The Riddle Of St Leonard's

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The elderly man took tentative steps out of the door of the infirmary. He favoured his right leg for a few steps, then, when the shooting pains of the day before did not attack his efforts, he tried a bolder gait, letting his right leg swing out. He felt a twinge in the knee, but at his age a twinge was to be expected in any joint. Walter de Hotter crossed the yard from the infirmary to the East Gate once, back, twice, back, then continued out on to Blake Street. It was a happy journey. He was to sleep in his own bed that night. Not that the infirmary bed at St Leonard’s Hospital had been uncomfortable. Or unclean. Truth be told, it was cleaner than his own. But a man’s bed is a special thing, and Walter looked forward to a night in his.

Each time Walter entered the hospital because of an injury he wondered whether he would return to his own bed. His days were numbered, he knew. Three-score and nine he was: a goodly age, a venerable age. And for a clumsy man prone to accidents, a quite remarkable age. It was fortunate that he had married well and improved the business left to him by his father, accumulated several valuable messuages in the city, more property than his children could claim a need for, and had promised the one in which he dwelt to St Leonard’s in return for a corrody. He had made this arrangement after his wife had died; while she had lived she had seen to his injuries, and a commendable job she had done. But without her, Walter had been uneasy. Who would soak his sprained ankles, smooth soothing unguents on his burns, wrap them? His fellows in the merchants’ guild had assured him they would see to him. And so they would have, for the guild took care of its own. But he did not want to be a burden. He was not feeble, merely clumsy.

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