He thought of the letter once more. Perhaps the venerable Dr. Treen, Sophie’s confidant in church, knew the identity of “Moses.” Distasteful as it was, Branek would have to visit Treen soon.
He passed the Town Hall, and saw Mr. Windle with his wife and daughter. Windle was as thin as his wife was round. May stood like a limp stalk beside them.
“Oh, Mr. Pentreath! How wonderful that you’re here.” Mrs. Windle squealed, waving her hand. “We’ve just come from a card party. And enjoyed the punch, I must say.”
Branek cringed, in no mood to chatter with this woman, but he needed to confer with Mr. Windle. Reluctantly, he strode up to them. “Good evening, ladies, Windle.” He tipped his hat to each, anxious to redirect his sour thoughts.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Pentreath. Chilly evening, isn’t it?” Windle nodded, but averted his gaze like a guilty man at the assizes.
The smell of raw meat permeated from the Market House situated beneath the Council Chambers and Town Hall. The open area had hooks where the butchers displayed their wares. May could be one of the dangling meats as Mrs. Windle nudged her forward for inspection. “Say your proper greetings, dear.”
May, a nervous smile on her angular visage, lowered her eyes. “Good evening, sir.”
“Miss Windle.” He bowed to her.
“Our May was very clever at cards tonight.” Mrs. Windle grinned, spreading her wide face further. “And Mayor Williams complimented her on her appearance.”
The girl took a step back; her panniers stuck her dress out at odd angles from her reed-thin frame. Her mother should better advise her, as the unfortunate creature resembled a shovel.
It was a shame she’d found no one to marry her and treat her kindly. Even though his chance for tenderness had been removed from his life, he would not be that man.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Though Branek doubted the new mayor had meant anything by it. John Williams had taken over the position from Cardew earlier this month. Would Williams be interested in the St. Nicholas property after Cardew had turned it down? Branek would strongly suggest he keep the apothecary shop intact if possible.
“Mr. Windle, might I have a private word?” Branek asked. The man had money to waste on cards, but couldn’t make any payments until spring on the mortgage of the land parcel.
Windle sputtered and rocked on his feet.
“Oh, my, don’t let us talk business.” Mrs. Windle captured Branek’s arm. “Come and sup with us at the Red Lion. You need some pleasure in your life, Mr. Pentreath. I can tell you are a man full of worries.”
“You are mistaken, Madam.” Branek tried to smooth out his expression. “I am in the best of humor.” His relief that the deacon might be Sophie’s murderer had faded at seeing…. He forced another smile over the ache in his breast. “Thank you for your invitation, but I mustn’t tarry in the city too long.”
“I’ve heard you’ve tarried longer than you should have at a certain establishment.” She squinted up at him, her voice low. “You don’t wish to add any more fuel to the rumors. I know you must be lonely after losing your wife. But come and spend time with respectable women.”
“Take care you don’t overstep yourself, Madam. Listening to gossip is a fishwife’s entertainment you should avoid.” Branek’s tone glib, he removed her fingers from his sleeve. Did all the biddies in Truro know of his transgression? Of course, his class would frown at his choice of a mistress—who turned out to be no mistress at all. Sadness splashed through him like a frigid dash of water. “Windle, kindly call at Polefant Place early next week to see me. Good night.” He tipped his hat to the ladies and stalked off into the shadows.
* * *
Jenna felt something odd, her nape prickling, as she and Marcus moved down the street. She turned in time to see Mr. Pentreath whip around and rush off. Had he been about to visit her? He’d seen them and his stance appeared angry. A shudder vibrated through her, and she stopped.
“What’s the matter, Jenna?” Marcus asked, his gruff tone surprised.
“Nothing, let’s keep walking.” Her response clipped, she practically dragged the old sailor along. She felt like a rock had dropped on her head. Mr. Pentreath would get the wrong idea—again!
She hurried Marcus toward the mill, then over the leat, one of many channels that crisscrossed through the town, bringing water to the mills and richer patrons. Her mission tonight was now even more important.
They approached the West Bridge that spanned the Kenwyn River, and reached a timber-framed building, among a cluster of ancient homes. The smell of damp decay rose from the river as darkness cloaked the area.
“This is where you want me to take you to dine? Vigus’s?” Marcus grimaced. “I don’t know why you don’t wish to feast at The Red Lion.”
“I have very good reasons.” Jenna squeezed his arm, more to release her own tension. “Vigus’s widow owns this place, taken over from her husband. He died a year ago. I wish to patronize her. We widows must look after one another.” She had wanted to keep the supper private, without the town tattlers breathing down their necks.
A dog ran up and barked at them, then scampered away.
“Aye, the mark of a kind heart. And old Vigus was a decent man, fond of his mead.” Marcus slowed when they reached the ancient front door with its low lintel. The sign for The Swan on Kenwyn was faded and weathered in the lamp light, almost beyond recognition. “But I wanted to treat you to a proper supper. Not a place that reminds me of a rank kiddley.”
“Honor Vigus is still a fine cook, despite her age.” Jenna hadn’t visited Honor in several months, and hoped the woman was still alive. She tried the door, but it appeared locked, so she clapped the tarnished knocker.
“I think you’re ashamed to be seen with me.” Marcus’s chuckle sounded strained. She pretended she hadn’t heard and stared straight ahead at the door.
A tiny woman in black opened it and peered up at them. “Oh, Jenna, my heavens. I’ve been locking up when it turns dark, but everyone is welcome. How nice to see you, an’ you brought a beau.” Mrs. Vigus rearranged her white kerchief, stark against her widow’s weeds. Her little black cap with black trim sat stiff on her gray head. “I know you. You’re Mr. Kellow, aren’t you? Aggie’s boy.”
Marcus doffed his hat. “That I am, Mrs. Vigus. Good eve to you. I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Vigus.”
“Thank ’ee. He lived a long, an’ jolly life.” Her wrinkled face broke into a grin and she ushered them into a low beamed room. A turf fire smoldered in the fireplace, giving off a smoky taint.
“Tonight I have Hern ys aysel. My grand-nephew brought me some rare pilchards, fresh this morning. I marinate them in brown sugar, vinegar wine an’ spices.” She rubbed her small hands together. “Are you two courtin?”
“We’re old an’ good friends,” Jenna said quickly as Marcus opened his mouth. “The pilchards sound delicious. A cup of cider for me. Marcus, what will you have?”
“A stout, if you have it. A tankard of ale if not.” Marcus waited for Jenna to seat herself at a small table. He settled across from her, his broad shoulders stretching out his navy jacket.
“I have some negus, if you’d prefer that?” Mrs. Vigus asked.
“That’s too sweet for me, but thank you for offering. I’ve lost my taste for that local drink. Too much port an’ sugar.” He laughed.
The old woman nodded and bustled out.
Marcus turned to Jenna. “So, have you thought about coming with me to Falmouth? To be my first-mate.”
“No sweet talk before you even ask me that?” Jenna prayed her smile wasn’t a smirk as she saw his earnest expression. Then her heart clenched. “Earnest,” the word used by Mr. Pentreath before their beautiful night together; she wished she hadn’t thought of it. She twisted her fingers together—she must make things right with the squire.
“Sweet talk? Uh…. Your eyes are as green as…. If they were blue it would be much easier.” He tapped his chin. “I know, as green as
the jungles in the West Indies and just as steamy.”
Jenna couldn’t help but laugh at the humor of it; the action chased away a layer of her discomfort. “You are a silver-tongued rogue. How many women have you charmed in your many voyages?”
Mrs. Vigus brought in a plate. “Yeast buns, made fresh this afternoon. Oh dear, I still need to serve your drinks.” She scurried out again, still light-footed for a woman in her seventies.
The smell of bread invaded Jenna’s nostrils and she sighed.
“Sailors don’t have much chance to hone their courting skills.” Marcus propped his muscular forearms on the table. “But I’m sincere.”
“I know you are.” She plucked a roll, tore off a section and tasted the yeasty flavor, hoping she could digest any food. “But you need a younger woman who could give you children.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” Marcus scoffed. “I’m too old to sire children. Well, maybe not to sire them, but to be a doting father. I’d make a good life for you if you consent to be Mrs. Kellow.”
Jenna clamped down on her lower lip. She had used children as an excuse because she didn’t want to injure his feelings. Marcus’s faded blue eyes could never replace the man with the dark brown gaze. She knew she was a fool, but didn’t care. She should never have let Mr. Pentreath storm off that first time. Her conversation with Lady Nancarrow had strengthened her resolve.
Seeing the squire just now had jolted her further in this direction.
“Here are your drinks.” Mrs. Vigus entered with a pewter cup of cider and a tankard of ale. She set them on the table and gave a lopsided smile. “I made the cider myself.” Her left cheek bulged, rounded out, Jenna knew, by a cork plumper to hide the fact her teeth on that side were missing. “Jenna, you look a bit troubled. Is there anything I can do?”
“Everything is fine as can be, Honor.” Jenna glanced away after the lie, and took a sip of the tart cider. “’Tis the best I’ve ever tasted. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thank you, dear.” The old woman returned to her kitchen.
“She’s right, Jenna, you do act out of sorts, which foretells rough sailing for me.” Marcus frowned. “What is the difficulty?”
“I’m worried about my shop, an’ not having enough money.” She drank more cider, ashamed by another evasive statement, which was meant to push him farther away.
“If you married me, you wouldn’t have to worry about any of that. Come to Falmouth.” His words held no deep affection, but sounded more like a business deal. That made it even easier for her to refuse him.
She scratched at the smooth pewter in her hands. “I’ve thought about it, as I promised, but I should never have given you hope.” She regretted that promise, obviously overheard by Mr. Pentreath, more than she could have explained to Marcus. “I can’t leave Truro. My life is here.” She met his gaze. “An’ I think of you only as a friend.”
His eyes lost their merry glint. “A friend you still want to loan you money, is that it? As I said before, all my money is tied up in my new shop.”
“Oh, I understand. An’ you know I like you, Marcus—but, ’tis not enough.” She dearly hoped she wouldn’t rue this later, her last chance for respectability. She rubbed her fingers along the rough table edge where someone had whittled their initials. “I don’t want to hurt you, an’ hope we can remain friends. But marriage wouldn’t suit me just now.”
“Well, a man knows when he’s scuttled.” His ruddy face drooped. Then he gave her a half smile. “I’m sorry you’ve turned me down. But I suppose it was a far-fetched idea. We’ve been apart too long.”
“’Tis the truth of it. We’ve both changed too much.” Jenna drank more cider, the strong beverage softening the knots in her stomach.
“Would I be amiss to think that we might still spend the night together? A quick voyage with a sailor?” His eyes glinted again.
She glared in revulsion. She’d expected better from him. A bedding without affection was the farthest thing from her mind. “You would be remiss, an’ I’m quite insulted you’d ask me that.”
“I beg your pardon, but a man has to try.” He pulled out his purse and dropped several coins on the table, then gulped down his ale. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my hunger.” He rose. “I’ll walk you home now, if you don’t mind.”
She was relieved by his abruptness, because her feelings of friendship toward him were dissolving. “You go on without me. I’ll stay here an’ visit with Honor.”
“If you’re certain, on all counts?” Marcus put on his hat. “Aye, I’m displeased. We’d have made a good crew. Perhaps I will find a younger woman, but none with the spirit of you.” He eyed her closely. “But don’t stay unmarried out of any loyalty to Lemuel.”
“I’m not ignorant of my husband’s dallying.” She gripped her cup. So Marcus had also been aware of the Drake woman. The entire town must have whispered about it. She’d resented the sly hints from friends, but now understood and resigned herself to the reality. “Good night, an’ have much success in your shop.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, too.” He tipped his hat and left the taproom.
Mrs. Vigus scurried in with a plate of pilchards. “Where is he off to? I allow men to smoke in here.” She set down her fishy dish.
“We’ve come to terms, an’ he didn’t like the outcome.” Jenna sighed and leaned back in the chair.
Mrs. Vigus raised an eyebrow covered in mouse fur, an old trick from when females shaved off their eyebrows. They’d wanted gray eyebrows to match gray powdered wigs, Honor had once told her. “Well, no one listens to elderly widows like me, but, I can see you don’t love him. It’s better this way. Find your true heart’s desire an’ be content.” She patted Jenna’s shoulder, the cork bobbing in her cheek. “Me an’ Mr. Vigus shared that, an’ there’s nothing like it.”
“You’re so very right, Honor.” Jenna smiled up at her. “’Tis a thorny road I’ll tread, but you are a wise woman. Please bring me another cider, an’ join me for supper.”
Jenna served herself two marinated pilchards and ruminated on her decision to get Mr. Pentreath back in her life—if she could. Lowering herself to a mistress must be weighed against her need to be a happy woman, and the desire to make the man she loved blissful, too. They’d have to be discreet, and it would no doubt last for a brief time since he needed an heir. She prayed her shop wouldn’t suffer if a scandal erupted. But Chenery and his threats could go to the devil.
Chapter Twenty-one
Branek read the note again. Mrs. Rosedew requested that he pay her a call as soon as it was convenient, to discuss private business. A day had passed since he’d witnessed her leave her shop with the officer. She would probably tell him of her intent to marry and close her trade. How kind of her to think of him. An icy mortification spread up the back of his neck.
Well, he was reluctant to hear about her plans, though it was for the best for both of them. He’d send his estate manager over to finalize anything. Branek folded the paper and was about to throw it into the hearth, to sizzle with the fragrant apple wood. Instead, he shoved the note in his pocket, as if he had to hold on to something of hers.
“Excuse me, sir.” Will appeared at the office door, his brow furrowed. “Constable Chenery is here. He says you sent for him?”
“Yes, unfortunately I did. Please show him in.” Branek rubbed the sudden ache from around his eyes. This was another repugnant task he must contend with.
Will left and Chenery shuffled in, his mien cagey. He acted like he knew what was in store and prepared himself to be challenged. “Good afternoon. What did you want, sir? Any confessions I should know of?”
“I insist on knowing what your purpose is, Mr. Chenery.” Branek scowled at the little man. “I was recently in Bodmin at the Coryn’s. You are obviously still intent on blaming me for my wife’s murder. In which case, you will neglect any search for the real killer.”
“I go where the evidence leads me.” Chener
y stared up from under his bushy brows like a ferret in the brush. “So you spoke to Grace, did you? The girl with the poisoner of an aunt. Did she use her expertise on Mrs. Pentreath?”
“That is what you need to find out. However, she’d been here, in my house, for eight years, and nowhere near her aunt.” Branek wavered constantly in his trust in Grace’s claim of innocence.
He stifled a scoff—he might not be worth killing for.
Another thought wriggled in. Was Chenery insinuating that Branek had put Grace up to that cruel task, as the constable insisted with the maid? He clenched his teeth. “Are you following any other leads? The Deacon at St. Margaret’s has a motive. Did you read the letter sent from Exeter?”
“I’m being thorough, sir, in spite of your having doubts about me.” Chenery’s thin lips stretched to a sneer. “Mrs. Rosedew admitted you went to her after you were shot, and she tended to you, all that night. You neglected to tell me that bit of information, didn’t you?”
“She is an apothecary, and I was shot near her shop. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t wish to drag her back into this mess.” Branek flexed his fingers to redirect the pinch in his heart. Or he might curl his hands around the constable’s scrawny throat.
“Oh, she is already deep into it. You and her are having an intrigue, aren’t you? Together you planned to murder your wife.”
Before he could stop himself, Branek snatched Chenery by his coat lapels. He squeezed the cloth and leaned closer, smelling the man’s tart sweat. “I’ve warned you to give me the proper respect. I’m going to have the magistrate remove you from this investigation, and bring in a more capable man.” He thrust the constable away from him.
Chenery staggered, straightened his coat and coughed; his eyes glinted with a moment of fear. Then he stretched taller, though it made little difference. “Your position won’t protect you, sir, if you did do the crime.” He retreated to the door that led to the hallway. “There’s others higher up who are interested in this case. You won’t be removing me.”
The Apothecary's Widow Page 22