Death of a Scholar

‘Herbs and potions that cost money,’ sniffed Holm. ‘And that I would not have to replace, if Bartholomew had not raised Potmoor. I intend to consult a lawyer today, and see about suing him.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Julitta firmly. She shot the physician a wan smile. ‘It is shock speaking. Will has never been burgled before.’

‘No, and I am more angry than I can say,’ snarled Holm. ‘The next time you revive a felon, please reflect on the impact it will have on decent, hard-working folk.’

Irritated and disconcerted by the encounter with the Holms, Bartholomew went on his way, but had not gone far when he saw Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence. He went to join them, hoping a medical conversation might restore his equanimity. They were talking about the previous night, when they had been summoned to tend Knyt.

‘You should have refused to go,’ Rougham was saying waspishly. ‘He was my patient, and I do not approve of poaching. Especially the lucrative cases.’

‘My apologies,’ said Lawrence, trying to prevent his long white beard from flapping in the wind. ‘The servant who fetched me claimed that Knyt wanted a fellow guildsman. I was stunned to learn it was a lie. Knyt had been insensible for hours, so could have made no such request.’

‘The same tale was told to me,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his grubby hands together. ‘I demurred, because I dislike going out in gales, at which point the fellow threatened to carry me there by force. It was all most distressing.’

‘And I was told you were unavailable,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry, Rougham.’

‘Very well,’ conceded the Gonville man, mollified. ‘I shall overlook it just this once. It is not the first time a desperate wife has summoned every medicus she knows in order to save a spouse. However, we should all be on our guard. There are rumours that Knyt was murdered, and we do not want to be associated with that sort of thing.’

‘Murdered by whom?’ asked Meryfeld, shocked.

‘By Potmoor, of course,’ replied Rougham. ‘Who else?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Lawrence drily. ‘The person deemed responsible for every foul deed and mishap in the town. Well, all I can say is that he must spend very little time eating and sleeping, or there would not be enough hours in the day to get around to them all.’

Rougham glared at him. ‘He definitely burgled Gonville Hall — a fine foundation like ours will certainly attract his greedy eyes. However, I am willing to concede that he might be innocent of making off with the town’s maypole last night. It does not seem like his kind of crime.’

‘That was probably your sister’s apprentices, Matthew,’ said Lawrence. ‘I saw them inspecting it yesterday, and I thought then that mischief was in the offing.’

‘It was dumped in the river, where it poses a considerable nuisance to shipping,’ added Meryfeld. ‘But we digress. Was Knyt murdered? I thought he had a seizure.’

‘He did have a seizure,’ said Rougham irritably. ‘We are not often unanimous in our diagnoses, especially when Bartholomew is involved, but we all agreed on that one. The rumour about Potmoor killing him is a silly lie put about by fools who aim to make trouble. Of course, I cannot blame them. Potmoor flaunts his misdeeds like banners, which is galling for us victims.’

‘You should not have saved him, Matthew,’ admonished Meryfeld. ‘Not only did it make the rest of us look incompetent, but the whole town despises you for it.’

‘Catalepsia,’ mused Rougham, before Bartholomew could defend himself. ‘I confess that possibility had not occurred to me. I wish it had, because I would have recommended that he be buried as soon as possible. Then he would have woken up inside his coffin, and no one would have been any the wiser. Except him, of course.’

Bartholomew was shocked. ‘You would never condemn anyone to such a terrible fate!’

‘I agree,’ said Lawrence reproachfully. ‘It is hardly commensurate with our calling.’

‘Our calling is to prevent suffering,’ countered Meryfeld loftily. ‘And eliminating such a wicked rogue would have done just that. I side with Rougham. Potmoor grows stronger every day, and I abhor him and his evil deeds. I am glad he is no longer my patient.’

He shot Lawrence a sour glance that belied his words and made it clear that he bitterly resented losing such a profitable source of income.

‘Yet Bartholomew should not bear sole responsibility,’ said Rougham. ‘I sniffed the sal ammoniac that woke Potmoor, and it almost melted my eyeballs. I have since learned that Eyer made a mistake with his ingredients.’

‘Who told you that?’ demanded Bartholomew. Eyer was a painstaking practitioner, and while errors were always a possibility, he seriously doubted that the apothecary had made one with the potent ingredients that were involved in producing smelling salts.

‘Eyer himself.’ Rougham shrugged sheepishly. ‘In so many words.’