The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Branek forced a smile over this unwelcome news—Chenery was a dunderhead.

  “What have I told you about calling me ‘sir’?” Branek slowly fingered his armband, a manacle that weighed him down. “We’ve known each other too long for that.”

  Will was the son of his father’s late estate manager. They’d grown up on the estate together, always good friends, cronies in teasing Branek’s two sisters. He fought a sigh. How simple, how open to numerous possibilities, life was then.

  “It’s a habit I had with your father. Is there anything I can do to ease your grief?” Will’s blue eyes flashed with sympathy—the lines around them proved he grieved as well. He seemed to relax, and leaned his lanky, round-shouldered frame against the green-paneled wall. At two years younger than Branek, Will carried his forty-one years easily in his sun-burnished face. “I could tell the constable you’re indisposed.”

  “No, I’ll see what the man wants.” Branek massaged the side of his neck, which ached from little sleep. He hadn’t told Will of the doctors’ suspicions, too embarrassed to admit such accusations were a part of Sophie’s demise. “I suppose my other difficulties grapple for my attention.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything can wait until you’re more yourself.” Will stepped close, hesitated, then clasped Branek’s shoulder in a brotherly gesture. “I’m deeply sorry. I know how trying this has been. But no matter what the troubles, it’s not easy to lose a companion.”

  “You were always aware of how severe the troubles were.” Branek looked away as more guilt wriggled inside him. All his efforts to rectify the acrimony had been for naught. His tender wooing of a reluctant, ultimately cold bride—a mistress of the house whose severe demeanor hadn’t endeared her to anyone.

  “Sad to say, but not all women are as sweet an’ easy as my Annie.” Will shook his head. “You’ve been a saint.”

  “No, I’m far from that.” Branek stretched his back, throwing off an undeserved mantle. His throat constricted with the despair he strained to keep at bay. “Come back later and we’ll sup together, if your wife won’t mind.”

  “I’d like that. If you’re sure you’re all right, I’ll leave you then.” Will picked up an account-book from his smaller desk in the corner. “I’ll be nearby if you need me. I’m going to check on the grain stores in the barn.”

  Alone once more, Branek rearranged quill pens in their leather holder on his desk. He felt trapped in some kind of limbo. His life had changed dramatically, and he didn’t yet know how to react to anything, or anyone. It was too soon to think about what he should do next.

  Mrs. Sandrey brought Constable Chenery to the office door.

  “Welcome, Constable.” Branek tried false bravado, hiding his displeasure that he had to face these startling developments. “What can I do for you? Would you care for a glass of Canary?”

  “Good day to you, sir. Nothing for me, ’tis business only.” Chenery scrutinized Branek with gray eyes under bushy eyebrows that needed a good threshing. The wisp of a man barely reached Branek’s chin. “My condolences on the loss of your wife, sir. But I must intrude, mustn’t I? I’ve spoken to the doctors about this arsenic suspicion. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Mrs. Pentreath?”

  Branek shut his eyes for second at that horrid word, kill. “As…I told the attending physicians, I cannot think of a single person.” He propped against his desk, its solid form shoring him up. “You yourself should know that Sophie lived an exemplary life.” The whole town had filed through here after the funeral to tell him how much she was loved in the community—though not all their platitudes sounded sincere. One cousin of hers—a small, prissy man he’d never gotten to know—sobbed over her coffin. If Sophie had been Catholic, perhaps the cousin would have recommended her for sainthood.

  Branek groaned inwardly at his harsh observation, but how else to deal with his turmoil?

  “I’m only trying to be thorough, sir.” Chenery sniffed through his long nose and flipped the pages of his stitched-together vellum notebook. Near fifty, and known for self-serving ineptitude, it was difficult to discern why he retained his position. “The postmortem on your wife showed the stomach damaged with—”

  “I read the report, I don’t need the details.” Branek’s last hope that an illness caused her death started to dissolve. His memory of the exact wording of a report he didn’t wish to believe wouldn’t stick in his bewildered brain.

  “No one would harm her, you insist. What about you?” Chenery’s gaze sharpened. He stepped closer. His Ramillies wig with its tied-up queue stank of moist powder. “Did you have a good marriage? No slapping about, was there?”

  “Now you insult me.” Branek pushed away from the desk, his fists clenched. He thrust his hands behind his back to keep from striking the little man. Inside, he tensed with those nagging feelings of betrayal—the lures of infidelity—though nothing was ever acted upon. “Watch what you say to me. As if I would harm my own wife.”

  “Many men have been known to do that very thing, brutalize their wives, haven’t they?”

  “I would hope that I have more integrity than that.” Branek struggled to keep his temper. His so-called integrity had given him little happiness.

  “Dr. Treen hinted at a…discontent in your marriage.”

  “Dr. Treen oversteps himself.” Branek fought down another surge of anger and moved from the desk. He had no idea Sophie confided personally in anyone; except, of course, God. Branek kept his own secrets stuffed deep. “I’ll thank you not to spread ugly gossip.”

  Chenery stepped back a pace. “I understand, sir. But I must still ask questions as to whether you and Mrs. Pentreath got on well enough. You were married eighteen years, but had no children. Did that disappoint you?”

  Resentment burned in Branek’s chest. “Of course it disappointed me, what a ridiculous question.” There would be no son or daughter to soften his transition into a lonely widower, although loneliness had plagued him for years. “Some people aren’t blessed with children. Don’t you have more appropriate questions?”

  “I’m getting to them.” Chenery flipped through his notes. “Dr. Treen suspected foodstuffs first. I will question your housekeeper an’ cook. Yet the medicines your wife was given seem to be the culprit. They were prepared in Truro, by the apothecary’s widow, Mrs. Rosedew, weren’t they?” One bushy eyebrow shot up. “Her husband, now there was a hard man. And she’s a strong-willed woman. Have you had any problems with her?”

  Branek raked his fingers through his hair, loosening the queue. Like Will, he also disdained the wearing of wigs. He scrutinized the ferret of a constable. He couldn’t help but recall the children’s rhyme he’d heard in town: “Our Mr. Chenery is full of chicanery.” He blinked to clear it away. “Problems? There are none I can think of.” Except for the raising of her rent—a cowardly reason to take someone’s life—if it was murder. “However, you should proceed as you must.” He warmed with the effort of steering any suspicion away from himself.

  “That I will. Let’s call in your estate manager, if you please, sir.” Chenery’s mock air of respect wasn’t lost on Branek.

  When Will returned after being summoned by a servant, the constable sized him up with his pointed glare. “What about you, Mr. Fenton? What did you notice around the time of Mrs. Pentreath’s illness?”

  Will glanced at Branek, then back to the smaller man. He shrugged. “I’m afraid I noticed little, except the suffering of Mr. Pentreath. I had no reason to be near Mrs. Pentreath during the time she fell ill. I was busy elsewhere. But we’re all quite distressed, an’ the people here did all they could.”

  “All of you distressed? I see. Very well.” Chenery glared again at Branek then stuffed his book in his frockcoat pocket. “I’ll be in the servants’ hall or thereabouts, sir.” He strode off.

  Branek dismissed Will and crossed his arms, teeth on edge. He lingered in the doorway to the corridor, anxious to rid his home of Chenery.

  Minutes l
ater, the constable trotted back toward the front hall. “Not much new information from them. I’ll return to Truro and talk to Mrs. Rosedew next, to ask what ingredients were in those medications.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t done that already.” Branek blew out a breath. “Wait, I’ll go with you. I would like to speak with her as well.” Weary of being a recluse in his own home, he suddenly wanted to meet this woman his staff had always dealt with. He’d determine her rancor, and what connection, if any, she had to Sophie.

  * * *

  Jenna ground her pestle into the dried basil, making a fine powder, like aromatic sand. She reveled in the satisfaction of mixing her tinctures and syrups, herbs for tea, concoctions she devised herself or at the order of the local physicians.

  Desperate to remain in business, she’d sent a message to Horace and hoped he’d stop by to discuss money matters. Might she secure a loan with so little collateral?

  Luke came from the kitchen. Her apprentice, sixteen and skinny as a twig, wiped jam from his lips.

  “Dinner over, lad? I have an errand you need to run.” Jenna wrapped a bottle of stomachache pills in paper. “Take this over to the mayor’s house. Give it to his housekeeper. Mr. Cardew is bilious again, so says his physician.”

  “Very good, Mistress. Hopefully they’ll tip me this time. Or give me a tasty biscuit.” Luke pulled on his hat, dusted food debris from his frock coat, and took the parcel. As he scurried out under the tinkling bell, two men entered.

  The weasely Constable Chenery walked toward her, followed by a tall man in a black bicorn hat pulled low and an elegant cape with the collar turned up—as if he was uncertain he wished to be here.

  “Good afternoon, Constable.” Jenna wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped out from behind the high table where she conducted her trade. She smiled. “What may I do for either of you fine gentlemen today?”

  The constable removed his hat, uncovering his gray wig for a moment, then crushed the tricorn back on. The other man walked around the room, away from her, but kept glancing at her in an unnerving fashion. He looked familiar.

  “Mrs. Rosedew, I’m here on official business.” Chenery poked his long nose forward, sniffing like a hound. “I understand you prepared the infusions for Mrs. Pentreath during her illness, didn’t you?”

  “I did, ess. At the directions from Dr. Treen.” Her smile twitched. She didn’t care for the constable’s probing glare. His swaggering demeanor made him a source of ridicule—behind his back, of course. Her husband had detested him. “I heard of that good woman’s death, an’ I’m that sorry.”

  The tall man jiggled a bottle of Dover’s Powder in its delft jar on the back shelf.

  “Why did Dr. Treen bring the prescription to you?” Chenery asked.

  She twinged with affront, but hid it. “Mrs. Sandrey brought it here. She’s used to dealing with me, or my late husband. We are known for our good quality wares.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Pentreath?” Chenery asked.

  “Naw, not personally. I only ever saw Will, the estate manager, or Mrs. Sandrey.” A quality lady would never bother with her.

  “Do you consider yourself well-trained in your profession?”

  “Certainly I do. Is there some problem, Constable?” Uneasiness pricked along her skin. “Please speak plainly.”

  “What exactly did you prepare for Mrs. Pentreath?”

  The tall man stepped closer at Chenery’s question. He smelled clean, like soap and bergamot cologne.

  “Would you please be so kind as to introduce me to your friend?” Jenna smiled at the man, who wore expensive-looking jockey boots, a dark frockcoat and breeches. His cape had fallen from one shoulder, revealing a black armband that showed he was in mourning. Her breath hitched. “You’re Mr. Pentreath, aren’t you?”

  He raised his face from the shadow of his hat, revealing chiseled, handsome features and inquisitive brown eyes framed with faint tension lines. “Pardon me, Mrs. Rosedew.” He tipped his hat. He wore no wig over his wavy black hair that was tied back with a ribbon. “I am Branek Pentreath. I didn’t wish to intrude on the discussion as yet.”

  She liked his deep and cultured voice. She straightened her white cap, anxious to make a good impression. Her landlord stood before her within touching distance.

  “Accept my sincere sympathy on the loss of your wife, sir.” She bowed her head. The impatience, with only a hint of sadness, that crossed his features surprised her.

  Chenery cleared his throat. “If I can return to my question. What did you use in preparing the medicines for Mrs. Pentreath?”

  “I…prepared an infusion for the ague. Some wormwood and water-trefoil infused with honey an’ water. An’ I supplied a gentian root infusion to put in wine.” She struggled to keep any defensiveness out of her voice. “All this at Dr. Treen’s written instruction, but it is the common remedy for that affliction.”

  The bell tinkled and a customer entered. Jenna excused herself and retrieved the syrup the woman came for and accepted payment. After the customer left, she scrutinized the two men. They acted decidedly uncomfortable—standing far apart and not even glancing at one another. Her own disturbance increased.

  She smoothed down her apron. “Will there be anything else? Was there something wrong with the infusions?”

  Chenery sniffed loudly. “It’s been determined that Mrs. Pentreath….” He flicked a glare at Mr. Pentreath. “I’m about to say it again, though you didn’t wish to hear it the first time. You shouldn’t have come, sir, as I warned you, didn’t I?”

  “Continue at once, Chenery. I’m…fine, I assure you.” Pentreath stiffened his shoulders, his mouth twisted in annoyance.

  “As I started to report, it’s been determined,” the constable nosily thumbed through a notebook, “that arsenic was found in one of the medications.”

  “Arsenic?” She swallowed that bitter word. “Do you mean…? Poor Mrs. Pentreath.” She looked in pity at the deceased’s husband, but he’d averted his gaze. She turned to the constable, whose eyes narrowed to slits. A chill ran through her and she locked her knees to keep from swaying. “You don’t think the arsenic came from my shop? From me?”

  “That’s what I’m here to investigate, Madam. The post-mortem seems to prove the lady was poisoned.” Chenery plucked at one of his thick eyebrows. “I understand that Mr. Pentreath here owns your building.”

  She breathed slowly, trying to organize her thoughts, the change of subject. “He does.” She glanced at her landlord, but he’d stepped into shadow again, out of the candlelight’s glow. “What are you implying, Constable?”

  Chenery tilted up his narrow chin. “Perhaps you might have had a reason to harm Mrs. Pentreath because I hear your rent was increased, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Jenna’s pulse jumped into her throat. “A-barth Dyw! In God’s name, you can’t be serious.” She stumbled back. Had Mr. Pentreath suggested her as a suspect because of his notice? “I had no reason to injure anyone, Mr. Chenery, especially a fine lady I’ve never met.”

  Pentreath stepped near again. “I admit I don’t know you, Mrs. Rosedew, but you aren’t a vengeful person, are you? If there was a crime, it could be one of opportunity.” His words slid out officiously, as though he wasn’t personally affected by this catastrophe.

  She cringed. “I should say I’m not, sir.” She turned to Chenery. “We can clear this up now, Constable. You may search my shop. You will find no arsenic here.”

  “A poisoner would hardly keep the poison in stock once the deed was finished, now would they?” Chenery nodded his bewigged head as if he’d made a brilliant deduction.

  “Fie, I won’t stock poisons, and have done nothing wrong. I only care about the health of the people I serve.” Her strained voice skittered around her confidence. She clutched her hands in the folds of her apron and took a drawn-out breath. Women’s hysterics were a weakness she’d never used. “I’ve always been extremely careful with my preparations.”

&
nbsp; Pentreath stared at her again, and another thought wormed into her mind. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she almost tasted blood. The squire acted nothing like a grieving husband. He might have murdered his wife and now intended to clout her with the blame.

  Chapter Three

  Branek tensed under the widow’s glare. She’d appeared genuinely shocked by the accusation that she might have adulterated the infusion. But then, women could act in calculating ways that belied their true nature. Hadn’t Sophie’s serene façade fooled him and his family before their arranged wedding?

  “Careful in your preparations, you say? That is what I’m here to determine, Mrs. Rosedew,” Chenery continued in a disdainful tone, “about whether you’re guilty or innocent.”

  “I am innocent, of course.” She softened her voice, though worry lines remained between her bright green eyes. Even when upset, her voice sounded melodious, not strident.

  “Ask me any questions you wish. I’m certain I can prove my innocence.” The woman stood taller, shoulders straight. “You must know, Constable, since we’ve known each other a long time, that I’m a respectable widow and apothecary. I’ve taken care of the ills in this town for years.”

  Branekmoved again out of the fray to better observe, and to stand farther away from Mrs. Rosedew’s reproachful scrutiny. As expected, she was no longer a young miss—most likely she’d reached her late thirties.

  “You said you stock no poisons, but don’t most apothecaries use such remedies in their concoctions?” Branek asked from his few feet of distance. Poisons were used for many reasons, to kill or cure. His frock coat felt too tight across his chest; his hard-won layers of aloofness appeared to thicken to protect his years of trampled emotions.

  The constable grimaced, as if that vital question had been snatched right off his tongue.