The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Given that her death is so recent, my wife is greatly missed.” Branek fought down a groan. He couldn’t believe this woman’s audacity, only a fortnight past the funeral. “Now, about those horses. Perhaps your husband—”

  “We all miss Sophie at St. Margaret’s. She was so devoted, as you know. We haven’t seen you in the last two Sundays, either.” The woman wagged a finger at him as if he were a naughty child.

  “My time is limited at the moment, as I said. I will attend again soon.” He’d gone intermittently in the last few years. But he had no desire to see those rueful faces, asking how he fared. The rector would want his tithes, which could no longer be generous. Branek shifted in the chair, impatient with idle chat. “If your husband could call on me Monday, I wish to discuss business with him.”

  “I’ve always admired this parlor.” Mrs. Windle glanced around in a possessive manner. “The wallpaper is lovely, with its flocked Rococo design. A shame you have no gilded furniture, which is so popular now. A few embroidered pieces would look well in here. It’s always good to have a female touch about. May embroiders so prettily, don’t you, dear?”

  “Such activity keeps my hands occupied, Mother.” The girl twisted a strand of her hair along her gaunt cheek. When she met his gaze, she smiled wanly. “I’m certain my efforts are only adequate.”

  Branek was right. With his wife not even cool in her grave, mothers with single daughters would come sniffing around, hot on the scent of a widower with an estate. He clenched his fingers. “Are you selling your daughter’s embroidery, Madam?”

  The woman’s eyes bulged. “Indeed not, sir. That would be highly improper.”

  May’s cheeks flushed, and he regretted his rude remark.

  “I’m sure you’re quite skilled, my dear; but I have no need for anything,” he said gently to May. He stood and now addressed her mother. “I have many matters to attend to, Madam, though I would like to speak with Mr. Windle at his earliest convenience about grazing land for his horses.” More irritation washed over him; how galling to part with the land his grandfather and father took such pride in.

  Both women also rose. Mrs. Windle pursed her lips. “Of course. And we’ll come back another time, when you aren’t so preoccupied. May makes the most delicious suet dumplings; we’ll bring you a dish.”

  “I will look forward to them, but don’t go to any trouble on my account.” He feared the woman would not be deterred. He had no desire for May, though he might feel differently—when he considered such things in the future—if the girl showed intelligence and polish. But she was too young, and he’d prefer a loving relationship next time around. “I’ll show you out, ladies.” He motioned them into the hall and toward the front door.

  “I have heard the whispers about Sophie’s cause of death.” Mrs. Windle spoke softly, laid her hand on his sleeve and squinted up at him. May had inched away out of earshot. “I’m certain Sophie wasn’t the easiest person to live with. She did always insist on being correct about everything. But are the rumors true?”

  Branek almost swiped her hand from his arm. He found himself searching for suspicion in her eyes, but saw only curiosity. “I don’t indulge in gossip, Mrs. Windle.”

  “No one could fault you, especially since Sophie and Dr. Treen seemed overly friendly, if you know what I mean. You need a sweet and compliant wife.” She tilted her head toward May, who stood at the door, her hand lifting the latch.

  “It’s far too early for such thoughts.” He stiffened and backed away. “Good day, Madam, Miss Windle. Mrs. Windle, please give your husband my message,” he said through grinding teeth, and more sympathy for May.

  “No worries, I will. And we’ll return next month, with the scrumptious dumplings made by my daughter’s own delicate hands.” The woman grinned tenaciously, nodded and followed May out.

  He shut the door, wishing he could slam it. The harpy might suspect him, and taunted him with more innuendo about Treen. Branek’s lack of church attendance had given the doctor ample opportunity to share his wife’s pew. Had Sophie allowed Treen the intimacy she’d denied him? Branek scowled. He tried to picture his frosty wife melting for the chubby physician.

  “Surely they weren’t husband hunting so soon?” Lucinda stepped out from the solar; he hadn’t realized she’d entered the house. “I see they’ve upset you terribly.”

  “I’m probably overreacting.” He closed his eyes. Was he imagining the accusation? Had the chasm in his marriage been that obvious to the congregation? Or Treen could be spreading nasty little comments, missing his overt closeness with Sophie.

  “I haven’t seen May for years, but she still looks like a damp string, the poor girl. And her mother is so mercenary she still wishes to marry her off to a notorious man like you?” Lucinda linked arms with him. “Let’s go to your office and we’ll share some port. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Port so early? You are a vixen, dear sister.” He stuffed down his frustration, and notoriety, and relaxed at her touch. They walked to his office. “What sort of proposition?”

  “Firstly, what are you going to do about these rumors?” She stepped to the sideboard and poured two glasses from the crystal decanter. “All right, I was eavesdropping. Has the constable come up with any viable suspects?”

  “None that I know of, the incompetent arse. He’d never be in a position he is so ill-suited for if his late uncle hadn’t held authority in the town. I fought against Chenery’s selection for a second year. I think the man lives on bribes.” Branek gripped the delicate glass. Too many tales were flying about on fleet feet, as Mrs. Windle just proved.

  “Then you might need to start poking around. Talk to Treen, even if you don’t like him. It appears your wife did, perhaps too much.”

  A sudden jealousy pierced through him, even for a dead woman he hadn’t, but should have, loved. “I would like to confront the venerable doctor; there is much I need to ask him. Tomorrow is Sunday, and I might attend church. But as for any other ‘poking,’ I hardly think I’m in the position to….” Hadn’t the widow said the same about his delving into the crime? His fervent wish so far had been to push the guilt from himself.

  “Promise to think about it; the sooner this is solved the better. Will says he’s quite worried about your frame of mind, and so am I.” She sipped her drink, now averting her gaze. “Secondly, I want to purchase your coach.”

  “No, because I know why you’re doing this. Do not feel sorry for me.” He gulped the sweet wine, his stomach churning.

  “Nonsense. I need a second coach, and you haven’t the right horses to pull one anymore.” She stared at him with their mother’s eyes and determined mouth. “Please don’t be a fool and stand on your male pride. Don’t keep your financial situation a secret from me. I could offer you a loan.”

  “Never. That is out of the question.” He was shamed by the pity on her face. “I will find my own way out of this predicament.”

  A sudden shattering of glass startled them. An object thumped on the office carpet. Lucinda gasped. Branek whirled about and rushed over to the window. A miner’s pick axe, old and marred, lay among the glass shards.

  * * *

  “Are you certain your wife doesn’t mind you escorting me?” Jenna adjusted the ribbon on her straw hat as they neared St. Margaret’s. A drizzle of rain dripped off the brim onto the shoulders of her cloak. The air smelled damp and fresh at the same time.

  “Don’t fret about it, m’dear. She’s visiting her mother in Port Isaac. The old lady is ill, or so she insisted.” Horace guided her toward the church door.

  “The congregation may tell naughty tales about us.” Jenna glanced around to see if Mr. Pentreath was one of the people streaming in through the doors.

  Doctor Treen waddled past them, head high, as if he were a bishop and owned the church.

  Flowered and feathered hats on chattering women floated by her. Men dressed in long coats shuffled their wives out of the rain. Scents of sandalwood, ros
e and lavender water, along with unwashed body odor, wafted after them.

  Horace patted Jenna’s gloved hand. “Let them gossip. Mary knows I’m a cad, her teasing word for me, but she’s indulgent about my weaknesses.” They entered and found a pew.

  “I’m anxious to speak with the deacon about his cemetery committee, because you said it was cause of an argument between the Pentreaths.” Jenna settled her panniers to the sides as she sat, her petticoats rustling. “An’ I’d like to know what he observed when he visited Mrs. Pentreath during her last days.”

  Conversations hummed in muted whispers until the rector walked to the altar. Prayers, hymns, a reading from the Bible ensued. A collection plate was handed from person to person, and many put in coins with a solid clink.

  The rector took the pulpit and began his sermon, followed by a reading of Scripture, all in strict order. Her mind distracted, eager for the lecture to end, Jenna couldn’t concentrate.

  Afterwards, members approached the altar to kneel and receive communion from the rector. The deacon offered the chalice of wine to each communicant.

  Jenna glanced around the now familiar church. The elderly rector droned on, and her attention drifted again. A tall man dressed in black strode down the aisle and took a pew at the front. Mr. Pentreath!

  A few people muttered over his tardiness to the service.

  Jenna stared at the back of his head as if he might turn around and glare at her. Would he think she was spying on him? She shifted on the bench and pondered again the ‘severe umbrage’ Pentreath took toward his wife’s guidance, according to the deacon. What type of guidance had the squire needed?

  The service finally ended with admonishments to follow the stringent teachings of the church. She’d desired succor in the word of God, but she didn’t care to be chastised, and her thoughts wouldn’t remain quiet, especially with Mr. Pentreath there.

  She and Horace rose and sidled out of the row.

  “Let’s hurry to question the deacon.” Jenna watched the towering, sinewy man as he joined the rector in greeting the congregation.

  “The deacon seems a nice fellow, if a little too groveling for my tastes.” Horace escorted her toward him. “And he’s always opining that he wants to retire to Italy and study renaissance churches, or some such rot.”

  Pentreath stood and appeared to be scrutinizing Dr. Treen. He strode over to the physician, who seemed disconcerted to see him. A conversation ensued and Jenna strained to hear the details, but there were too many people talking around her. Their voices echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

  “Deacon Tregere.” Horace dipped his head slightly as they moved in front of the deacon. “Have you met my dear friend, Mrs. Jenna Rosedew?”

  “Ah, I believe I have.” The man’s large blue eyes crinkled. He smiled. “Didn’t we speak about you joining our church? Do you live in our parish?”

  “I’m thinking of moving.” Her lie felt like a slap in her face; she liked her shop and home exactly where it was. “The service was quite inspirational.” Jenna returned the smile and waited for the last of the congregation to trail past. “Might we speak some place privately?”

  “Of course, let’s step into the north transept.”

  The three of them passed Mr. Pentreath and Dr. Treen, who walked toward the front of the church. Jenna hesitated, as had the two men.

  Treen’s plump cheeks were florid. “We should discuss this in my office, sir, or at your home, if you insist.”

  “I came to make certain you weren’t occupying my private pew,” Mr. Pentreath spoke in a tense whisper, “as it seems you did all too avidly when Sophie was alive.”

  “I was a great comfort to your wife. Excuse me, sir.” Treen resumed walking toward the front door.

  “So I’ve heard from more than one person.” Pentreath was fast on his heels. “Vile gossip is rife. How far did your comfort go, was it medical advice only?”

  Jenna struggled to listen, then followed the deacon reluctantly as the men’s voices faded. Did Mr. Pentreath think his wife and the doctor had carried on an affair, or had she misheard their whispers?

  They entered the transept as the choir filed out.

  “Mrs. Rosedew has a few questions,” Horace began.

  “I suppose,” Jenna took a slow breath, “that you’ve heard the rumors concerning me an’ the death of Mrs. Pentreath. I’m the apothecary on St. Nicholas Street.”

  “I am aware of the poisoning suspicion. Such a ghastly tragedy.” The deacon hung his head for a moment. “I visited Mrs. Pentreath in her suffering. I prayed with her, and was convinced and relieved that she was ready to meet her maker.”

  Pushed to meet her maker was more like it. “I’d like to know more about the lady, since my shop was involved.” Jenna spoke softly, trying to appear humble instead of anxious. “I understand you both worked on a committee last year, to raise money for the new cemetery. It’s been said there were problems with her husband over this.”

  Tregere shrugged his shoulders and stared at the floor. “There are always difficulties when several people try to manage a committee.” He met her gaze. “But it is a sensitive subject.”

  “Oh, come now, Deacon, you can be honest with us. There were some irregularities, I heard.” Horace prodded the man’s chest with a finger.

  “We would be most appreciative for any help.” Jenna tugged back Horace’s arm and gave the deacon her sweetest smile.

  Tregere frowned at Horace, then turned his attention to her. “I admit Mrs. Pentreath didn’t like the way the money was being distributed. She was a very…rigorous woman, in many ways; a stickler for details.” His blue eyes shone less bright, as though a tiny upset lingered. “She even insisted that the money had been mishandled in some way, which wasn’t true. Mr. Pentreath may have been disturbed over the situation. I’m afraid that is all I can say.”

  “I do understand your delicate position.” Jenna perceived much more beneath the deacon’s words. “But later, when you visited her on her sickbed, what did—”

  “Deacon, there’s a commotion out in the alley.” An old woman ambled into the transept, her eyes wide with worry. “It’s Mr. Pentreath and Dr. Treen.”

  “Oh, dear. You must excuse me.” The deacon hurried from the now empty church toward the alley that ran beside it.

  Jenna, frustrated her interview was cut short, but curious to see what was happening, followed outside with Horace. The two men in question were half way down the narrow alley, growling like two curs in each other’s faces.

  “Don’t you touch me, you privileged scoundrel!” Treen’s voice sputtered in anger.

  Mr. Pentreath slammed Dr. Treen up against the wall, the man’s cravat bunched in his fist. Jenna swept her hand to her mouth. Surely the squire didn’t intend to strangle the doctor?

  Chapter Eight

  Branek pressed his knuckles hard into Treen’s fleshy throat, the doctor’s smooth cravat twisted around his fingers. Eyes bulging, the physician sputtered like a gasping fish. Stinking of sweat, he clawed his hands along Branek’s arms.

  People gathered in the alley; they muttered and cried out. “Oh, good heavens,” someone said.

  The hairs on the back of Branek’s neck bristled. He relaxed his grip and released Treen. The physician doubled over, coughed and massaged his throat.

  “Mr. Pentreath, sir.” Deacon Tregere bustled over to them, robes flapping around his spindly legs. “What is the problem? Surely we can resolve this in a gentler manner.”

  Branek’s shoulders remained tense. He didn’t know what possessed him to completely lose his composure—and now he’d made a public spectacle, starting with his indiscreet outburst in the church.

  “I’m not certain of that, Deacon,” he said through gritted teeth. Then he glared at the pompous physician, who still managed to look smug. “This man has thoroughly insulted me.”

  “And you violated my person.” Treen’s voice rasped out. He straightened his cravat and frock coat with elaborate
strokes. He rubbed again at his throat. “You nearly crushed my esophagus.”

  “Only to crush your insinuations, you blackguard.” Branek spoke low, then heaved a slow breath to keep from launching himself once more at Treen. He smelled spice and stared over at the others. The gawkers included a round-faced, stout man, and Mrs. Rosedew, who stood beside him.

  Embarrassment heated his face at the widow’s worried look. Why was she here?

  Mrs. Rosedew hurried forward. “Your throat is not scratched, Dr. Treen, but it may become bruised later. A warm compress an’ some goose grease liniment should help.” Her tone was efficient and showed little empathy for Treen. Branek liked her for that.

  “I hardly need your ‘medical’ services, Madam.” Treen stepped away with a sneer. “But I might seek out a solicitor for this outrage. The people here can bear witness.”

  “Mrs. Rosedew’s medical knowledge is much better than most quacks in this town,” the stout man insisted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Of course, I didn’t see a thing just now, did anyone else?”

  People shook their heads and a few walked away.

  “Would you gentlemen prefer to come inside and discuss your disagreement in friendlier tones?” The deacon looked hopeful, his smile cajoling, long fingers clasped together.

  “A generous offer, Deacon, but no, I’m done here.” Branek brushed down his coat sleeves. If he tarried another moment, he might drive his fist into the doctor’s arrogant face. “Mr. Treen, I would caution you about stating your opinions concerning my private affairs to anyone. I will speak with my own solicitor.” He stalked away over the wet cobbles to the main street, wishing to put miles between himself and this confrontation. Treen’s unctuous voice still grated on his nerves. He’d accused Branek of ill-treatment of the doctor’s “dear friend Sophie” when Sophie had hardly been blameless for the ill-will between them.

  He kicked aside a stone. Damn, he needed to stop blaming her and realize again his own faults. He strained to allow their acrimonious relationship to sink into the past—if only a murder suspicion didn’t hang like a fog in the air around him.