The Paid Companion | Herophine

Chapter Twenty Six

Josephine

“We buried my husband a few days ago.” Mrs Glentworth looked up at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. “It was quite sudden. There was an accident in his laboratory. The electricity machine, you know. There must have been a terrible shock. It stopped his heart.”

“Please accept our condolences on your loss, Mrs Glentworth,” Josephine said gently.

Mrs Glentworth gave a perfunctory nod. She was a frail, bony woman with sparse grey hair tucked up under an old cap. The cloak of genteel poverty and stoic resignation hung heavily around her thin shoulders.

“I warned him about that machine.” Her fingers clenched around the handkerchief she held, and her jaw jerked as though she was grinding her back teeth. “But he would not listen. He was forever conducting experiments with it.”

Josephine glanced at Hero, who was standing near the window, a full cup of tea in one hand. His face was a cool mask that did little to conceal his watchful expression. She was quite certain that he was thinking precisely the same thing that she was thinking. In light of recent events, the fatal accident in Glentworth’s laboratory appeared to be more than a mere coincidence. But if Mrs Glentworth suspected that her husband had been murdered, she gave no sign of it. Perhaps she did not particularly care, Josephine thought. The shabby parlour was filled with the gloom appropriate to a mourning household, but the widow herself appeared tense and rather desperate, not sad. Josephine could have sworn that, beneath their hostess’s Proper words and civil manner, a simmering anger burned.

Mrs Glentworth had received them willingly enough, suitably awed by Hero's name and title. But she was obviously bewildered.

“Were you aware that my great-uncle, George Tiffin, was killed by a burglar in his laboratory a few weeks ago?” Hero asked.

Mrs Glentworth frowned. “No, I did not know that.”

“Did you know that your husband And Tiffin were great friends in their younger days?” Josephine added quietly.

“Of course.” Mrs Glentworth squeezed the handkerchief. “I am very well aware of how close the three of them were.”

Josephine sensed Hero going very still. She did not dare to look at him.

“Did you say three of them, Mrs Glentworth?" Josephine asked in what she hoped was a mildly curious fashion.

“They were thick as thieves for a time. Met at Cambridge, you know. But all they cared about was science, not money. Indeed, they devoted themselves to their laboratories and ridiculous experiments.”

“Mrs Glentworth,” Josephine began cautiously. “I wonder if—”

“I vow, I sometimes wished that my husband had been a highwayman or a footpad.” A tremor shook Mrs Glentworth. Then, as though a dam had crumbled somewhere inside her, the pent up anguish and anger poured forth. “Perhaps then there would have been some money left. But, no, he was obsessed with natural philosophy. He spent almost every last penny on his laboratory apparatus.”

“What sort of experiments did your husband conduct?” Hero asked.

But the woman did not appear to have heard the question. Her rage was in full flood. “Glentworth had a respectable income when we married. My parents would never have allowed me to wed him if that had not been the case. But the fool never invested the money. He spent it without thought for me or our daughters. He was worse than a confirmed gambler, always claiming that he needed the newest microscope or another burning lens.”