‘What are they laughing at?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by their reaction to the fussy scholar.
‘Rosella found a pod with nine peas this morning,’ said Stoate, as if that explained all.
‘So?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘So, she takes the ninth pea, and places it on the lintel of the door,’ said Stoate impatiently. ‘The first man over the threshold will be her sweetheart.’
‘And Alcote was the first of us to come in,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘Poor Rosella! Alcote has a morbid dislike of women in any form, but young and pretty ones in particular.’
‘Why?’ asked Stoate curiously. ‘They are among God’s finest creations.’
‘I have no idea. But if you have any regard for Rosella, you will advise her to shell a few more peas. And speaking of peas, have you tried them cooked in sugar to help those recovering from the sweating sickness?’
Deynman listened to the conversation for a while, but his concentration span was short, and he was soon kicking Horsey under the table to play dice with him. Michael closed his eyes and began to doze, pretending not to notice the illicit gaming in the darkest corner of the tavern and hoping it would keep Horsey from dwelling too much on the death of his friend.
It was not long before the plague became the topic of conversation, and Stoate told Bartholomew how he had cured people with a purge of pear juice mixed with red arsenic, lead powder and henbane. It was not a recipe with which Bartholomew was familiar, nor, after hearing the amounts of arsenic, lead and henbane Stoate used in his concoction, was it one he intended to try. If Stoate’s patients had survived both the plague and the remedy, they were possessed of stronger constitutions than the citizens of Cambridge.
But it was good to be able to discuss medicine with someone who was interested. Stoate told him of country cures for chilblains, cramp and nosebleeds, and then went on to describe purges for all occasions.
‘Is that what you do most?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Prescribe purges?’
‘That is what most people summon me for. It is my contention that it is cheaper for physicians to prevent diseases than to cure them. I recommend that everyone should be purged of evil humours once a week, and bled at least three times a year.’
‘And you find this helps to keep people in good health?’ asked Bartholomew, uncertainly.
Stoate gestured around him. ‘Ask my patients. Most are in excellent health. Are yours?’
Michael gave a soft snort that might have been laughter or might have been an innocent noise made while asleep. His eyes remained closed.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, looking back at Stoate. ‘But then, living in a town is far less healthy than life in the country. There is often not enough to eat, and the water from the river is filthy.’
‘What has the water to do with anything? Try some of my purges on these ailing patients of yours and you will notice a difference within a week. And there is nothing quite like bleeding to improve the health, of course.’
‘Is there a surgeon in Grundisburgh, then?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed that Stoate was like all the other physicians he had met. Bleeding, to rid the body of the excessive humours that caused imbalances, was seen as the answer to everything – even the plague. In Bartholomew’s experience, phlebotomy served to weaken the patient if he were ill, and was a waste of time if he were not.
‘Our surgeon died during the pestilence,’ said Stoate. ‘Do you have a good remedy against lice? We had a spate of them last summer, and even Eltisley professed himself at a loss for a solution.’
‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But who bleeds your patients if there is no surgeon?’
‘Master Stoate bleeds his patients himself,’ said the formidable matron who had apparently been listening to their conversation from her fireside seat. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Deynman’s dice. ‘He is a most accomplished surgeon, and charges tuppence for a vein to be opened in the foot and threepence for the hand.’
‘You practise surgery?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
Stoate looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, blood-letting is not exactly surgery, and I only do it if I feel a patient should not make the journey to Ipswich.’
‘That is excellent!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, delighted. ‘Well, not the bleeding, but to meet a physician who is prepared to use surgical means to help his patients. I have performed a number of operations including trepanation, cauterising and suturing wounds, amputations…’
‘Have you?’ asked Stoate doubtfully. ‘That is strictly forbidden. The Lateran Council of 1215 says that priests are not allowed to practise cautery.’
‘I am not a priest,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘But what else do you do, besides phlebotomy? Have you tried pulling teeth? It requires more skill than most surgeons believe – if the tooth breaks in the jaw, it can cause infections and even death from poisons in the blood.’
‘I have not,’ said Stoate with a shudder. ‘I have an infallible remedy for extracting teeth without the need for physical effort on my part: powder of earthworms. Just a pinch of this in the hollow of a tooth will make it drop out within days.’
Bartholomew winced. ‘What about bone-setting? Do you do that?’
‘No,’ said Stoate. ‘As I said, I do not practise surgery if I can avoid it, and I have not bled anyone for several weeks now. But I did once remove the blue skin that forms over the eyes of the old, so that the person could see again.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, fascinated. ‘Tell me how you did it. I have tried that procedure twice, but in both cases the blindness returned within three years.’
‘My patient died of a bloody flux about a week later,’ said Stoate. ‘But I learned two things: the knife must be sharp, and the patient must lie still.’
‘Well, that goes without saying,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him doubtfully. ‘But did you use witch-hazel as a salve afterwards? Or did you use groundsel as Dioscorides recommends?’
‘I used sugar water,’ came the unexpected reply. Stoate gazed at Bartholomew and suddenly slapped his hand hard on the table, waking Michael, who regarded him in alarm. ‘That is it! I knew there was something else!’
‘That is what?’ asked Michael, irritably.
Stoate looked pleased with himself. ‘Ever since I learned of your Franciscan’s murder I have been thinking about the person I saw coming out of the church. I knew there was something I should have remembered, but it had slipped to the back of my mind. Talking about surgery to the eyes has suddenly jolted my memory, and I now know exactly what it was that has been bothering me: the person in the long cloak was rubbing his face.’
‘You mean as though he had been crying?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure that this had been worth waiting for.
‘No, rubbing his eyes hard with both fists, as though there was something wrong with them,’ said Stoate. ‘So, you are probably looking for someone with an eye infection, Doctor Bartholomew. That should narrow down your list of killers!’
Chapter 5
By the time Stoate left, Bartholomew was sleepy and excused himself to go to bed, knowing it would not be long before he would have to relieve Father William for Unwin’s vigil. Eltisley led him to the upper floor, explaining that he and his wife used one room, while the other two were reserved for guests. The chambers were pleasant enough, with mullioned windows, polished wooden floors, and several straw mattresses that were piled with more blankets than even the most chilly of mortals could require during an early-summer night. Wearily, Bartholomew found a bowl of water and began to wash. After a moment he became aware that Eltisley was still in the room, fiddling with one of the windows.