The Hand of Justice

Bartholomew and Michael left Michaelhouse and its weeping inhabitants, and made their way to Lavenham’s premises on Milne Street. It was mid-morning and the town was busy, with folk flocking to and from the Market Square and barges arriving to deliver goods to the merchants’ warehouses. Milne Street was more congested than usual, because of the presence of a small group of men wearing dirty black gowns. They lay in the filth of the road with their arms outstretched in the pose of the penitent, while their leader informed anyone who would listen that unless some fervent repentance took place, the Death would return. Bartholomew saw Suttone nod heartfelt agreement, although he did not deign to soil his own robes by joining the zealots in the ordure.

When the leader rang a bell, his followers clambered to their feet. He handed them long, white candles, and they formed a line, chanting a psalm in unnaturally deep voices. Their tidings and singing were funereal, and they were allowed to go on their way without any of the jeering and ridicule such people usually attracted. When they had gone, and their sepulchral notes had faded among the clatter of hoofs and feet, people went about their business in a more sombre frame of mind, recalling loved ones lost the last time the plague had visited the town.

‘I hope they do not stay here long,’ said Stanmore disapprovingly, spotting his brother-in-law and coming to speak to him. The physician saw two mercenaries hovering nearby, hands on the hilts of their swords as they scanned passersby for signs of evil intent. Stanmore was taking no chances while his ex-apprentice was free to roam. ‘We would all rather forget the Death, and it does no one any good to dwell on it. I am sorry I could not dine with you yesterday, Matt. However, you should know better than to invite me on a Monday, when I am always busy with new deliveries.’

‘I did not invite you to dine,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘We are experiencing some financial difficulties at the moment and I would not ask anyone who does not have a penchant for nettles and mouldy bread.’

‘You did,’ said Stanmore indignantly. ‘You sent me a letter, but I forgot to reply.’

‘Tulyet had an invitation, too — allegedly from me,’ said Michael. He shook his head, amused. ‘Ignore it, Oswald. It is one of the students, thinking that rich townsfolk will take pity on us and make a donation once they see what we are obliged to eat.’

‘There is always a meal for you in my home,’ said Stanmore to Bartholomew. ‘You are welcome any time.’

‘We will come tonight, then,’ said Michael immediately, ever the opportunist. ‘But let us visit this apothecary first, and see what he has to say for himself.’

Lavenham’s shop was a hive of activity. The apprentices were in the back room, furiously mixing and boiling remedies for delivery later that day; Lavenham wielded a pestle and mortar, grinding something to within an inch of its life with powerful, vigorous strokes; and Isobel greeted customers. She leaned across the counter in her low-cut dress and gave Michael a smile that indicated she knew perfectly well he would rather admire her cleavage than purchase tonics or remedies. Meanwhile, a small, neat figure hovered silent and unobtrusive in the shadows thrown by the shelves. Bartholomew watched the unmistakable silhouette of Dame Pelagia uneasily, wondering what she was doing in a place where poisons could be bought.

‘Come and look at my leeches, Brother,’ invited Isobel, when she saw she might lose the monk’s attention to his grandmother. ‘They are best-quality creatures from France, and arrived this morning.’

‘Nothing that comes from France is of the best quality,’ Dame Pelagia muttered.

Bartholomew supposed a lifetime of spying in an enemy state might well result in that sort of opinion. ‘They look like English ones to me,’ he said, inspecting them with the eye of a professional.

‘But more expensive,’ said Isobel. ‘Foreign goods are always more costly than common English wares. Is that not so, husband?’

‘It true,’ said Lavenham, not looking up from his labours. ‘But I always say English best. The King English, and choose me for Commissioner. He know fine Englishman when he see one.’

Dame Pelagia turned a snort into a cough, and diverted her attention to a row of plants that were being dried against the wall.

‘We found a phial of Water of Snails in Warde’s possession when he died,’ said Michael. ‘How did he come by it?’

‘I not know,’ said Lavenham, sounding surprised that he should be asked such a question. ‘I not sell Aqua Limacum Magistralis to Warde. Doctor Bartholomew recommend angelica, and I sell he instead. I keep Aqua Limacum Magistralis for other occasion.’

‘Where is it, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Show it to me.’