‘You ate virtually nothing this evening,’ said Julitta, escorting him down the stairs. He was acutely aware of Holm’s proprietary gaze on her as they went. ‘Are you ill?’
‘My stomach is unsettled from swallowing bad water. It is nothing serious.’
‘I see.’ Julitta looked thoughtful. ‘What would you prescribe for a patient who came to you with the symptoms you are experiencing?’
‘Nothing too strong. Perhaps a tonic of lovage root and mint. Why?’
‘I shall make you one.’ Julitta raised her hand when he began to object. ‘Come with me to the kitchen. I have those ingredients, and it will not take a moment to boil some water.’
‘You boil water for tonics?’ asked Bartholomew, impressed. He did the same himself, although it was a practice his medical colleagues deemed deeply unorthodox.
‘Of course! Unboiled water causes fluxes. I strain it, too, through a cloth, to eliminate further impurities.’
Bartholomew was very interested. Here was a woman after his own heart! ‘Have you evidence to suggest that strained water is more effective?’ he asked keenly.
Julitta smiled. ‘I am afraid not. You see, so much sinister-looking sludge adheres to the cloth after filtering that I would never dream of not doing it now. I strain and boil all our water, even the stuff we use to wash our hands.’
Bartholomew gazed at her. The benefits of hand-washing was another practice his fellow medici scoffed at, yet here was Julitta speaking as though hygiene was routine in her household. He found himself warming to her even more.
They reached the kitchen, which was spacious and spotlessly clean. Julitta indicated he was to sit at the table while she worked, and began chatting about mutual acquaintances – especially Edith, for whom she held a particular affection. At that point her conquest of Bartholomew was complete, for he was always willing to think well of people who praised his beloved sister. He listened to her with mounting affection, quite forgetting her fiancé sitting upstairs.
Eventually, she presented him with a cup. He sipped the contents warily, not sure how he felt about a woman preparing medicines he usually made himself. Its flavour was more pleasant than his own brews, and he realised that she had added honey. He resolved to do likewise in future – assuming his bet with Holm did not plunge him deep into debt, of course, and prevent him from purchasing ingredients for remedies ever again.
‘Thank you for reasoning with your father in St Mary the Great this morning,’ he said, watching her place the used pan in a bucket, ready to be washed the following day. ‘I think he might have decried me as a warlock had you not intervened.’
‘Oh, he would,’ she agreed. ‘And you do have a reputation for necromancy.’
‘Yes, but it is undeserved,’ he said defensively.
Julitta regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Is it? Despite my defence of you, I know you were planning to slice into Vale. I could tell by the angle of your blade.’
Bartholomew was horrified – he did not want her to think him a ghoul. Or a sorcerer, for that matter. ‘Then why did you tell your father I was cutting knotted laces?’
‘Well, it was only Vale, and I have never liked him.’ Bartholomew glanced sharply at her, and saw her eyes were twinkling: she was teasing him. Then her expression became sombre. ‘I defended you because I want you to find out what happened to Northwood, which you cannot do if you are in gaol for desecrating corpses. He was a dear, kind man, who often came to read to me, and I shall miss him terribly. He was teaching me philosophy.’
‘Was he?’ Here was yet another aspect of Northwood’s complex character: the patient tutor. ‘Why?’
‘Because the subject fascinates me. If he was feloniously killed, I want the culprit brought to justice, and if that means misleading my father about the Corpse Examiner who is helping to investigate his death, then so be it. Besides, I know you wielded the knife only because you wanted answers. There was no wickedness in it.’
Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on, feeling her remarks entitled her to an explanation. ‘I think Northwood and the others were poisoned, but an external examination will never prove it. The only way to know for certain is to look inside them, to see whether damage to entrails …’ He trailed off, not sure how much detail to provide.
Julitta winced. ‘I can see how such a procedure might be useful, but it is horrible nonetheless. Perhaps you had better not embark on it, especially in St Mary the Great, where the chances of being caught are rather high.’
‘It will not happen again,’ he said fervently. ‘I have learned my lesson.’
Julitta smiled. ‘Good. Then let us say no more about it.’ She cleared her throat apprehensively. ‘At the risk of sounding selfish, one of the reasons I was distressed by Northwood’s demise was because he had offered to teach me to read. I do not suppose you would oblige, would you?’
Bartholomew blinked, wondering whether he had misheard, but could tell from the hope in her eyes that he had not. His heart clamoured at him to say yes, to earn time in her company, but the rational part of his mind reminded him that he was too busy and she was betrothed.
‘If you like,’ he heard himself say. ‘But why ask me? I imagine Holm would enjoy–’
‘It will be my wedding gift to him,’ said Julitta, eyes sparkling. ‘A literate woman to manage his household, and to provide him with intelligent conversation during long winter evenings.’
‘Holm is a very lucky man,’ said Bartholomew quietly.
Julitta laughed happily. ‘And I am a very lucky woman.’
It was dark by the time Bartholomew left Dunning’s house. The High Street was full of apprentices and labourers who had spent the evening beautifying their masters’ property in preparation for the upcoming festival, and who had then gone to slake their thirst in alehouses. Now they were spilling out in drunken gaggles. Although there had been no serious trouble between the University and the town for months, a lone scholar still presented an attractive target for drink-fuelled townsmen, so Bartholomew cut down the alley that led to Milne Street to avoid unnecessary confrontations. He recalled that Cynric was supposed to be accompanying him out at night, as per Michael’s recommendation following the attack by the hooded men who had wanted the formula for wildfire, but it had not occurred to him to ask the book-bearer to oblige.
Unfortunately, Milne Street contained its own collection of rowdy gangs, so with a weary sigh, he aimed for Cholles Lane instead. He strode past Batayl Hostel, Newe Inn and Holm’s house, and turned right when he reached the river. There were no taverns on or by the towpath, and he would be able to enter Michaelhouse by its back gate.
As he walked, the clouds drifted away from the moon to reveal shadowy figures on the path ahead. He slowed, assuming some of the boisterous rabble had decided to cool themselves with a refreshing dip. They were everywhere that night, it seemed.
But there was nothing in the swift, confident way the figures moved to suggest they had been at the ale, and as he watched, he had the distinct impression that they were engaged in something felonious. He turned away, not so foolish as to challenge them on his own, and supposed that he would have to find yet another route home. But he had taken no more than a few steps back the way he had come before he stopped again.
Two men stood in front of him. It was too dark to see anything of them, other than the fact that their clothes appeared to be black and they wore some form of armour – he could hear leather creak and the clink of metal as they moved.
‘Cut his throat,’ said one to his companion. ‘We have no time for nuisances.’
The other stepped forward, so Bartholomew whipped around and fled, acutely aware of footsteps pounding behind him. His route took him towards the shadowy figures farther on, but they had not ordered his death and he thought their presence would serve to foil the killers on his heels. He soon realised his mistake. Heads jerked up at the sound of running feet, and he heard the distinctive hiss of swords being drawn. Too late, he saw they were wearing the same kind of armour as the pair who were chasing him.