Free The Quality of Mercy by Faye Kellerman Page B

the sound so hollow now.
    Shakespeare kicked the haunches of his horse, sending it into a gallop. He cursed, wondered where the hell he was.
    So far he’d managed to follow Harry’s path quite closely. But this particular route, although the most direct to the burg of Hemsdale, was full of nature’s detours — hilly rocks and sudden dales, steep crags and crevices that plunged raggedly into the ground, circumscribing the knolls like a moat around a castle.
    He pulled the horse to the left, hoping he’d find a decent inn before dusk. Polished, windswept ledges of sandstone erupted out of rocks and grassland abloom with clumps of purple heather. The summits of the hills reflected the gold of the sun, setting them on fire like a flame on a candle. At least this terrain allowed easy riding — soft, gritty soil that yielded under each beat of the hoof — far more comfortable on the body than the hard slate rock he’d experienced in the extreme northern regions.
    He’d been fortunate. The weather had been accommodating, allowing him to cover much ground in a short time; barely a week since he’d left the walls of London. He’d fallen prey to only a few days of hard rain, and this morning just a thin blanket of haze covered the sky — that already burning away in the afternoon sun. His horse trampled over a heather bush plump with baby grouse. They scampered off in all directions — a delicious feast of tender meat dissipating before his eyes. He groaned, suddenly, realizing how long it had been since he’d taken a stomach. He would eat, but not while the sun was out. No time to be wasted.
    Days of riding with nothing but a sore bum to show for it. So far the trip had illuminated nothing about Harry. Questions had been asked and answered by protestations of ignorance. Shakespeare had spoken to at least two dozen innkeepers. Three hostlers told him that the great actor had indeed blessed their modest hostel with his drunken but amusing presence. They smiled as they told Shakespeare that Harry had entertained the guests with a (cough, cough) randy soliloquy. But beyond that, Whitman had been a gentleman. He had stayed the night, paid his bills, and left early the following morning in fine health. One hostler did recall Harry speaking with excitement about his impending visit to his relatives up North.
    Anything else,
Shakespeare asked.
    The innkeeper shook his head no.
    His friend’s last days of life seemed ordinary. What could Harry have possibly done to instill murder in a man’s heart? What nefarious creature had done him in? And the ever nagging question of why.
    Shakespeare had been determined to find answers — for Margaret’s sake as well as his own. But now, after much wasted time, the ardor for truth had cooled. He missed London, his cell, his poetry writings and books.
    But he’d come this far. Might as well finish his task. From the inns Shakespeare learned that Harry had visited his relatives — a first cousin, Viscount Henley and his family.
    And, as Whitman had once mentioned in passing, Lord Henley
was
genuine peerage. He’d been granted a township in Northumberland. Brithall was the name of his castle, and an impressive pile of bricks it was. Before Shakespeare left, Margaret had told him that
all
of her husband’s kinsmen were secret Papists, followers of Rome, like many of the northerners. She said that Harry had once confided to her that Brithall held a secret underground chapel where votive candles were kept along with icons of the Virgin. But the boldest act of outrage was a fugitive priest in their hire — a Jesuit who narrowly escaped capture from the authorities by hiding in one of the castle’s priest holes. Harry later recanted his story about the priest, saying it had been a tale told in jest — to scare her. But Margaret felt his denial had been a lie.
    Margaret had always been nervous about Harry’s excursions — the length of the trip, the dangers of the highways — but after