Death of a Scholar by Susanna Gregory

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.
    ‘Really?’ Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Why would your friends be interested in that? It is a University matter, and none of the Guild’s concern.’
    ‘Our members have given Winwick Hall a lot of money,’ explained Julitta. ‘So we have a say in what it does and when.’
    ‘The other scholars hate us having such influence over a foundation that will soon belong to