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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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what you recommend for people, then,’ pressed Adela, undeterred. ‘I often use human remedies on my horses –
and sometimes they even work. Perhaps I could give you some of my horse cures, and you could adapt them for use on your patients.
That would be jolly.’
‘Not for my patients,’ said Bartholomew, edging away.
‘Do not be so narrow-minded,’ Adela admonished him. ‘But you can always
let me know if you change your mind. You know where I live. Goodbye.’
She strode away, an eccentric figure in her old-fashioned wimple and unflattering dress. The handsome blue riding cloak and
well-made leather shoes were the only indication that she was a woman of some wealth. When she was out of earshot, Bartholomew
started to laugh.
‘Not her,’ said Edith, laughing with him. ‘I do not want a sister-in-law who will raise that sort of topic at the dinner table.
Now let me see.’ She began to scan again.
‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘My students …’
He faltered, looking across the Market Square to the Church of
the Holy Trinity. He was considerably taller than Edith, and so she could not see what had made him stop speaking mid-sentence.
She craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, hoping that a woman had smitten him with her charms at first sight.
‘What is the matter? Who can you see?’
Bartholomew’s gaze was fixed on a figure in a blue tabard who slunk along the back of the church, weaving between the grassy
grave mounds. John Wymundham, Fellow of Bene’t College and friend of the lately deceasedRaysoun, looked around him carefully, before opening the church door and disappearing inside.
‘That is odd,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was Wymundham. His friend has just died – murdered, he says – and he was supposed to
be talking to Michael about it.’
‘Oh no, Matt!’ cried Edith in dismay. ‘Not murder again! Now you will never have time to meet the ladies I select for you.’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I am not involved in this – all I did was tend Raysoun as he lay
dying. Solving the crime is Michael’s work, not mine.’
‘So, why were you staring at Wymundham with such intense interest?’ asked Edith, unconvinced.
‘Wymundham said he would wait for Michael in Bene’t College, but here he is, wandering around the town.’ Bartholomew shrugged.
‘I suppose it means nothing. Perhaps Michael was too busy to see Wymundham today, and agreed to interview him another time.’
But it seemed strange that Michael would not want to discover from Wymundham who Raysoun claimed had killed him. Bartholomew
glanced up at the sky. More time had passed than he had realised since he had met Edith. Perhaps Wymundham had already spoken
to Michael, and felt the urge to sample the calming effects of a few prayers.
However, Edith was right – the affair had nothing to do with him, and he should not waste his time thinking about it. She
had already dismissed Wymundham and his dead friend from her mind, and was pulling her brother’s arm, leading him to where
a fire-eater was entertaining an entranced crowd. Bartholomew forgot Wymundham and Raysoun, yielded to her insistent tugs,
and spent the next hour trying to ascertain why the fire-eater was not covered in burns.
* * *
The following day was typically busy for Bartholomew. He rose long before dawn to spend some time on his treatise on fevers,
working quickly and concisely in the silence of the night, using the light from a cheap tallow candle that smoked and made
his eyes water. At dawn, he walked with the other scholars to St Michael’s Church, and then ate a hasty breakfast before being
summoned to the hovels where the riverfolk lived, to tend a case of the sweating sickness.
After that, he dashed back to the College to start teaching in the hall, ignoring the admonishing glare shot at him by Runham
for being late for his lecture. His younger students
and sometimes they even work. Perhaps I could give you some of my horse cures, and you could adapt them for use on your patients.
That would be jolly.’
‘Not for my patients,’ said Bartholomew, edging away.
‘Do not be so narrow-minded,’ Adela admonished him. ‘But you can always
let me know if you change your mind. You know where I live. Goodbye.’
She strode away, an eccentric figure in her old-fashioned wimple and unflattering dress. The handsome blue riding cloak and
well-made leather shoes were the only indication that she was a woman of some wealth. When she was out of earshot, Bartholomew
started to laugh.
‘Not her,’ said Edith, laughing with him. ‘I do not want a sister-in-law who will raise that sort of topic at the dinner table.
Now let me see.’ She began to scan again.
‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘My students …’
He faltered, looking across the Market Square to the Church of
the Holy Trinity. He was considerably taller than Edith, and so she could not see what had made him stop speaking mid-sentence.
She craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, hoping that a woman had smitten him with her charms at first sight.
‘What is the matter? Who can you see?’
Bartholomew’s gaze was fixed on a figure in a blue tabard who slunk along the back of the church, weaving between the grassy
grave mounds. John Wymundham, Fellow of Bene’t College and friend of the lately deceasedRaysoun, looked around him carefully, before opening the church door and disappearing inside.
‘That is odd,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was Wymundham. His friend has just died – murdered, he says – and he was supposed to
be talking to Michael about it.’
‘Oh no, Matt!’ cried Edith in dismay. ‘Not murder again! Now you will never have time to meet the ladies I select for you.’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I am not involved in this – all I did was tend Raysoun as he lay
dying. Solving the crime is Michael’s work, not mine.’
‘So, why were you staring at Wymundham with such intense interest?’ asked Edith, unconvinced.
‘Wymundham said he would wait for Michael in Bene’t College, but here he is, wandering around the town.’ Bartholomew shrugged.
‘I suppose it means nothing. Perhaps Michael was too busy to see Wymundham today, and agreed to interview him another time.’
But it seemed strange that Michael would not want to discover from Wymundham who Raysoun claimed had killed him. Bartholomew
glanced up at the sky. More time had passed than he had realised since he had met Edith. Perhaps Wymundham had already spoken
to Michael, and felt the urge to sample the calming effects of a few prayers.
However, Edith was right – the affair had nothing to do with him, and he should not waste his time thinking about it. She
had already dismissed Wymundham and his dead friend from her mind, and was pulling her brother’s arm, leading him to where
a fire-eater was entertaining an entranced crowd. Bartholomew forgot Wymundham and Raysoun, yielded to her insistent tugs,
and spent the next hour trying to ascertain why the fire-eater was not covered in burns.
* * *
The following day was typically busy for Bartholomew. He rose long before dawn to spend some time on his treatise on fevers,
working quickly and concisely in the silence of the night, using the light from a cheap tallow candle that smoked and made
his eyes water. At dawn, he walked with the other scholars to St Michael’s Church, and then ate a hasty breakfast before being
summoned to the hovels where the riverfolk lived, to tend a case of the sweating sickness.
After that, he dashed back to the College to start teaching in the hall, ignoring the admonishing glare shot at him by Runham
for being late for his lecture. His younger students
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