Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

His home was airy and comfortable, and smelled of the home-made remedies he liked to dispense. Most were ineffectual, and comprised such innocuous ingredients as honey, mint and angelica, but he still charged a fortune for them. Bartholomew was always amazed when one worked, and could only suppose that it was the patient’s faith in what he was swallowing that had effected the cure; there was a tendency amongst laymen to believe that the more expensive the remedy, the more likely it was to do what it promised.

William Rougham, portly, smug and arrogant, was reclining in Meryfeld’s best chair. He deplored the fact that Bartholomew had trained with an Arab physician, and regarded his methods as controversial and dangerous. In turn, Bartholomew despised Rougham’s traditionalism and resistance to change. But they had reached a truce over the years, and although they would never be friends, there was no longer open hostility in their relationship.

John Gyseburne was by the hearth. He was an austere, long-haired, unsmiling man in his fifties, who was of the firm belief that the only reliable diagnostic weapon was the inspection of urine. He always had a flask to hand, and rarely conducted consultations without requesting a sample; Bartholomew had even heard him demand one from a patient with a grazed knee. Despite this, Bartholomew had come to respect his opinions, and felt there was much to be learned from him.

The last of the gathering was Will Holm. Bartholomew had been delighted when the surgeon had first arrived, because Cambridge’s last sawbones had retired, and there had been no one, other than Bartholomew himself, to suture wounds, draw teeth or amputate damaged limbs. Unfortunately, it had not taken him long to learn that Holm was alarmingly hesitant, and while caution was admirable in one sense – his predecessor had forged ahead when it would have been kinder to let well alone – it was frustrating in another. Patients had died whom Bartholomew felt could have been saved. It was unusual for a mere surgeon to be included in a gathering of physicians, but Holm was a lofty sort of man who had taken his acceptance as an equal for granted. He was cleaner, better dressed and infintely more refined than most of his fellows, and Bartholomew was always under the impression that he considered himself a cut above not just other barber-surgeons but above physicians, too.

‘You are late,’ Holm said brusquely, draining the contents of his goblet and setting it on a table. He was a tall, astonishingly handsome man with a luxurious mane of bright gold hair. ‘We were just about to leave.’

‘We were discussing Coslaye again,’ said Gyseburne, his tone rather more friendly than Holm’s. ‘We are still stunned by his recovery.’

‘I would not have opened his cranium,’ said Rougham. ‘Brains are easily damaged, and you might have hastened his end by drilling that hole in his head. I am surprised you dared do it.’

‘There was no choice,’ explained Bartholomew, wondering how much longer they would continue to debate this particular case. Trephining was an ancient, well-tested technique, and he failed to understand why they insisted on making so much of it. ‘Coslaye was bleeding inside his skull, and he would have died had we not relieved the pressure.’

‘He allowed me to examine his scar yesterday,’ said Gyseburne. ‘It has healed beautifully.’

‘Pity,’ murmured Holm. ‘He is one of those who opposes the Common Library. Still, the project proceeds apace regardless, and I am looking forward to seeing it opened next week. Dunning, my future father-in-law, has promised me a prominent role in the ceremony, and it is always good to be seen and admired by people who might be patients one day.’

‘A central repository for texts is a foolish notion,’ declared Rougham uncompromisingly. ‘Chancellor Tynkell should be ashamed of himself for coming up with it, and I have told him so.’

‘I do not know what all the fuss is about,’ said Meryfeld. ‘I learned everything I know from my father, and I have never felt the desire to expand on it by consulting dusty old tomes.’

‘Yes, and it shows,’ muttered Rougham snidely. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Why did you come tonight? It is too late to begin an experiment now.’

‘It is,’ agreed Gyseburne with a yawn. ‘I wonder what happened to Vale. He did not mention previous appointments when I saw him earlier, and he told me he would be here.’

‘When was that?’ asked Bartholomew.

Gyseburne rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose it was last night. Like me, he had been busy with a tertian fever, and we met on our respective ways home. I heard you were similarly inconvenienced, Matthew. Weasenham saw you walking home after tending some hapless soul all night .’

‘Tertian fevers do seem to be more virulent this year,’ mused Rougham. ‘It must be something to do with the weather. But Vale must have been summoned again after you saw him, Gyseburne, because he missed College breakfast. I went to look for him, but his bed had not been slept in.’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew, sorry when he saw the shock on his colleagues’ faces, especially Rougham’s – the two Gonville men had been friends. ‘That is why I did not join you this evening. I was inspecting his body after it was pulled from the pond in Newe Inn’s garden.’

‘He was perfectly healthy when I saw him last,’ said Rougham unsteadily. ‘Was he murdered?’

‘Probably,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There was an arrow in his back, and Northwood and the London brothers were in the pool with him–’

‘Northwood?’ demanded Rougham. ‘What was Vale doing in company with that old rogue?’

‘He was not a rogue,’ countered Meryfeld sharply. ‘He was a very clever man.’

‘Let us not quarrel,’ said Gyseburne softly. ‘This is terrible news, and we should all go home quietly, and pray for the souls of these hapless men.’

The streets were quiet as the medici said their farewells, and it would not be long before the curfew bell sounded. The last of the Market Square traders were wending their way home, some on carts and others on foot. Friars and monks had completed vespers, and were already ensconced in their convents, Colleges or hostels. A few students roamed, obviously intent on breaking University rules and sampling the town’s taverns, but Michael’s beadles also prowled, ready to arrest and fine any lad caught out without a plausible excuse.

Gyseburne lived near the castle, so went north when the five medici parted company. Rougham went with him, saying he had a patient who had summoned him earlier, although Bartholomew was unimpressed that he had kept the person waiting while he drank wine and chatted with his friends. It left him walking south with Holm.

‘I thought I saw lamps in Newe Inn’s grounds last night,’ said Holm thoughtfully. ‘I live next door, as you know. But I assumed I was mistaken – Walkelate and his craftsmen are labouring frantically to finish the library by next week, and they often work late. However, they rarely venture into the garden, and I put the lights down to my imagination. It seems I should not have done.’

‘Have you seen them before?’

Holm nodded. ‘But Cholles Lane is not a salubrious part of town. The riverfolk and Isnard the bargeman live nearby, for a start, and they are desperate criminals. I shall move somewhere nicer when I am married to Dunning’s daughter.’

‘The riverfolk and Isnard are not criminals,’ objected Bartholomew. They had been his patients for years, and he was fond of them.

‘Oh, yes, they are. Isnard is almost certainly a smuggler, while the rest of that rabble poach and steal as the whim takes them. Then there are the murders that the Sheriff is investigating. If Isnard and the riverfolk are innocent of those, I will drink my own piss.’