Free Murder by the Book by Susanna Gregory Page B

soothe the situation.
    ‘They are arguing over the library,’ Meadowman explained, rolling his eyes. ‘Again. Apparently, Master Heltisle made some remark about the grace being passed by ignorant ruffians, and Essex took exception. I wish the Chancellor had never had the stupid idea in the first place.’
    ‘You are not alone,’ muttered Michael, as they hurried away together.
    When they had gone, Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go home, despite his weariness. He was unsettled by the events of the day, and suspected he would not sleep if he went to bed anyway. Besides, he felt a certain obligation to tell his medical colleagues in person that Vale was dead, so he began to walk towards Bridge Street, to the home of John Meryfeld, which had become the meeting place of the Cambridge
medici
in their quest for steady-burning lamp fuel. They had planned to resume their experiments that evening, and Bartholomew had been sorry that his duties as Corpse Examiner had prevented him from joining them.
    He made his way past the jumble of alleys known asthe Old Jewry, where Matilde had lived, and entered Bridge Street. A breeze was blowing from the east, carrying with it the scent of the Fens – stagnant water, rotting vegetation and wet earth. It was a smell he had known since childhood, and one he found curiously comforting and familiar. Then there was a breath of sweetness from some honeysuckle, followed by a rather unpleasant waft from a latrine that needed emptying.
    He arrived at Meryfeld’s house and knocked on the door, hoping it was not too late and his colleagues would still be there. Since beginning their quest the previous winter, the physicians had met at least once a week, and he had come to enjoy the sessions, despite their lack of progress. They were opinionated and dogmatic, and Bartholomew would never share his more novel theories with them, but he had come to accept their idiosyncrasies – and they his – and they had all gradually adopted attitudes of comradely tolerance.
    Meryfeld’s plump face broke into a happy grin of welcome when he opened his door. He was always smiling, and had a habit of rubbing his hands together when he spoke. He was not the cleanest of men, and his affable, pleasant manner concealed an intensely acquisitive core, but Bartholomew liked him anyway.
    ‘Hah!’ Meryfeld exclaimed. ‘We thought you were not coming. Vale did not arrive, either, so we assumed that you must have received summonses from patients. Come in, come in.’
    His home was airy and comfortable, and smelled of the home-made remedies he liked to dispense. Most were ineffectual, and comprised such innocuous ingredients as honey, mint and angelica, but he still charged a fortune for them. Bartholomew was always amazed when one worked, and could only suppose that it was the patient’sfaith in what he was swallowing that had effected the cure; there was a tendency amongst laymen to believe that the more expensive the remedy, the more likely it was to do what it promised.
    William Rougham, portly, smug and arrogant, was reclining in Meryfeld’s best chair. He deplored the fact that Bartholomew had trained with an Arab physician, and regarded his methods as controversial and dangerous. In turn, Bartholomew despised Rougham’s traditionalism and resistance to change. But they had reached a truce over the years, and although they would never be friends, there was no longer open hostility in their relationship.
    John Gyseburne was by the hearth. He was an austere, long-haired, unsmiling man in his fifties, who was of the firm belief that the only reliable diagnostic weapon was the inspection of urine. He always had a flask to hand, and rarely conducted consultations without requesting a sample; Bartholomew had even heard him demand one from a patient with a grazed knee. Despite this, Bartholomew had come to respect his opinions, and felt there was much to be learned from him.
    The last of the gathering was Will Holm.