Death of a Scholar

As always when he thought of her, he experienced a sharp stab of loss, although the feeling was now tempered by confusion. He had believed he would never love another woman, but that was before he had met Julitta, wife of the town’s only surgeon.

He was perplexed by the emotions that assailed him. Neither woman was available, as one had disappeared again and the other was married, but that did not stop him pondering which one he should choose. Until that summer, he would have picked Matilde, but their recent encounter — if it could be called that; he had been asleep at the time, and he was still hurt that she had opted to communicate by letter rather than wait for him to wake — had opened his eyes to flaws in her character he had not known she possessed. She and Julitta were on a much more even footing in his mind now, so it was perhaps fortunate that neither was clamouring for an immediate answer.

He was obliged to watch his step when he reached Bridge Street, to navigate the chaos of ruts outside St Clement’s Church. When he looked up again, his spirits soared: Julitta was walking towards him. He smiled — until he saw she was with her husband. All thoughts of an enjoyable tête-à-tête fled, and he glanced around for a suitable hiding place. Then he reminded himself that he was a senior scholar, and should not be scuttling down alleys to avoid uncomfortable meetings.

The Holms were a handsome couple, and as Julitta had inherited a fortune from her father, which allowed them to buy whatever clothes took their fancy, they were beautifully attired. Her money also meant that Holm did not have to work, and he had been quick to pare down his practice in order to concentrate on what he considered to be his true vocation — inventing patent medicines. So far, he had marketed a powder to cure baldness and a method for dislodging kidney stones, both of which had been spectacular failures. Even so, there was arrogance in his stride — his disappointments in the world of healing had done nothing to temper his high opinion of himself.

Julitta wore a blue kirtle that matched her remarkable eyes. Her long, silky hair was in a plait, an unusual style for a married woman, but one that suited her. She had adored her pretty husband when they had first been wed, but it had not taken many nights before the cold truth had dawned. Her happy innocence was replaced by something graver and wiser, but she declined to let Holm’s preferences dismay her. She had simply turned to Bartholomew for comfort, although she retained a touching devotion towards the surgeon that Bartholomew felt Holm did not deserve.

‘Have you heard what people are saying about you, physician?’ Holm asked with a smirk. ‘That you used witchcraft to snatch Potmoor from Hell.’

‘Will is right, Matt,’ said Julitta worriedly. ‘You made no friends when you saved him.’

‘I had no idea that smelling salts could be so potent,’ Holm went on. ‘I bought a bottle from Eyer the apothecary afterwards, but he says the one he sold you must have been different from his usual brews, as sal ammoniac does not usually restore life to corpses.’

‘Potmoor was not dead,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘As you know perfectly well — you were there. And when we discussed catalepsia later, you said you had witnessed several cases of it.’

‘That was before accusations of necromancy started to fly about, so I have reappraised my memory in the interests of personal safety. However, I would not mind owning the sal ammoniac you used on Potmoor. Will you sell it to me? It might come in useful.’

‘Useful for what, Will?’ asked Julitta uneasily. ‘You are not thinking of restoring life to corpses yourself, are you?’

‘Not I,’ averred Holm. ‘But I still conduct surgery on one or two favoured patients, and a more pungent mixture might help to rouse them when things do not go quite according to plan.’

‘I threw it away,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Rank superstition had led him to toss the little pot in the College midden — a ridiculous fear that the smelling salts might indeed have held some diabolical power.

‘That was wise,’ said Julitta, although Holm looked disgusted. Then she smiled and changed the subject. ‘We are summoned to yet another urgent gathering of the Guild of Saints. There are a great many of them these days, most requiring speedy decisions about money.’

Like many social and religious fraternities in Cambridge, the Guild of Saints not only accepted women as members, but encouraged them to take an active role in its running. Willing and efficient ladies like Julitta — and Edith before she had been lumbered with her husband’s business — were kept extremely busy with its various undertakings.

‘It is tiresome,’ said Holm sulkily. ‘And making beggars happy is a waste of time, if you ask me, although I must say I enjoy the Guild’s monthly feasts.’

‘Perhaps this meeting is to discuss the role Winwick Hall will play in the University’s beginning of term ceremony next week,’ Julitta went on, ignoring him.