Shakespeare,
“And why are you here?”
Shakespeare replied, “I’m trying to find out what happened to him during his last days. Perhaps you know of someone who had talked to him as he passed through Hemsdale?”
“Not I.” The alderman lifted a thigh and passed wind. “I don’t even recall seeing him two weeks ago, although I know he passed through Hemsdale every year right before Mayday.”
“But you had spoken to him in the past?” Shakespeare asked.
“A word or two,” the alderman said. “Harry never resided at our local inn—The Grouse. He literally passed through the town.”
Fottingham paused. Shakespeare knew there was more but like the line well-acted, timing was of crucial importance. He waited for the alderman to continue. A minute later, Fottingham said, “It might be wise if you let the dead rest in peace, my friend. It’s possible you’ll discover things about Harry that are best left buried.”
“Such as?”
“Things.”
“Specifically.”
“Just things.” The alderman closed his mouth stubbornly.
Shakespeare chose not to push him further. He said, “A poor outcome is a consequence of gambling. I’ll chance the game.”
“Why is this bit of intrigue important to you?” the alderman asked. “It won’t restore breath to Harry’s nostrils.”
“I have reasons.”
“Revenge on his murderer?”
“Perhaps.”
“It will eat you alive, Shakespeare. Rot the flesh off the bones. The fiend could be anyone—a man with a personal grudge, a hot-headed drunk, a madman. Leave revenge to the hands of God.”
Shakespeare said nothing.
“Revenge is a wily bastard, goodman,” said Fottingham. “Be careful or you’ll suffer the same fate as your friend.” The alderman paused, then said, “Go to the Fishhead Inn and talk to the innkeeper—Edgar Chambers. Harry often stayed there. I’ve even heard him recite some of his bawdy poetry there. It was quite clever and very randy. I shall write you a letter of reference for Chambers.”
“Thank you, sir, for your sound counsel and help.” Shakespeare stood up. “Is Lord Henton in his residence?”
Fottingham stood and let out a rakish laugh. “Aye. But he won’t be telling you anything important. He’s weak in the head.” The alderman tapped his temples. “And old and feeble. His quill has been quite dry for years now, though it doesn’t bother his young, pretty wife. Her parchment is well-saturated.”
Shakespeare smiled, noticed the gleam in the alderman’s eye.
“You’ll get nothing from the old lord,” Fottingham said, scribbling out a letter on a scrap of paper. “Speak with Chambers at the Fishhead. He’s a slippery man, Shakespeare. Selectively quiet. You may need to expend a tuppence or two before the innkeeper grows loquacious.”
“Rare is the man who dances not to the tune of jingling coins.”
“True words, my boy,” said the alderman. He closed the letter with his seal and handed it to Shakespeare. In return, Shakespeare drew his poniard from its hilt.
“A gift for your kindness,” he said, extending the dagger.
“Nay, insult me not, goodman.”
“But the insult will be mine, sir, if you accept it not.”
“If I come to London, treat me as I treated you.”
“But I cannot hope to entertain you in such a splendid manor.”
“Then invite me to witness you on stage.”
“Done a thousand times.”
The Fishhead Inn lay on the rocky banks of Loch Gelder, a small shadow of the steely, blue water. From time to time the smooth surface of the looking glass would crack open and up would jump an industrious gilded-scaled gudgeon or a silvery loach sided with streaks of pastel pinks and blues. Long seasons of heavy rainfall were common, and flooding of the inn from the lake was warded off by a barrier of piled boulders.
The hostel was modest in size, holding one hundred fifty able-bodied men. The architecture was simple—two stories of plastered walls, roofed with rifts of oak timber. A fine brick chimney puffed out clouds of muddy brown smoke.
The welcome sign—the hallmark of a quality inn—was fashioned from a solid block of walnut. Carved out of the center was a loach painted in bright reds and greens, with its tail curved under its belly. FISHHEAD INN was carved about the loach in bold, blue letters. The rest of the block was smooth, finished wood, sanded and varnished to a high gloss. Three feet in length, six inches in depth, the sign was too large and heavy to hang. Instead it was propped up by two oak posts.
Excessive and costly, thought Shakespeare.
He went inside, sat down at a small, round table and ordered a bottle of the cheapest port on the fareboard—two shillings sixpence. His money was draining, and he hoped his luck at the hare races would continue as it had the past year. He drank half the bottle then, fueled by the warm glow of the spirits, asked the tapster if he might have a word or two with Edgar Chambers. Shakespeare handed him his letter of reference. Minutes later a man sat down at his table and introduced himself as Chambers.
Young, Shakespeare noticed. Perhaps as much as ten years younger than himself. At the most twenty. Ruddy red cheeks and a fleece of strawberry-blond