Chapter Three

Dr. Lawrence E. Campaign—as he now styled himself—sat in a dark corner of the George Inn with a guttering candle in front of him and a salt-glazed ale tankard by his left hand. His eyes flicked between the two books he was comparing. Then he dipped his pen and began writing in his notebook, occasionally pausing for a meditative mouthful of ale.

Nicholas Culpeper’s book advised lesser celandine—more commonly known as pilewort—for treating piles, but the Thomas Graham tome recommended brimstone with a lenitive electuary.

Lawrence smiled to himself. Why not combine both treatments in an ointment, with rose oil to improve the smell? The yellow sulfur would give a good color. Customers liked color.

He’d have to make a stop at Verwood next time he was in Hampshire and get some new pots made. It would be pointless trying to sell the remedy openly from his wagon, for who’d want to announce publicly that they had hemorrhoids? No, he’d just have an advertisement printed, listing the new pile ointment among his regular stock, and people could come to him privately for it.

He chewed on the end of his finger and stared up at the ceiling. Wouldn’t it be marvelous if he could sell his potions from one of the shops in each place he visited? It would make the wagon a good deal lighter and create more space for…other things. But could he trust the shopkeepers to make a tally of what they’d sold, and keep his money safe until he returned to claim it?

No, it was far too risky. There were no honest retailers anymore. Better to carry on as he was…just so long as he didn’t get caught.

So, what to call the new nostrum? Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Instant Pile Remover? No one could make a better claim than that.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slender leather-bound book and leafed through its pages. Which astrological sign governed the anus? If he could contrive a label with that symbol, or use a picture of the pilewort plant, it would make his remedy less embarrassing to buy.

His musings were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of the George Inn’s landlord, Ransom. “Campaign, there’s a woman lurking by your wagon. Your dog’s barking fit to burst, but the lady won’t go.” He scowled. “I can’t have my customers disturbed like this.”

Lawrence kept his expression carefully polite. He knew—though the fellow had never said as much—that the landlord detested itinerants of any kind and believed them all to be thieves or cutthroats. Since Lawrence had been brought up by a family of itinerant agricultural laborers, who were so poorly paid they had no qualms about stealing, he understood such prejudice. In Ransom’s case, the bias had dissolved relatively quickly when Lawrence had pulled out his satisfyingly fat purse.

The landlord didn’t need to know the bulk of the contents was spent lead shot, hammered flat.

“Thank you for telling me. Have this lot taken up to my room, will you?” Lawrence said, indicating his books and writing materials. “I’ll deal with my customer and be back directly.”

As he shouldered himself into his coat, he again pondered the wisdom of leaving only his border collie Charley to guard his precious stock. Yet, if he’d done any more than that to protect his wagon, surely it would have excited suspicion? Had he made a mistake by bespeaking himself a room, and not sleeping in the wagon as usual? But, damn it, every roaming man needed a bit of comfort from time to time, a decent meal and a good bed. Why risk his neck for coin if he couldn’t have an occasional luxury? There’d still be enough saved up by the end of the year to sail for America, if everything went to plan. He’d been doing a brisk trade on the Isle of Portland since the soldiers were billeted here. Their medical needs—particularly those of an intimate kind—were legion.

Which was just as well. Passage to America was costly and could take as long as three months in foul weather. But go he must, for the sake of Tom Capstone’s Troupe, the players who’d taken him in when, at the age of twelve, he’d escaped his adoptive parents.

As always, the memory hurt. As always, it stiffened his resolve to take his knowledge of herb lore and medicine to America to crush the hideous disease which had killed his friends. It still beggared belief that all but one of them had succumbed to the massive yellow fever epidemic of 1803, shortly after reaching American soil.

He should be grateful, he supposed, that he hadn’t gone with them. He’d planned to but had changed his mind at the last moment. Guilt still assailed him—if he had gone, and taken his remedies with him, he might have been able to save them.

As the pot boy scurried over to clear the table of his precious books, Lawrence shook away his dismal thoughts, swigged back what remained of his ale, and strode through the smoky taproom toward the door.

Charley’s barking assaulted his ears the instant he stepped out into the inn’s courtyard. Other village mutts were already responding, shattering the peace of the cloudless golden evening. It wouldn’t be long before people came out of their houses with sticks to beat the dog—and threaten its master.

“Here, boy.” As soon as he reached his wagon, he removed a hambone from a pocket in the canvas awning and offered it to Charley.

The dog accepted it greedily, and busied himself snuffling and chewing, while Lawrence looked around for his customer.

Ah, there she was. A lady with an excellent figure and bearing. She wore the inevitable veil to hide her face, and her hair was entirely hidden by her deep bonnet. He’d wager a guinea she was after a love potion or a cure for something embarrassing. She might even be looking for a remedy for the fact that her husband didn’t bed her anymore.

Surely that couldn’t be the case with this woman—not with a figure like that.

Giving Charley a reassuring pat on the head, he unleashed the smile that always made women give him a second glance—and often a third—and stepped toward her.

Never having known the smile to fail, he was therefore astounded when the woman stiffened at the sight of him…then burst into noisy, angry tears.