Bartholomew Fair (27 page)

St Thomas’s hospital lay a little south of the Southwark end of the Bridge, and as I dismounted at the gatehouse, I recalled what I could of its history, in case I should be quizzed about it, expected to know where it was I would be working. Like St Bartholomew’s, it was very ancient, originally part of a monastic foundation established to care for the sick and homeless poor. No one knew what its original name had been, but the monastery had been named for Thomas à Becket after he was canonised, and was run by an order of Augustinian monks and nuns. Some time in the last century, the Lord Mayor, Richard Whittington, had endowed a lying-in ward for unmarried mothers, an extraordinary idea at the time, and still remarkable, though given the proximity of the stews of Southwark, no doubt it was kept busy.

Then, when the monasteries were brought down by the Queen’s father, this hospital, like Barts, was abandoned, and the poor of both London and Southwark were left to die uncared for in the gutter. A number of compassionate and wealthy citizens had tried to gain possession of both hospitals, but had been refused by Henry. His son, Edward, was more sympathetic and the hospitals were restored, with superintendents and governors, and local women replacing the nursing nuns. St Thomas’s had, however, been rededicated to St Thomas the Apostle, since Becket’s reputation for opposing the monarchy did not find favour with the Tudors.

I could see that St Thomas’s was as busy as Barts, even in summer, and even in a year when we had been mostly spared the plague. There was a bustle of carts arriving with goods, servants and nursing sisters crossing the courtyard, and long lines of sick people making their way to a small door at one side, where I supposed the almoner must handle admissions. Some were able to walk, but others had been carried here on trestles by their friends. By and large, they looked even more threadbare and destitute than the poor folk who came to us at St Bartholomew’s.

I managed to hail a groom, who took Hector in charge and pointed to the stables where I would find him when I had finished my business here. Only once had I been to St Thomas’s before, that time my father and I had brought the last few convalescing sailors here, sailors we had been treating aboard ship at Deptford after the defeat of the Spanish Armada. As we had done then, I entered by the main door and looked about me, wondering where I would find the deputy superintendent. As at Barts, he would be the one responsible for the day-to-day organisation and running of the hospital. The role of superintendent was largely honorary, carrying a salary, which was useful for rewarding some friend of the governors. According to the letter Sir Francis had given me, the deputy’s name was Roger Ailmer.

‘Your pardon, mistress.’ I accosted a large capable-seeming woman, who looked as though she might be one of those in charge of the sisters. ‘I am looking for Master Ailmer.’

She sized me up quickly, taking note of my physician’s robe and cap.

‘This way, sir, I will take you to him myself.’ She began walking briskly along a corridor and I followed. ‘Would you be the new physician that’s starting soon?’

‘I am.’ I bowed. ‘Dr Christoval Alvarez.’

She dropped a brief businesslike curtsey. ‘I am Mistress Alice Maynard, in charge of the women’s wards.’ She gave me a sharp look. ‘We have a great many women patients, sir. Are you accustomed to treating women?’

‘Indeed,’ I said seriously. ‘We had women patients also at St Bartholomew’s. We arranged a separate lying-in ward for the women there.’

‘Ah, but it is a new notion for you.
We
have had a fine lying-in ward for a hundred and seventy years.’

‘Aye, I know. Endowed by Richard Whittington. He also paid for repairs to St Bartholomew’s. By all accounts, he was a very good man.’

She rewarded me with a smile, as if I had passed some test.

‘Here we are, Dr Alvarez. This is Superintendent Ailmer’s office.’

She knocked on the door, then opened it. ‘The new physician to see you, Superintendent.’

She stood aside for me to enter. I suppressed a smile. It seemed Ailmer had dispensed with the ‘deputy’ in front of his title. That seemed fair enough to me. It was he who did all the work, not the gentleman who could rightfully lay claim to the title.

‘Ah, Master Alvarez.’ He looked at me over his reading spectacles, but did not rise from his seat behind an imposing desk. ‘Thank you, Mistress Maynard.’

As she closed the door behind her, he motioned me to a chair, then took off his spectacles and looked at me more carefully. He was a man of middle years, with a somewhat choleric countenance. I could not decide whether he was the type to be jovial, or one with a quick temper. I would need to watch my step.

‘You are very young.’

There was no answer to that, so I merely bowed my head slightly. After last night, I did not feel very young.

‘Some relative of Sir Francis, are you? Some place-seeker?’

‘Nay, Master Ailmer.’

I was not going to give him his title if he did not give me mine. ‘I am no relative of Sir Francis, though I have worked for him as a code-breaker for more than three years, in the service of the State.’ No harm in mentioning that. He looked like a man who would take note.

‘In addition I have worked at St Bartholomew’s hospital for nearly six years, in all the wards and all types of physic. Earlier this year I served as a physician in Sir John Norreys’s expedition to Portugal.’

‘Lost your position at Barts, haven’t you?’

I gritted my teeth, but kept my temper. ‘I worked as assistant to my father, Dr Baltasar Alvarez, who was formerly the senior professor of medicine at the University of Coimbra.’

‘Aye. I thought from the name you must be a Portingall.’

I ignored this gibe. ‘When the expedition returned, I found that my father had died in my absence and the hospital had appointed a replacement, who brought his own assistant with him. However, I believe that the governors of St Bartholomew’s will speak to my capabilities.’

‘Aye, well, Sir Francis enclosed their recommendation with his letter.’ He shuffled the papers on his desk, put his spectacles on again and studied one of them.

‘Highly recommended! Well, we shall see. You understand that although the place that is coming vacant is that of a full physician, you will only be paid as an assistant. You do not possess a medical degree and are not a fellow of the Royal College of Physicians.’

‘I understand.’

‘We will be losing a much loved and highly respected physician, who has served here for many years, Dr Colet. Sadly, age is taking its toll of his eyesight and he fears he can no longer practice. His place here will be a difficult one to fill.’

‘I will do my best, Superintendent.’ No harm in giving the man his chosen title. I felt he was softening toward me.

‘I am glad to hear it.’ He stood up and offered me his hand, even smiling at last. ‘Report for duty on the twelfth day of September. Come to me here and I will instruct you on which wards you will be covering.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

I bowed myself out and hurried along the corridor before I let out my breath in a long gasp. I must have been holding it. The encounter with Ailmer had not been quite what I expected, but I felt I had weathered it. The atmosphere here seemed more formal than the relaxed mood of Barts, but perhaps that was because the deputy superintendent at my old hospital handled the business side of Barts, while having few encounters with the medical staff. I suspected Ailmer was the sort of man who would patrol the wards, sticking his finger into every pie. Well, I had wanted this position, and now I had got it.

Hector and I made our way quite slowly back to the Bridge and over it, through the midday crowds. I noticed a man selling toys from a tray round his neck, painted wooden monkeys which by some manoeuvre could be made to climb a stick. It was not Nicholas Borecroft. I wondered where he was now. I had begun to feel quite sorry for the man, who seemed merely a little misguided in his ambitions. After all, many men started in London with little and made their fortunes, even becoming an alderman or Lord Mayor. Look at Whittington. They even sang rhymes about him to children. Unlike many rich men, Whittington had not neglected the poor, but had worked to improve the conditions of Londoners, during his life and after his death, through his bequests. You could hardly blame Borecroft for wanting to rise in life. These were the times of new men, self-made men, like Ruy. Even Sir Francis and Lord Burghley came from quite modest families. A few generations back, the Earl of Essex’s family, the Devereux, had been yeoman farmers in Herefordshire.

Of course Borecroft was a fool to have got himself into debt to a man like this Ingram Frizer that Phelippes had spoken about. And Poley was somehow involved with Frizer. I could imagine that Poley might well have found gullible marks for Frizer, as a card sharper’s cronies will do. Poley could be a charming companion when he chose to be, as he had been with poor Anthony Babington. He would charm naïve young men, persuade them into spending more than they should, then suggest Frizer as a source for loans. Once Frizer secured them, they would be wrapped in his sticky web like flies preserved for a spider’s dinner. I shuddered.

The other side of Poley was his utter ruthlessness, which I had experienced myself. If he could get a hold over you, he would exploit it for all it was worth. Not so different from Frizer. No wonder they worked together. But why did Borecroft appear to be implicated in this conspiracy?

Back at Seething Lane I learned that Sir Francis was out of bed again, so I went first to his office to report on my meeting with Deputy Superintendent Ailmer. I summarised our conversation briefly.

‘He was trying to justify paying you the lower salary,’ Sir Francis suggested, when he heard of the cutting things Ailmer had said.

‘There was no need for it. I was prepared to accept those terms. What options do I have?’

‘You know, Kit, the Royal College will sometimes accept fellows under certain special conditions. We will need to look into it.’

I looked at him in surprise, though I remembered that he had once mentioned this before. ‘I thought one must have a degree in medicine,’ I said. ‘They are even reluctant to accept degrees from foreign universities. The fellows must vote on each individual case.’

‘I’m not sure what the special conditions are, so do not get your hopes up! Now, you had better go along to Thomas and hear what the latest news is.’

There was indeed news in Phelippes office.

‘The party from Devon spent last night some fifteen miles from London,’ he said. ‘They are expected to reach the Herbar this evening, if they are not delayed. However, there are women and children in the party, so they do not travel fast.’

He was looking tired and I wondered whether he had slept last night while I was dozing in the chair, or whether he had worked the night through.

‘Surely we must take some kind of action,’ I said. ‘Or else warn them to stay at an inn instead of at the Herbar.’

I took off my gown and cap and hung them on a peg behind the door. Something suddenly struck me, which we had not discussed before.

‘Where is Drake himself? I do not think we have mentioned him. Is he even in London?’

‘He has ridden out to meet the family group. He spent last night at the same inn. And I agree. I am going to send a rider to warn them that something may be intended against the Herbar.’

‘Do you think Drake will listen?’

I knew that Drake did not indulge in such foolhardy heroics as the Earl of Essex, but he was arrogant and full of pride. He would always believe he could take on any enemy and for the most part he won. But not always. I wondered whether Phelippes thought the same.

‘He may not. We must–’

Before he could finish saying what we must do, we both heard running footsteps coming along the corridor from the backstairs and Berden burst into the room. He was out of breath and clutched at his side.

‘What is it?’ Phelippes jumped to his feet. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Nay, not yet,’ Berden gasped, still hardly able to speak, ‘but we know now!’

‘Know what!’ Phelippes was angry at this prevarication.

‘Borecroft. Why they wanted Borecroft.’

Berden went to the side table and helped himself to a cup of wine, unasked. He gulped it down like water and poured himself another.

‘Nick,’ I said, ‘Master Phelippes will have an apoplexy if you do not spit it out!’

Phelippes grinned, shook his head and sat down again.

‘Very well, Nick,’ Phelippes said. ‘Tell us what you have found out.’

‘Borecroft, it’s an unusual name, isn’t it?’ Berden said, and I saw Phelippes grit his teeth, but he said nothing. Berden seized a stool and sat down.

‘So I thought I would make some enquiries, see if I could get word of any other Borecrofts in London. While my lads have been watching the Herbar and the Italian’s house, I’ve been seeking out all my sources, trying to discover whether there might be another Borecroft where our Borecroft was hiding out. I thought, if I can find him, I’ll pull him in for questioning. He is the weak link in all this. He would probably be more afraid of you and Sir Francis than of those rats Frizer and Poley.’

‘And did you find another Borecroft?’ Phelippes asked, with what I thought was admirable patience.