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catching up with the demands of his practice. He had few patients at present. Nor would he ever have more unless he seized every opportunity to place his name before any who might become patients in due course.
    Aylsham already had one physician, a Dr. Pennycoats. His established practice should have been a formidable block to Adam’s progress. Fortunately for him, if not for the little town, Pennycoats was both an indolent man and much given to good living. When Adam first placed his shingle outside his modest house, he had visited the man, expecting to meet firm opposition. Instead, he had found the doctor still in his bed past ten o’clock in the morning. He was recovering, his manservant said, from a good dinner taken at the local lodge of freemasons the evening before.
    Since then, Dr. Pennycoats had taken every opportunity to send patients Adam’s way rather than keep them from him. The man, it seemed, had a substantial private income. Most of his limited attention was spent on compiling a book on the chemical composition of different types of rocks. At least, he said he was writing such a work, for not a single page had ever reached a printer’s hands.
    Given their doctor’s peculiar attitude to his profession, it was no surprise that most people of the town sought medical advice from the apothecary. The wealthier folk and the gentry turned to doctors living elsewhere.
    Today's apothecary was expected to have medical knowledge beyond the mixing and dispensing of prescriptions. Still, most still sold a range of nostrums, spices and teas as well as more potent herbal brews. In London, the Worshipful Company of Apothecaries controlled the profession. Here, far to the north, there was less regulation over who might set themselves up in that business. Nevertheless, the law of the land was at last bearing down on the worst quacks and charlatans.
    Now, hearing that Aylsham's old apothecary had decided to retire and sell his business to a successor from elsewhere Adam felt some trepidation. He therefore determined to visit the shop in the High Street to take the measure of the new apothecary in person.
    Above the window was a painted shop board: ‘Edward Gerstone, Apothecary and Herbalist’. In the window stood the typical range of bottles of coloured water and labelled china herb jars. Neither gave him any enlightenment. He would rely on this man to mix medicines to his prescription, yet must also regard him as something of a competitor too. Good relations might greatly assist his business. An adversarial turn of events would promise many barriers to progress. Yet as he entered the shop, he encountered the greatest surprise imaginable. For the voice which came to him from the dispensing room, hidden behind the counter, was instantly recognisable.
    ‘Lassimer? Lassimer?’ he said. ‘Can it be you?’
    The reply was a loud burst of laughter. ‘Dr. Bascom, I believe. I had expected you before this. You are come to sniff around and steal my patients, I warrant.’
    The words might sound harsh, but the voice that spoke them was filled with amusement.
    ‘Had I known whom I should find, I would have been here on your first morning,’ Adam said. He was delighted to see the apothecary emerge into the shop and recognise the smiling face of Peter Lassimer.
    ‘My dear friend. I thought you must be a grave physician by now, filling your patients with awe at your magisterial manner. But wait…above the door is the name of a Mr. Gerstone.’’
    ‘Mr. Gerstone is my master in the Worshipful Company of Apothecaries,’ Lassimer replied. ‘He is also the principal owner of this business, until I obtain freedom of the Company and can buy him out. You find me a humble journeyman apothecary, treating the good people of this town with foul brews and rank potions.’
    ‘Lassimer, my old friend. While I should be disapproving of your levity towards the materia medica , you know I would not have you change for an instant. I wager