“Such as? Is someone bribing you?” Branek’s ire flared anew as his suspicions appeared to be correct. “I demand you explain what you mean by that.”
“That’s for me to know, only.” Chenery’s lips twisted as he adjusted his askew wig, and swiped hair powder from his shoulders.
“Are you all right, sir?” Will hurried in as if he’d listened from the corridor. He emphasized the ‘sir,’ as he always did when outsiders were there.
“I’ll be on my way. But I will prove what’s true, without a doubt.” Chenery scuttled out, his tone not as confident as before.
“Did you hear that?” Branek flung up his hands, wishing he had strangled the constable. But Polefant Place didn’t need another murder. “Higher ups are interested in this case? I must find out who they are.”
“Magistrate Odgers would be the best man to ask.” Will came farther into the room, his gaze troubled. “Or the constable is lying. Why is he so set on blaming you? I’d have hoped…your reputation alone should have kept you safe.”
“I used to believe that. No, my friend, I can’t rely on status in this instance.” Branek leaned against the edge of his desk. “I haven’t asked you, but do you, or did you know anyone who might have had a particular animosity toward Sophie?”
Will stared up at the plaster ceiling—the answer might be imprinted there among the scrolls—his finger under his chin. “I won’t be overly kind and say there wouldn’t have been anyone. I know well what went on in this house. What you’ve endured. I’m sorry to be blunt.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Branek pushed away from the desk. “I don’t appreciate people who talk around subjects and never say anything significant. Or delay in their obligations.”
Mr. Windle had been there earlier that morning and he’d hemmed and hawed around his reasons why didn’t have enough ready funds; the first installment for the land would still be paid in the spring. He did give Branek five pounds, then offered an Arabian colt for a further down payment. Branek would have loved the colt, yet didn’t intend to spend any more on feed.
“But no one stands out for you in…Sophie’s demise?” He watched his estate manager whose expression stiffened. “You do know that it wasn’t me?”
“Of course I do.” Will turned, his mouth gaping. “I know you couldn’t possibly have done such a thing. You’re a man of integrity.”
“Am I?” Would a man of integrity have lain with his own tenant? That loss cut through him again, surprising in its intensity. “Sometimes I wonder. And my integrity has been a very frosty companion.”
“Surely now you can find a sweeter consort. You shouldn’t rule out a second marriage.” Will walked to his smaller desk in the corner. “I’ll make inquiries if you wish me to, into the constable’s declaration.”
“I’m trying to remember if Sophie had any friends, or relatives for that matter, in high places. Her family was quite small. I don’t even know how to contact her parents in Virginia. I think her brother is still in Bombay with the East India Company. There was her cousin, Mr. Quintrell, a solicitor of some sort, who wept as he glowered at me at the funeral.” Branek crossed his arms. And now he had Moses to contend with. He gripped his elbows hard. “I’m meeting Odgers tonight for supper. But surely he would have informed me if he knew anything else.”
“Maybe he’s been warned not to.” Will flipped through a ledger, his shoulders hunched. “Are you so certain it wasn’t Grace?”
“No, actually I’m not, but she seems a girl without the cleverness that would have been required.” Branek studied Will. Had he been aware of the attraction, although mere desperation on Branek’s part, between him and the maid? “She was quite adamant in her denial.” But hadn’t his wife vowed to love and honor him? Again, women’s minds and motivations were a mystery. “Is there something about Grace you’re not telling me?”
“No, nothing. She seemed adequate in her duties. But she did moon over you overmuch.” Will kept his back to him. He sounded a little jealous, his tone cold.
“I hardly noticed.” Branek’s jaw muscle twitched. He was relieved he’d never sullied the girl when he’d had the opportunity. “Let’s drop this discussion and talk of cheerier topics, such as my ever-burdening debts.”
“You could lease more acres, to men who have the cash in hand.” Will tapped his quill on a ledger. “The tripled land-tax revenues to support the war are crippling.”
“I’m all too aware of that. The House of Commons demands further domestic reform with these blasted wars raging. I, every country landowner, is frustrated by the taxes.” Branek flicked lint from his frock coat sleeve. “The sheep are sheltered for the winter. I don’t want to lose my wool profits, and pray for more with the additions to the flock.” Another loan pressing down on his head. He massaged at a taut muscle in his right shoulder. “Yes, look into another land lease,” he glanced about the chamber, “but what else in this house can I sell?” Additional parts of his life and heritage had to be chipped away like rotting wood.
* * *
Jenna had sent the note two days before, but still he didn’t come. She shrugged against her disappointment. How could she re-seduce the man if she couldn’t bring him close to her? Her heart quivered, although her cavalier thoughts kept any sharper feelings from breaking the surface.
She moved near Luke’s shoulder where he stood at the kitchen hearth. “Did you give my note directly to Mr. Pentreath?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rosedew. You’ve asked me that already, if you pardon me saying.” Luke gave her a shy grin. He checked the pot hanging over the fire. The spermaceti and sweet oil gave off an aromatic scent of olives. “This looks about ready.”
Jenna handed him the white wax. “Melt it well. Keep stirring. Then we’ll add the candy.”
“Do women really like this concoction on their faces and hands?” He sniffed the mixture. “It would feel greasy to me and it might soil your clothes.”
“We have to preserve our beauty with such affects, or you men won’t bother with us.” She gave an exaggerated weight to the words.
The boy laughed. “My sister does take forever with her toilet and hair, especially if Mr. Pentreath comes to call.”
“Does she now?” Jenna fought against her sinking spirit. Was Mr. Pentreath pursuing Miss Odgers? She was a woman better suited to him. She stared at the pot as the wax melted, then handed the boy the white sugar candy. “Does Mr. Pentreath visit often? Is he courting your sister?”
“They’re not courting, as far as I know.” Luke stirred the candy into the mixture.
Dare she pursue the man if he was seeking a wife? But she still wished to speak to him. She did not want him remaining angry with her.
She went to her kitchen work table and rearranged the already tidy earthenware pots. “When the salve cools, put it in these pots. Mrs. Vigus will be by to purchase three of them.” Even old women liked to feel pretty and admired. “We have an order to prepare for Camphorated Julep. The saddle-maker’s mother has the hysterics again.” Little wonder, given her shrew of a daughter-in-law. “An’ the Hiera Picra Tincture needs finishing, as the schoolmaster’s great aunt is phlegmatic.” The woman had been phlegmatic since birth, so Jenna’s mother had once told her.
The increased trade pleased her; maybe things were improving for her shop.
She tapped a pot with her fingernail. Still, when had she become so callous in her thinking toward her customers? She was overwrought with her muddled plans.
If Mr. Pentreath didn’t remarry, her life would change if she became his mistress. Her body heated with remembered pleasure; however, she’d have to rearrange everything to fit around clandestine nights, snatched pieces of his time. Could she handle her damaged reputation as the years went by, could the shop—if she still had a shop? Or would her customers desert and scorn her as a disgraced woman?
Most likely Mr. Pentreath wanted nothing more to do with her. She chewed on her lip and fought a tremor. She might be making the biggest mistake
of her life to stir this pot, but she resolved to clear up two matters with him. What were, or had been, his intimate feelings toward her? And she needed to explain the misunderstanding over Marcus.
Tomorrow she’d fetch Old Josse and drive up country to Polefant Place.
* * *
Branek stared in dismay at the young maid Mrs. Sandrey escorted into his rear parlor. He put aside the account books he’d been going over and stood. “Grace, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, sir, I could stand it no longer.” She rushed toward him, her hands in a supplicating manner, just like at her cottage. “I had to come.”
His hopes rose with his wariness. Would she admit she’d put the poisons in the medications? He disliked believing she’d stoop that low, but a solution would be a liberation for him. He waved her to the sofa. “Sit, and tell me what you mean. How did you manage to travel here?”
She seated herself in her threadbare cloak, then stared at the housekeeper, chin down.
“You may go, Mrs. Sandrey, but stay nearby.” Branek sat in his chair, which wasn’t too close to the girl, after the woman left.
“I’m afraid I was dishonest, sir.” Grace squirmed on the sofa. “I ‘borrowed’ a pewter candlestick from the shop where my father works, an’ that’s how I paid to travel here.”
“That is very unfortunate. Do you know what that means? Stealing might get you hanged. Why…what was the reason you had to come here?” He leaned forward, straining to keep his voice serene. “Do you have something important to tell me?”
“Let me stay an’ work for you again, then I will behave.” She smiled, watching him through her lashes. “I know you wanted to be close to me once.”
He reared back, pulse trotting. He wanted her to confess to the crime, not to his misplaced, long-vanished interest. “We must forget all about that. I only need the truth from you.”
She slowly untied her blue hat ribbon, and removed her straw hat, revealing her blonde locks. “The truth is, I miss you, an’ want to be here.”
“This is very bad form, Miss Coryn. You must forget about any inordinate attention I might have paid to you.” He gripped the chair arms, cursing his folly. “Magistrate Odgers informed me he went to speak to you in Bodmin, but you told him nothing new.” Though Branek was losing trust in Odgers’ acumen. How could Branek squeeze the truth from her? If he was a dissolute cad, he’d try seduction. That idea twisted his innards. “You can be honest with me. Did you have anything to do with harming Mrs. Pentreath? Was it your thought of me that forced your hand?”
“I said I was blameless, didn’t I, sir?” She pressed her knees together, hands gripping her hat in the lap of her plain grey dress like an awkward schoolgirl. Despite that, her smile was suggestive.
Branek took a deep breath. “Then do you know who might have done it?”
“Naw, sir. Though…I might o’ done it if you’d asked me.” She turned her hat in her hands, her speech rougher since she’d left the manor. Then she gave him a bright smile, head tilted. “Lots o’ people might’ve. An’ you an’ I could spend nights, alone.”
Branek’s body constricted. He nearly fell out of his chair. “I would never have asked you, or anyone, to perform such a merciless act. And we will never spend any time alone such as that.”
“I have more. The mistress an’ Will had an awful row afore she was ill.” Grace pouted. Will had pointed a finger at her, and now she pointed one at him? “The mistress, she threatened to—”
“Pardon me, sir.” Mrs. Sandrey appeared in the doorway again. “Sir Richard Odgers’ clerk is here. He said the magistrate is back and ready for you to meet him in town at once.”
“Right. He’s finally returned.” Branek jerked to his feet. Sweat broke out around his neck. He stared down at the girl. “Grace, finish what you were saying.”
“It were nothing, sir.” The maid, their “privacy” now interrupted, seemed to fold into herself like a shriveled petal.
He needed to keep Grace here, for further questioning. She might have to be brought up before the quarterly assizes for her theft, but there was another possible suspect in the murder to ferret out. “Mrs. Sandrey, please take Grace into the kitchen for a meal. I’ll be back later to speak to her again.”
* * *
In Truro, not far from the River Allen, Branek and Odgers approached the timber-framed cottage situated near the white granite of St. Margaret’s church. A tiny birdcage next to a pillar of salt.
Since learning two nights before last that Odgers still hadn’t questioned the deacon, Branek insisted on accompanying him. “Pardon my impatience, but I’d have supposed the deacon would already have been interviewed.” He grew weary of being his own investigator.
“I admit I have been negligent in my duties. I was visiting my wife’s family.” Odgers step was slow and plodding. “So you say Grace Coryn has returned and is acting a bit suspicious? And she stole a candlestick? Blatant thievery. We’ll have to hold her for the Lent Assize in Launceston to bring her before a judge.”
“That is advisable. What about Chenery’s threat to me?” Branek arranged his cloak, smelling the dank river clumped with the sand and mud that silted up the harbor, which had allowed Falmouth’s port to prosper. His brain felt as clumped up.
“I’ll check with the sheriff about any ‘higher ups’ interested in this case. If they are, they’ve said nothing to me. I’ve told St. Abyn that you are a man of sound reputation.” Odgers spoke softly as they hesitated before the deacon’s cottage. “I’ve questioned Chenery about his remark to you. But he said he meant nothing by it. As you’ve also insisted, I’ve more than once wanted to dismiss the cocky little man.” His friend sighed. “You could be correct. There’s some influence somewhere to keep him in that position.”
“Is there any way to find out who it might be? If anyone has some vengeance against me, I need to know.” Branek bristled at Odgers’ lack of thoroughness. But he saw ineptitude, deviousness and duplicity wherever he looked. “Not to be impertinent, sir, but have you thought of giving up your JP duties altogether—and taking a much deserved retirement?”
“I have. But the nearest man of aristocracy, another baronet, recently died. There’s an earl farther abroad, but this isn’t in his jurisdiction, unless he’d agree.” Odgers rubbed low on his back as they stepped through pungent boxwood, overgrown near the cottage door. “Ah, my muscles ache. It’s hell growing older.”
Branek swallowed down his aggravation. It was only his neck on the chopping block. “Uh…visit Rosedew’s Apothecary. Mrs. Rosedew makes an excellent ginger tea that should help.” He could at least give her new clientele. He wished he had gone to see her after her note. It was egotistical not to. If the deacon or Grace proved to be the murderer, he’d go himself to inform her.
A red-beaked chough glared at them from the cottage rooftop, as if the black bird disapproved of their undertaking.
Odgers knocked. Soon the long face of Deacon Tregere appeared.
His smile wormed along his narrow cheeks. “Gentlemen, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“May we have a moment of your time, Deacon?” Odgers touched his hat brim, which sat atop his neat periwig.
“Of course, please come in.”
Inside, a dim parlor had various items strewn about—papers, books, a few articles of clothing—like a child had dashed rampant through the room. Branek wrinkled his nose at the overpowering musty odor.
“Excuse the disarray. The girl I hired is not very reliable, the poor soul; but she needs the work.” Tregere put his long fingers together in a steeple. “How may I be of service today?”
Branek stared about, waiting for Odgers to proceed. The dust on the shabby settee and low table showed no servant had been in here for months. A cobweb clung to an oil lamp.
“I understand you used to assist at St. Mary Steps church in Exeter.” Odgers curled his lip at the settee, as if apprehensive the deacon might ask him to sit.
“I did.”
The man’s gaze dimmed slightly. “A fine old establishment with an historic clock. Sometimes I miss it.”
“And why did you leave that position?” Odgers continued.
The deacon shrugged. “I—there was a disagreement, and I decided it was best to move on.”
“What sort of disagreement, may we ask?” Branek spoke officiously, anxious to move this discussion along.
“I’ve been informed that there were missing funds, and, excuse me for saying, you might have been involved. Was there any truth to that?” Odgers raised a gray brow.
Tregere shook his head, though his cheeks colored. “No, of course not.”
Branek circled the room, stepping over books. One huge tome on renaissance art. “As a man of God, I’m sure you’ll want to be honest with us, Deacon.”
Tregere’s smile wavered. “I will certainly try. But please tell me what you’re seeking in particular, gentlemen.”
“First, can you tell me if my wife discussed scripture in depth with you, or anyone else at St. Margaret’s?” Branek knew he grasped at thin air.
“Not with myself, or anyone specific that I’m aware of. You might ask my superiors. Mrs. Pentreath was extremely zealous about her faith.” The deacon flicked his large blue gaze from one of them to the other. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand the meaning of this visit.”
“We were informed that you were asked to leave St. Mary Steps due to money discrepancies,” Odgers continued. “And something similar happened here at St. Margaret’s with the cemetery funds.”
Branek stared at the jumble of items on the chimneypiece, among them a half-eaten apple. If the deacon was stealing money, what was he spending it on? Certainly not a housekeeper. He turned back to the man. “My wife brought up the missing funds with you, didn’t she? Did she upset you or threaten to expose you?”
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