The Quality of Mercy by Faye Kellerman

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 wool for hair. Shakespeare extended his hand and Chambers took it.
    “I thank you, kind innkeeper, for permitting me the pleasure of your company,” Shakespeare said.
    “The honor is mine, goodman,” Chambers replied. “Welcome to my humble little hostel.”
    “Nay, it is a splendid hostel,” Shakespeare argued. Such deprecation was not expected to pass without comment. “Full of scrumptious food, fine wines, and company fit for the Queen. Tis truly
English,
goodman.”
    “You are too kind,” Chambers said. “How can I be of service to you?”
    “Did not Alderman Fottingham’s letter explain the purpose of my visit?”
    “Nay. He wrote simply that you wish an audience with me.”
    “Then I shall tell you the purpose,” Shakespeare said. “I’m trying to find out if a friend of mine passed through this town — Harry Whitman.”
    Chambers paled. Shakespeare leaned forward.
    “What do you know about him?” Shakespeare asked.
    “Yes, well… He’s a great player, of course,” Chambers stammered.
    Shakespeare said, “He lodged here often—”
    “No!” cried Chambers. “Who told you that?”
    “He stayed overnight—”
    “No,” Chambers insisted.
    Shakespeare took out a shilling.
    “No,” Chambers said, hitting it out of his hands. “Not for love or money did he lodge here. Good day, sirrah!”
    Chambers stalked away, but Shakespeare followed him. He grabbed the hostler’s arm.
    “Are you challenging me?” Chambers said with sudden viciousness. His hand was clenched around the hilt of his rapier.
    “I pray you,” Shakespeare said, “understand that I loved Harry, that he was most dear to me. If the tendrils of compassion wrap around your heart, let them squeeze it to remind you of the pain of untimely loss — of murder most fell.”
    “Murder?”
    Shakespeare nodded. Chambers had turned ashen.
    “We cannot talk here in public,” Chambers whispered. “Too many open ears. Come with me.”
    Shakespeare followed the hostler down a dim hallway dotted with rushlights housed in rusty wall sconces. At the end of the hall was a small, almost hidden door. Chambers took out a large, brass skeleton key and opened the lock.
    Chambers’s private closet was spacious and brimming over with natural light. The walls were wainscoted with walnut panels below, forest-green silk cloth above the wood. Framed pictures of fish — all kinds of fish — abounded. A large