Heart of Ice by Alys Clare Read Free Book Online Page B

apothecary’s sign hanging above the door. The front wall of the house extended into a lower wall and Josse, curious, went to have a look. The wall enclosed what was apparently the apothecary’s garden, a neat quarter-acre of carefully tended ground which, although winter-bare, showed clear signs that every inch was put to good use. Low box hedges divided the beds, in most of which the soil had been recently dug over. Trees and shrubs formed a dense barrier at the bottom of the garden and Josse was quite sure that every last one of them grew or produced some lucrative plant drug that could be used alone or blended into some popular remedy.
         De Gifford had dismounted and was knocking on the door which, Josse observed, was considerably more substantial than that of the Tonbridge herbalist and made of oak studded with iron. Well, if the man were wealthy, then it made good sense to lock himself up carefully at night  . . .
         Josse slid off Horace’s back, wincing a little; he and de Gifford had ridden hard and Josse’s lower back was complaining. He was just wondering how much this Adam Pinchsniff might charge him for some soothing liniment when abruptly the oak door was flung open, revealing a man perhaps in his sixties wearing a luxurious black velvet robe lined with fur. His long hair was white, as was his beard, and smoothly combed; on his head he wore a cap of similar design to his Tonbridge fellow-practitioner, except that Adam Pinchsniff’s was made of deep maroon silk and, as far as Josse could see, spotlessly clean.
         ‘Yes?’ he demanded, eyeing de Gifford up and down.
         For the second time that day the sheriff introduced Josse and himself. Then – for Adam Pinchsniff was clearly a man of a very different quality from the Tonbridge herbalist – he proceeded swiftly and without prevarication to the reason for the visit.
         ‘We have come from Hawkenlye Abbey on an urgent matter concerning a death,’ he began. ‘You are Adam Pinchsniff?’
         The apothecary flushed. ‘No I am not ,’ he said crossly. ‘My name is Adam Morton. The people have given me the eke name of Pinchsniff, although I really cannot imagine why.’ He gave a short snort of disapproval, the action appearing to draw in his nostrils so that his already thin nose became positively beak-like. Observing, Josse could see exactly how the name had come about.
         ‘I apologise,’ de Gifford was saying smoothly. ‘I meant no offence; it is merely that I asked a man in the town where I might find the apothecary and that was the name by which he called you.’
         The apothecary sniffed again. ‘Very well. A matter to do with a death, you say? Then you and your friend – what’s his name? – had better come in. You there, Sir Joseph, tie those horses to the hitching ring; they’ll be safe enough out here, nobody would dare to steal so much as the smallest coin from a guest of my house.’
         Thinking that the welcome would have been warmer had Adam Pinchsniff offered to have the horses attended to, for both mounts were displaying the signs of a hard ride, Josse did as he was commanded. Then he followed de Gifford into the apothecary’s house.
         It was a timber framed building with walls of plaster-coated mud brick. The stone floor of the interior had been recently swept and was covered in a scattering of fresh, clean-smelling rushes. There were few articles of furniture – a large chest, some shelves on which there were several wooden boxes of various sizes, a long, narrow table and a large chair – but what there were appeared to be of excellent quality and obviously costly. A fire burned in a hearth, the aroma of the burning wood – apple, Josse thought – mingling with that given off by the spirals of blue and golden smoke rising up from several small dishes of fragrant, smouldering incense.
         ‘So he’s dead, then,’ the apothecary said.
         ‘To whom do