The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  She straightened her small-crowned felt hat. The same hat she’d worn at Lem’s funeral. She hadn’t entered a church since, and a tiny remorse rippled through her.

  Further anger over the accusation of murder had forced her here today. Magistrate Odgers had informed her last night of the inquest verdict; a gathering she’d been excluded from even with her reputation at stake. And, according to Baronet Odgers, that glutton Treen had left doubts as to her ability as an apothecary.

  She’d counted on Luke’s statement to the constable to prove her innocence, but Chenery had made it plain at the inquest that he wasn’t convinced. Such an arse! Her pulse jittered. She’d been ridiculed without being present to defend herself.

  Jenna blew out a breath and pulled open one of the double, carved doors. A vaulted ceiling soared above her, with pews in neat rows ahead. She walked down the center aisle. The place smelled musty yet clean. She must have just missed service, as a few people filed past her and out the entrance.

  A man in a dark robe approached her. His long, thin face had large blue eyes with the bags of over forty years beneath them. He wore a narrow green stole over one shoulder. “Good afternoon, Mistress. I don’t believe I’ve seen you among our parishioners before.”

  “I usually attend service at St. Mary’s.” She smiled into his welcoming expression to skim over her little white lie; though she had attended St. Mary’s in the past. “You must be the deacon. I heard the rector here is a much older man.”

  “That is true, I’m Deacon Tregere. I’ve only been here a year and a half.” He glanced about the church. “I came down from Exeter. How may I be of assistance to you?”

  On the walk over Jenna had practiced what she intended to say, but now she felt a fool. What could she possibly extract from these church officials about the Pentreath’s marriage? She might have had better luck questioning a servant at Polefant Place.

  She turned for a moment from the man’s kind gaze. “I was thinking…of changing churches. A good friend of mine recommended yours.”

  “How gratifying. St. Mary’s is well-respected, but we would more than welcome you here.” He rubbed his long-fingered hands together.

  “Do you have mostly married couples?” Cheeks heating, her silly rambling embarrassed her. “Of course you do. You see, I’m a widow now.”

  “My condolences. We have several widows who attend here, so you would not feel alone in your grief.” His sympathetic words and expression brought on an unexpected wistfulness for her husband.

  “Thank you.” Jenna shuffled her feet, uneasy in her probing. “I also understand that Mr. and Mrs. Pentreath were members. Such fine citizens speak well for your parish.”

  The man’s gaze grew sad. Had he too worried over Mrs. Pentreath and her possible mistreatment by her husband? “That good lady’s loss is very tragic for us.”

  The door opened behind her. She cringed when Constable Chenery strode in. Was the man following her?

  “Mrs. Rosedew?” Chenery slunk up beside her, smelling like the mutton he must have eaten for breakfast. “What might you be doing here?”

  “Churches are for everyone, aren’t they?” Her reply sounded too haughty. The events of the past few days had made her snappier than she preferred to be. “I was thinking of attending services here.”

  “Welcome, Constable.” Tregere’s gaze darted between them both, his smile returning. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to speak to you in private, sir.” Chenery glared at her. “You’re not meddling where you shouldn’t, are you?” he hissed in a whisper.

  “Of course not, why would I?” She fluffed her scarf closer around her throat as if that could stave off a harsher retort. “I’ll be on my way, since you’re busy now, Deacon. I’ll try to attend your service next week.” Jenna nodded to both men and sauntered away with an exaggerated swing of her panniers.

  At the door, she hesitated as Tregere and Chenery walked down the aisle toward the rear of the church. She trembled with aggravation over the constable’s interference.

  Stepping out, she closed the door, counted to ten, and cracked it open again. If she wanted information, she could not retreat. The men’s shadows moved to the transept at the right of the altar. Heart racing, she slipped back in and crept down the right-side aisle. She heard their voices, and slowed. Despite the horridness of the accusations against her, she hadn’t experienced this much excitement in years; the blood rushed through her veins and she pressed up against the chilly stone wall.

  “…can’t discuss the private matters of my congregation,” Tregere said.

  “This is a serious investigation, sir. I’d advise cooperation.” Chenery asked a few ordinary questions and the deacon answered them. The constable cleared his throat. “How did you find the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Pentreath?”

  Silence followed, and Jenna held her breath. She was mad to eavesdrop, but she wanted answers to that question as well.

  “I dislike saying anything indiscreet.” Tregere sounded gloomy and he sighed. “But I found them a couple who seemed to barely tolerate each other at times.”

  “So there was much animosity between them?”

  “They were always civil, here in church. But you could see by their expressions and little actions that they weren’t very happy.”

  “Did Mrs. Pentreath ever confide in you, something personal, about her marriage?”

  “I try to give gentle advice to my parishioners who appear to be in need of comfort. Of course, I often fill in for the rector as he has many duties about the town.” Tregere sighed again. “But, as far as Mrs. Pentreath….”

  Jenna leaned forward, biting her lip, her hat brim brushing the wall.

  “I worked closely with her on a committee last year…well, but I must tell you that her husband….”

  Jenna held her breath again, her lungs trembling with the stifled air, her fingers rubbing the rough stone.

  Chapter Five

  Branek urged his stallion up the slope. His flock of sheep grazed in the distant meadow. The flock was Dartmoor, a descendent of Cornish Heath sheep, classified as Lustre and Longwool—a breed his family had raised for decades. Were the medium-sized, short legged beasts still profitable, or a grass-nibbling waste?

  Was it time for a change, and not just concerning sheep? He nudged Zeus’s white flanks and rode along the short ridge as he inhaled the land’s tangy scent.

  Polefant Place, with its tan stones and Elizabethan lines—the odd blend of Italian Renaissance and Dutch influence his mother had praised—sat in the hollow below. The house was a smaller version of the ostentatious manors built in the E design by wealthier landowners in the late sixteenth century. Smaller, yet the upkeep still drained his coffers the way a drunkard swilled gin.

  His grandfather had told him, when he’d walked with Branek as a boy along the nearby marsh, that Polefant meant Toad’s Pool. The kind old man, a steady influence, was long dead, along with Branek’s parents, who had perished at sea five years ago. The sorrow coiled through him. All of them treasured this estate.

  Branek twisted at the reins and slowed Zeus to a walk. How could he bear to lose any of the property? Perhaps he’d have to sell the building on St. Nicholas, or raise the rent even higher than first proposed. Mrs. Rosedew probably couldn’t afford that.

  He rubbed his chin, surprised at his tinge of regret over putting the widow out of her shop. In their brief meeting, she hadn’t seemed the type who’d have poisoned her own infusions, but what about incompetence? He still searched for a resolution so he could move on. The sale of the building would mean better pay for his staff and give him funds to invest in a copper mine that was reported to be doing well.

  On a knoll, on the other side of the ridge, sat the rose-bricked family chapel and vault, last opened to inter Sophie. His grandparents and other ancestors also rested there. He reined in Zeus. His mount snorted and crabbed about in the wild asparagus, scattering a few red berries.


  Branek sighed and stiffened in his saddle. He swept off his bicorn hat and raised it in the air. “Sleep well, my dear Sophie. May that Heaven you thought so much of be treating you decently, offering you what I never could. And I am sorry.”

  A curlew flapped over his head with a sharp puh-weet. The cloud of sadness inside him shifted. Deeper in his heart—though a sense of disloyalty slashed through him—the realization stirred that he was free. No matter his lament over his failed marriage, that idea started to soften the edges of his current conundrum. Free for what? was the question. What did he want, now that he had choices?

  He wheeled Zeus around and galloped toward the manor, the autumn breeze cool on his face. Dismounting when he arrived, he gave his stallion over to the stable boy.

  He entered the house and handed the ever-hovering Mrs. Sandrey his surtout coat. The woman smiled—a less forced smile than when Sophie had presided over the staff.

  Inside his office, Branek nodded at Will, who sat at his small bureau, shuffling through papers.

  “I trust your ride was refreshing.” Will turned and handed him the Sherborne Mercury. His estate manager’s still boyish features looked drawn and tired. “Here’s the latest news about the war.”

  “Zeus was well pleased with the exercise.” Horses Branek could understand, a simple pat and oats, but women were an entirely different matter. He sat on the corner of his desk and perused the newspaper headlines. “As usual, no good news, it seems.”

  Will leaned back in the chair. “Back in June the rebels recaptured Augusta in the colony of Georgia, but we held them off in South Carolina.” He scratched at the queue of his natural hair.

  Branek perused the articles. “It began so well, until Burgoyne’s surrender in Saratoga, and their Mr. Washington’s victories. That villain called the Swamp Fox evades us in the Southern Provinces.” He rustled the edges of the paper. “Lord North and the king might have done better to be more conciliatory toward the colonists.”

  “Unfortunately,” Will said. “I think the Americans just want their independence now.”

  Branek’s gut tightened, though today he’d appreciated a freedom of a different kind. “I suppose the outlook for my importing tobacco from Virginia remains dismal?”

  “With our continuing hostilities, I’m afraid so.” Will turned the page of a ledger, running his finger along a list of numbers. “At present, the wage cuts at Wheal Marya have caused serious complaining.”

  Wheal Marya, the largest mine from Sophie’s dowry, was named after his mother-in-law. He wondered again how his in-laws fared in the rebellious colonies. “I hated to slash pay, but don’t they understand with the tin scarcity at the mine, everyone has to take cuts?” Branek straightened and rubbed his aching knees. “I paid extra to dig a new shaft last year, but that proved futile, with no fresh veins.”

  Will opened a second ledger. “The other mines are still under producing as well.”

  “I’d like to get through the winter without closing them. I don’t want to put men out of work.” Branek paced away from the desk. “If we prevail in the colonies, that’s surely to help my finances.”

  “I pray that spring will bring us a victory.”

  “If the blasted French hadn’t stepped in, this turmoil in America would be resolved by now. Fighting with the Dutch and Spain stretches our military too thin.” Branek set down the paper and glanced about the elegant paneled study, a room that once rang with the laughter of his grandfather and father. Branek had pictured his own son standing in here, eager to learn the estate transactions. Moisture gathered behind his eyes. “But little turns out as you’d expect it would.”

  “Are you missing her?” Will’s eyes flashed in surprise as he half-turned. Though he’d always shown her respect, Will and Sophie hadn’t been friendly, for the simple reason that Sophie had treated the “help” with severe condescension, which kept them at a distance.

  “I was being selfish, and pondering other issues.” Branek couldn’t miss his wife too much, when he’d never really possessed her. She’d always sidled out of his reach, into the arms of God. Or Treen? His heart grew heavy for an instant before pinching with mistrust toward the doctor.

  “I never told you how sorry I am about the outcome of the inquest.” Will kept his eyes on the ledger, his head drooping over it.

  “I appreciate that. It’s an extreme shock to me, of course.” Branek was loath to discuss the verdict. The distress that lingered over the unfulfilled years of his marriage continued as the investigation shambled on with no clear suspect. Could it be one of his staff? Was he cohabitating with a cold-blooded killer? He found that impossible to believe.

  He stretched his shoulders and put his mind to something tangible, again his home. He was born and raised in Polefant Place. His sisters were married in the little chapel on the ridge and celebrated their marriages here, as had he and Sophie. A smile tugged at his lips. He knew every nook and cranny of this house, where he’d played with his sisters at games as a child.

  Whom would he leave the place to, with no heirs? His sisters’ children? Or in a few years, he might remarry. A bride with a rich dowry, perhaps. Then he pushed that thought away—it was too soon to worry over finding a willing young woman to produce children. “The mining is suffering, but what about the sheep, the wool production? The flock looks healthy.” His luck had to turn around.

  “Wool is always lucrative. West Riding’s cloth industry requires much, thank goodness.” Will shut the book and trailed a finger under his chin. “And the local sales give some profit. We get about four pounds of wool annually from each animal.”

  “Good. And the army needs wool for their red coats.” Branek wouldn’t bring up the requirement that people had to be buried in wool cloth or fined—a past king’s act of parliament to promote the wool industry.

  Sophie had looked so fragile in her simple black wool gown. He’d almost seen the young bride he’d had such hopes for in her reposed features. He coughed into his hand to chase away the memory.

  “But the money goes quickly. The land taxes for the war are exorbitant.” Will picked up a quill and scraped at the tip with a penknife. He still acted uneasy, as if something more bothered him.

  A hawthorn branch, dipping in the wind, scraped at the high window on the far side of the room. Branek sighed. “Should we brick up a few windows to save on the window tax?”

  “Other landowners have done just that.” Will glanced over at him. “Have you thought of dismissing more of the servants? You let your valet go.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.” Branek chanced a look at his sleeve to check whether it was frayed. At least he obtained a better position for the valet.

  “What about your wife’s, God rest her soul, personal maid, for instance?”

  “Grace? It might come to that. We’ll see.” The girl had been with them since she was fourteen. Branek disliked being heartless; still, her presence here might mean trouble. He admitted he’d been attracted to the girl since she reached her twenties two years ago and she’d become overly flirtatious with him. His chest tightened. He’d kept his distance, so far. A master who plowed through his serving women should be beneath him.

  He stepped to the closest casement window and stared out over the green expanse of pasture and rolling hills as he struggled to put his problems in practical order. “What are your thoughts on selling the property on St. Nicholas?”

  “That would bring in needed monies.” Will stood and approached him. “I did warn Mrs. Rosedew about a possible sale, though her business might remain if the new landlord is amenable. I guess you feel different about her, given the tragic change of events.”

  “The woman hasn’t been proven guilty of anything. The constable still doubts her, but I’ve never cared for his opinions.” Branek’s breath fogged the wavy lead panes. He turned back to the room. He stayed up most nights wondering who could have committed this murder, and why. He still bore the weight of suspicion on h
is own head as he probably had the most to gain—if happiness could be placed on a scale and weighed.

  He pressed his fingers into the taut muscles at his nape. “I suppose a raised rent wouldn’t suffice for long. The building on St. Nicholas has always interested the mayor. It’s a prime location, being so near the Town Hall.”

  “I’ll tally up some numbers to present to him, in case that’s what you decide,” Will replied quietly.

  “How long ago did Mrs. Rosedew’s husband die?” Branek massaged his temple, tamping down his misgivings at having to inconvenience a hard-working widow.

  “About two years. He didn’t leave her much money, if the rumors are true.” Will slumped his shoulders, his gaze sad. “She’s a nice woman, and seems intelligent. Perhaps she can move to another, not so expensive area to continue her apothecary shop.”

  “Ah, a sensible solution, hopefully. I’ll speak to Mr. Cardew, and see if he’s still interested in buying.” Branek went to the sideboard and poured a glass of canary. His mother had purchased this Chippendale mahogany cabinet. A large blue Jasper Wedgewood vase sat atop. He might have to sell these items, and who knew how many others. He held up the decanter, but Will declined. Branek took a sip of the sweet wine. “We can wait to sell the building until after the Christmas season. The widow should understand that business is business.”

  He looked up at Sophie’s solemn portrait; her frozen stare of censure seemed to watch his every move. He fought a grimace. “Can we remove this painting? Put it in the gallery upstairs, along with my other…deceased family.” Branek didn’t meet Will’s gaze. The estate manager had a long, happy marriage and three children. Despite his earlier avowal, how could Will really understand? Branek tossed down the wine, which burbled like vinegar in his stomach.