The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Nothing for you to be concerned about.” She stirred her fork around in the broth. “I baked the bread just this morn.”

  He’d expected a direct answer, as she seemed that sort of woman. No hiding behind self-satisfied smiles or chilly words.

  Branek sliced a hunk of bread and slathered the butter over it. The bread was soft, the crust just right, and the butter sweet and delicious. “You are a superb cook, Mrs. Rosedew. Your husband was a lucky man.”

  She blinked, a strange umbrage clouding her eyes. “I used to think so.” She dropped the fork with a clink on the plate. “Perhaps, as I mentioned before, we should talk about suspects.”

  “Back to unpleasantness.” He washed the food down with the brandy-laced tea. He’d wanted to relax, but now glanced at her warily. He sought her good opinion though wasn’t sure why. “I hope you don’t think of me as one.”

  She scrutinized him once more. “Who had the most to gain by your wife’s death?” Her tone held no accusation, only inquisitiveness.

  “I suppose—some might say that I did. However, I’m not the type of person who would kill, especially my own wife.” He drank from the tea to drown his mounting despair. Who would have wanted to eliminate Sophie?

  “Were you gentle with her when she was a naive young bride?”

  He stared at her, shocked again by her audacious words, but at least her melancholy seemed to have lifted. “You are unpredictable, my good woman.” Had he been gentle enough in his youthful exuberance? “I tried my best, I always thought, but we were not really suited.” He coughed. “Despite that, you have my word as a gentleman that I did not kill her.”

  She appeared to relax, and an interested smile wreathed her face. “Well then, I suppose I should believe you, too.” She took a bite of food and chewed slowly. “Do you suspect the doctor? He attended her closely, didn’t he?”

  “Treen?” That would be an easy solution. “Unfortunately, I don’t think Dr. Treen would have hurt my wife. They…were extremely dear friends.” The smug physician obviously cared for Sophie. Even after the man’s denials, Branek still suspected there might have been an illicit connection between them.

  “Sometimes people do the opposite of what you’d expect.” She tore off a hunk of bread and sopped it in the broth. Her gaze hardened. “They have secrets that those close to them would be devastated to find out were true.”

  Branek sensed she wasn’t speaking of Treen, though her words sent his suspicions back in the doctor’s direction. He was so smug in his indictment toward Branek. Had Treen hurried Sophie along in her death—thinking it a mercy—but was now intent on throwing the suspicion on Branek? He massaged his temple. That sounded ludicrous.

  Branek remembered a detail. “It was brought up at the inquest that Dr. Treen had a nephew who wanted to take over this shop.” Would that have spurred Treen to ruin the widow’s reputation? No, not at Sophie’s dire expense. “Was there any problem with him?”

  “That poppycock?” She nearly laughed. “I was polite when I chased him away. He’s got a thriving apothecary business up country in Bristol, or so I’ve been told.” She started to pick apart the bread. “Is there anyone in your house who might have wanted your wife gone?”

  Probably everyone, but he couldn’t say that. His housekeeper was the first who came to mind; however, she’d always seemed a woman of simple, shallow ideas. “I can’t think of anyone in my household who would behave that cruelly.”

  He glanced back at the widow. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he didn’t want her to cry. Branek fumbled for his handkerchief. “You are obviously upset about something else.”

  “I don’t know if I can speak of it yet.”

  Filled with the strange urge to touch her, he reached out his hand.

  The bell tinkled out front. “Jenna, oh, Jenna! Are you here?”

  She stood and wiped her fingers on her apron. “Excuse me, Mr. Pentreath.”

  She hustled down the hallway toward the shop. Another woman’s voice joined hers in anxious conversation. “Stephen’s got the cough again. Can you give me the same as last time?”

  Branek stared into the fire, the well-used hearth. He should leave, but remained languid, rooted to the chair. He shouldn’t be involving himself in this woman’s troubles, yet they were entwined together in a murk of murder. Flinching at that word, he took another bite of food to ground his thoughts. He liked her; more than he should, he had to admit. The sentiment unnerved him.

  “Never you fret, Prudie. I’ll prepare the syrup for you.” Mrs. Rosedew rushed back into the kitchen. “Let me see. Lemon juice, honey, sugar candy.” She nodded to him, removed something from a jar and dropped it in a small pewter bowl. She held the bowl over the fire, her hand protected by a cloth. “I need to melt the candy for my concoction.” Her face turned serious in concentration. She swirled the sweet around for a few minutes. “It looks ready.”

  She poured in juice and stirred in honey, adding to the sweet smell.

  She walked back out. “I’ll put it in a bottle for you, Prudie.”

  “Jenna, I’m that beholdin’ to you. Sad to say…my Andrew don’t get paid until next week. I hate to ask you—”

  “Don’t worry about it, dear. I will expect your money next week. Give Stephen a tablespoon full when his coughing gets bad.”

  The front door opened and closed. Mrs. Rosedew returned to the kitchen.

  “Do most of your clientele put off paying you like that?” Branek couldn’t help but ask.

  “Some. When people are sick, they need to be taken care of. I can’t turn them away.” She flushed, as if discomfited by her confession.

  He leaned back in the chair. “It isn’t sound business practice. Don’t you realize that?” The calculated words nudged his confused feelings back below the surface.

  “I believe a business needs to have a heart, too.”

  “Having a heart might put some people….” He was about to say “into the street,” then thought better of it. Wasn’t he intending to do that to her? He rubbed a hand along the rough table, debating whether it was best to leave now. But the fullness of his stomach and the warmth of the hearth deterred him. He waited for her to complain about his actions; then he’d go, thus removing himself from this peculiar situation.

  “I know you want to say ‘out of business.’ But I wouldn’t be in this position if my husband—” She caught her lower lip in her teeth. The resentment returned to her eyes before she tilted up her chin. “Never mind that. I can’t change what’s already happened.”

  Branek stood, about to ask what she meant, but the question froze on his tongue. “I suppose I’d better go. Thank you for the delicious supper.” It all sounded so inadequate, and he didn’t understand his urge to stay, yet at the same time, leave. He put on his hat. He desired to speak to her again, and should draw her to a place where he’d have the upper hand. “If you want to discuss in more detail about suspects, come to my house, Saturday, around two in the afternoon.” He strode out of the shop, suddenly wishing he’d said nothing at all.

  Chapter Ten

  Jenna drove her cart into the courtyard of Polefant Place. A cool breeze ruffled her cloak as she alighted under a gloomy sky. Rain started to drip on her hat. Uther, Pentreath’s groom—a grizzled man in his forties—smiled kindly, exchanged a few words with her, and led her horse away to the stables.

  She knocked on the kitchen door. Even though Mr. Pentreath had invited her here, she didn’t feel right entering at the front. She’d almost talked herself out of coming, ashamed of her fluster over the proof of Lem’s deceit when the squire had been in the shop.

  Deeper inside, she’d suffered more than a mere fluster that evening. She now realized why Lemuel had treated her badly those last years. He was stewing in his own guilt—or at least he should have been—for bedding his whore.

  Jenna slapped at her cloak skirt as the anger rose up again. But anger was better than anguish. It was her own fault for ignoring
the gossip.

  The door opened and the kitchen maid let her into the welcome warmth.

  “Here to visit again. Aren’t we blessed.” Sally lumbered over and hugged her, smelling like onions and sweat. “You’re all dressed up like going to church.”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Pentreath.” Jenna saw her friend’s eyes widen in surprise. “That is, if he still wishes to talk with me.” Her own doubts niggled. The man might have invited her out of his urge to bolt from her presence, and had since forgotten about it. Despite her upset, she’d enjoyed serving him a meal and having him in her kitchen. He seemed a man badly in need of care. She sighed. It was folly to think that way about her quality landlord. And now she was leery of men and their needs. “He is here, isn’t he? I don’t want to interrupt him if he’s busy.”

  “Ess. I’ll send the girl to tell him you’ve arrived.” Sally stared over her shoulder until the maid hurried out. “Business, I suppose, about your shop?”

  “About my shop, of course.” Jenna removed her cloak and hung it on a peg by the kitchen door. She had worn her best purple Brunswick dress and felt hat. In all this turmoil, she must have lost a little flesh because the gown felt loser around her arms and waist.

  “You look right pretty, m’dear,” Sally said, as if reading her thoughts. “I hope it goes well for you. But you did take to heart our last talk, about the master being a decent man?”

  “Not at fir—” Something scampered over her foot and Jenna gasped.

  “Oh, them filthy rats.” Sally snatched up a broom and chased the creature into whatever hole it had crawled out of. “I thought we’d killed the lot. They should stay over in the barn where they belong.”

  “Rats have no sense of propriety, do they?” Jenna laughed nervously.

  The kitchen girl reappeared. “He says to come in, Mistress.”

  “I’ll send in some tea an’ scones.” Sally pressed Jenna’s shoulder. “Be gentle with him. Lord knows he’s not known enough o’ that.”

  Jenna laughed again, to hide her embarrassment at where her thoughts had strayed concerning the squire.

  She followed the girl down a long hallway, then through another door. The room she entered had high, raised-panel walls of light green, the ceiling plastered with ornamental scrolls, leaves, and other decoration. This elegant chamber smelled of wood and linseed oil.

  Against one wall were three stately library bookcases with large cupboards beneath. Across from them was a pretty sideboard set with crystal glassware.

  Mr. Pentreath rose from behind a large desk to her right. “Mrs. Rosedew, welcome. Please, have a seat.” His tone was neutral, his probing gaze more wary than eager. Still, his eyes brightened on her for an instant before he retreated into seriousness.

  Now that she trusted in his innocence, her sympathy for him grew strong. The pain in his expression when he said he didn’t kill his wife was heart-wrenching.

  “Thank you, sir.” She sat in the leather chair before the desk, her spine stiff as a broom handle. She felt discomfited here: a wooden trencher in a china chest. “I wasn’t certain if you would still wish to have this discussion with me.”

  His drumming fingers showed agitation, but his gaze shone with interest. “I don’t know what we can come up with. But it certainly can’t hurt to try.” He resumed his seat.

  Jenna chastised herself for thinking again what a handsome man he was. His mahogany-colored eyes revealed someone with deep layers of intelligence. Too bad he’d been wasted on a cold scold of a wife. She forced her thoughts to the task at hand. “Who would have handled the infusions, once they arrived here? Luke brought them an’ said he gave them to Mrs. Sandrey.”

  “You are a woman who likes to get down to business.” He smiled slightly, his tone admiring.

  “Yes, sir. I don’t hold with hedging about. A person should be upfront.” Her response came out sharp as she pictured her husband’s face. She bit down on her lip.

  Pentreath studied her, his dark gaze concerned. “That reminds me, and excuse my prying, but—I want to ask about your sorrow, which was so evident when I was at your shop.”

  She warmed under his commiseration. He acted so differently toward her, far less guarded. “It’s very personal an’ had to do…with my husband. An indiscretion.” That was putting it mildly. “I’m trying to come to terms with it.” Hurt and outrage again warred about inside her. She took a slow breath. “My husband has been dead two years. He could be a difficult man, but he’s gone. God rest his soul.” She said that to be polite, when she really wished to damn his soul.

  Pentreath’s eyes flashed and he sat up straighter. “You’re a pragmatic woman to ignore a damaged past. I will continue to encourage people to resume trade with you.”

  His words shored her up, and she started to relax.

  The kitchen maid brought in a tea tray and a plate of fragrant scones. Pentreath motioned for the girl to proceed. She picked up the fine blue and white porcelain pot, poured two cups, and left after his permission.

  “Ah, tea, our country’s dull but savored beverage.” He stared down into the liquid. “Do you know that a Portuguese princess, wife of Charles II, made tea drinking popular in England?” He hardly sounded enthusiastic.

  Jenna smiled. “I did not, sir.” She heated her hands on the delicate porcelain cup and took a sip. “Maybe a dram of brandy would make it more flavorsome for you.”

  Now he smiled, which made him even more handsome. “I believe you’re right.” He rose and went to his beautifully carved sideboard. Returning, he poured a little golden liquid from a crystal decanter into his cup. “Would you care for any?”

  She hesitated, as she rarely imbibed. But this meeting was turning more social than business, and she relished the change. “Just a small drop, if you please.”

  He dribbled a few drops into her cup and set the decanter on his desk. He had strong, lean hands.

  “Mrs. Rosedew, since you are so honest with me, I’d like to be the same with you. I wouldn’t raise your rent at all, or try to sell, but I have…” He took a large swallow of his tea, “…unfortunate debts. I’m trying to rework my business ventures.”

  So it wasn’t out of greed. Horace had warned her about the squire’s debts. She sipped the brandy-laced tea, the pungent liquid warming her stomach. Her sympathy for him increased, yet the fact he lived here, among this opulence, tempered it. “I think I understand, sir. But that doesn’t make my plight any easier.” The pale face of Delen Drake and her garnet ring rose up. Jenna shifted in the chair.

  “Indeed, it does not. And I’m truly sorry, as I’d never want to displace you.” He poured more brandy into his cup and tapped a finger on his desk. “I will think in earnest about an alternative.”

  “I would be grateful for that.” Jenna drank again; the brandy and tea slid down, soothing her. Or she’d taken too much solace from his statement. “I suppose we must talk of suspects again.”

  Pentreath leaned back, his elbows on the chair arms, cup in his hands. “Yes, as far as I’m aware, Mrs. Sandrey did receive the infusions from your assistant, the Magistrate’s son.”

  Jenna picked up a scone and nibbled; the pastry tasted delicious with the sweetness of currants. “Mrs. Sandrey, she’s trustworthy, isn’t she? She’s always seemed that way to me, an’ I’ve never heard anything less about her.”

  “My wife managed the servants, but Mrs. Sandrey worked here for my parents before my marriage.” He frowned briefly. “She’s been a dependable woman of good character.”

  “Did your housekeeper an’ your wife get on well?” Jenna averted her gaze and poured more tea. When she looked up, he was watching her carefully.

  “Well enough, I suppose.” He lifted the decanter, and when she didn’t object, poured more brandy into her tea. “Mrs. Sandrey is a very—accommodating person. Not one to cause any bother.”

  “Not like me, you might say.” Jenna laughed. She sipped the stronger liquid and had to suppress a cough.

 
; “You might say, yes indeed.” He laughed softly. “You are a woman who doesn’t hide behind silly social conventions.”

  She liked the sound of his laughter. “An’ Luke is a good, respectable lad. Could anyone else have touched the infusions? Who administered them to your lady wife?”

  “Mrs. Sandrey, or Sophie’s personal maid. Unless Dr. Treen was here, then he took care of it.” Pentreath frowned again and turned his cup between his hands.

  He didn’t say if he ever attended his wife in her illness.

  “Dr. Treen, now there’s an arrogant man.” She saw by the squire’s wry smile that he agreed with her. She added the next question carefully, thinking of the church incident. “You didn’t think that he was…too close to your wife?”

  Pentreath glanced away. “They seemed to be good friends, but I have no proof that it went beyond the bounds of propriety.”

  She heard the doubts in his tone. “Your lady wife’s personal maid, I heard she went to Falmouth. What was her reputation?”

  “Grace was a—she seemed a diligent young woman, who had got along with my wife well, so I thought.” He said the last as though mulling over a strange idea. His mention of the maid sounded uncomfortable.

  “Did Mrs. Pentreath ever complain about any of the servants?” Jenna delved more into the personal side, unsure if he would become annoyed with her.

  “It was more a matter of my staff feeling put upon.” Pentreath sat back with a sigh. “My wife was an exacting woman. She wasn’t easy to please.”

  A pained look came into his eyes that made her breath still. Since the Red Lion incident, Jenna understood even more about a marriage that didn’t measure up.

  “Why don’t you eat a scone, sir? Brandy on an empty stomach isn’t good.” She almost stood to pat his shoulder. “Oh, forgive my impertinence.”

  He arched an eyebrow, surprise briefly in his expression. “No, it’s quite all right. I should eat something. Thank you for your…concern.”