Her face heated, her mind swirling with all these difficulties. Tomorrow was Sunday, and she’d visit St. Margaret’s. “I’m not a cruel person, an’ never have been. I like to cure people.” She flashed Chenery a bright smile to calm herself, and hoping to distract him. “If you’re finished, Constable, I have much work to do.”
“Well, let’s hope the boy isn’t lying for you, won’t we? You widows have too much freedom, an’ need someone to keep you in your place.”
Her anger surged up. “My place is right here, now—”
“And you were never friendly with Mr. Pentreath before, is that your tale?” His flinty grey stare roamed over her.
She flushed hot to her toes. “I’d never met him before the day you brought him here. I’m respectable, an’ always have been. You know that, in spite of your jabber.” Why would the squire be friendly with the likes of her? After a deep breath, she tried a different tack. “Why, do you think he’s the one who killed her?”
“I have many suspects. No one pulls the wool over my eyes.” Chenery sneered and strode out.
She sucked back a sharp response. Curse the little weasel and the so-called poison!
The constable’s opinion could sway the magistrates, but she regretted trying to push suspicion where it might not belong. She only knew that she’d always behaved in an honest manner. She slapped down her cloth. Why did Mr. Pentreath’s debts, and his wife’s death, have to disrupt her life?
* * *
The coroner, Dr. Goff, a semi-retired physician, slouched behind Branek’s desk to face the assembled jury who sat across the room. Presiding with slow movements and voice, he pointed first to the craggy-faced doctor from Plymouth—whose name was ludicrously—in Branek’s frantic mind—Dr. Craggs.
“Tell us, sir,” Goff asked, after the doctor was sworn in, “what methods were used for this discovery you made in the death of Mrs. Pentreath.”
Branek stood ramrod straight in his own office, feeling this inquest an invasion of his property, his life. His teeth clamped hard together. Sophie’s suffering at the end was enough of an indictment.
The jury of men called in by warrant from the constable—merchants and a few gentlemen from the town—twitched their shoulders, flicking their gazes to Branek as if sorry they were here to judge him. The stink of old tobacco and unbrushed frockcoats clung to them.
“Initially, what I performed was quite simple.” Dr. Craggs arched his thin eyebrows as he stood near the desk.
“Simple but accurate, I contend.” Dr. Treen appeared to wrestle with a smirk as he looked on.
Branek cringed and held his breath.
“So explain your methods, sir. We’re waiting.” Chenery hovered on the other side of the desk and opened his notebook. “Lost my pencil.” He grabbed a quill and dipped it in Branek’s inkpot.
Dr. Goff cast both men a gimlet eye, but the informal proceedings encouraged interruptions. “If you don’t mind, constable. Do go on, doctor.”
Branek accepted the cup of tea Mrs. Sandrey handed him. The woman tried hard, perhaps too hard, to take over any duties Sophie would have performed, such as hosting all these unwanted “guests.” She grinned, her colorless lips wide beneath her snub nose, and offered around a plate of biscuits. Her left arm sported a black armband that appeared hastily shoved on. Treen took two biscuits in his pudgy hands. Branek waved the plate away, and his housekeeper offered the rest to the jury, then drifted from the chamber.
“I placed the substances under suspicion, in this case the infusions, in a pan over red-hot coals.” Craggs sliced his razor face around the room, appearing to dare anyone to refute his methods. Dr. Treen nodded in encouragement, his smile sardonic as he nibbled a biscuit. “Then I smelled the aroma.” Craggs wafted his hand under his nose and paused again.
Branek had the urge to shake him so he’d spew out the conclusion. He gripped the delicate teacup instead. The dark liquid quivered, the smell rich but somehow unappetizing.
“Go on, sir, please,” the coroner said with lethargic impatience.
“Yes, hurry it along.” Chenery splotted ink on his notebook paper. He wiped the quill tip on his coat lapel, then jammed it into the pot again, dribbling ink across Branek’s expensive leather desk inlay.
“Well, the mixture smelled like garlic.” Craggs spiked up his pointy shoulders, sounding proud of his discovery. The jury muttered amongst themselves.
“Perhaps there was garlic in the medicine.” Branek’s edginess sharpened his words, but he was anxious to learn the particulars. He fought the urge to swipe his handkerchief over the inlay.
“What did that smell tell you?” Dr. Goff pushed his spectacles up his wide nose.
“That it was arsenic, beyond a doubt. I checked the ingredients used in the infusions, as listed in the Pharmacopoeia, and there should have been no garlic included.”
“Why did you first suspect poison, Charles?” The coroner turned to Treen, who was slowly chewing his second biscuit. He, too, was sworn in.
Branek glared at the man who’d first stirred up this conjecture. He feared the clutched teacup might shatter in his fingers.
“Mrs. Pentreath’s symptoms grew most severe, far exceeding the ague, in my opinion.” Treen prodded his beady stare over Branek. “Her agonizing convulsions caused me much concern. So I—”
“Couldn’t something else have caused her convulsions?” Branek snatched out his handkerchief and mopped up the ink. The action helped to diffuse his torment. Why couldn’t these people and their dreadful suspicions vanish and leave him alone? Sophie was gone, decently buried. His failure as a husband was obvious, but he had other concerns to deal with before his estate fell into ruin.
“Mr. Pentreath, with all due respect, please allow me to ask the questions.” Dr. Goff gave him a courteous nod.
“I doubt anything else could have caused them, sir.” Craggs’s sharp chin jabbed toward Branek. His Catogan wig with its knotted queue was powdered white as snow, giving him an even frostier visage. “And of course, the postmortem proved my diagnosis. The stomach’s mucous membrane lining was yellow and swollen, and it sparkled with tiny crystals, proof of the poison itself.” Craggs clicked up one eyebrow. “I believe the magistrate should investigate, so the true culprit does not get away with blood on his, or her, hands.”
“The possibility that any investigation should proceed is up to the jury, and, of course, myself.” The coroner cleared his throat then scanned the room. “Where is the magistrate?”
“The JP, Sir Richard Odgers, is aware of the inquest, he’s entrusted it to me.” Chenery rose up on his toes as if to make up for his stunted stature. “He’s out of town today, but I’m here, fully capable, aren’t I?”
“An excellent question on your capability,” Branek muttered. His resentment that Odgers couldn’t be here niggled again. No one should entrust anything to Chenery, a charlatan Branek had once tried to oust from office.
“Is there any other testimony to be considered?” Dr. Goff asked.
“Have you spoken with Sir Richard Odgers’ son? Mrs. Rosedew’s apprentice?” Branek asked as he turned to Chenery, his thoughts again on the apothecary’s widow. She was a woman who didn’t easily evaporate from your mind. Might she be an off-balanced shrew who had killed his wife? Like a punch in the gut, he began to resign himself to the horrible idea Sophie was poisoned.
“The lad seems to confirm what Mrs. Rosedew told me. She claims the infusion left her shop pure.” Chenery turned a page in his notebook slowly, like peeling an onion. “But loyalties can taint people, can’t they?”
“The illness lasted only a fortnight. Did anyone witness someone slipping an unauthorized substance into the medicine?” The coroner removed and fingered his spectacles.
Who had hovered near Sophie in her final fortnight? Branek strained to recall. Had he been as attentive as he should have?
Chenery checked his notes after a quick swearing in as well. “Neither the personal maid nor the housekeep
er, nor the victim’s husband,” he glared at Branek, “noticed anything of the kind.”
Branek stretched to his full height, dwarfing Chenery, who sidestepped away from him. “And I can vouch for the honesty of myself and my staff.” At least he hoped he could. Or could the comfort of a long association with people be deluding?
“Are we satisfied with the apothecary’s version of events?” The coroner glanced about the room again. “Perhaps we should have invited that person to attend.”
“She’s a woman and has no business here.” Chenery harrumphed. “And I for one am not that satisfied.”
“After this incident, she may have no business operating as an apothecary.” Treen brushed crumbs from the expensive wool that hugged his bulging belly. “Unfortunately, the other apothecary I prefer was ill, and the housekeeper took my prescription to Mrs. Rosedew.”
“We’ve already established that after questioning Mrs. Sandrey. Nevertheless, Rosedew’s has a solid reputation.” Dr. Goff eyed Treen. “Why do you disparage that enterprise, Charles?”
“Women shouldn’t meddle in a man’s occupation, that’s all.” Treen’s chubby lips thinned to a sneer. “My nephew wished to buy into that shop when Rosedew died, but the widow insisted on carrying on.”
“You sound prejudiced.” Goff half-smiled, then tapped his spectacles on his notes. “Should we discuss a motive, or could it simply have been an error in dosage?”
Treen and Craggs shook their heads, denying any mistake was possible.
Branek slammed his lips together to hold back his distress.
“I believe it was personal, a crime of hatred between two people.” Treen’s gaze pricked again into Branek like the nudge of a critical finger. “I will not rest until Mrs. Pentreath’s killer has been punished. May we put the evidence to the jury?”
Branek stiffened his knees to keep from lunging at the good doctor. His neck muscles throbbed with tension. “I won’t rest either, you can be certain. And hate is a strong word, Treen.” Fingers flexing, Branek almost dragged Treen aside to demand to know exactly what Sophie must have relayed to him in their secretive talks.
Goff gave Treen a warning look. “Let’s wait before throwing around accusations, Charles.” He turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, you have the evidence before you. Do you need to retire to converse in private?”
The men conferred for a few minutes, with mutterings, nods, and shoulder shrugs. “No, sir. We have the verdict.” The mayor’s assistant rose and cleared his throat. “We’ve decided that Mrs. Pentreath was murdered by poison, and by a person or persons unknown.”
Branek’s stomach flipped, and he stared down at his shoes for an instant. His silver buckles blurred.
“Very good, I concur with that verdict.” Goff replaced his spectacles and stood as well. “These proceedings are closed. The investigation into the crime will continue.”
“Then I suggest Mr. Chenery gets on with it.” Branek strained to swallow past his tight throat, his glare harsh on the constable. “Check my wife’s church associates. She spent most of her time there. Good day, gentlemen.” He felt nauseous and sweated under his cravat. This hadn’t ended the way he would have wished it.
Treen nodded in his supercilious manner and left. The constable followed.
“You have my deepest sympathies, sir.” Dr. Goff bid good bye with a limp handshake. “For your loss and for any implications against your good character.”
“Thank you. I hope the killer is soon brought to justice.” Branek fisted his soiled handkerchief as another idea surged in. He had to force himself to continue. “Could my wife have…killed herself?” He doubted it; she’d always acted so self-possessed. But could she have been that despondent?
“Hmm. Not likely, sir. Why prolong the matter for two weeks and not take a huge dose and be done with it?” Goff dipped his head. “If you’ll forgive my analogy.” The physician put on his hat and left.
Branek pressed his fingers to the wall paneling, his expression impassive to mask his qualms, until all the men trailed out. He heard Mrs. Sandrey say goodbye to the interlopers, and he bowed his head, which felt as if weighted under a brick of tin. How had his life unraveled like this? His wife murdered under his own roof? Sophie’s convulsing body haunted his dreams.
He slumped in exhaustion and trudged up the stairs in a haze of disbelief. He was certain to be the topic of nasty gossip in every ale house tonight. What straws could he grasp at, other than Chenery’s and Treen’s statements that the apothecary might still be under suspicion? The constable would no doubt botch any investigation, and Branek questioned the woman’s guilt—the motivation seemed too feeble. He really needed to hash this out with Odgers.
On the first floor, a chambermaid hurried by him, gave a quick curtsy, then dusted the wainscoting as she went. She was Mrs. Sandrey’s niece, a girl he might have to ask his housekeeper to dismiss if finances didn’t improve. Though he’d hate to do it, as the girl’s severely pock-marked face would hinder her employment elsewhere.
How he missed his old butler, Melor, who’d retired months ago—and couldn’t be replaced with limited resources. The man would have handled everything with his smooth aplomb.
Grace Coryn, Sophie’s personal maid, now walked down the corridor. “Mr. Pentreath, good day to you.” After a curtsy, she smiled at him, her pretty face dewy with youth, eyes sparkling. “May I have a word, sir?”
He stopped before her, more guilt twisting through him. “Is everything all right, Grace?”
“I was wondering what duties I might have, now that….”
“Of course. I haven’t decided anything as yet.” He resisted touching her shoulder to console her. He’d thought about other consolations here too often. And the girl had given him encouraging glances. “I will let you know.”
“Ess, sir.” She lowered her eyes, pouting. “I trust you will. An’ I’d like to stay.”
“I quite understand.” He left her quickly, like avoiding a hazardous turn near a cliff. The maid must be sent elsewhere, and soon. He then passed Sophie’s room. Unable to stop himself, he opened the door and stepped in. The attar of roses scent was fading, along with the sour scent of illness—and death. The bedroom was plain and simple, with only a gold cross on the wall, flanked by two candles in sconces. The Book of Common Prayer lay within easy reach on the night table.
He walked to the bed where his wife had suffered and died. She’d spent her overly pure nights there, reading her prayers. Early in their marriage, he’d teased her for behaving like a nun, though she hadn’t appreciated what she’d called his irreverent comment.
In their first five years, they’d shared occasional sex in his bedchamber, but he could tell she’d never enjoyed it. After the possibility of children diminished, she’d found excuses to turn him away. He’d tried to entice her back, still yearning for a son, but she rarely complied. When she had, she’d punished him for his amorous adventures between the sheets, and lain like an icy slab of slate beneath him.
Branek thumped his fist on the bedpost as more bitterness gathered. He’d thought of taking a mistress. A few women of his acquaintance—along with Grace—had let him know they wouldn’t have minded such an arrangement.
Sophie had warned him she’d never tolerate him seeking succor with other women, yet she found such distaste in behaving like a true wife. So like a ridiculous martyr, and protecting his pride, he’d honored his marriage vows.
These last few years he’d given up bothering with such intimacy with her, and deprived himself like a monk. He’d thrown himself into his estate, his investments in the colonies, and breeding his sheep for the wool profits.
Now the crippling land taxes and loss of shipping due to the war wreaked havoc with his finances.
Nevertheless, a loving family, the soft word and caress of a wife, the laughter of his own children, would have served far better than any riches.
He sagged into the chair by the window, his memories tumbling about in fragment
s of misery. His muscles quaked beneath his skin and he let loose the emotions that he’d buried for far too long. Head in his hands, he wept for everything that might have been, but never was.
* * *
Jenna walked through the Sunday quiet of the twisting cobbled streets where granite brick and stone buildings, shops and townhouses, huddled side by side. The spire of St. Mary’s looked like a rebuking white finger above the rooftops. She lifted her skirt to avoid dragging the hem through the muck and stinking offal clumped in the kennel that ran through the road.
Along Middle Row—so called because the street split around a jumble of buildings where many tradesmen had their shops and malt houses built in plaster and timber-frame—the Market House sat silent. The area was a bustling confusion on most days.
She passed the Red Lion Inn, one of the grandest inns in Truro. She’d never stayed or supped there, but her wealthier clients spoke of the place with its famous oak staircase. Lemuel had insisted that supping away from home was a waste of money.
So where had he spent their missing funds?
With her musing on finances, the Coinage Hall loomed into sight. The most important building in the town, it was here that tin was brought for stamping. Her da had explained when she was a child that Truro’s quarterly sessions attracted foreign traders, pewterers, and other necessary officials, all waiting for the Duchy arms that guaranteed the tin’s purity. But since the coinages were quarterly, and no tin could be sold until stamped, the smaller mines ran up costly credit to survive.
Beyond the Hall, from the quay, came the chatter of fish chowters and oyster women as Jenna neared the Truro River. The familiar fishy scent drifted on the breeze.
She reached the church, where St. Margaret’s smaller spire prodded into the blue sky. The narrow structure was gothic, much like St. Mary’s, its white granite glistening in the sun. Jenna paused and arranged her skirt. She’d dressed in her best gown, a purple Brunswick. She hadn’t worn it since before her husband’s death, and the false-buttoned bodice strained over her chest, the tight sleeves snug on her arms. The skirt flowed nicely and hid her slightly scuffed shoes.
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