Death of a Scholar

Potmoor looked like a criminal. He had small, shifty eyes, a flamboyant moustache of the kind favoured by pirates, and thinning hair kept in place by the application of copious amounts of goose-grease. He was not very big, yet he exuded an aura of evil menace, and Bartholomew was perfectly prepared to believe the many tales about his barbarity, greed and ruthlessness.

‘I never thanked you,’ Potmoor said. ‘For bringing me back from the dead.’

‘You were not dead,’ replied Bartholomew, although he knew he was wasting his time: Potmoor was enjoying the prestige that accrued from his so-called resurrection. ‘Catalepsia is-’

‘I was dead, and I saw the bright glory of Heaven,’ countered Potmoor, a little dangerously.

‘It was an illusion. There were a lot of candles burning in your bedchamber that night.’

‘I know what I saw. Or are you telling me that I mistook you and your medical colleagues for God and His angels?’ Potmoor gave a low, creaking laugh.

Bartholomew frowned, taking in the man’s pale face and unsteady hands. ‘Yet you are still not recovered. What ails you? Headaches? Fevers?’

‘Headaches, which I attribute to setting eyes on the face of Our Lord. Meryfeld’s remedies were worthless, so I dismissed him, and hired Master Lawrence instead. Provost Illesy recommended him, as he was once medicus to Queen Isabella, although he has not cured me either. Would you like the job? I am a very rich man.’

‘I have too many patients already,’ said Bartholomew, trotting out the excuse he had used the last time Potmoor had asked. ‘I am sure Lawrence will find a medicine that helps you soon.’

It was a lie, as he was not sure at all. Such symptoms should have eased by now, and their persistence did not bode well. Potmoor launched into another subject.

‘Has your sister recovered from her tragic loss?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, recalling that Oswald had vigorously opposed Potmoor’s expansion into Cambridge and his untimely death had certainly been to Potmoor’s advantage. Naturally, there had been rumours, although they had fizzled out eventually, due to a lack of evidence. However, Bartholomew did not like the smirk on the felon’s face.

‘Pity.’ Potmoor changed tack yet again. ‘Hugo informs me that we never paid you for bringing me back to life. I would rather have remained in Heaven, of course, but I am not a man who reneges on his debts. Here is your fee.’

‘There is no need.’ Bartholomew refused to take the proffered purse. He was being watched, and it would do his reputation no good whatsoever to be seen accepting money from such a man.

‘I hope you are not suggesting that my life is not worth it,’ said Potmoor coldly.

‘No, of course not, but-’

‘Good.’ Potmoor grabbed Bartholomew’s hand and slapped the pouch into it. ‘From what I hear, your College could do with a windfall.’

‘What do you mean?’ Was this an admission that Potmoor had raided Michaelhouse?

Potmoor smiled, and Bartholomew struggled to prevent himself from shuddering at its reptilian nature. ‘Just that I am sure you can put my donation to good use.’

Bartholomew left the guildhall confused and unsettled. He shoved the purse into his medical bag, disliking the greasy touch of it on his fingers. The encounter had made him feel grubby, and he hated to think how the exchange would be interpreted by the people who had witnessed it. He swore under his breath, wishing he had had the sense to cut the conversation short.

His reverie was interrupted when someone collided with him so heavily that he was almost knocked off his feet. The culprit did not stop, but continued down Bridge Street, head bowed and hands tucked inside his green cloak. One of Bartholomew’s patients saw the incident.

‘Some folk got no manners,’ he muttered. His name was Noll Verius, a slovenly, loutish ditcher who was not known for courteous behaviour himself. ‘It is because you are a scholar, see. The University is unpopular with normal folk at the moment.’

He went on his way before Bartholomew could respond, moving so fast that the physician wondered if he aimed to catch up with the fellow and berate him for his clumsiness. Bartholomew started to call out to stop him, but suddenly became aware of the acrid stench of burning. It was coming from St Clement’s Church, along with the sound of drunken singing. Bemused, he recognised the voice of its vicar, William Heyford, a man noted for preaching vicious sermons against the University. But Heyford claimed to be an abstemious soul who rarely touched wine, so Bartholomew went to investigate. Smoke billowed out as he opened the door, and he could hear flames devouring dry wood within.

‘Fire!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.