The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  She stood and passed him a scone from the tray. Then she poured more tea into his cup to dilute the brandy. But he added more of the alcohol, anyway. His face looked weary, and sad. She thought she might have to leave, for the sake of his respite—but only if he asked.

  Once more seated, she finished her scone and tea. The brandy gave her a languid feeling, as if she wasn’t so out of place anymore.

  “Was your marriage unhappy?” Pentreath asked, and she started.

  “Sir?” She was unsure how to reply. “It was, honestly, unhappier than I ever knew.” She had the urge to confide in him, to draw him closer. “At first, we were very much in love, I thought. We worked hard in the shop, an’ had our boy, Robby, who’s a fine man now. Much later, Lem, my husband, he became grumpy, an’ I could do nothing right. Then I found the other day that, well, he wasn’t true to me.” Sadness weighed on her, and she shook it off. It was better to grip her ire to keep sturdy. She could wail and swear against a dead man, but what would it change?

  Pentreath ran his fingers through his black hair and stared off, away from her. Rain splattered on the high casement windows.

  She waited for him to confide his own marital woes. In the silence, she couldn’t help herself. “What about you, sir? If you pardon my asking. You said you an’ your wife didn’t suit? Were you ever content?”

  “No, we weren’t, sadly enough. But arranged marriages are often incompatible.” He was obviously reluctant to revisit his painful past. “However, I would never have injured her.” The emotion in his words said so much.

  “I believe you.” Jenna leaned forward. Her hand slipped over the desk and she touched his sleeve. “But do you have any suspicions of who might have? Anyone wanting revenge, so to speak, to do with your debts, maybe?”

  He set down his almost empty cup, his brow furrowed. He laid his hand over hers, then pulled it away. “That’s another possibility, which I’ve recently wondered about. I will have the magistrate look into it.” Pentreath stood abruptly, not meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry, but I must attend to something I just remembered. Thank you for coming. It has cleared up a few issues. I’ll have the maid see you out.”

  Their cordial, almost intimate air vanished. Jenna curled her fingers in her lap. She should never have presumed to touch him. She stood. “I can see myself out, sir. If you can think of any more suspects an’ would like to discuss it further, I’m available.”

  “I will keep that in mind.” Pentreath nodded, his gaze troubled, and she wished she was on his level and could offer him support. But the fact she was only a shop woman, and his tenant, prickled through her.

  When she stepped outside from the kitchen, the rain had stopped, but dark clouds threw deep shadows over the courtyard. Shivering in the dampness, she admitted she was far too attracted to Mr. Pentreath, and that weakened her. The moment he’d touched her hand, she’d felt that spark inside her husband used to ignite. She sighed. It was a waste of time to be enticed by your betters. They’d only use, and then quickly discard, a woman like her.

  She jerked her cloak hood over her head and hurried toward the stable. Then she remembered she’d forgotten to tell him about Chenery’s accusation about someone paying her to put arsenic in the infusions.

  Voices to her right made her pause. Over the stone wall, through the low spreading yew and vines, two people conversed in soft tones. Jenna stepped to the wall, the height of her chin, and peered at them through the thick foliage.

  A big burly man loomed over Mrs. Sandrey. Nerth Hockin, a mining captain Jenna knew from hereabouts, put his huge hands on the housekeeper’s shoulders. He was laughing, and then he bent down and kissed her.

  * * *

  Branek thrust the pitchfork under the hay and tossed straw into the stalls in his stable. Today was his groom’s day off, and the man was overworked since Branek had to let the younger groom go for economy. Branek figured he could take care of this task—even when his knees complained—and he had helped on many occasions. Later, he’d fish in the pond and perhaps catch supper. He used to enjoy fishing with his grandfather, and there was nothing wrong with pitching in—he chuckled at that irony—when it was needed around the estate.

  When done, he wiped his hands and picked up the curry brush. He ran the brush over Zeus’s back at the opening to the horse’s stall. The smell of hay and horse flesh pleased him; the movement of grooming calmed his mind, and he increased his brushing. Zeus shifted under his hand and gently swished his tail.

  His relief that Mr. Windle wanted to lease land for his horses was marred by the man’s excuse that he couldn’t pay until the spring. Windle was a spendthrift, and everyone knew it. He’d purchase another foal before paying his church tithes.

  Branek glided the brush over Zeus’s haunch, and the horse whickered in contentment. Last evening, Mrs. Rosedew had asked if he was content in his marriage. Well, why shouldn’t she? He’d asked about hers. He’d appreciated their interlude, but grew uncomfortable after feeling her hand on his arm. He liked that, too—but shouldn’t—though he’d touched her as well as if he couldn’t help himself.

  It had been prudent to end the discussion, without any viable suspects. Yet her compassion for him, if it wasn’t feigned, was an allure in itself.

  His constant rebuff from Sophie made him too distrustful, and he must shake off that cynicism. Mrs. Rosedew was a woman of deep passions, a rich brew to be relished. Unbidden heat threaded through him. He reheard her laugh, and saw the flush in her cheeks from the brandy.

  “Mr. Pentreath?” A slight man walked into the stable, a fantail hat perched like a bird on his wig. Chenery swaggered closer. “If I may have a word?”

  Branek fisted the curry brush. “Have you made an arrest, constable? That’s the only word I’d like to have with you.” He’d told Odgers about the pickax incident, the miners’ hostility after wage cuts, but refused to tell Chenery. Branek did not want his employees harassed by this buffoon.

  “I’m working on that arrest, I am.” The little man scrutinized him from under his bushy eyebrows. “You had a visitor last night, didn’t you, sir?”

  “Why is that your business?” Was the man watching his house? Damn him! “If you’d spend less time worrying over me, you might actually apprehend the perpetrator in my wife’s murder.” He dropped the brush on a bench with a thud and stepped away from his now restless horse. Zeus huffed in the constable’s direction.

  “The problem is, sir, that I can’t find anyone who had enough of a reason to want your wife dead.” The man tipped up his pointy chin, the implication obvious. “And now I find you’re meeting with the woman who prepared those lethal medications. It does make me wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re assuming much and bordering on insulting me.” Branek swiped his hands on a rag. “How do you know Mrs. Rosedew wasn’t visiting with one of the servants?”

  “I have more questions about it, sir.” Chenery smirked. “But firstly, let’s go back a bit. The personal maid, Grace. When I spoke to her the one and only time, she seemed to have a fancy for you. Then you send her off.”

  “Did she tell you that? Where’s the relevance?” He hid his dismay. “Grace was a decent girl, and I behaved decently around her.” Branek managed to soften his tone, though he felt a knot of unease. Had Grace had anything to do with Sophie’s illness? He still found the idea incredible—but what did he know of this girl? “She needed a position, and obtained one with my sister, Lady Nancarrow.”

  Chenery snorted, his eyes gleaming. “So then it’s you an’ the widow who are the two who are overly friendly?”

  Branek stuffed down his fury and guilt, because he did feel friendly toward Mrs. Rosedew—too friendly, indeed. He strode up to the constable, almost bumping the man’s nose with his chest. “Speak plainly, Mr. Chenery. What exactly are you implying?”

  Chenery backed up a step; his sallow cheeks flushed a pinkish-yellow. “It’s my job to inquire.” He cleared his throat. “Are you having a dally
with the widow, and because of it, wanted your wife—”

  “You insolent rogue!” Branek grabbed the man’s bony shoulder. “Don’t you ever make unfounded accusations about my personal behavior. I will speak to Magistrate Odgers about your slander.”

  Chenery pulled Branek’s fingers away. He took two more steps back and rubbed his shoulder. “As I said, it’s my job, my sworn duty, to ask.”

  “Don’t think I don’t realize you have a grudge against me because I opposed your appointment to this position.” Branek reeled back his temper. “From your current actions, I see I was in the right.”

  “Nevertheless, I will find the truth of it, sir.” The little man whirled about and hurried out, his hat and wig bobbing like a frightened chicken.

  “See that you do!” Branek threw the rag on the ground, the force rustling a few pieces of straw. Zeus poked him in the back with his nose and snorted.

  “My feelings exactly, Zeus. More problems to overcome. People are spying on my every move. And I seem to be having affairs with everyone.” He groaned and stroked the horse’s velvety muzzle.

  Sophie had criticized his behavior enough. Don’t show your affection; lust is the devil’s tool; never take pleasure in the act of creating children…and where were his children? His gut tightened.

  He and Sophie had argued incessantly, until these last few years when he’d tried to be simply polite and leave her to her own devices.

  He snatched up the rag and slapped it over the stall’s edge. His stallion stomped his right foreleg in objection.

  “Where do we go from here, Zeus?”

  Unfortunately, he could never have a warm, caring friendship with Mrs. Rosedew. She wasn’t his social equal. He needed to find a good woman who was—when he decided to take that step.

  Sir Richard Odgers’ daughter Hester, a pretty and pleasant young woman, seemed the most natural choice from the women of his acquaintance, if she’d have him. She’d be agreeable as a helpmeet, probably kind to the servants, and a sweet mother to their children.

  Branek put Zeus in his stall and latched the gate. He walked to the stable entrance to see Chenery riding off in the distance. He thumped the weathered door. He’d once thought his position in society protected him, but now he wasn’t so certain. That little worm of a constable might destroy his reputation, or, at the very worst, send him to gaol.

  Chapter Eleven

  At the shop’s front worktable, Jenna prepared a medicinal order—and smiled in relief. She stirred a mixture of Castile soap, succotorine aloes, and rhubarb. Luke added the syrup, and they rolled the curative for jaundice into a long, skinny tube.

  They left it to dry for an hour, before coming back to the hardened twig-shaped concoction. “Now set it in the pill cutter, lad, and be more gentle this time.”

  “I will, I promise, Mistress.” He grinned up at her. “We’ve had more work today.”

  “A few more customers, more requests, that’s a Godsend.” Still, her trade wasn’t as good as before Mrs. Pentreath’s death. Her till remained lower than it should be. If the constable managed to get beyond his petty prejudices and solve this murder, her life would be easier.

  Yet Mr. Pentreath must have made good on his promise that he’d encourage people to resume business with her.

  She wiped her hands on her apron, then glanced at the boy as he pulled the pill cutter’s brass lever. “We’ve had a difficult time lately. You’re certain you never gave those tinctures for Mrs. Pentreath to anyone else at Polefant Place? Only the housekeeper?”

  “Best as I can remember, only Mrs. Sandrey. Maybe the estate manager once, when she was elsewhere. The constable made much of what I did or didn’t do.” Luke hesitated in his cutting, brow knitted. “There’s much gossip that it must have been the squire who…. Well, whispers, anyway. Mrs. Pentreath wasn’t—truth be told, she wasn’t much liked, and Mr. Pentreath was miserable.”

  “Be still, lad. Don’t ever repeat vicious gossip. Mr. Pentreath is a fine man. If his lady wife wasn’t much liked, then someone else must have ended her life.” Jenna swallowed a sigh. If she could discover who, she could wipe away the shadow that lingered over her and Mr. Pentreath. She felt protective of him, a new emotion she needed to fit her mind around.

  How “accommodating,” as Mr. Pentreath had called her, was Mrs. Sandrey? The mild woman was surprisingly involved with that rough rascal, Nerth. Was she also part of the poisoning? To free herself from an overbearing mistress, or something else?

  Jenna needed to tell the squire about what she’d seen in the garden.

  Or did another person on Mr. Pentreath’s staff have a hand in it, as she’d pondered before? She’d like to know more about the lady’s maid who left for Falmouth. The squire had looked uncomfortable when he’d mentioned her.

  “Mr. Pentreath is a good friend of my father’s. I like him.” Luke continued cutting, his blond head bent low. “So I don’t believe the gossip.”

  That friendship was in the squire’s favor, she hoped. Just as the fact that Luke, her witness, being Magistrate Odger’s son might be saving her from gaol in these events. She fought a shiver.

  Jenna rearranged dried herbs in a basket and mused on the last meeting, two days ago, with Mr. Pentreath. He’d promised to find another way to raise money rather than meddle with this building. She prayed it would be so. Their easy conversation had been much to her liking, but she must stow away her silly infatuation. She sighed aloud this time.

  The bell tinkled and Horace barged in as if doors were only a flimsy obstacle, his grin huge. “Afternoon, m’dear. Looks like a storm is coming. Dark clouds are rolling in over the water.” He stood with his belly that bulged out his striped waistcoat, his frockcoat apparently too tight to button. “I was walking by and dropped in, as you can see. Do you need any spices? Or anything else I might provide?”

  “I’ll require the spices soon, as business grows better again.” She eyed Horace while a new, disagreeable suspicion entered her head. “Come back into the kitchen. I want to speak with you.”

  She strode down the short corridor and into the kitchen. A chicken squawked from its cage. Dear old Farmer Kernick had sent over the bird and several eggs, to help her in her time of need. She appreciated the gesture as long as he didn’t expect her to marry him and become his hostage of a housekeeper.

  “What do you require of me, m’dear?” Horace lumbered a few steps behind her.

  “In a moment. Would you care for tea?” Jenna stirred the fire, organizing her thoughts.

  “Naw, don’t go to any trouble, I can’t stop long. I only looked in to see how you were faring.” Horace stared about the room. “I also have a bit of gossip you might be interested in.”

  “Gossip, is it? Seems everyone has a patch of that today.” She laid down the fire poker with a clink. “That’s what I’d like to discuss with you. It’s a scandal whose exact details never reached me until the other day.” She breathed slowly. “It’s about a fancy woman at the Red Lion.” She studied Horace, but his jovial expression didn’t waver. She chewed at her lower lip. “A woman of loose morals an’ my husband. Did you know about this?”

  He spread out his hands, palms upward. “I’m not certain what you mean. Know precisely what, m’dear?”

  “Don’t play coy with me. We’ve known each other too long for that.” She crossed her arms to bind her irritation close. “Did you know about a woman an’ Lem over at the Red Lion Inn?”

  Horace dipped his head for a moment, and his shoulders sagged. She had her answer.

  “How could you have kept such a thing from me?” She stepped closer, bristling with the urge to shove him. “People hinted, but this was definite—an’ I had to hear it from Chenery.”

  “I am deeply sorry, Jenna.” He gripped his jacket edges as if trying to stretch the material over his paunch, his gaze sad. “I didn’t know how to tell you. It would have hurt you too much.”

  “So I find out now, when I can’t confront my husband?�
�� She picked up the poker again and jabbed at the turf and furze. The earthy smoke stung her eyes. “Lem wasted money on a doxy, an’ I have to suffer for it.” The money now meant more to her than the fact Lem had cheated. He was beyond her reach for an explanation of why she hadn’t pleased him. “You have to help me find a way to get some of the money back. Come to the Red Lion with me.”

  His brows shot up to the brim of his round hat. “Now, Jenna, that matter may be far too late. But I’m about to go out of town. Down to Plymouth for a spice shipment.” He sounded relieved to have that excuse.

  She turned, still holding the poker, aimed near his face.

  He raised his hands high, eyes round as melons. “When I return, we’ll think of something.”

  “You’d best not forget.” She suppressed an angry quiver and lowered her weapon onto the stone hearth. “You owe me that.”

  Horace gave her an indulgent smile and clasped her elbows. “Lemuel was a scoundrel to ever hurt so fine a woman as you. I wanted to protect you.”

  “Enough of your palaver. I want no protection that keeps me ignorant.” Jenna pulled away. She needed to manage her own life, and grasp on to what was important, her livelihood. After a tight breath, she asked, “You said you had other gossip. What is it?”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve been inquiring at church and among the congregation.” Horace tugged out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “It seems Mrs. Pentreath accused the deacon of embezzling the cemetery fund money, and she threatened to inquire about him at his last position in Exeter. It’s rumored he had left that place in a furtive fashion.”

  “Fie. An’ he visited Mrs. Pentreath during her illness.” Jenna pressed her fingers to her mouth. Was Mrs. Pentreath poisoned from the beginning, or had the woman suffered from the ague, and someone found the perfect opportunity to hurry her demise? Deacon Tregere? Jenna mulled over the uncomfortable aspect of blaming a man of the cloth. But as she’d said to Mr. Pentreath, sometimes people do what you least expect.