The Hand of Justice

Lavenham sighed and abandoned his pestle. He went to a wall cupboard in the main part of the shop, which he unlocked with a key — or which he pretended to unlock with a key. Bartholomew saw it was actually open, and the fact that the apothecary was ready to pretend otherwise indicated it was not the first time he or his household had been careless with security. Lavenham pointed to a row of identical phials on the bottom shelf.

‘He one of these,’ he said vaguely. ‘But I not know which one. I sell several in month.’

‘We do sell Water of Snails occasionally,’ agreed Isobel, adjusting her clothes so that an even more enticing expanse of bosom was on display. Bartholomew saw the monk’s attention begin to waver again. Dame Pelagia gave another cough, and her grandson’s eyes snapped back to Isobel’s face.

‘What do you put in it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The usual ingredients,’ replied Isobel, moving around the counter so she could rub past the monk, who did nothing to make her passage any less cramped. ‘Ground ivy, coltsfoot, scabious, lungwort, plantain and betony, all mixed with a touch of hog blood and white wine.’

‘What about snails?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

‘Well, snails of course,’ she replied irritably, straightening up and depriving Michael of his entertainment. She was wary now, and less inclined for fun.

‘Henbane?’ asked Bartholomew. Dame Pelagia turned sharply. He had surprised her.

‘Of course not henbane,’ snapped Lavenham. ‘He poison.’

‘Liquorice root, then?’ asked Bartholomew. Dame Pelagia was now giving the exchange her full attention. ‘It is one of the most important ingredients in Aqua Limacum Magistralis.’

‘Not always,’ countered Isobel furtively.

‘Always,’ stated Bartholomew authoritatively.

‘Perhaps in country that fashioned-old,’ argued Lavenham. ‘But not in country that have modern approach to disease. England can learn much from other country. Like Norway.’

‘You just said English goods were best,’ said Dame Pelagia softly. ‘Now you say we should be following examples set in Norway.’

Lavenham was confused. He glanced from Bartholomew to Pelagia, and his mouth worked soundlessly as he fought to come up with an answer.

‘Be honest, Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You did not add liquorice to the Water of Snails in the phial I saw, and, if I were to look at your remaining bottles, I would find them similarly lacking.’

‘No!’ cried Lavenham, backing up against his cupboard and protecting it with outstretched arms. ‘You leave alone! Liquorice expensive, because he not grow in England, and I have not much. It cannot be taste in Water of Snails anyway. It better to keep for other potions.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I suppose these “other potions” are ones you make for wealthy clients?’ Lavenham’s shifty eyes answered his question. ‘That is disgraceful!’

‘It is fraudulent, too,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘The King would not approve of such activities, especially in one of his Commissioners. I cannot imagine what he will say when he finds out.’

‘You tell him?’ whispered Lavenham, aghast.

‘I might,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘It depends on how helpful you are. The good doctor here wants to know what you put in your Water of Snails. I suggest you answer him truthfully.’

‘Just what we said,’ said Isobel, reaching under the counter to produce a book. She flicked through its thick pages, then pointed to an entry. Bartholomew read it quickly, and saw that Lavenham’s recipe for Aqua Limacum Magistralis was much the same as any other apothecary’s, or would have been, had he included a healthy dose of liquorice root to disguise what was probably a foul taste. Bartholomew was not surprised Warde had only swallowed half of it.

‘Who has bought Water of Snails in the last month?’ he asked, although since Lavenham was careless with his cupboard it really did not matter: anyone could have stolen a pot.

‘Rougham buy some,’ replied Lavenham.

‘Paxtone?’ asked Bartholomew casually. His heart beat slightly faster as he waited for the reply.

‘Paxtone will not use Aqua Limacum Magistralis,’ said Isobel. ‘He claims it causes wind,’

‘Lynton buy none, neither, because he say potion smell bad without liquorice.’ Lavenham shot Bartholomew a stricken look when he realised he had just admitted that other physicians had complained about the missing ingredient, too. He hurried on, as if he hoped his slip would not be noticed. ‘And Cheney and Bernarde, for pains in head. And Morice to soothe sore tail.’

‘For an aching lower back,’ translated Isobel quickly, before they could assume the Mayor had demonic physical attributes.

‘Cheney, Morice and Bernarde,’ mused Michael. ‘All members of the Millers’ Society. That is interesting.’