The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Quick footsteps sounded behind him. “Mr. Pentreath, are you all right?” The widow’s voice was close, as if she’d followed him.

  He slowed, but his body stiffened in regret over so flagrant an argument. “I am perfectly fine, Mrs. Rosedew.”

  She rushed up beside him. Before he could react, she took his hands in hers. “Let me have a look, if you don’t mind, sir.” She examined his knuckles with gloved fingers, her touch very gentle. “No abrasions, though touching the good doctor at all might cause a grievous infection.”

  Branek laughed, a sound he hadn’t heard from himself enough lately. The knot in his gut loosened. However, her careful stroke unnerved him, and he pulled back his hands. He should have put on his gloves. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. Don’t trouble yourself with me.”

  “’Tis unfortunate, but such a show of temper, sir, might leave people to believe what you might not wish them to.” She eyed him speculatively.

  “And what exactly is that?” He glared at her, his anger returning, intermixed with shame. “Are you insinu—?”

  “Since I’m involved in this as well, don’t I have right to know?” She looked up at him; fine lines of weariness surrounded her bright green eyes. “The truth of what happened.”

  “I’m under no obligation to prove myself to you.” But he admitted she was right about the incident that just took place.

  Water dripped off the roof in loud plunks from the building behind her.

  “Forgive my rudeness, but are you as innocent in this murder as I am, sir?” Her gaze softened, searching his. “If you are, I want to find out what happened to your wife as much as you should.”

  Her bold words stunned him. “I will overlook your rudeness, since you seem sincere. Of course I am innocent of this crime.” His tone sounded too defensive, and he shouldn’t have revealed his rawer emotions. “Now, excuse me, I must go.”

  “I’d like to know the details. I prepared the infusions at my end, an’ they left my shop untouched, delivered by a reliable boy, an’ ended up in your house.”

  His flesh prickled as his curiosity piqued. He jerked on his leather gloves. “That may be true. However, I’d rather not discuss it at this moment.” He needed to simmer down after nearly choking a man.

  “But if we put our minds together, sir.” She watched him as if she wanted further convincing of his innocence. “Why wouldn’t you wish to solve her death? Do you trust Chenery with that important task?”

  The derisive way she said the constable’s name almost made him laugh again. He little trusted Chenery’s acumen, but balked at her suggestion. The idea for them to work together was preposterous. She’d probably expect him not to raise her rent, or sell, in the process.

  “I don’t know if two inexperienced people would be of much help.”

  She smiled sadly, which made her look sweet, a little defenseless—so unlike Sophie’s frigid smiles. “We could discuss this at my shop, sir.”

  The widow’s intelligent manner continued to surprise him. Perhaps he needed to pay more attention to her; he’d only seen her through the haze of aggravation.

  “Mrs. Rosedew. Allow me to think on it. It’s been a trying morning. I give you good day.”

  He tugged his hat lower on his forehead and strode toward the stables to fetch Zeus. His mind grew less turbulent than it had been recently. Lucinda would depart for Falmouth early tomorrow, thus leaving a void. She’d begged to come with him this morning to confront Treen, but Branek had talked her out of it, wishing to remain as unobtrusive as possible. He chuckled; he’d failed quite miserably on that account.

  Performing as an agent of inquiry might put his energies to good use. Nevertheless, first, he must return home to say goodbye to his sister, and perform the unpleasant task of dismissing his wife’s maid, Grace.

  * * *

  The slender young woman with honey-blonde hair stood before him in his stateroom. Branek purposely left the door open, and had asked Mrs. Sandrey to wait in the corridor. Ordinarily, his housekeeper would have discharged the girl, but Branek felt he should take this responsibility.

  Her earnest smile discomfited him in ways he refused to define. “Grace, you have been a loyal servant, but as I’m sure you’re aware, your services are no longer needed.” He paced away from her. Grace had been one of the few who had never questioned Sophie’s stringent manner; the girl had always kept her mood happy. “My sister, Lady Nancarrow, wishes to employ you at her estate in Falmouth. You—”

  “Oh, naw. Please don’t send me away, sir.” Her pleading voice unsettled him. “I’m certain I can find other duties here, ess?”

  He stifled a groan. “It’s all been arranged. You will depart tomorrow morning. Please go and pack your belongings.” Branek chanced a look at her, and the despair in her eyes melted through him. He should have given her more notice, but had kept putting it off.

  Grace advanced, her hand soft on his arm. She emitted the faint scent of vanilla. “I can learn other ways to serve you, sir.”

  With a slow gulp, he carefully removed her hand. Her attraction for him was so wrong, and far stronger with Sophie dead. He stepped toward the doorway before he faltered—a man too long without a woman. “Mrs. Sandrey will assist you to pack.”

  “After all I’ve done, sir. How can you send me off? ’Tis not fair.” Grace whined and bowed her white-capped head, then looked at him again from under her eyelashes.

  The coquettish wile irritated him for some reason. A good excuse to dismiss her at once. “As I said, I appreciate your devotion to Mrs. Pentreath.” At least Grace had seemed devoted. He studied her again…after all she had done—but surely not. He was seeing too many shadows in the corners, and menace where none belonged. “Lady Nancarrow will provide well for you in her service. So there is no question of fairness. Good bye, Grace.” He signaled for Mrs. Sandrey to enter the office, and he strode out.

  * * *

  Upstairs in her room after her walk from St. Margaret’s, Jenna unpinned her hat. She rearranged her windblown hair, releasing the apple smell of the pomade she used to hold it in place. She stared at her reflection in the oval mirror; she still looked tired, with shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep.

  Mr. Pentreath said he would “think on it” when it came to their joining forces to investigate, but he’d sounded very reluctant. And it had been a spur of the moment, and too forward a request on her part.

  She’d been disrespectful to draw him out. Dare she believe his statement of innocence? She couldn’t deny that she wanted to know him better.

  The squire had resembled a vengeful knight in his assault on Dr. Treen. However, a man of such temper might be capable of killing an uncherished wife. But if the squire hadn’t cared for his wife, why be angry—after her death—at her closeness with the doctor? Jenna smiled. Pentreath was an interesting puzzle.

  Returning downstairs to the kitchen, she put her fingers to her forehead where a headache had started. A clavis hystericus, her husband had taught her. And he’d been the cause of many of those.

  She should drink some barley water to correct her humors, but she’d have to prepare it. Instead, she pulled down a bottle of Bate’s anodyne balsam, dribbled some on a cloth and dabbed her forehead with the cool oil, inhaling its pungent camphor smell.

  The bell tinkled; she must have forgotten to lock the door. She slipped on her apron and entered the shop, eager yet surprised by a customer on a Sunday.

  Chenery sauntered in, and her heart tumbled into a cesspit.

  “May I get you anything, Constable? Some plasters, syrups, boluses to ease your ills?”

  “I’m here on my investigation.” He sniffed loudly. “What have you been dousing yourself in, Mistress?”

  Her headache worsened. “Only one of my many excellent remedies.”

  “Heard there was quite the scuffle over at St. Margaret’s. You were there, weren’t you?”

  “I was,” she admitted with a sigh. “Attending churc
h like a good citizen.”

  “I spoke to Dr. Treen, an’ he said that Mr. Pentreath made false accusations and an assault on his person.”

  “I believe Dr. Treen affronted the squire, so he might have deserved what he got.” Jenna wondered if the physician would contact a solicitor, but to complain against a man of higher status was usually to no avail.

  “What was their argument? It was about the late Mrs. Pentreath, wasn’t it?”

  “Why are you asking me? Are you averse to asking the squire?” Jenna felt a satisfaction the constable might be intimidated.

  “Because the doctor says you ran after Pentreath like a dog hungry for its bone.” Chenery’s eyes narrowed with malice.

  “Fie! Please don’t slur me anymore.” She flushed, but kept her words even. The man insisted on baiting her. “Mr. Pentreath would hardly confide in one such as me. I only tended to his hands after the scuffle, as you called it.” Or had it only been an excuse to touch the squire? “Now, what else can I help you with?”

  “If you’re hiding anything, Mrs. Rosedew, I suggest you tell me now.” He bobbed his head and his long nose appeared to wag at her.

  “I’m hiding nothing.” She wanted to probe deeper. Was Chenery making an effort to solve this crime? “Why are you so suspicious of Mr. Pentreath?”

  “I was told Mrs. Pentreath’s maid is being sent off to work for the squire’s sister in Falmouth.” He put his fists on his skinny hips. “Pentreath wants her gone. That’s enough to raise my suspicion, isn’t it?”

  “The lady is deceased, so what work did that leave the maid?” She forced a casual shrug of one shoulder. “You need to speak to Mr. Pentreath about these issues, that’s your job.”

  “I intend to.” He gave her a sardonic smile. “What if someone asked you to adulterate the medicines? Or paid you, would you—”

  “Never!” Her horrified retort sliced through the air like a dagger; her cheeks burned. “How cruel of you to even suggest it. I’m an honest an’ trustworthy apothecary!” She narrowed her eyes. “What reason do you have to ask me that?”

  “That’s not your business, is it?”

  “It should be.” Jenna’s lips thinned. She steadied herself by arranging her bottles of Daffy’s Elixir, a fortifying cordial for noxious humors. She should pour some over Chenery. “Have you spoken to my husband’s niece about her illness an’ near death yet?”

  “I’m getting to that interview,” his gaze continued to measure her, “in my own time.” He dropped his flinty gaze to the elixir. “You said you don’t stock poisons. Who’s to say there’s no poison in that remedy?”

  “I never said I don’t stock ready-made potions with such ingredients; I only refuse to store the poison separate. There’s so little in these, no one could’ve used it to adulterate the medicine for Mrs. Pentreath—an’ it never happened in my shop.” Jenna scrutinized the little man, weary of his hostility, tired of having to defend her actions. She needed him on her side. She took a long breath. “Might we sit and have a cup of tea?” A basil tea might brighten his gloomy face. “We could talk like old friends.”

  He snickered. “An’ why should I bother with the woman who lowered herself to marry Lemuel?”

  “The past is long ago. Why let it gnaw on you till it rips out your insides?” She gave him what she hoped was a tempting smile. “Come back to my kitchen an’ I might tell you what Mr. Pentreath said to me.”

  She turned, willing him to follow. At her hearth she laid in more turf and furze and stirred up a fire under her kettle. The earthy smell mixed with the smoke.

  “You act like the flirt with me now, but only had eyes for the brash Lem long ago.” Chenery had stomped along behind her. “So tell me, I haven’t got all day.”

  For the first time Jenna wondered if Chenery had fancied her in their youth. She shivered at that idea, though that might be part of why he was so set on harassing her.

  “About the past, Lemuel said you pushed him into the mid-summer’s eve bonfire when he was twelve, you a bit older.” She stirred her own fire again. “He was the one who should’ve carried the stronger grudge.”

  “You said you’d speak of Pentreath, not this.” Chenery snorted, bony shoulders hunched. “Lem were a bully, blusterin’ about, picking on me and my sister. So I taught him a lesson, didn’t I?”

  “He burned his hand badly. His mam tended to his wound for months so he could take over his father’s duties as an apothecary one day.”

  “Lem never let me forget it, that burn.” Chenery’s eyes glinted with resentment. “He spent much time waiting to get me alone and drub me up with bruises.”

  “An’ the two of you could never let it rest.” Jenna softened her tone. “He’s gone, so let it rest now, and don’t blame me for your childish battles. He could be an affable man, or I would never have married him.” Lemuel’s cajoling manner lasted for several years after they’d wed. “I’m also guiltless of this crime, so don’t waste your time blaming me for that, either. Search for the real murderer. Tea?”

  “Affable, was he? He had you flummoxed.” Chenery adjusted his ill-fitting wig. “I heard he didn’t leave you any money. Ask his fancy woman who works over at the Red Lion about what he might have done with it.” He turned, his boots clomping over the wood floor. The bell tinkled as the door opened and closed.

  Jenna’s heart jerked in her chest. She rushed to the door, furious and confused questions on her tongue. She gripped the hard, cold door latch. A fancy woman? There had been lurid gossip about Lem in the past—which she’d ignored for her own sanity. Was that jackanapes Chenery telling the truth?

  * * *

  Branek scribbled out several letters and signed them. The letters were for the mayor, other prominent citizens and merchants in Truro explaining that Rosedew’s Apothecary had nothing to do with his wife’s death, and business with that establishment, and Mrs. Rosedew, should be resumed as soon as possible. He sprinkled sand over the ink to dry it, picked up his wax stick, heated it over a candle flame, and dripped a small pool over the seam of each folded letter. The scent of hot wax floated up.

  He pressed his seal, an elegant scrolled P, into each one. There, that should help the widow with her monetary difficulties. He believed her innocent now, but wasn’t certain she believed him. Strange how that mattered all of a sudden. He hadn’t intended to actually like this woman.

  He shrugged into his surtout coat and had the stable boy bring him Zeus. The air was cooler, the sky gray. October was upon them. The previous month, Michaelmas celebrations had been curtailed at his estate due to the mourning. The servants were disappointed, yet more money was saved. Lucinda had purchased his coach, despite his protests, and the funds arrived today—twice the capital she had offered. He could use it to pay Will, Mrs. Sandrey and his other staff for another year. He should plan a small party for his people to make up for what they’d been denied.

  He rode Zeus the few miles to Carnon Valley, near the northern section called the Poldice Valley. Nettles and gorse grew scattered along the bottom of the slopes. The stone circle known as Dansen Maen, a place where he’d played as a child, spread out to his left. His mother had said they were dancing stones, or maidens, frozen by an angry God for frolicking on the Sabbath.

  The wind blew briskly here, and he pulled his hat lower.

  Rusty-red stone engine houses perched on the hills and higher up the slopes, their chimney stacks like fingers pointing to the sky. Cinders sprinkled over the rocky, mottled land scraped of foliage—the ground scarred by the endless pursuit of ore. The area had several copper mines, but Wheal Marya was tin.

  Henry Rosewarne, the vice-warden of the Stannaries, fixed the price of tin last year due to the American War—which should have helped Branek as the value wouldn’t sink. Rosewarne really wanted to overthrow other powerful men in the district to become the Member of Parliament for Truro. People always harbored their own selfish agendas.

  Branek rode up the stony trail to the mine’s eng
ine house. He’d paid well a couple of years back to put in a Boulton and Watt engine to pump water from the shafts. The machine rattled and clanged steadily as he drew closer. Several men milled about, obviously waiting for the core to change, when they would take the place of the miners already toiling down the shafts. He’d heard the bell ring when still at a distance.

  “Good day, men. I wish to speak with Nerth Hockin. Is he about?” Branek asked.

  A few men touched their hat brims in respect, but others turned their backs and grumbled. The wind whistled around the chimney stack, sending the stink of smoke and blasting powder through the air.

  “He’s close by, sir.” One miner offered him a weak smile. He tipped his hard leather hat with its fixed candle mounted in clay.

  “I’m here, Mr. Pentreath.” Nerth Hockin—Branek’s underground captain—a solid slab of a man, lumbered toward him. His dirt-creased face was in its habitual grimace. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Branek stretched taller in the saddle. “I understand you gave my estate manager a difficult time when he was carrying out my orders. I can’t allow that kind of belligerence. Times are lean and we must tighten our belts.”

  The miners in their shabby, filthy, blue drill coats and trousers glared at him in his fine cloak, and he felt a trickle of unease. Perhaps he should have spoken to Nerth in private.

  “Ess, sir, we’re as tight as we can be and still feed our families.” Nerth scuffed his scarred boots across the dirt like an irritated bull. “We can’t take much more. We need a new grass captain, but none o’ the men here will take the job without higher wages.”

  “I understand. But I am doing the best I can. When we win this war with our colonies, I hope to see better times.” How much longer could he wish for that? “A fresh vein of tin would do well toward that goal.”