Death of a Scholar

Bartholomew regarded him askance. Eyer was an apothecary, not a physician, so had no authority to draw such conclusions. He glanced at the others, and saw they were similarly bemused.

‘I conducted my own examination, naturally,’ said Rougham, his cool glance telling Eyer that he had overstepped his mark. ‘It was a colic-induced seizure, brought on by a surfeit of oysters. Lawrence and Meryfeld agree.’

Eyer pulled an unpleasant face at the snub by omission, but it was nothing compared to the scowl Holm gave at the bald reminder that physicians were at the top of the medical profession, and everyone else was well below them.

‘Then there is nothing I can do, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew. He took a step towards the door, eager to leave, but two servants blocked his way. He tried to move past them, but they shoved him back, not roughly, but enough to tell him that he was not going anywhere.

‘It will not take a moment,’ said one quietly. ‘Just wave your salt almanac at him.’

‘Sal ammoniac,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And it worked with Potmoor because he was not dead, no matter what he claims now. He was suffering from a condition that-’

‘Just cure him,’ interrupted the servant. ‘John Knyt is a decent, honest soul, and he should not die while Potmoor lives. It would not be right. Just apply your salt almanac, and the whole town will praise you as an angel of God.’

Bartholomew refrained from remarking that it was more likely to seal his reputation as a necromancer, and turned towards the sickbed, knowing he would not be allowed to leave until he had at least examined the patient. It did not take him long to see that Knyt was far beyond his skills, and had been for some time.

‘I am sorry,’ he said gently to Olivia. ‘My colleagues are right. Your husband is dead.’

‘There,’ said Rougham in satisfaction. ‘May we go now? We cannot do any more to help, and it is very late.’

Olivia ignored him. ‘Put your salt almanac to his nose, Doctor Bartholomew, like you did to John Potmoor.’

‘It will make no difference.’ It was not the first time someone had refused to believe that a loved one had gone, and Bartholomew knew the only way to convince Olivia was by patient kindness. He sat on a bench and gestured that she should perch next to him, so he could explain.

‘Do you have your salt almanac with you?’ she asked, not moving.

‘Yes, but-’

‘Then use it,’ she ordered. ‘Now, please.’

‘Just do it, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham irritably. ‘It will do no harm, and none of us will be permitted to leave until it is done.’

Very reluctantly and feeling like a ghoul, Bartholomew rummaged in his bag for the new salts he had bought after he had superstitiously discarded the ones he had used on Potmoor. Rougham snatched them from his hand and waved them under Knyt’s nose, evidently intending to claim the credit if it worked. It did not, so he handed them back without a word. Bartholomew turned apologetically to Olivia, but her face was grim as she indicated that he was to do it himself.

He did what she ordered, but her husband remained as dead as ever.

CHAPTER 4

The wind picked up through the night, rattling the tiles on Michaelhouse’s roof and making mysterious clunking sounds that might have been nothing, but that equally well might have been something about to break. Bartholomew slept poorly, starting awake at every thump, and once, after an especially loud clatter, getting up to ensure that the roof was still attached.

‘You normally sleep through storms, sir,’ said Aungel the following morning. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, unwilling to reveal that his restlessness had been caused by the episode in Knyt’s house. He hated losing patients, even ones who were dead before he was called. Then he realised that Aungel was trying to make amends for his bad behaviour the previous day, and the curt answer had been churlish. He forced a smile. ‘It was just very noisy.’

‘It was,’ agreed Aungel. ‘The roof always knocks when the wind is from the east. It terrified me when I first came three years ago, but I have learned since that it is nothing to worry about.’

Bartholomew was far from sure about that. He took the lad to the storeroom, leaving the others to roll away mattresses, fold blankets and take dirty clothes to the laundry. He surveyed the mess wearily, then began to scrub the spilt substances off the workbenches while Aungel swept the floor. Anger gripped him again when he saw how free the experimenters had made with his supplies. His poppy juice was almost gone, and he wondered if Eyer would let him have more on credit until he earned some money. Or perhaps Edith would lend him a few pennies.

‘God’s teeth,’ he exclaimed, holding up a flask containing a fluid that was bright blue. When he swirled it, it adhered to the sides, and he was quite sure that if any spilled, it would stain whatever it touched permanently. ‘What is this?’