From Lucy Deedes: Lambert

Lambert ducked beneath the eaves into the fug of the apothecary, breathing in the scent of clove and mace and resinous wood which fought a losing battle with other sinister smells.  A small burning pan with bay and lemon peels simmered on a flame and a plume of smoke spiralled up towards the beams, so that the dried flowers and threaded strings of funghi twirled slowly in the draught. 

The light was poor so he thought at first he was mistaken, but it was undoubtedly Mistress Ingleby who stood at the counter with another woman.  It would not do to eavesdrop upon females intent upon a transaction with the apothecary, even though they might only be purchasing a glove powder or cough syrup.  

  He busied himself with an inspection of the cloth bags which were stacked several deep on the counter and leaning up against it;  bags of oranges and walnuts and cakes of glue alongside feathers and  nutmegs, soap balls and mummified roots.  He picked up handfuls of lavender flowers and let them trickle through his fingers, taking exaggerated sniffs.

The door flew open and Godfrey the tanner, who lived and worked in a fetid yard on the banks of the Lavant river and carried the odours of his trade around with him, was amongst them.

‘Good day, Master Painter.  Needing something for the French visitor?’ 

Lambert looked away.  ‘Pigments,’ he said distantly, taking up another bunch of herbs and crushing them in front of his nose.  ‘Paints,’ he added.

 ‘Squits,’ said Godfrey.  ‘Been at it all night, up and down to the…’

‘A powder of briar rose and sloes, that will prove efficacious and I have it made up ready,’ said the apothecary, fetching a folded packet. 

   Godfrey left and a boy slid around the door; just one of the myriad of dirty, grey-faced boys who milled about the streets; weary eyes in an old face.  He tossed a parcel onto the counter and the apothecary nodded and turned back to the women.  Lambert, idly twisting a dried fragment of orris root, felt rather than saw the boy, passing behind him, slide something from a bag.  A lemon, perhaps, or a walnut.  The briefest of glances passed between them.  You wouldn’t say anything, said the boy silently.  And the inclination of Lambert’s head said, I will not.   Jane Ingleby had seen the boy, too, and he liked her even more for the way she looked away. 

‘Stop that thieving creature!’ cried her companion, less charitable, and the boy whisked like a mouse through the doorway and away.  The apothecary started forward then bent again, sighing, to the coins in his hand. 

 ‘You should have grabbed the wretch and held him fast,’ said the older woman to Lambert.

 ‘I was too slow,’ he said. 

 Jane Ingleby looked sideways at him from under her lashes.  ‘And we think of you as so quick, Master.’  There was a teasing dimple at the corner of her mouth. How contrary she was, but she had smiled at him.