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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 mounted whitefish rested on a wooded mantel. Chambers pulled out a chair from a round table, offered it to Shakespeare, then sank wearily into his own chair, positioned across the table.

      Shakespeare said, “Tell me what happened to Whitman.”

      “I don’t know anything about a murder!” insisted Chambers. “As God is my witness, I speak the truth.”

      “Then what do you know?”

      “He lodged here.”

      “For how long?” Shakespeare asked.

      “Three … no, four … four days.”

      “A long time,” Shakespeare commented. “Was that his usual length of stay?”

      Chambers shook his head rapidly. “His longest visit ever. In the past he had stayed only a night. Last year he stayed two days. This time four.”

      “Then why did you deny knowing him?” Shakespeare asked.

      “I had my reasons,” Chambers said.

      “And they were?”

      Chambers didn’t answer. Shakespeare let it go and asked,

      “How did Whitman pass the hours here?”

      “In pursuit of pleasure,” Chambers said. “Your friend was fond of dicing.”

      Shakespeare frowned. “Dicing?”

      “Aye.”

      Shakespeare said, “Harry enjoyed drinking, making merry. But dicing? You’ve mistaken him for someone else.”

      “No mistake. Whitman diced, gambled. And lost a great deal of money.”

      “Tell me.”

      Chambers became animated. “The first night his hap was sweet, his winnings large. But the last days of his stay—he was here for five days—”

      “I thought you said four.”

      “Four days then. Yes, it was four days. On the fourth night, when Harry became involved with a group of rogues—unscrupulous men—his luck suddenly changed.”

      Shakespeare felt suddenly ired, frustrated. “He became someone’s coney—a dupe.”

      Chambers nodded.

      “You didn’t stop the rogues from cheating?”

      Chambers said, “In my business one never interferes with gentlemen dicing. They become most resentful.”

      Shakespeare asked him to continue.

      “The stakes grew higher,” Chambers said. His eyes darted from side to side. “I know not exactly what happened, sir. It was said that Harry’s luck took a sudden turn for the better. Then it was discovered that Harry held in his pockets several pairs of false dice.”

      Shakespeare cursed inwardly. Uncover things best left buried. He said, “Harry was many things—a philanderer and a carouser—but always an honest man.”

      “Then it grieves me to tell you this, goodman, but in his possession were a flat carter-treys, a flat cinque-deuces, a barred carter-treys, and high fullam.”

      “High fullam?”

      “Dice weighed toward high numbers.”

      “I don’t believe it,” Shakespeare said. “He was duped.”

      “I was not there when the accusations were made, sir.”

      “Where were you?” Shakespeare asked.

      “I have a brother,” Chambers said. “He was in charge of the inn’s business that evening.”

      “May I speak with him?” Shakespeare asked.

      “He’s in Kent, sir.”

      “Had you ever seen Harry dice on any previous visit here?” Shakespeare asked.

      “Yes sir, I have.”

      “You have?”

      “Yes.” Chambers began to shake his left leg.

      Shakespeare told him to complete the dreadful tale.

      Chambers said, “The next morning I saw Harry paying off these men with big coins—angels, nobles, sovereigns.”

      Where had Harry come to so much money? Shakespeare wondered. He asked, “The name of these rogues?”

      “I divulge their identities only because you say he was a kindred spirit with your soul.”

      “I speak honestly.”

      “I only know two names. The leader—a vicious uprightman who’s quick with the sword—and his doxy.”

      “His name?”

      “Have respect for my soul. Do not breathe the name I’m about to utter.”

      “On my honor.”

      “And be careful for your hide,” Chambers warned. “He’s ruthless and evil.”

      “I shall be wary,” Shakespeare said. “Pray, his name?”

      “Mackering—George

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