The Quality of Mercy (65 page)

In the springtime the dreary burg had been livened by the hawking tunes, the colorful stalls on the streets, lute music and young maidens dancing. But draped in the coarse, dark fabric of winter, the town looked to be in mourning. The streets were deserted, the houses seemed to shiver in the cold. Shakespeare rode a few feet down the main road. The houses faded into the darkness, their presence hinted at by an occasional flicker of a rush candle leaking through warped wooden shutters.

Shakespeare noticed the red lattice of a tavern. He dismounted, went inside and looked around. The alehouse was dark and foul-smelling, with air that made the skin itch. It had been a while since the floor rushes had been changed. They had turned dirty, were coated with grease and God only knew what else. Huddled groups of drinkers sat in corners, buxom wenches upon their knees. Shakespeare felt inside his doublet for his dagger. It rested comfortably at his side. If hap be sweet, by his side it would stay. He spied a tapster — a man so fat as to be round — and walked up to him.

“Where can a man stable his horse for the night?” Shakespeare asked.

“Twopence for the horse, twopence for a bucket of feed.”

Shakespeare nodded. “How about bedding for myself?”

“On the floor,” the tapster said. “At two in the morn, after all the paying men have left. Twopence for that too.”

“The man’s not interested in your hospitality, Rupert,” interrupted a familiar voice. Shakespeare recognized it instantly. He turned around and at a well-shadowed table spotted Alderman Fottingham highlighted by the blaze of the hearth. He sat about three feet from the table’s edge — his girth had grown to enormous proportions. He wore a black robe trimmed with ermine, and his beard was longer than ever. Fottingham waved Shakespeare over.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said. His deep voice hadn’t changed a whit. “I just wondered what took you so long. Come join me, if you will.”

“I must stable my horse,” said Shakespeare.

“Rupert,” Fottingham said to the tapster, “take the horse outside and stable it for my good cousin, Shakespeare. He is my guest.”

The tapster nodded, then snarled when the alderman had turned his head away.

“Man’s as fat as a distended bull’s bladder, is he not?” Fottingham whispered. He patted his own rotund belly. “I should pass judgment, eh?”

Shakespeare laughed.

“What shall you drink?” asked the alderman.

“Ale for starts.”

Fottingham pushed his tankard in front of Shakespeare’s face. “Drink,” he ordered.

“I couldn’t—”

“Drink, boy,” insisted Fottingham. “I’ve had more than enough.” He dried his upper lip on his sleeve. “If I drink any more, I’ll float home. It displeases my wife when I’m overbloated.”

Shakespeare brought the tankard to his mouth.

“So, what have you found out about your friend, Harry Whitman?” Fottingham asked, his cheeks flushed.

Shakespeare was surprised by the alderman’s directness — no doubt due to excessive drinking. He answered, “I found out that Edgar Chambers is a liar.”

“I could have told you that, if that is indeed the sole reason you came up here. And in such ungodly weather? Poor boy! Drink, drink. Warm your stomach.”

Shakespeare took a large quaff of ale and asked, “Why do
you
say Chambers is a liar?”

“Why is the sun yellow? Why is a clear sky blue? It is because it
is
. Tis the will of God. Chambers is a liar because he is a liar. Everybody knows that.”

Shakespeare paused a moment, wondering why the alderman hadn’t told him that during his first trip up North. Fottingham was a strange animal — jovial, hospitable, helpful. But something about his eyes told Shakespeare that he had yet to play all his cards.

Fottingham noticed Shakespeare was quiet and added, “Aye, Chambers is a liar and a braggart. But he’s harmless.”

Shakespeare didn’t think that was true, but now was not the time to challenge the alderman. He said, “Some ungodly talk has been written here, with Harry the unwitting protagonist.”

The alderman picked up a pewter pitcher and refilled Shakespeare’s tankard. “Tongues do flap indiscriminately,” he said.

“Which tongues?” Shakespeare asked.

“Everyone,” said Fottingham. “Gossip is the mainstay of small burgs.”

“What
words
do they flap?” Shakespeare asked.

“That Harry was… how do I say this delicately…”

“That Harry was a buggerer,” said Shakespeare.

Fottingham laughed. “Where is the poetry of your language, Shakespeare?”

“There is a time for poetry and a time to speak plainly. From what
I
knew of Harry, the gossip’s not true. Who started the evil rumor?”

“I know not.”

Shakespeare said, “Aye, the gossip monger is an anonymous writer. From whose lips did
you
hear those words?”

“It was last year. I don’t remember.”

“Why would a burg invent tales about a man it hardly knew?” asked Shakespeare.

“All small burgs are afeared of the Londoner. He’s a natural subject of gossip. And Harry, though not intrusive, was known to have read a bawdy piece of poetry now and then at the Fishhead. He made many a man laugh — a marvelous comedian he was — so unlike the man I saw on stage six years ago. A tragic figure he played back then.”

“Harry was a great player. He could become anyone.”

The alderman thought for a moment, then said, “Yet he remained skillfully private about his personal life. So fanciful minds here filled in the blank space.”

“Did you see any seeds of truth in this weed of a rumor?”

“No,” Fottingham admitted.

“Why did Harry choose to stay at the Fishhead Inn, when Hemsdale has its own fine inn?”

The alderman shrugged.

“Were Harry and Chambers…” Shakespeare paused. “Were they known to be friendly to each other?”

Fottingham smiled. “I don’t know, Shakespeare. Edgar has been known to partake of the local whores here, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be doing other things privately.”

“Did Harry ever dally with a local whore? Mayhap with that whore who is also a notorious liar. The one that I had.”

“Remind me again which one you had. All stews are notorious liars.”

Shakespeare described the whore. He wanted Fottingham to mention the name.

“That sounds like Bess.”

“That wasn’t her name,” Shakespeare said.

“Maybe it was Cat.”

“That was it,” said Shakespeare.

“Aye, Cat’s a wily little thing.” Fottingham thought a moment. “She lies for the fun of it. Whitman might have dallied with her, though you’ll never know by asking her. I never saw them together. Then again, I don’t go around spying on people.”

Shakespeare said, “Of course you don’t—” He stopped talking when he saw it. Out of the corner of his eye. A shadow exiting the tavern. Black and ominous. His muscles tightened, his heart raced. A blink and it was gone. Disappeared. Dematerialized. A poof of smoke blown away by wind. He bolted up, needing to follow it, but Fottingham grabbed his arm and held him back.

“What is it?” the alderman asked.

“Did you see that!”

“What?”

“That man who just left?”

“No.”

“That shadow! That man! Who was he?”

“Shhh,” the alderman said. “Calm down.”

Shakespeare suddenly realized he was shouting. Eyes were upon him. He felt a jolt of heat sizzle through his body.

“Sit down,” Fottingham said quietly.

“I…” Shakespeare lowered his voice. “I must follow that man.”

“There was no man, Shakespeare,” said Fottingham. “Sit down.”

“No,” Shakespeare said. “No. I must leave.”

“Very well. Come to my house, then.” The alderman asked for their capes, gloves, and scarves. Once they were in hand, the two of them left. The nighttime had turned the air unbearably icy, yet it felt soothing on Shakespeare’s burning forehead.

The two men mounted their horses and rode to the alderman’s house. A serving man took their coats and led them into a hall warmed by a burning fire. The room was sparsely furnished — six chairs and a wooden table that held steaming pots of cider. A chamberlain lit the floor sconce, and shadows flickered against the tapestries on the walls. Fottingham offered Shakespeare a chair and asked,

“What has been happening to you in London?”

Shakespeare told him the story of the phantasmal man in black and a ruffian named George Mackering.

“And you think you just saw this specter or man?”

Shakespeare nodded.

“Could it have been this cur Mackering?” asked the alderman.

“I don’t think so, as he already passed on his chance to kill me. I think he hopes that I’ll lead him to Harry’s killer.”

“A man like Mackering could find the killer himself.”

“Maybe,” said Shakespeare. “But Mackering is a very visible man. Easy to spot, easy to hide from.”

“In sooth,” said Fottingham. “Why’s Mackering interested in Harry’s killer?”

Shakespeare paused, wondering if he was talking too freely. Yet there seemed no point in hiding the truth. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that Mackering was an extortionist on top of his other nefarious activities. Shakespeare explained that Harry had been paying the uprightman money to keep secrets.

Fottingham bit his lip, stroked his beard. He asked, “Is Harry a Papist? His uncle was a Jesuit, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Shakespeare lied.

Fottingham took a gulp of cider. “Are the Henleys Papists? They are rumored to be.”

“And Harry was rumored to be a buggerer,” said Shakespeare. “We know what rumors are worth.”

“True,” said Fottingham. “What was Harry’s secret, then?”

“I don’t know,” Shakespeare continued lying. He heard Harry’s booming voice in his head.

An actor must be such an adroit liar that even should his wife catch him fucking a wench, he could convince her otherwise.

What lies could he tell her?
Shakespeare had asked, laughing.

Why, that she was seeing things, of course… or the poor girl had just fainted and you were just giving her air.

Through her legs?

No one ever said acting wasn’t challenging, Shakespeare!

Letting go of the memory, Shakespeare steered the discussion back to Chambers. He asked the alderman if the hostler were capable of murder.

Fottingham said, “If the rewards were high enough. As you may well remember, Chambers is fond of money.” The alderman paused. “Yet why would he risk his life knowing that Harry’s death would incur Mackering’s wrath?”

Shakespeare conceded the point. But somebody did Harry in. And most likely he wasn’t murdered by highway robbers. Harry had no money on him worth protecting. He’d gambled — or given — most of it away to Mackering.

Fottingham fidgeted in his chair, rocking his meaty buttocks over the hard wooden seat. His face was beet red, his nose protruded with veins. Shakespeare knew his host was tired, and didn’t want to overstay his welcome. But when he rose to leave, Fottingham insisted that he spend the night. The alderman walked him to the guest chambers, and just as Shakespeare was about to close the door, Fottingham asked him who he thought his specter was.

Shakespeare hesitated a moment, then said, “A man who nobody notices.”

“That wouldn’t be Chambers,” said Fottingham.

“No,” said Shakespeare. “I would have noticed
him
. But it could be someone who was paid by Chambers. Someone whose presence is always around us but we never notice. Someone as common as dirt.”

Someone like a beggar, he thought. Or someone like a whore.

The next morning was again marked by blizzards. It wasn’t until late afternoon that Providence’s wrath had abated. Shakespeare thanked the alderman and headed out to the Fishhead Inn.

Upon his arrival, dozens of men stood about the front door of the public house. Another dozen had gathered around the enormous walnut sign of the carved fish. As Shakespeare rode up to the door, an expensively dressed man waved him away. He wore a thick velvet doublet under an ermine-lined cape and looked like an older version of Chambers. He sprouted the same ginger hair but thinner, the same pinched features, but the skin held a wrinkle or two. Shakespeare imagined that he was Edgar Chambers’s brother.

“We’re closed,” he shouted.

Shakespeare stopped and dismounted. “What’s the problem?”

“There is a suitable inn in Hemsdale not more than two hours’ ride from here. It’s called the Grouse—”

“I’m well aware of Hemsdale,” said Shakespeare. “I just came from there.”

“Are you going south?” asked the tapster.

“Aye.”

“Then five miles following the main road there is an inn called the Portwater.”

“Good, good,” said Shakespeare. “I’ll lodge there. What about all these other men? Are they staying here?”

“Yes. They’ve already paid for their lodging.”

“Cannot I pay as well?”

“No,” said the man firmly. “The magistrate will not allow any new gentlemen in the inn today.”

“Why?”

The caped man rubbed his gloved hands together. “There has been a terrible incident,” he said quietly. “Just simply dreadful. My brother… the innkeeper has been murdered.”

Though shocked, Shakespeare’s face registered nothing. He looked about the crowd of men for a familiar face. To his eye they were all strangers. Yet shadows were notorious for hiding in small places.

“Edgar Chambers was your younger brother?” Shakespeare asked.

“Yes.” The man looked at Shakespeare suspiciously. “How did you know?”

“You look like him. I’ve met your brother. I’ve stayed here before.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“It was only once,” Shakespeare said. “A long time ago.”

Chambers seemed satisfied with the explanation.

“This is just terrible.” His voice was bordering on hysterical passion. “An incident such as this one can drive away business for years. I should have known better than to let Edgar handle such responsibility. You can’t do anything well unless you do it yourself, you know. Edgar was notorious for getting himself into trouble. And I, famous for always having to pull him out of the muck—” Chambers suddenly clutched his arms. “My God, what am I saying? My God! My God!”