“Ess—yes, they do.” Chin raised, Mrs. Rosedew tucked a strand of reddish-brown hair under her white cap. She studied Branek as though wondering how he knew such things. “But I insisted that my husband ban poisons from his shop after his niece accidentally ingested some Atropa belladonna when she helped here. The poor lass nearly died at only fifteen. I will not use poisons.” Sadness flashed across her full-cheeked face.
“Quite convenient, that excuse, wouldn’t you say?” Chenery snorted. “I’ll check on that event, obviously before my time as constable. Which niece was this?”
Mrs. Rosedew uttered a name Branek didn’t bother to remember.
“My estate manager said you were not happy when he spoke to you about the rent or possible sale.” Will had even sympathized with the widow, yet they both knew Branek had no choice considering his debts. He flexed his knees, weary from standing. Any damp weather caused his joints to complain these days.
“What woman on her own would be happy, sir?” She sauntered toward him, her body all curves and fluidity. Such a contrast to Sophie.
His wife would have proclaimed that voluptuous women often harbored tawdry pasts. After the first flush of marriage—a marriage his late mother insisted would tame his wild impulses—he’d grown irritated with his bride’s constant admonishments, her holier-than-everyone attitude. Her continued frigidness toward him.
“So you might have decided to avenge yourself on my family.” Even to him, his words sounded petty. He wanted this investigation to be done with. If there was a reason for guilt, the widow should admit her culpability and throw herself on the mercy of the law. Then he could crawl out of this quagmire and start to figure out how to proceed with a smudged, yet cleaner slate.
“Why would I harm Mrs. Pentreath? Her death has no bearing on whether my rent would have been raised or no. I’m a practical woman, an’—”
“If I may intrude, and I will.” Chenery smacked his notebook against his palm, his sallow brow turning pink. “Do you have any witnesses to confirm your preparations of the medicine?”
“I do. My apprentice, Luke Odgers.” She pursed her plump mouth. “He comes from a highly regarded family.”
“The magistrate’s son, is it?” Chenery bobbed his long nose like an anteater Branek once saw in a traveling show, finally looking impressed.
Branek had shared a glass of port with Magistrate Odgers, a baronet, many times. He was a good, if sometimes distracted man since his wife’s death three years ago—their marriage a love-match. Luke was the fourth son. Branek gritted his teeth. Richard Odgers was fortunate to have had such a wife, along with four sons. Enough sons to send the older boys into higher positions, the youngest to be apprenticed. The envy sliced through him like an arrow.
“We’ll need a statement from the lad.” Chenery stared over at Branek; the constable’s interest in the widow appeared to be wavering.
“Of course, Constable.” Mrs. Rosedew smiled. It was a warm show of relief that gave her face a fresh prettiness. “I will be happy to provide anything you need.”
“I suppose we’re finished here.” Neck muscles in knots, Branek strode to the door. With the possibility of the widow’s involvement diminished, a quick resolution had slipped away. But perhaps now the poisoning theory could be thrown out.
“I hope you find who would do such a pitiless thing to your lady wife,” she said to his back as he grasped the door latch.
Branek hesitated, caught by the empathy in her voice. “Indeed. Good day, Mrs. Rosedew.” He touched his hat and walked out to the street, away from the surprisingly neat and tidy shop with its tangy smells. The air cooled his hot cheeks.
St. Nicholas Street brimmed with stone-fronted shops, the bustle of people, carts and horses, the scents of leather and stinking animal dung. Branek admired the activity, a respite from the ugliness of accusations.
A coach rumbled down the street, scattering a few pedestrians. People hurrying home to their normal lives.
Truro was a stannary town, where tin was brought for testing and stamping after being purified at the smelting houses. They’d lost the shipping trade to Falmouth, but tin and copper mining had given Truro prosperity. A prosperity he thought he’d never lose.
Chenery joined him on the front step. “I’ll wait to hear from the boy, an’ see how to proceed from there.” He adjusted his hat over his wig. “There will be a coroner’s inquest, to determine if it was murder.”
“I still find that notion difficult to reconcile with. I’d like you to question the doctors more. Find out their methods. Could they be mistaken about the poison?” Branek clipped out his query over a jumble of aggravation. Treen had acted too insistent with his diagnosis. Was there an inkling of a chance he was wrong, even with his “expert’s” opinion? “I was hardly in the frame of mind to listen to their explanations before.”
“Well, it still sounds like murder to me.” Chenery sniffed in indigence as if Branek had deprived the constable of his important role. “So be care—”
“If there was foul play, and you think the apothecary innocent, then get on with your investigation and apprehend whoever is guilty.” Branek flung out this command to further dislodge the little man from his life.
Branek didn’t know what to conclude, his words more forceful than was prudent. He clenched his fist. Again, he was losing control of his emotions, once imprisoned so firmly inside him.
A man passed them pushing a barrow, followed by a yapping dog.
“I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t inquire further into all this, now would I?” Chenery turned and shambled away, grumbling, “People always want to tell you how to perform your job. I’ll question your wife’s church associates,” he called in a louder voice. “I might find some pertinent information about your marriage, sir.”
“Our personal relationship had nothing to do with this.” Or did it? Branek cringed at the prospect of this lack-wit digging deeper into his privacy. He was still shocked that Sophie, who’d been the epitome of privacy, had complained to Treen.
Branek shifted his boots over the cobbles to redirect his confusion. Why hadn’t she tried to rectify the situation with him instead? Could they have come to a better understanding between them?
Another nagging feeling seeped in. A worry he considered with extreme reluctance, a jab to his pride. Had he caused her unhappiness at the beginning and not realized it? His jaw tightened. So much would have been resolved if she’d been honest with him.
A melancholy filled him at the wasted years, the miscommunication, but he flicked it off like the prick of a thorn and strode in the opposite direction. He’d retrieve his horse—a sturdy Hanoverian Grey he’d named Zeus, eschewing any Biblical names as his wife had preferred—from the stables, and gallop home on a thundering ride.
* * *
Jenna rose early from the bed where she’d once relished in steamy nights under her husband’s tantalizing fingers and lips. She’d had to tighten the ropes under the mattress every day. Now they rarely loosened. She slipped her threadbare dressing gown over her passion-neglected body and splashed her face with water from her ewer.
Yesterday’s terrible accusation rushed back over her and she shuddered. She’d tossed in the bedclothes most of the night.
To be blamed for such a crime! With no husband or money to protect her, any person of means could trump up charges and have her thrown in gaol. Innocence didn’t always matter.
She threw aside the dressing gown and wrapped her stays around her chemise. Tugging the laces tight, she couldn’t hide the fact she was a mature woman with a plumper belly—the slender girl she once was gone. Her pale breasts jiggled and bulged over the top of the stays as she put on her petticoats and tied on her panniers. She slipped on her bed gown, a simple wrap-around affair of gray linsey-woolsey. With quick fingers, she pinned up her hair in a tight bun. No strand of gray marred her tresses that Lemuel had praised for their thickness and auburn color. No gray yet, in any case, until all thi
s came about. What would she do?
Jerking on stockings, garters and shoes, Jenna hurried downstairs, lit the fire, then tied on her apron.
She stepped out her back door to the tiny physic garden enclosed by granite brick walls. She pumped water into her watering pot and sprinkled the lemon balm, fennel and milk thistle she cultivated for gastric complaints. Then she dampened the thyme, savory, and verbena that eased respiratory ailments. The foxgloves and motherwort she grew helped the heart.
The sweet and spicy scents trapped by the walls usually pleased her, until the squire’s face and voice pricked into her mind. A handsome man, he was probably used to people obeying him, and he’d squeeze whatever he could out of those beneath him. Oddly detached, he seemed too determined to push the misdeed onto her.
She nearly dropped the watering pot as the conversation and suspicion buzzed like hornets inside her flustered brain.
Had Mr. Pentreath murdered his wife? She’d no proof of that, just as they had no proof of her committing the crime. Perhaps he only wanted Jenna out of his building so he could sell it. She clanked the pot down on a crate. Tears threatened and she sniffed them back in anger.
Luke would come through for her, he must.
The back door creaked open, and she hoped it was her apprentice. But Horace stood there with his affable grin. “You said you wanted to see me? Changed your mind about us, have you?” He winked in a comical fashion. “I’m always at the ready.”
“I have far worse problems than your potent advances. I wanted advice on money borrowing, but….” She dried her hands on her apron and walked up to him. “I tell you this in confidence.” As she explained the disturbing discussion from yesterday, Horace’s eyes widened in shock.
“I see your difficulty, m’dear. I’m astounded anyone would suspect you. And that the lady was even poisoned.” He hugged her arm close and they walked into the shop’s cool dimness. “Pentreath, all the Pentreaths, are honorable people. I wouldn’t think he’d push blame where it wasn’t warranted. That is, the disturbance will sort itself out, I’m sure.”
“If you’d seen his face, with no sign of grief…it made me wonder about him.” She wouldn’t admit she drew strength from Horace’s presence. However, she must hold firm to her own resolve. She stepped quickly away to put the kettle on to boil.
“People all grieve different. But you may be right; our betters seldom marry for love, only position.”
Had Horace married for love, but found the pretend-pursuit of her—and who knew how many other women—exciting? Did Mr. Pentreath have a mistress tucked away somewhere to satisfy his desires? Jenna sliced bread with force and almost slammed her jam pot onto the little table. “I have yet to break my fast. Will you join me?”
Horace sat in his usual wingback chair, once prized by her husband. Bought second-hand, or could have been third. “I’ve already eaten, so partake of the meal yourself. Did the Odgers boy help you with the entire mixing of the medicines?”
“As far as I remember. He also delivered the infusions to Polefant Place.” Jenna spread strawberry jam across the bread, but her stomach churned and she doubted she could eat a bite. “I’ll have to speak with Luke. Chenery says he’d talk with the lad, too, of course.” She broke off a crust of the bread and crumbled it between her fingers.
What trickery might the constable do to twist the boy’s words? He and Pentreath seemed adamant to condemn her, yet she’d sensed no alliance between them. “I’m at a loss, Horace. All I have is my true knowledge that I’ve done nothing wrong. But who would have wanted to hurt Mrs. Pentreath?”
“That’s what the constable must find out, m’dear.” He rearranged his bulk in the chair with a grunt. The chair creaked in complaint. “I’ll speak up for your decent ways, as would many in the town, I’m certain.”
“I don’t trust Chenery. He doesn’t care for me, ’tis obvious.” Jenna chewed at her lip. Lemuel had derided the constable to his face many times—most of it the truth. The two men, her hulking husband and the spidery Chenery, had hated each other since a foolish prank went awry when they were children. The ill-will had splashed over onto her.
“He’s a poor choice for this assignment, I’d agree. A shame the better constable craved adventure and left to fight in the war.” Horace nodded as he rubbed squat fingers over his belly. “Chenery treats everyone with disdain since taking on his lofty position. He’s only in the job because of his late uncle’s influence.”
“Influence protects the useless. An’ Doctor Treen dislikes me since I turned his nephew down to take over as apothecary when Lem died.”
“A wise decision,” Horace grinned in encouragement, “you’ve done a fine job.”
“I still wouldn’t dismiss Mr. Pentreath as not bein’ a part of this wretched event.” She hadn’t mistaken the man’s lack of sadness to lose a woman he’d spent many years with, even if he might not have loved her. After all, she’d felt a measure of loss when Lemuel died. Her love for him had burned out after their son moved away, and her husband grew miserly and overly strict. But her sorrow at being alone had dragged on for many months. “I’d like to know more about how he got on with his missus.”
“A very reserved pair in public, I dare say. Never saw any kindness between them. Mrs. Pentreath spent much time at St. Margaret’s, where I attend. She was highly involved in church matters.” Horace eyed the kettle as if anxious for tea. “The lady helped much when they raised money last year for the cemetery.”
“I remember the grumbles from the quality about no longer being able to be buried in the church.” Jenna fought down the image of a damp, dark cell, and a hangman’s noose—her own burial. She swallowed hard, then took a huge bite of the bread, the jam sweeter than her thoughts.
“About the note you sent me. Was it for a loan to buy this building?” Horace glanced away, sounding like a man who had no intention of granting such a wish. “I don’t know if I could manage such an expenditure, with the war and all. I spend my money as fast as I acquire it.”
“Oh, that. I thought you might know some way I could secure funds. You always told me you were wise in your finances.” She didn’t bother to smile for him. Another man who scuttled under the skirting board at the mention of money. She chewed slowly. No one would make her scuttle anywhere. Purpose coated over her fears, they were easier to control that way.
“Let me think about the particulars of the money, m’dear.” Horace unbuttoned the middle button on his snug frockcoat. “Back to the church, there were whispers about an irregularity over the cemetery funds. I did overhear the squire, ah, ‘loudly discuss’ his disapproval with his wife, though the exact words I cannot recall.”
“He might have wanted all her attention only on him.” Was Mr. Pentreath a man who had kept his wife bound close, smothering her, as Lemuel had squeezed Jenna in their maturing years?
“A poisoning, right here in our town,” Horace muttered. “Quite the scandal.”
She glanced quickly at him. “Well, if Chenery comes back an’ tries to ruin my life then I can play constable an’ hunt out the truth of it. Think I’ll visit St. Margaret’s this Sunday an’ see what the rector or congregation might say about Mr. and Mrs. Pentreath. She never gave him children, did she?”
Jenna twisted at her apron string. The squire might have grown tired of his unwanted, barren wife, and killed her, the poor woman!
Chapter Four
Jenna’s apprentice, Luke, squirmed on the stool in the apothecary shop.
Chenery scratched the tip of his nose and loomed over the lad like a church gargoyle. “You’re sure you were there, at every moment when your mistress prepared these infusions for Mrs. Pentreath?”
“Yes, sir. I helped Mrs. Rosedew prepare them. She is the best teacher.” The boy smiled, displaying teeth too big for his mouth, and glanced over at her.
“You see, Constable.” Warm relief loosened her knotted muscles. She almost hugged the boy. Instead, she raised her chin at Chenery. “I
was nothing but skillful.”
“There was no moment when you might have looked away, gone to the privy?” Chenery snuffled like a rooting pig.
“No, sir.” Luke shook his blond head.
Jenna fought a bristle of anger at the man’s tenacity. She tried to concentrate on her mixing of Oily Emulsion for the saddler’s son who had a cough. Her mind flipped through the apothecary’s system of measurement, twelve ounces to a pound, eight drams to an ounce.
“Luke has already answered you, sir. The boy has duties. I need him to run an errand.” She stirred six ounces of water, and two drachms of volatile aromatic spirit with an ounce of Florence oil. In her haste, the liquid slopped over the bowl rim. She added a simple syrup with her own flavoring; the concoction now smelled of piquant raspberry.
“I’m trying to be thorough, Mrs. Rosedew. Part of my job, isn’t it?” Chenery stared again at Luke. “And you carried these items to Polefant Place?”
“I did, sir. I rode old Josse out there each time.” The boy slid off the stool and sidled toward Jenna, his spindly limbs stiff with nervousness. “I gave them to their housekeeper, Mrs. Sandrey, with the doctor’s instructions on how to use the infusion.”
“Leave the lad alone, now.” Jenna spoke softly over her frustration and swiped up her spills. “I told you I’d have no reason to harm Mrs. Pentreath. I hope we’re done with my part in the matter.” She poured the liquid into a bottle and stopped it with a cork. “Luke, take this across the street to the saddler’s.”
The boy ran out, no doubt relieved to escape the constable.
“What about your rent being raised?” Chenery leaned an elbow against the counter as if he intended to stay the afternoon. He glared at her with bushy grey eyebrows that resembled dead caterpillars. “Such a threat would upset anyone, especially a widow.”
“That’s not supposed to happen until February, at Candlemas.” She’d five months to decide how to manage her troubles, unless worse happened. She swallowed slowly. She needed to talk to Mr. Pentreath, but the man believed her a murderess—if he hadn’t committed the crime himself.
The Apothecary's Widow Page 4