Bartholomew retraced his steps up the High Street, passing the row of hovels opposite the Hospital of St John. The shacks had been an eyesore for years. Their roofs sagged, wall plaster dropped to the ground in clumps when it was too wet or too dry, and they stank of mould and decay. During the previous winter, snow had caused roofs to collapse, and some major restoration had been necessary – a task undertaken by the carpenter Robert de Blaston, on the understanding that one house would be his when it was completed. Matilde was looking forward to the day when the carpenter, his wife and their children moved into their own home, and so was Bartholomew. He longed to have her to himself again.
Since he was close, he walked to her house, and knocked on the door. The metal hinges gleamed like gold, and the wood had been polished so that he could all but see his face in it. He smiled. Blaston’s brood were not taking Matilde for granted, and were doing small tasks to repay her for her hospitality.
Matilde was pleased to see Bartholomew, while Yolande immediately removed herself to the pantry at the back, where delicious smells indicated there was a meat stew simmering. She took one baby with her, and called to another to follow, but Bartholomew and Matilde were still accompanied by at least three children he could see, and a peculiar sensation at the back of his head made him suspect there were more hiding on the stairs. Within moments, they heard the sound of water splashing, and Matilde raised her eyes heavenward.
‘Yolande has cleaned my pans at least three times today. If she continues to scrub them so often, she will scour through their bases.’
‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ asked Bartholomew, unnerved by so many silent watchers.
‘It is raining,’ said Matilde with a laugh. ‘But do not mind the children. They are always good when you are here. In fact, I am thinking of asking you to move in, too, because they are never so demure the rest of the time.’ She ruffled the hair of the one who sat at her feet.
‘We should introduce them to Dickon Tulyet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could learn from them how to behave when there are guests in the house.’
‘Dickon is a reformed character,’ said Matilde. ‘He has met his match.’
‘Did the Devil pay him a visit, then?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Julianna Mortimer invited him to play with her daughter – the child that came from her marriage to Master Langelee – and Dickon has not misbehaved since. If he screams now, his mother only needs mention a visit to Julianna and he becomes as quiet as a lamb. I would not accept her as a patient, if I were you, Matthew. Leave her for Rougham.’ Her expression was angry, and Bartholomew supposed she had heard the accusations Rougham had made about Warde. He did not want to discuss it, so said the first thing that came into his head.
‘Michael appointed me as his Corpse Examiner last week,’ he said, before realising that such a topic was hardly suitable for the ears of small children.
‘I heard,’ said Matilde. ‘It is no more than you deserve, although I imagine you dislike being at his beck and call in an official capacity.’
‘I need the money it pays. Most of my wealthy patients have gone to Rougham or Paxtone, and I cannot buy the medicines I need for the others without their fees.’
‘You are a good man, Matthew,’ said Matilde. ‘I heard you gave your last penny to make a potion for Una, and you have not charged Isnard for your services. I would help you, but …’ Her eyes strayed significantly to the child who had made itself comfortable on her feet. She changed the subject. ‘I hear you earned another fourpence last night.’
‘Warde from Valence Marie,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died of coughing.’
‘Is that natural?’ asked Matilde. ‘I have never heard of such a thing.’
‘It is not impossible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I did not examine him properly when he was alive, so it is difficult to say what happened.’
‘Rougham did not examine him properly, either,’ said Matilde with distaste. ‘He calculated a horoscope, but he did not put an ear to Warde’s chest and listen to the sounds within, as you do.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Surely you were not present when Warde summoned Rougham for a consultation?’
‘Neither was Rougham,’ said Matilde. ‘The whole thing was conducted through a messenger – young Alfred, here.’ She nodded to a black-haired boy of nine years or so, who was sitting near the hearth, listening to the conversation with his chin resting on his cupped hands. ‘Tell him, Alfred.’
‘The scholars at Valence Marie often use me if they want messages delivered,’ said Alfred proudly. ‘They say I am honest and reliable. Master Warde paid me a penny for taking spoken missives to Doctor Rougham and carrying others back. I remember everything they said.’
‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. He felt he was prying into Rougham’s business, and had no wish to hear what had transpired between him and his patient, but Alfred was flattered to be asked for information and was already speaking.
‘First, Rougham asked Warde whether he had pains in the chest. Warde replied there were none. Then Rougham asked whether coughing brought juices, and Warde replied that his flame was dry.’
‘Phlegm,’ corrected Bartholomew absently.
‘Next, Rougham asked if Warde had a bleeding of the throat, and Warde said no. I was running between Valence Marie and Gonville for most of the afternoon.’
‘He was exhausted when he came home,’ confirmed Matilde. ‘So, you see, Rougham no more examined Warde than you did. Perhaps you can counter his accusations against you by saying he was negligent, and that he should have taken the time to visit Warde.’
‘But Warde’s cough was not serious. I do not think Rougham did anything terribly wrong.’
‘Would you question a patient about his symptoms by using a child to relay messages?’
‘No, but–’
‘Would you visit that person, or ask him to call on you?’
‘Yes, and–’
‘Well, there you are, then. You are the town’s best physician, and if you would not act the way Rougham did, then your University logic leads me to conclude that he made a mistake.’
‘Perhaps he did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But this business will blow over soon, and I do not want to make a worse enemy of Rougham. We may have to work here together for a very long time, and we do not like each other as it is.’
‘If Rougham’s negligence killed Warde, then you should tell people,’ insisted Matilde. ‘It would be unethical not to. Folk will not want a physician who is careless, and they will use you instead.’
‘That is precisely why I cannot say anything. Rougham would claim I was making accusations to poach his patients.’
‘But he has been doing that to you,’ objected Matilde. ‘He regularly tells people that he considers your methods anathema. You must act to protect your reputation.’
‘People can decide for themselves who they employ. I do not want to engage in verbal battles with him to see who is the more popular. I have neither the time nor the energy for that sort of thing.’
Her chin jutted out defiantly. ‘He had better not say anything horrible about you in my hearing, or I shall tell him a few truths.’
Fortunately for Rougham, Bartholomew knew their paths were unlikely to cross, and so was not unduly worried about the possibility of an unseemly row between Gonville’s Master of Medicine and the head of the Guild of Frail Sisters. He sighed, and stretched his legs towards the fire, feeling more relaxed than he had been for some time. A child immediately scrambled into his lap and curled against him like a cat. He hugged it to him, touched by its easy trust.