The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “What does Magistrate Odgers believe?” Lucinda studied him. “Certainly, he’d never put any blame on you. Does he trust Chenery?”

  “Sadly, since his wife’s death, he’s not the astute man he once was. I’ve spoken to Odgers, but with the war and so many men gone, there isn’t anyone else to involve except Chenery.” Branek clenched his hand on his knee. “Odgers promised the matter would be handled correctly.”

  “I’ll pray that it is.” Lucinda patted his arm, her gaze commiserating. “Chenery did always seem a fool. Didn’t he have an iron-monger’s shop that failed?”

  “Yes.” Branek groaned and pressed his back against the sofa. “Dr. Treen is eager to blame me as well.”

  “I never cared for Treen and his haughty demeanor. He always stared at me with those beady little eyes. He was very close to Sophie, wasn’t he?” Lucinda sipped from her cup of tea. “They both relished their church duties, you’ve always said.”

  “Sophie’s one gratification in life.” Branek wondered again if there’d been more to his wife’s relationship with the portly doctor. However, Sophie in the throes of illicit passion was hard to imagine. He still intended to confront the man. “Let’s speak of other topics.” He clattered aside his cup, untouched. “How are John and the children?”

  “John is as ever, a sweet, indulgent husband. He even bought one of those new Bramah water closets from London, for my convenience; but the contraption leaks.” She laughed, though her gaze continued to search his in sisterly sympathy. “Your nephews and niece are well, and—”

  “I’d enjoy seeing them. And I’m so glad you’ll stay awhile.” He hugged her hand to his chest. He needed her solace more than he realized. If he never remarried, he’d leave the estate to Lucinda’s second son, a boy of fifteen sure to attend Oxford like his brother.

  Lucinda glanced over her shoulder, her voice lowered. “Maybe our Mrs. Sandrey is culpable in the poisoning. You said she seems happier, which I just noticed.” She pressed her fingers against her lips. “That was awful of me, a terrible jest. The woman has been a loyal servant here for many years. She was always a bit dull, but kind.”

  “She is reliable, as she was in our parents’ day, for which I am grateful.” He shifted on the sofa cushion. His housekeeper had handled the medications when they were delivered. But why would she have tampered with them? Simply to acquire full sway over the household? He almost laughed at the strange, though disquieting, idea.

  * * *

  Jenna wiped the water and vinegar dampened rag over the panes in her shop’s bow window. The squeak of her rubbing along the glass echoed in the empty shop. Her customers had dwindled in the ten days since Mrs. Pentreath’s death, most likely put off by the gossip over poisoned infusions. She could ill-afford the loss of revenue.

  She’d rummaged around upstairs, looking for anything to sell, but she didn’t own much that was valuable, except for her apothecary supplies. She might have to write to her son for a small loan for February, but to be a burden to anyone embarrassed her. If her husband stood before her now, she’d shake him until his teeth flew out for mismanaging their money.

  Out of the window, carts and wagons trundled over the cobbles on St. Nicholas Street. The fruit seller hawked his wares in a sing-song voice as he drove his cart past. Many people strolled or hurried along the road. The wealthier women wore open robe gowns that displayed flounced petticoats, their hats adorned with large ribbons. The men swaggered by in long great coats with multiple collars. They looked untroubled, going about their casual business, yet passing her by. She swiped harder at the glass.

  Mr. Pentreath, of all people, walked past with a woman on his arm. A prettily dressed woman in a short jacket and yellow polonaise, her ankles trim below the hem.

  He hesitated, pointed to her shop, explaining something to his companion.

  Jenna winced in distaste at the affectionate way the squire gazed at the woman and the possessive manner with which he looked at the building.

  “Fie, so soon after his wife’s death, even if he was miserable,” she muttered, nudged off-balance by her prick of annoyance. He might have hidden this fancy chit all along, another reason to have killed his wife. She needed to know the truth about this man who controlled her shop’s future. And her own!

  Jenna breathed deeply, straightened her white cap, plastered on a calm expression and pulled open her door. “Good afternoon, sir, and mistress.” Her barb was bold, but not unintentional. “An’ what a fine day it is for a stroll.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosedew.” The squire averted his gaze, arms tucked at his sides, as if caught with his hand in the till, but the woman smiled in a friendly way.

  “So you’re Mrs. Rosedew.” The woman approached and clasped Jenna’s hand in hers. Her soft kid gloves felt like the caress of a kitten. “I’m Lucinda Nancarrow, Mr. Pentreath’s sister, visiting from Falmouth.”

  Jenna started, surprised by the affability, disturbed by her relief that this was his sister. Jenna had seen the two Pentreath sisters from a distance through the years; one was short and dark-haired, the other—this one, she realized—tall and lithe with lighter hair.

  “How do you do, my lady. I am Jenna Rosedew, apothecary.” She glanced over at Pentreath, who stared back, but with more interest than wariness. “I wish to speak to you, sir. But since you’re with Lady Nancarrow, I’ll leave it for another time.”

  “Nonsense, my good woman. I’ll simply slip into the milliner’s right over there.” The lady patted her brother’s shoulder, her smile indulgent. “I’ll be at least twenty minutes.”

  “The soul of discretion, as always, dear sister,” Pentreath said to his departing sibling. He turned to Jenna, his smile uneasy. “What did you wish to speak with me about, Mrs. Rosedew?”

  “Would you come into my shop, please?” She held the door open wide, now unsure how to put into words what she wanted to say.

  Pentreath entered and removed his hat this time. His thick black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples made him look distinguished.

  They scrutinized one another and her pulse skipped.

  “Sir, I’m not one to hide behind false words.” Jenna slid behind her counter, as if her station of many years could strengthen her conviction. “First, I swear I never harmed your lady wife, no matter what the constable may think of Luke’s honesty…or mine.”

  “I admit that people should not jump to conclusions that may lead in incorrect directions. The mayor spoke well of you, Mrs. Rosedew.”

  His response sounded thoughtful, if grudging, though his body appeared rigid with tension.

  “Did he now? Bless the man.” Warmed by that, Jenna studied Pentreath. He looked weary, but less aloof than he had been the last time he was here. “I take great pride in my dispensing of medicines. I’m very careful an’ would never hurt anyone.”

  “Be that as it may, there are still many disturbing questions.” He put his hands behind his back, which broadened his shoulders. His brow furrowed and his gaze seemed sad, the first sign of grief she’d noticed.

  “Ess, there are, sir.” Jenna caught her lip; she must make an effort to speak properly in front of the quality and not slip into old habits. “I meant yes, sir.” She softened her tone, but the words to ask about his possible involvement burned inside her. “I, too, would like answers. Have you delved into who might have killed your wife?”

  “I…have thought on the matter. But I think we must leave that up to the authorities.” He turned away and glanced around the shop, his response resembling an excuse not to elaborate. “Was this what you wished to discuss with me?”

  She still liked the deep timbre of his voice, but couldn’t allow anything to influence her. “I’ve wondered who had the most reason to harm Mrs. Pentreath.”

  His shoulders sagged for an instant as he eyed her again. His coffee-brown eyes looked tortured before he blinked as if to wipe his anxiety away. “I thought you would want to discuss your increased rent.”


  She stepped out from her counter, now wishing to make herself seem accessible. He didn’t act guilty, yet why had she expected him to discuss private issues with her? “February is a few months away. I was more concerned about a possible sale.”

  Pentreath nodded, as though he’d expected this, though his expression grew solicitous, almost resigned. “I’m sure any change won’t be easy to manage.”

  “Naw—no, it won’t, sir.” She’d detected a trace of sympathy in his reply. “My customers, they’ve lessened since all this has come about, an’—”

  “That is unfortunate. I am sorry.” Pentreath met her gaze, his eyes penetrating, yet unfathomable. “As soon as this villain is revealed, we can, hopefully, move on with our lives.”

  His reply held so much: confusion, despair and stubbornness mixed together in an intriguing stew. He sounded almost vulnerable.

  Her heartbeat increased. “That will take time.” She strained to keep the desperation out of her voice. She wanted him to think well of her. “If you’re planning to sell, as Will warned me, I should like to know. Don’t I deserve that as your tenant?”

  “You’re right, I agree. If I find a buyer, I will ask him to give you ample notice. Perhaps then you can move your shop to a less expensive part of town.” Pentreath put on his hat and stepped toward the door. “I wish I could help you more.”

  “You could try, sir. Let people know that the poison did not come from my shop. There is no arsenic here.” She forced a smile even as her hands trembled. He was preparing to sell! “An’ I for one don’t care to leave the investigation to Constable Chenery.”

  She saw a flash of something in his expression—he might agree with her on that count. After Sally’s insistence, Jenna wanted to be fair toward him, but she couldn’t let her guard down. “It would mean much if you put in a good word for me about the town.”

  “I will take that into account.” He sounded amenable though anxious to leave her scrutiny. “I wish things could be different, but the reasons are complicated. I give you good day, Mrs. Rosedew.” He opened the door.

  She flexed her fingers to resist grasping his arm. Her slight pity for him splintered. “Good day, sir,” she said through stiff lips.

  He nodded, averted his gaze and walked out; the bell tinkled loudly.

  She snatched the bell clapper to silence it and watched him through the window as he strode away.

  “Complicated, is it? You aren’t yet free of me, sir!” Jenna hated to start over somewhere else. Either way, she needed to get her customers back, and that meant finding out who had really committed this odious crime. If she pulled her mind away from Mr. Pentreath as the killer, who else could she push it toward?

  Chapter Seven

  In the shadows of Polefant Place’s stable, Lucinda patted Zeus on the nose. The white stallion nickered in appreciation. “Zeus, you are still a fine specimen of a horse. I hope you take good care of your master.” She flicked a glance at Branek, one light brow raised. “She’s a handsome woman, this Mrs. Rosedew, with a proud air.”

  “From horses to shop women? How you do digress.” Branek breathed in the scents of hay and animals. The cool surrounding of the stone building with its wooden stalls reminded him of the times they’d played hide and go seek as children. He’d once imagined his own children playing here, caring for their ponies. The familiar longing flared up. He scraped a fingernail over a stall partition. “I hadn’t noticed her ‘handsomeness.’ She seems decent enough, as Cardew said.” Branek had observed the widow’s almost poised demeanor and her sharpness of mind.

  Mrs. Rosedew was an impediment he hadn’t expected. Now when he sold the building, if he could, he’d see her vivid green eyes glaring at him.

  But his worst crisis remained unsolved. Now who would that addle-brained constable suspect for Sophie’s murder? He didn’t want the accusations to creep back to him, or anyone on his estate.

  “I don’t think I believe you.” Lucinda studied him with a wry smile. “The apothecary exudes a certain, well, as the French say, je ne sais quoi. Has your disastrous marriage put you off admiring other women? Even shop women?”

  “No, not really. But I suppose I must behave as the respectable widower, at least for a while.” He moved to the stable door. He’d admired other women, and felt the pressures of his neglected needs all too often. Perhaps he should have taken a mistress, at least after his parents’ demise. But his reputation was important to him; that’s why he needed to shed this stain of foul play.

  He stared across the yard, at the stone barn, forcing his thoughts to happier times. “Remember when we hid in the barn loft, pretending to be smugglers? Our entire lives were an adventure then.”

  “I recall you and Will forced me to play the excise man, so you could have all the fun. Though I did get to chase you two with a stick, until Mother insisted I behave properly.” Lucinda laughed. Then she stared into the stable’s corner, her smile fading. “I see you’ve sold a few of your horses. And your coach is covered with dust.” She met his eyes, her expression growing serious. “You have hinted of difficulties in your letters, and I realize it’s improper to discuss such things with a woman, but I am your older sister. How are your finances?”

  With reluctance, Branek regarded her concerned face. He thought of his foundering mine. He’d ridden out to Wheal Marya early that morning, but Nerth Hockin had been down the shaft, and the few men at the top were rather taciturn. The grass captain, the man who’d handled the mine workers above ground, had already abandoned his position. Branek had to leave any discussion for another day.

  “My assets could be improved, it’s obvious.” For an austere woman, Sophie had been surprisingly perturbed when he’d sold the coach horses three months before she died. She’d stated it was beneath her having to drive into town in the landau. “I await on tenterhooks for more prosperous times.”

  In a crunch of footfalls, Will crossed the courtyard and waved. “You have a visitor. Mrs. Windle and her daughter are calling upon you.” He smiled ironically. “I knew you would be delighted to entertain them.”

  “Without a doubt.” Branek grimaced. What did that gossiping harpy want? An idea occurred to him. Since their much smaller property bordered Polefant Place, Mr. Windle might be interested in some extra land to graze his prize horses. He’d asked Branek about such a transaction once. Polefant Place wasn’t entailed, so Branek—reluctantly—could sell off or lease parcels. Windle’s silly wife could convey a message.

  “Playing the butler or footman, Will?” Lucinda grinned at him. “You must have to work twice as hard since old Melor retired.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Lady Nancarrow. We do what we can here.” Will gave her a mischievous smile. “Unfortunately, no more romping about the estate with no cares.”

  “Next year I’ll hire a new butler.” Branek wished his cares would dissipate. He walked toward the rear door of the manor, leaving his estate manager and sister to chat. He disliked reminders of his ever-present penury.

  “Shall I bring tea into the front parlor, sir?” Mrs. Sandrey asked when he entered. “There’s fresh curd puffs, too.”

  “No, they shouldn’t be staying long.” And he had no intention of encouraging them to do so. His housekeeper handed him a damp cloth, and he wiped his face and hands. He missed his valet as well as his butler. He must find something for Grace, Sophie’s personal maid. Lucinda might hire the young woman. Take the temptation of her to Falmouth.

  Branek straightened his cravat and strode down the hall. He took a firm breath and entered the blue parlor, a much smaller room opposite the former solar. The blue floral wallpaper and blue upholstered settee his mother had loved gave the chamber its name.

  Mrs. Windle rose from the settee. She smelled of over-doused rosewater. “Mr. Pentreath. I hope we haven’t come at an inconvenient time.” She grinned as if the inconvenience really didn’t matter to her, her small eyes squinting. Her round face was wider at the bottom, as if she’d stuffed her che
eks with cotton. Her visage was a stark contrast to her gawky daughter, May, who stood beside her.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” May nodded, her loose yellow hair falling lankly on her narrow shoulders.

  “Afternoon, ladies. I am quite busy, as my sister is visiting; but to what do I owe this pleasure?” He’d almost added “dubious” before pleasure, but strained to sound at least neutral in his welcome. He had to act the gentleman, even if his life was in turmoil.

  Mrs. Windle sat before being invited, her green dress a puddle around her tubby form. May slid down beside her, hands clasped in her lap.

  “Have you hired any new help, sir?” Mrs. Windle asked. “I saw a young, scruffy man lurking about when we drove up. He glared at me, or was admiring my May.”

  “I’ve hired no one lately. He was probably a farmer crossing my land.” Branek hid his disquiet over this. The woman didn’t need to know his business.

  “Well then.” She patted her skirt. “My dear May and I were concerned you might need company in your time of great need. So here we are.”

  “How thoughtful of you.” Branek slowly sat in the Windsor chair opposite and gripped his knees. “I heard your husband purchased a few new Arabians.”

  “He has.” The woman waved her hand about as if that were of little interest. Then she nudged her daughter. “It’s sad, but true, that men aren’t very good on their own.”

  “A supportive woman is…so very important.” May smiled awkwardly, as if this was a prearranged reply to her mother’s statement. She was a tall, reed-thin girl who’d been presented at a few London seasons with no takers. He used to pity her, but now grew wary that he might be her fresh prey.

  “I know how you must miss Sophie. Or perhaps not.” Mrs. Windle leaned forward as if imparting vital news. “Life does continue on.”