Prince of Darkness

Belladonna or the juice of the Nightshade?'
    The apothecary waved at the shelves around his room full of little phials and casks.
    'They are yours for the asking, Hugh.'
    'And they will kill?'
    'In seconds. Ten or twenty heart-beats before the poison ices your heart and stops your breath.' Corbett stood up and stretched.
    'But poisons that would only kill if taken regularly over a long period of time, do they exist?'
    The brother's eyes became even more sombre.
    'Oh, yes, Hugh. Such potions do exist, but not here. They are of the Italian mode. Deadly concoctions.' He paused. 'For example, five hundred years ago an Arab produced a white, odourless powder, highly poisonous, from realger, an ore found in lead mining.' Brother Thomas shrugged. 'In small quantities, it may be medicinal, but given regularly will eventually cause death.'
    'Could I buy it in London?'
    The apothecary nodded.
    'Of course.'
    'Who from?'
    'A Hell-hound not far from here. The first alleyway on Faltour's Lane off Holborn Street. Go down there and look for the apothecary's sign. He is a Spaniard, a Portuguese, a Moor… I don't know, but he may tell you more than I can. You see, Hugh, as I said, some poisons are medicinal A little arsenic can cure disorders of the stomach, but given in regular small doses becomes a poison. I once heard the confession of a merchant from the Portsoken who wished absolution for killing his wife. For two years he fed the poor woman poison.' The apothecary turned and looked out of the window. 'You'd best go now, Hugh. The day is drawing on and this apothecary's shop is the very gateway to Hell. Or,' he grinned, 'as you manor lords would say: "Where the shit lies, the flies always gather."'
    Hugh grinned, thanked him, and went back to the hospital gates where he warned Ranulf and Maltote to be on their guard. They followed a maze of alleyways which ran to the north of the city down to Holborn. Corbett realised that Brother Thomas was correct The weak sun was setting and the area near the old city wall was one of musty decay. The stalls were battered, selling shabby geegaws. There were very few well-dressed citizens, most of the denizens of the alleyways being rogues and villains; tinkers, trying to sell without permission from the Guilds, professional beggars, and rat-faced slum dwellers looking for easy prey.
    They found Faltour's Lane and turned into the dirty refuse-filled alleyway, the daylight almost blocked out by the overhanging gables of the houses which reared up on either side. Ranulf stopped his chatter and when Corbett drew his sword so did his companions as a blatant warning to the dark shapes which lurked in the half-open doorways. A beggar, smitten with white leprosy, one ear and half his nose eaten away, came out of the shadows, his hands extended, begging for alms. Corbett threw him a coin, raised his sword, and the beggar scuttled away.
    The clerk was now uneasy. The alleyway was narrow, lined with darkened doorways; some had shadows deeper than the rest and Corbett knew he was being watched. Any sign of weakness or fear and the cutpurses lurking there would be on them like a pack of dogs. He stood beneath the apothecary's sign, dagger still drawn; two cats raced by, screeching and squabbling over the half-gnawed body of a rat. Corbett jumped, cursing his own nervousness. He sheathed his dagger, whispered to Ranulf and Maltote to wait at the top of the alleyway, and knocked gently on the shop door.
    A young man opened it Corbett was immediately struck by the fellow's swarthy good looks and elegant dress: dark purple hose, soft buskins on his feet, and an open-necked, spotless, white cambric shirt. The man smiled as if intrigued by Corbett, muttering a few words first in Portuguese and then in English. Corbett, acting his part, looked nervously back down the street and said he needed certain potions. The man smiled, his smooth dark face creasing in a grin, lips parted to reveal ivory white teeth as he gestured like a long-lost friend for Corbett to enter. Inside the shop was simple but clean; the stone floor had been recently scrubbed, the walls coated with lime to keep off flies. It was devoid of any furniture except a zodiac sign nailed to one wad, a small wooden table and two huge, high-backed chairs. The apothecary introduced himself.
    'My name is Julio Cesar. Doctor, physician, formerly apothecary to his most Catholic Majesty, Sancho, King of Portugal. Now exiled from that country due to a,' the