The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  * * *

  Branek approached Dr. Treen’s townhome door near Stadden Bridge. Across the street sat the large, square Mansion House made of golden Bath stone, owned by mining investor, Thomas Daniell. Branek had been inside the impressive place and seen the rococo decorations rumored to have been created by French prisoners captured in the Seven Years War. The good doctor must preen with smugness to be in such affluent company every time he looked over at the manor.

  Sophie had sneered at the designs as too ostentatious, instead of enjoying the rococo for its beauty. What had his wife, other than the church, ever really enjoyed?

  Branek hesitated on the doctor’s step. If they did find a profitable vein of tin at Wheal Marya, perhaps Daniell, or his employer the wealthy merchant Sir William Lemon, would invest in the venture.

  He knocked. A maid answered and let him in. “I’ll tell Dr. Treen you’re here, sir.”

  Branek waited in a small office off the narrow front hallway. The room was spare and overly tidy with a plain desk and a glass-fronted bookcase. A few pots and jars were lined up neatly on a cabinet with numerous small drawers. The chamber smelled of linseed oil.

  Treen entered, his expression impassive on his plump face, his cravat hastily wrapped around his throat. Crumbs clung to his waistcoat. “What may I do for you, Mr. Pentreath?” His words held no welcome.

  “Well, I won’t waste your time asking how you fare.” Branek sat on the corner of Treen’s desk, taking possession of the room. “In your long, companionable discussions with my late wife, did she ever mention anyone named Moses?”

  “You mean from the Bible?” Treen tucked in his chin, which disappeared into his neck; his condescending reply rankled.

  “No, an actual person alive today. Or perhaps my wife called you Moses.” Branek scrutinized the doctor, dying to needle him. “Did you part the Red Sea for her?”

  “Mr. Pentreath, I’m certain I have no idea what you are talking about.” Treen’s cheek’s puffed out; his small eyes turned to slits. “Please explain yourself, sir.”

  “I thought, since Sophie confided so much to you, including the ‘discontent’ in our marriage, she might have told you about someone she was corresponding with whom she referred to as Moses.” Branek’s irritation returned and prickled along his nape despite his effort to appear nonchalant. “Swear on your reputation as a physician that you are not the one to whom she wrote.”

  Treen seemed to freeze in place, like a portly statue. His glare scraped over Branek. “And you could no doubt ruin my reputation if you chose, is that your implication?”

  “I made no such statement.” Branek reeled in his emotions with effort. But his words were firm, almost gruff. “If it wasn’t you, tell me who my wife might have been corresponding with who would have had any ‘pull,’ let us say, on her affection.”

  “I could never dishonor the privacy of my discussions with Mrs. Pentreath.” Treen’s chest swelled like an indignant toad. “I hear they’ve caught the man who shot you, a miner. You once insinuated I had committed that act.”

  Branek was relieved that Polwin was now locked up in gaol. But he’d have to do something for the miner’s wife.

  “You were the only one I could think of who bore me that much animosity at the time. Although there was a great difference in body size.” Branek straightened slowly. “Cooperate with me, Treen. I want to solve my wife’s murder. If you know something, I—”

  “Why would it matter who she held an affection for through correspondence?” Sadness darkened Treen’s visage, his question stubborn.

  Branek pressed his palms hard on the desk edge. He didn’t wish to resort to threats, but had no choice. “You obviously know who it is. I suggest you tell me. It would be much better here than in court.”

  “Court?” Treen took a step backward, his thick lips bunched. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I could sue you for alienating my wife’s affections from me. My solicitor has given me the name of a barrister who says I might have a good case.” Branek smiled over his frustration at lowering himself to this bald lie.

  “I never did anything of the sort.” Treen pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the perspiration now dotting his forehead. “You couldn’t possibly—”

  “Then tell me the truth of what you know.” Branek said it matter-of-factly as he inspected a scratch on his hand left from the mine incident. Inside, his muscles tightened. “Or are you involved in some way?” Was Treen also bribing the constable?

  “I am not involved in anything that wasn’t above board, sir.” Treen stuffed the handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket. “Very well. You force me to go against my principles. Sophie…ah, Mrs. Pentreath wrote frequently to her cousin who lives near St. Michael’s Mount.”

  “Mr. Quintrell? He was a childhood friend.” Though Sophie had told him little about this man, nor had she invited him to visit Polefant Place.

  “He’s a solicitor for the Sheriff of Cornwall, Sir John St. Abyn.”

  Branek remembered Quintrell and his attitude at Sophie’s funeral, his overwrought emotions. He tensed as he tried to recall the man’s first name. “Did she tell you she referred to him as Moses?”

  “She might have. My memory fails me as to the exact details.” Treen’s sharp raison eyes belied his words. “If we are through, sir, I must return to my dinner.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want you to miss a meal. Good afternoon, Doctor.” Branek departed, striding down the street, his thoughts in turmoil. Later, after dark, he’d find a way to see Jenna to tell her of Mr. Quintrell, and spend time with her.

  Since Quintrell worked for the sheriff—he doubted that St. Abyn was complicit—this cousin could be the one behind Chenery’s relentless scheming.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Jenna rubbed the cream she and Luke had prepared into her hands and over her face. The light herbal scent pleased her; the mixture felt cool against her skin. She blew out her candle and crawled into the cold bed. Branek promised he would come to see her and she dreamt of him each night. She trembled—she missed him desperately, her body feeling empty.

  Fie, it was foolish to cling to a man, any man, in such a way! She half-laughed and punched her pillow into shape. Lonely nights would be common in their situation. How long could she endure it? She also wondered if she should be drinking the Queen Anne’s Lace again. Though if she could still have a child, she’d always have a part of Branek.

  Two days had passed, her yearnings aside, and she needed to tell him about Farmer Kernick’s ‘imp.’ Unsure whom to trust, she didn’t dare send a note, or keep involving her apprentice. Discretion was key.

  Nestled into the beaten pillow, she drifted off to sleep. A strange noise jerked her fully awake, and she sat up to listen. A tap sounded on the window across the landing. Then another click, like a pebble being tossed.

  She rose and slipped on her wrap. She felt her way in the darkness to what had been her son’s room. Her pulse jumping, she opened the casement to a rush of cold air. “Is anyone there?” she whispered.

  “Only a man from an engine house who’s come to pay his respects.”

  At Branek’s whispered reply her heart soared. She hurried downstairs, the familiar place easy to navigate in the gloom, and unlocked her back door. He slipped in and she shoved the bolt.

  “My knight arrives at last.” She rubbed the cold hand he put on her shoulder. “We must get you warmed up, sir. Upstairs, in my bed, would be best.”

  He chuckled and kissed her, his lips soon heating against hers. “I sneaked through your garden like a miscreant. A rather stimulating experience, but worth the danger.”

  “I have more of that in mind, stimulating an’ dangerous.” Holding his hand, she led him toward the stairs. It was a shame they had to resort to such subterfuge. “I also have information for you that might be important.” She told him about the imp as they walked upstairs.

  “My wife’s cousin, Mr. Quintrell, is a small man like that
.” Branek sighed. “He’s a solicitor for the Sheriff of Cornwall, according to Dr. Treen. It all makes sense now. This cousin must be behind Chenery’s dogged determination to incriminate me. And Treen gleefully withheld that information until I demanded it.”

  “Do you think Dr. Treen is involved?” The fussy bounder, she ranted inside.

  “He said he wasn’t, but who is to be believed?”

  “What will you do? Go an’ speak to Mr. Quintrell?” She lit a candle in her bedchamber and saw that anxiety had returned to his face. She caressed his cheek.

  “I’ll have to. I don’t trust anyone else to be thorough enough.” He grasped her fingers and gently kissed them. “The trip will take me a day or two.”

  “Please be careful, whatever you do.” She wouldn’t mention that they still had no solution to the crime. Grace had not yet confessed, if she ever would. “If you find Chenery guilty of taking bribes, I hope you can have him dismissed.”

  “That will definitely be my aim.” He slipped out of his frock coat. “The cousin’s meddling has probably stalled the investigation. Quintrell obviously has a grudge against me, fueled by my wife’s correspondence.”

  “It is infuriating, an’ sad.” She unbuttoned his waistcoat, her body reacting to his nearness despite their subject. That warm heaviness settled low in her belly. “So many misunderstandings. May we never have such confusion between us again.”

  “We’ve had a harrowing time of it, I know.” In his shirtsleeves now, he ran his fingers through her hair, his dark gaze mesmerizing.

  Jenna’s scalp tingled with his touch, obscuring any innocence or guilt in this murder that had brought them together.

  “I’ve written to my sister to request a loan.” He pushed her wrap from her shoulders. “I won’t raise the rent here, or sell, so you’ll at least be secure.”

  “Thank you, but only if you can afford to do so.” She hid her relief. She cared about her shop, yet at this moment other matters were more pressing. The deep tenderness she had for him steamed through her.

  “We can talk more about it in the morning.” He bent and kissed her lips again.

  She quivered with pleasure, inhaling his clean, soapy smell. Their troubles should be pushed out of her bedchamber. She lifted his shirt, tracing her fingers over the muscles on his chest with its sprinkling of dark hair. “I will show you now, sir, what a skilled apothecary can do to ease pain.”

  “A large dose of your compassion will soothe me,” he whispered, his eyes glistening.

  She melted in the torrent of his emotion. “Always, all my love is for you.” She squeezed against him and kissed him fervently on the lips.

  He eased back. “I hope I’m being unselfish toward you, to want you like this. I intend to offer you more—if I can.” His words hesitant, his ardor for her still brimmed in his expression.

  How much more he’d offer, she didn’t ask. The difference in their stations was an ocean she wasn’t sure he would cross. “As long as you are always honest with me.” She touched his lips. “An’ we can be very selfish for the next hour or so.”

  They shed the remainder of their clothes and reclined in the bed, their lips and fingers caressing. She shuddered when he entered her, flinging away any qualms that her lover, the squire, Branek, might belong to her for only a limited amount of time.

  * * *

  In the salty breeze, Branek stared across the water at St. Michael’s Mount. The former Benedictine Abbey perched on a severe granite outcropping off Cornwall’s southern coast. The sun turned the stone golden as the castle-like structure’s chimneys vaulted into the blue sky.

  His father had told him that a giant named Comoran once sheltered there. This giant stole cows and sheep from the villagers, until a boy named Jack tricked and killed him. Branek chuckled at the memory. Childish stories to the starry-eyed boy he once was.

  The St. Aubyn family had resided here since the previous century. Baronet John St. Aubyn was a very young Sheriff of Cornwall. Hopefully, he was honest as well.

  Branek turned from Mount’s Bay to the town of Marazion. A once thriving community until overtaken by Penzance, the town was a mixture of stone medieval and newer buildings scattered among low hills. He walked through the narrow cobbled lanes to the address he’d requested from his solicitor in Truro. A sign in front of a two-story stone building covered in vines on Gwelanmor read E. Quintrell, Solicitor.

  Branek felt the pistol at his belt, took the three steps, and knocked. A clerk answered and showed him to an office. The space was as orderly, but less spartan than Treen’s. A huge mahogany desk with a green leather inlay took up much of the room. A tall leather chair was behind it, as if ready for a large occupant. Several quill pens sat in a burnished wooden holder, with a stoneware inkpot adjacent.

  Law books were shelved in a wooden cupboard with a glass front. Small paintings of Biblical scenes hung on the wall—Moses receiving the Ten Commandments among them. Branek smirked; he must have the correct man.

  Waiting for at least twenty minutes, he seethed with the impatience he’d hoped to suppress. Perhaps the cousin had run out the back door in fear.

  “Mr. Pentreath, how unusual for you to drop in to see me since I’m this far from Truro.” Quintrell scurried in, his pasty face set in a practiced smile. A powdered periwig sat on his head like a small, iced cake. He held out his hand. “I’m honored.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever dropped in to see you, Mr. Quintrell.” Branek straightened to his full height, towering over the man, who did resemble an imp with his small stature and pinched face. Perhaps pointed ears were disguised by the wig. “I’m here to discuss a few matters with you.”

  “Of course. Delighted.” Quintrell waved toward the leather chair before his desk, his smile still stuck in place, though his button-eyed gaze was probing. “Please have a seat. Would you care for a drink? I have claret, or….”

  “No, nothing for me. Thank you.” Branek sat, the brown chair-leather stiff, as if to intimidate any clients.

  Quintrell sat at his desk, looking like a child dwarfed behind its expanse. He put his small hands together. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “You and Sophie were very close, weren’t you.” Branek made it a statement of fact.

  Quintrell blinked once. “When we were children, yes. I spent many summers with her and her family. We had enchanting holidays.”

  “You continued to correspond with her after our marriage, didn’t you?” What had his wife ever seen in this “elf” of a man?

  “From time to time, like any good relation should, God willing.” Quintrell twisted at a ring he wore on his middle finger, his tone neutral now. “Why do you ask?”

  “Yet you almost never came to visit her in Truro.” Branek cocked his head and tapped his thigh. “Why was that?”

  “I…am a very busy man.” Quintrell picked up a paper on his desk as if for emphasis. “Is there something specific you wished to know?”

  “Oh, many things, Mr. Quintrell.” Teeth on edge, Branek leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Did you discuss scripture in depth, and did my wife have a nickname for you?”

  Quintrell sat back in his chair, apparently to distance himself. His smile slid off. “What exactly do you mean, Mr. Pentreath?”

  “Did Sophie refer to you as Moses?” Branek stared steadily into the other man’s eyes. This Moses could barely part a stream, much less the Red Sea.

  Quintrell lowered his gaze and twisted again at the ring. “I think my private correspondence with my cousin is nobody’s business but mine.”

  “I found a letter never posted, from my wife to someone whom I presume is you. It seems you did much more than correspond from ‘time to time.’” Branek rubbed along his tense jaw. “Were your feelings toward Sophie far more than cousinly?”

  Quintrell met his gaze again, the officious friendliness gone, his eyes like flint. “I’ll be honest with you, sir. Sophie and I spent many pleasant days together as children and young
people, and we cared deeply for one another. Not to mention, we were very devout.” He cleared his throat. “Her marriage to you snatched her away from me, but it was a more advantageous match for her family.”

  “Marriages are too often callous, business arrangements.” Branek spoke with more resentment than he’d intended. Two mismatched people who might have enjoyed affection with other spouses forced to remain together. At least he’d finally found the woman he loved, and it wasn’t too late.

  “I’m well aware of that. It was God’s will. However, a husband and wife should still treat each other with respect and kindness.” Quintrell glared at him in accusation.

  “You’ve heard only one side, but I won’t rehash the failures of my marriage with you.” Branek took a deep breath, trying to garner more forgiveness toward his wife. She had suffered, too. “But what I’ve really come about is your apparent involvement in her murder investigation.”

  “I have every reason to see that this crime is solved.” Quintrell pinched his lips together, his features even more imp-like.

  “Not by bribing a constable to accuse me of the murder.” Branek stiffened, his hand clenched on his thigh. “I am innocent. You are steering an incompetent man in the wrong direction. With your interference, the real culprit will be allowed to go free.”

  “What proof do you have that I’ve bribed anyone?” Quintrell stilled, eyes narrowed. His lower lip stuck out like a reprimanded child.

  “You have influence with St. Aubyn. I believe that you used that to keep Constable Chenery in his position. And Chenery took money from you to find ways to convict me. My wife’s words to you obviously influenced your hostility.” Branek thrust up from the chair and gripped the desk edge. “I will speak to St. Aubyn about this farce of an investigation. I’m going to demand that an outside constable take over.”