she purrs like a kitten during the rutting. Her Christian name is also Catherine.”
“She tells an interesting story.”
“Marry,” the alderman said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “She’s a notorious liar. Her mother lives, as does her father. He’s a whoremonger. Cat is his best moneymaker.”
“I’ve been gulled,” Shakespeare said dryly.
Fottingham laughed. “Fell for her pathetic tale, did you? Paid her twice as much as necessary?”
“I think so.”
“Not to worry,” Fottingham said. “Others have been her coney. Besides, your face would be pleasing to the young girl. I’m sure she was quite enthusiastic with her favors.”
“Quite,” Shakespeare said. “Though she did remark that the hair on my head was scant … the hair on my chin as well.”
“Tact is not the whore’s forte,” the alderman said. “She chides me constantly for my growing belly.” He patted his stomach. “Once I was as trim as you. Once I was as young as you also. The luxury of aging. One may grow fat and content and sport with merry young wenches without bitter tears from the wife. Mine has served her purpose. Fifteen children, ten which still live. She is grateful for the punks. They give her much rest.” Fottingham belched out loud, spied a leftover piece of meat on the floor and popped it in his mouth. Rabbit. Delicious.
“And now I have the pleasure of asking what has brought the player and bookwriter William Shakespeare to Hemsdale.”
“I’m looking for acquaintances of a man—one Henry Whitman—Harry, as he liked to be called.”
“The famous player Harry Whitman?”
“Yes.”
“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
