The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “The styptic water is all that is needed. An apothecary can hardly expect to match my trained expertise.” Treen’s arrogant disdain chilled the room. “Did this lay person put in your stitches, Mr. Pentreath? Perhaps that’s why your wound is infected now.”

  “The man was a surgeon. Please apply the poultice, Mrs. Rosedew. I’m certain your expertise is impeccable.” Branek tired of staring over his shoulder, and pressed his cheek down on his soft pillow. “Send me your bill, doctor. You may go now.”

  “Against my better judgment. I warn you I won’t be responsible if your infection worsens.” Treen buckled his case and waddled toward the door. “We may have difficulties between us, Mr. Pentreath, but I would never compromise my reputation by misdiagnosing you.”

  “That is a reprieve to hear, but I’d suggest you not ‘warn’ me of anything. And about reputations, you never determined that my wife was being poisoned until it was too late.” Branek sounded overly bitter, more than he’d intended, but Treen’s supercilious attitude rankled.

  The physician’s fingers tightened on his case, his mouth twisted, but his eyes glistened with misery. “Mrs. Pentreath’s deterioration happened far too quickly for anyone to—”

  “We need not discuss it further. I’ll see you in church, me in my private pew, you in yours, alone.” Branek waved him out the door, anxious to see the last of him. He’d never confess that he might be acting careless with his choice of treatment because he craved Mrs. Rosedew’s ministrations.

  She’d stilled behind him, and he slowly lowered his hand as Treen vanished down the corridor.

  “This may hurt, sir.” She spread the mixture onto his flesh and he cringed at the damp, mealy feel of it against his inflamed wound. “Lie still and let it soak in.”

  He inhaled the sweet aroma of oil, then realized he was exposed to her, at least the back of him was. He tugged up the blanket. “I appreciate your efforts.” In his embarrassment, his words came out stiffly. He felt exposed in more ways than one as her fingers pressed along his skin.

  Without Treen there, the silence hung thick for several moments.

  She returned to her box, her gaze flickering over his. “I’ll give you a dose of the Peruvian bark, just to be safe.”

  “Again, you are more than considerate.” He sighed. “Are you this…obliging to all your patients?”

  “Of course, sir.” She met his gaze and held up a small bottle. Her pretty green eyes seemed to drink him in, belying her response, and he gripped at his sheet. She held the bottle to his lips. “Sip this down, to keep away any chance of fever.”

  He drank the bitter liquid. Now she sounded distant, as if their being alone made her uncomfortable as well.

  “What would I do without you?” He said this in a cajoling manner, though the sentiment was sincere.

  “I’m that pleased I could help.” Her blush deepened and she averted her eyes. Her lips pulled into a slight smile, and he longed to touch them.

  Madness! What could possibly come from such a relationship—other than something tawdry? “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “Naw—no, not at all, sir.” She met his gaze. The tenderness in her eyes appeared to pull back as if behind a veil. She slowly nestled the bottle into her box. “I must tell you, Mr. Pentreath, I have information that will interest you. I happened to see your housekeeper kissing with Nerth Hockin in the garden.”

  “What?” Branek tensed at that surprising news. Nerth and his housekeeper, in collaboration? Was it possible? Branek’s breath hissed out. “I will have a word with Mrs. Sandrey.”

  “An’ my good friend Horace,” she went on, her inflection nervous, “told me that your wife accused Deacon Tregere of embezzling the cemetery funds at St. Margaret’s.”

  “The evidence grows more convoluted.” Branek rubbed his temples, wishing he could sit up, and not lie here helpless. But more suspects were good, loosening the noose around him and Mrs. Rosedew. “I knew something wrong was happening with that committee, but not all the details. I must tell Sir Richard about the deacon.”

  “Please do. The sooner the better. We do want to find who poisoned your lady wife.” She repacked her box, her movements clumsy. “I’ll instruct Sally how to prepare the poultice an’ someone can change it for you later. I must be off.”

  “Mrs. Rosedew?” He went up on his elbow, watched her head for the door and wanted to drag her back. His wound stung—although soothed by the poultice—and he felt hot and tired now. But he needed to know. “That night in your kitchen, after my being shot, my behavior wasn’t inappropriate, was it?”

  She blinked slowly, as if in shame. Then sadness darkened her features. “Not in the least. You were quite the gentleman. I enjoyed caring for you. I hope you heal soon. Good day to you, sir.” She bustled from the chamber.

  Branek drooped back on the bed. She was lying, he saw it in her face and the way she avoided his gaze at that instant. He must have kissed her—and maybe she hadn’t minded. He fisted the sheet. He had to shelve that unsettling idea, his indecent thoughts, and put his mind on his housekeeper cavorting with Nerth. And Sophie threatening the unctuous Deacon.

  * * *

  Jenna plodded down the stairs of the magnificent house. Mr. Pentreath’s rooms were elegant yet understated, even with so much rich wood and expensive fabric.

  In her earlier upset over her shop, she’d have wondered if his debts were so bad, why didn’t he sell some of his home’s finer items. However, he looked so defenseless just now, she’d wanted to hug him, envelop herself in his musky scent, and hold him against her as she had the night in her shop. So imprudent!

  Why had she come? She should have sent Luke with the poultice, but she had to pass on the information.

  She gripped the newel post at the bottom of the banister. Mr. Pentreath seemed to remember their kiss, but wasn’t certain if it was real. His gaze on her when she’d first entered his room resembled a man smitten. The squire, smitten with her? How had they stumbled into this heart-wrenching quagmire? She fought a whimper, nearly sinking down on the bottom stair.

  “Mrs. Rosedew?”

  Jenna glanced up. Will Fenton stood in the doorway of Mr. Pentreath’s office, a few feet down the hall.

  “We’ve known each other for many years haven’t we, Will? Call me Jenna.” She walked toward him. His triangular face looked more weathered than usual, his bushy blond hair barely tamed back in a queue. He was definitely more haggard. “Are you feelin’ poorly? Can I offer—?”

  “I’m fine, busy running the estate.” He sighed with slight impatience. “And yes, you’re right, we have known each other for a long time.” He met her gaze; his eyes went from dull to sharp. “How does Branek—rather, Mr. Pentreath fare?”

  “Truth is, I’m worried. He should have someone here attending him.” Jenna chewed at her lip. “I know he’d prefer Dr. Treen stay away, but another doctor should be called.”

  “I’ll bring in a surgeon to examine him tomorrow. What about you attending him, Jenna?” Will leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “You could increase your sympathy with the landlord. I hate to see you lose your home.”

  “I have a shop to run, which will keep me in business.” Her cheeks burned. She was flushing too much today. She could never stay here, in this house, with Mr. Pentreath under her hands—the smooth skin of his back and lower—every day. Her chest tightened, and she turned to leave. “Mr. Pentreath has already told me he’ll look to other solutions for my rent issue.”

  She thought of the ring—and the matching necklace the doxy admitted to—hidden back in her rooms. She’d make arrangements to sell the jewelry tomorrow.

  “Can you come back to check on him?” Will asked. “I fret about his state of mind, since the death of Mrs. Pentreath, and now someone is out to kill him.”

  She shivered at both those prospects. “We’ll see.” She faced the estate manager again, gripping the heavy box. “You look after him, don’t you?”
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  “I’ve admired him since we were children. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen, now that he has a chance for a happier life. He is more than my employer.” Will stared at the floor and shook his head. “But I have my own family to think of.”

  She appreciated Will’s intense loyalty, and it eased her that someone in this house cared about Mr. Pentreath. “Who do you suspect might have shot him?”

  “Branek and I discussed it, and I’m wary of the miners, after—” Will straightened. “Sorry, that’s private estate business.”

  Jenna had heard about the wage cuts at Wheal Marya. She glanced down the corridor. “Did you know that your Mrs. Sandrey was being courted by Nerth Hockin?”

  “I had my suspicions. I’ve seen the man around here from time to time lately, with Mrs. Sandrey.” He furrowed his brow. “Surely you don’t suspect the housekeeper put the poison in the medicines for such a slim motivation?”

  “It does seem a poor reason to kill a lady over her beau’s resentment toward the woman’s husband.” Jenna shifted her heavy box from one hand to the other. “You be sure an’ look after the master well. I must go talk to Sally about my poultice.”

  Will ran his finger under his chin in contemplation. “I suppose we should leave the investigation to the magistrate and constabulary.”

  “If only the constable weren’t such a self-important fool.” Jenna smiled sadly, feeling as much a fool for her infatuation with the squire, and ambled toward the kitchen.

  * * *

  “I’m only doing my job, sir.” Chenery stared down at Branek, who sat in a high-backed wing chair by the fire in his back parlor as evening closed in. “I waited a few days to allow you to rest before I came to talk to you, now didn’t I?”

  “This interview took more time than seemed practical. The blackguard who shot me could be in France by now.” Branek set the book down near the flickering branch of candles. Will had insisted he continue to rest, but this novel by Holcroft, Alwyn, couldn’t keep his interest. “Have you apprehended the evildoer who poisoned my wife? I’ve prayed from the beginning that Mrs. Pentreath died of the ague, and Treen and his poison expert are incorrect.” He wished that were true—a much easier solution.

  “I doubt that, sir. Can’t argue with the expert. But I’m here to investigate your shooting. Who do you think would want you dead?” Chenery flipped out his little book, as if all of Branek’s enemies were listed there.

  “If you intend to be useful, ask Nerth Hockin where he was the night of my shooting, but don’t enrage the man with false accusations.” Nerth would likely crush the constable like an insect—which might not be a bad occurrence. He still hated to send Chenery after his downtrodden miners, but the information about Nerth and Mrs. Sandrey left him little choice. “Nerth is much larger than my assailant, but he might know something.”

  Branek moved in the chair; his wound felt much better. A surgeon had looked at it again this morning and would return to remove the stitches in the morning.

  “Nerth, hmmm. Would someone want both you and your wife dead? Who would benefit?” Chenery sniffled loudly as he inspected his book pages. He acted almost bored in his questioning, as if only going through the motions.

  “I don’t see how the two incidents could be related. I certainly don’t know of anyone who wanted my wife dead.” Branek stared into the fire, then back at Chenery. “I know you think I’m the major malefactor, but I swear I did not harm Sophie.” And he resisted pushing the suspicion onto his housekeeper; he depended on her steadfast character. “Has Magistrate Odgers told you to question Deacon Tregere at St. Margaret’s? Mrs. Pentreath and the deacon seemed to have had a disagreement over money distribution.”

  “I plan to visit the deacon soon. I will take care of that, you can be certain.” Chenery rubbed the end of his long nose. “Now I must ask, if anyone believed you did harm your wife, then maybe that person was the one who tried to kill you.”

  “That is a possibility. But I reiterate, I did not poison my wife.” Branek gripped the upholstered chair arms. He sounded too defensive, like a man riddled with guilt. His head began to ache and he wished the constable would leave.

  “Who did what remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Chenery sniffed and adjusted his wig. “Where did you go after you were shot?”

  “That isn’t relevant.” Branek almost snapped the words out. He needed to be more circumspect. He took a long breath. “I found help, a surgeon, a man I’ve seen around the city, but I can’t remember his name.” He remembered, but didn’t want the constable to further harass Mrs. Rosedew. That was his personal affair.

  Chenery’s eyes narrowed as if he’d already caught Branek groping the widow’s knee. “What did your assailant look like? Did he say anything? Could it have been a woman and not a man?”

  “He was of middling height and very thin build. That’s all I could see in the dusk. He said nothing. A woman? I don’t know, perhaps.” Branek couldn’t remember irritating any women lately. In fact, he usually got on well with women—except Sophie.

  “Then I’ll be on my way, and see to these matters that might be relevant.” Chenery scribbled notes on the thin sheets of ivory paper in his “aide memoire,” tightened the clasp that held them together, then slipped his tiny pencil in the leather loop. He stuffed the small book into his frock coat pocket. He raised his chin, his glare snaking over Branek. “I will find out the particulars of this, won’t I?”

  “I pray that you do. Good evening, constable. Please see yourself out.” After the little man left the room, Branek slumped back in the chair. Eyes closed, his thoughts scattered around the man’s incompetence, the alleged suspects, and then, incongruously, but much more pleasant, Mrs. Rosedew’s caressing fingers.

  He wished she’d come to visit these last three days, but she’d stayed away. He must have offended her after all. But he supposed that they should remain apart. He was wrong to encourage any closeness between them.

  He loosened his muscles into the form of the chair so it might hold him still. The last time he’d seen her, his feelings had been too open, too raw, as if he was about to throw away what scrap was left of his common sense and tumble into an abyss.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jenna slipped through the church garden with Horace, following the deacon and Chenery at a distance. Two weeks into October, the cooler air ruffled the pungent and woodsy scents of hawthorn, gorse, and herbal dog’s mercury. She and Horace rounded the pond with the statue of St. Margaret at its center. Green algae floated in the dirty water.

  “Our quarry looks to be headed for the gate,” Horace whispered, a finger held to his lips like a wayward schoolboy.

  Jenna slowed. She’d attended church to speak to Deacon Tregere again. But when the service ended, Constable Chenery had cornered the deacon and asked him to step out into the garden.

  Horace and Jenna neared the high stone wall and the wicket gate that led onto the mews. Conversing low, Chenery and the deacon stepped through the gate.

  Jenna sidled closer, but kept out of their line of vision, her cheek brushing the soft moss on the stones. Eavesdropping again, like some miscreant who didn’t know better.

  “…it’s all a misunderstanding, Constable. We may have had our differences, but I respected Mrs. Pentreath as one of our most worthy and generous parishioners. Though she could, if I may confide, be a stubborn woman.”

  Chenery snorted. “And you swear there was no embezzling of the cemetery fund money?”

  “Mrs. Pentreath believed there were some inconsistencies with the tallies, but I assure you that was not the case. Neither I—nor anyone else, would ever deprive the church of such essential funds. The seats inside are too damaged to keep digging up the floor for more burials. We require the outside space.”

  “So you say, do you?” Paper rustled, as if Chenery turned a page in his notebook. “But let’s speak of another issue. When you attended her at their home, did you ever tamper with her medications?”

/>   “Of course not! I am but a humble person in the regard of healing, except for the spiritual.” The deacon seemed to overemphasize his humbleness. “Why, am I under suspicion?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Did you notice anyone else around the medications?” Chenery persisted.

  Jenna tensed, waiting.

  “I don’t wish to implicate an innocent soul.” Tregere sighed deeply. “In the four times I visited, the servants were in and out of the room. Mr. Pentreath, his estate manager, the lady’s personal maid, the housekeeper. I heard a few women from our church also visited.”

  “Mr. Pentreath was there frequently, was he? Did he handle the medications?

  “He would be there, sir. He is, or was, her husband. But I never saw him touch the medicines.”

  Their voices moved closer to the gate. Horace dragged Jenna away, around a corner in the garden, behind a large yew tree. She fumed at the idea that Chenery acted as if he was intent to implicate Mr. Pentreath. Why did the constable ask questions about the squire and few about the others in attendance?

  “You said the deacon had to leave his place in Exeter. How can we find out about that?” she asked as they retreated toward the pond, her skirts rustling around her angry steps.

  Horace’s wide thighs rasped against one another in his woolen breeches. “I’ve already thought ahead of you, m’dear. I’ve written to an associate of mine there. He will gather the information and write me back.”

  “You are a good friend to me.” She squeezed his hand briefly, but kept her gaze sharp. “Despite never telling me about the Drake woman, an’ my husband’s perfidy.”

  “I apologize profusely for my error.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m a bounder of the worst sort. I thought I was protecting you.”

  Deacon Tregere hurried by them; his robes flapped about his long legs like a scarf on a stork. Chenery must have retreated down the mews.