The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Henley said, “Oddly, Harry never asked me for money until three years ago. After that his need for money became insatiable. He borrowed no less than one hundred pounds from me the last time he was here.”

  “One hundred pounds!”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear Providence, where did that money go? It wasn’t upon him when his body was discovered?”

  “The highwaymen probably took it,” said Henley.

  “But they left him several shillings in his pockets.”

  “Perhaps the few shillings were overlooked.”

  “Perhaps.” Shakespeare shook his head. “One hundred pounds! And this habit of borrowing was recent?”

  Henley said, “Three years ago. I remember it clearly, because I was so surprised. Up to that point Harry had never wanted anything from me, certainly not my money. He’d been red-faced when he’d made the request.”

  “Have you known Harry to gamble?” Shakespeare asked.

  Henley shook his head no, then neither spoke. Henley knew Shakespeare wouldn’t give up. The balding mule meant to talk to the priest—dear God, he even knew the father’s name—and he wouldn’t leave until he did. Henley wanted him out of his life, and the sooner the better. A minute passed in silence, then Henley smiled bleakly, feeling like a sparrow caught in a cap. He said,

  “Wait here, Shakespeare. I’ll see if I can find your imaginary Fra Silvera. If such a person is willing to speak with you, I’ll not object.”

  Chapter 46

  The outside chapel formed a ninety-degree angle with the east wing of Brithall. It was built from fieldstone—small, pebbly rocks instead of large, hewn blocks—yet its walls, Henley told Shakespeare, were as thick as those of a fortified castle. There was a grace to the building, its intricately carved door arched harmoniously with its windows. The panes of leaded glass were glazed as clear as springwater. The church seemed to rise endlessly into the full-mooned sky, peaking so high that the top of the spire was obliterated by the night fog and clouds. The interior, Henley lectured, could hold hundreds of people for worship, sufficient pew space for any guests that the family might entertain, including the Queen and her retinue.

  Yet Shakespeare knew the chapel was nothing but a showpiece. There was another spot, a place well hidden from view, where true prayer took place.

  Henley pursed his lips and blew out frigid air. Nothing was going to dissuade him from taking his nightly stroll, not the weather, not Shakespeare. He noticed the player trembling with cold, but shrugged it off. Let the man learn how to live with the elements. A bit of frostbite was not fatal…if only it were. One sure way to get rid of this man who knew too much. As it was, Henley had no choice but to appease him. Let him converse with the Fra, and hopefully that would be the end of his visits. Only when the viscount’s own toes and fingers tingled painfully did he suggest they finish the walk.

  Shakespeare answered him with a dutiful, “Whatever you wish, m’lord.” He flexed his fingers, trying to bring blood to the near-frozen tissue. His hands were numb, on their way to frostbite, but mercifully not quite there yet. His toes were warmer—only pain and no numbness. Rubbing his hands together, he thought Henley a malevolent prig.

  The viscount led Shakespeare around the chapel, then back to the far west tower. Once inside he picked a lit torch from a wall sconce and motioned for Shakespeare to follow him upward. The spiral staircase was low—Shakespeare had to crouch—the stone of the steps smooth with wear. The stairs ended at the archway of the heraldry hall. Swords were hung in circular formation, the tips converging to a center point as if the blades were petals on a metallic flower. Family crests were positioned between the sword daisies. Full suits of armor stood around the room, invisible guards propped up by wires and sticks. Yet in the dimness they looked menacing and impenetrable. Henley walked hurriedly through the hall—no more lectures about ancestry—to its far end, and opened a small door.

  Hands and feet still aching from the cold, Shakespeare followed him into a small guest closet. The cell barely accommodated a mattress and a table upon which were a pitcher and basin for washing. The stone walls were flat and unadorned, but the east wall did hold an immaculately clean hearth, too large for the size of the room. On the left side of the fireplace were piles of well-dried logs; the right side held pokers, andirons, and a large pail of ashes.

  Henley put the torch in an empty sconce and dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled into the fireplace box and pushed on its back wall. The panel instantly yielded to his touch, and he crawled through the hearth. Shakespeare suddenly realized the purpose of the bucket of soot. If the Queen’s agents ever stormed the house, a family member would simply pour the ashes over the hearth and make it appear as if blazing fires had been burnt upon it for centuries. Shakespeare went down on his knees and followed Henley.

  The other side of the fireplace held England’s past—pre-Reformation—before King Henry the Eighth’s desire for a son had altered the course of a nation. The chapel was tiny, no more than a single bench in front of an apse. On either side of the vestibule were two small stained-glass windows obscured from outside view by evergreen trees. One showed Christ on the cross, the other was the Virgin, her head tilted upward, palms pressed together in holy supplication. The scenes were eerily backlit by the blue-white moonbeams, making the glass appear as if it had been plated with silver. The altar and its raised pulpit were haloed with the twinkling of several dozen orange flames, religious candles lit for the Saints, for the Virgin—relics of a bygone age. At the top of the wall hung the gilt crucifix, what Puritans would have denounced as a toy of idol worship. Resting upon the pulpit were the communion plate and a gold chalice.

  Shakespeare felt no righteous indignation at the sight of the icons—the candles, the containers of the Eucharist, and the crucifix. He felt strangely moved. Catholicism was the mother of Protestantism, and even if her offspring were rebellious, they should acknowledge from whence they came.

  Henley crossed himself and meditated for a few moments in silence. Shakespeare remained on his knees, feeling clumsy, not knowing if he should pray or if prayer here constituted treason. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes, picturing the Queen’s agents suddenly raiding the room, dragging him away to be burnt alive for heresy and sedition.

  Yet there was an aura of holiness and peace about the room. Shakespeare had sensed it the moment he crawled through the space. It comforted him like the cradle of the Madonna’s arms.

  Finally Lord Henley lit a candle and crawled out of the church, leaving Shakespeare alone in the silence with nothing but his thoughts.

  He wondered where the Jesuit was. Hiding outside? In one of the suits of armor he’d seen in the heraldry hall? Five minutes passed. Shakespeare began to feel dizzy. The walls seemed to move in the flickering light, appeared to close in on him.

  Only his imagination.

  His mind suddenly shifted to thoughts of imprisonment, to a box of darkness where his hands and feet were bound. Though the room was a chilled crypt, droplets of perspiration fell off his forehead and nose. The air became choked with the acrid smell of tallow. He stood, hit his head, then fell back on his knees. He pushed on the panel that led to the fireplace of the chamber. It was tightly bolted into place.

  Calm he told himself. Calm.

  A minute later a stone in the chapel was pushed outward and a shriveled man, wrapped in a brown robe, crawled out like some oversized rodent. He held a lighted candlestick.

  Shakespeare sighed with relief, angry that his imagination had sparked so uncontrollably.

  Fra Silvera was old—much older than even Shakespeare had imagined. But it made sense when he thought about it. Harry, thirty-nine at the time of his demise, had known the Fra since boyhood. The Jesuit had to be at least sixty. He looked to be in his eighties. Living thirty-odd years without daylight, in constant fear of being discovered and burned, could age a man faster than nature’s wear and tear. His face was partially shadowed by a cowl,
but what Shakespeare could make out was wrinkled and pale, like a crumpled parchment. His hands were thin, the skin stretched over the bones, translucent and hued bluish pink. Placing the candlestick by his side, the Jesuit knelt in front of the altar and removed his cowl. He was bald except for a thick ring of silver hair at the base of his scalp. The denuded crown looked like a pink skullcap.

  Shakespeare made no attempt to speak with Silvera. There was a rhythm to the man’s movements, an order. To upset it was to court disaster. He remained on his knees watching the priest’s profile as he prayed. Fra Silvera’s lips moved but no sound came out. Shakespeare saw his cheeks, dampened by a sudden outpouring of tears. They came in torrents, then stopped as abruptly as they’d started. Still kneeling, Silvera turned his head to Shakespeare, motioning him to come forward.

  Shakespeare stood and hit his head again. If he crouched uncomfortably, he could remain on his feet. The only alternatives were sitting upon the bench, which he’d not been invited to do, or to kneel once again. Shakespeare remained upright, his shoulders stooped.

  Silvera said, “Help me to my feet, my son.”

  His voice was no stronger than a whisper. Shakespeare gently lifted the priest. The man stood no higher than a crookbacked gnome, his head easily clearing the ceiling by five or six inches. Silvera motioned for Shakespeare to sit on a bench, and the player gratefully complied.

  “You want to open old wounds,” Fra Silvera said. “Why?”

  Shakespeare stared at the old man. Something about him consumed his powers of speech. Shakespeare stuttered out, “Harry was my friend.”

  “And you do this for all your friends?”

  “Only those who’ve been murdered,” Shakespeare answered.

  “And how many has that been?” Silvera challenged.

  “Harry’s the first, thanks be to Providence.”

  Silvera looked him in the eye. For the first time Shakespeare could see him full-faced. His eyes were narrow, with a perpetual, cynical squint. His mouth was thin and hard, his nose narrow and red-tipped, his chin fixed and stubborn. A man who carried anger like a dagger.

  “How close were you to Harry?” Silvera asked.

  “He was my mentor,” Shakespeare said. “I loved him as a father.”

  “And how else did you love him?”

  Shakespeare felt his heart beating. “I loved him as a friend, as a brother.”

  “And?”

  Shakespeare stared at Silvera, stymied by the question. Silvera waved him off. He said, “So you want to avenge Harry’s death because he was your friend.”

  “His soul visited me, Father,” said Shakespeare. “Or at least something visited me.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Shakespeare related to him the dreams, the bump on the back of his head, and finally, his altercations with his fiendish creature in black.

  Silvera said, “And this creature advised you to cease your inquiries into Harry’s death?”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet you persisted.”

  “The real ghost of Harry Whitman still visits me in my dreams. He begs for my help. I dare not damn Harry’s soul to eternal unrest.”

  “If his soul is indeed so condemned.”

  “I feel he will not be laid in peace until we know the circumstances that led to his murder,” Shakespeare said.

  Silvera suddenly boomed: “And you are wiser than God! If God in his infinite wisdom saw fit to leave Harry’s death unchallenged by man and nature, who are you to do otherwise!”

  Shakespeare hesitated, then said, “Perhaps I was sent by God to do Harry’s bidding.”

  Silvera’s eyes widened. “Are you implying that you’re an agent of God?”

  “No, Father—”

  “How dare you attempt to correct what should be left to the hands of God!”

  The little man’s rage was fearsome, his voice echoing loudly in the small room.

  Like Harry’s voice. Though a dwarf, the Jesuit’s lungs operated at full capacity. Shakespeare said nothing. Silvera drummed his fingers together.

  “You are a heretic!” he announced.

  Shakespeare remained silent.

  “Though I suppose that’s no fault of yours,” Silvera said as an afterthought. “You were raised by heretical parents and brought up in a church riddled with hypocrisy as well as heresy. But know, son, that you are a heretic and will account to God because of it.” Silvera sat down next to Shakespeare. “But I can help you, my son. I can bring you back to the true light and faith. You must rise up against the false faith and its false ruler, the Queen of—”

  “Was Harry a heretic?” Shakespeare interrupted. He was not about to engage the Jesuit in a conversation that constituted treason.

  Silvera shook his head, tears welled up in his eyes. “Never,” the old man said in a hushed voice. “Never!”

  “He kept his Catholic beliefs well hidden,” Shakespeare said. “His superficial beliefs, the ones that he espoused to the fellowship seemed almost…dare I say it, atheistic.”

  “You did not know the true Henry Whitman,” Silvera said. He made it sound like an accusation.

  “Then teach me about him,” Shakespeare said.

  “Why should I?” answered the priest stubbornly. “Who are you to him? To me?”

  “Mayhap I could tell you a side of Harry to which you were not privy,” said Shakespeare.

  “I was his father,” said Silvera. “I knew all sides of Harry.”

  Shakespeare paused. The way Silvera had said father made the player wonder whether the monk had meant it spiritually or physically.

  “He told me a great deal about you, Shakespeare,” said Silvera. “He said he loved you.”

  “I loved him as well.”

  “How well?” Silvera asked.

  Shakespeare didn’t answer right away. Henley had asked a similar question. The meaning of their inquiries slowly came to him. He said, “Our love was purely spiritual, Father.”

  Silvera dropped to his knees, crossed himself, and muttered a slew of Latin. Though not fluent in the language, Shakespeare could make out words of thanksgiving to the Almighty for making Harry pure.

  Shakespeare had never noticed an Italianate inclination in Whitman. Though Harry drank often at Bull’s with Marlowe, it seemed natural that the most formidable player of the times would discuss topics with the most sought-after bookwriter. Yet Harry was a private man and could have concealed a lover from him.

  Studying the Jesuit, Shakespeare pondered the priest’s powerful reaction to the fact that Shakespeare was not Harry’s lover. A reaction of extreme relief, like a wife verifying the faithfulness of her husband. Had Harry been the priest’s lover? Many a Jesuit had been known to bugger a young novice.

  Silvera had stopped mumbling to himself. Shakespeare waited for him to speak. A quarter hour must have passed. Finally Shakespeare said,

  “Tell me Harry’s history as a boy. Lord Henley seemed to think him rebellious.”

  Silvera glared at him with fiery black eyes. He snarled and shouted, “Harry rebellious? Harry was the most sincere of the crop of them.”

  “Who’re them?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Why do you want to know?” Silvera asked again.

  “His past may give me a deeply hidden clue that will explain his demise,” Shakespeare said.

  “I doubt it,” said the Jesuit. “Still, I am grateful, in a certain aspect, that you’ve returned to Brithall. You’ve eased my mind. As far as I’m concerned, Harry Whitman had not engaged in mortal sin.”

  “Buggery?”

  “Aye. There had been fiendish rumors about him spread around town.”

  “Hemsdale?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Spread by whom?”

  “By those who spit in God’s face. By those who knew the Whitmans before the Reformation—knew that they’d been staunch supporters of the true faith! The muck was no doubt flung by the heretics, the followers of Calvin, Ridley,
Latimer, and—dare I say such a blasphemous name—Luther.”

  “Who in specific?” Shakespeare asked.

  “I know not,” Silvera said. “Harry told me that certain people thought him a buggerer. He assured me this was not so. In sooth, his problems were just the opposite. He had a weakness for women. But that didn’t bother me. His wife and he were not married in the true faith, so I thought of Harry as being unmarried all his life, his children as bastards. Yet when he spoke of you…the love in his heart…I confess to God that I wavered in my faith of the boy.”

  Shakespeare thought of Margaret, how she was suffering to raise Harry’s seven children, the ones Silvera so easily dismissed as bastards. Anger shot through his heart, yet he kept his temper. Calmly, he asked again who had spread the buggery rumors, and again Silvera denied knowing the answer. Shakespeare asked the priest if he knew Edgar Chambers.

  “The hostler?” Silvera said. “I know of his nature. Twould not surprise me that he buggered, the filth! I’ve met the weasel several times when I’ve ventured out to the burg in one of my many disguises.” Silvera laughed. “I’m quite the player myself. I’ve acted the beggar, the baker, a chimney sweep…. Heaven knows, I’m short enough to be one—”

  “Did Harry and you ever talk about Chambers?” Shakespeare interrupted.

  “Not at all. Harry never mentioned the snake in the grass. Never.”

  “What about George Mackering?”

  Silvera shook his head.

  “How about a whor—a wench who’d been known to dally—”

  “I know nothing about Harry’s sport.”

  Shakespeare wanted to ask him what the two of them had done every two weeks in May for the last forty years, but restrained himself. The Jesuit greatly misliked being interrogated. Instead he asked the priest to talk about Harry as a child.

  “It is impossible to understand Harry unless you understand the family.”

  “Tell me about the family, then.”