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.”
Hero tried to intervene to redirect the conversation. “Mrs Glentworth, you mentioned that your husband had a third friend ...”
“Look around you.” Mrs, Glentworth waved the hand in which she held the handkerchief. “What do you see of value? Nothing. Nothing at all. Over the years he sold the silver and the paintings to raise money to purchase items for his laboratory. In the end, he even sold his precious snuffbox. I thought he’d never part with it. He told me he wanted to be buried with it.”
Josephine took a closer look at the portrait above the mantel. It showed a portly, balding gentleman dressed in old-fashioned breeches and coat. He held a snuffbox in one hand. The lid of the case was set with a large, red, faceted stone.
She glanced at Hero and saw that he was studying the portrait too.
“He sold the snuffbox that he carries in that portrait?” Hero asked.
Mrs Glentworth sniffed into the handkerchief. “Yes.”
“Do you know who bought it from him?”
“No. I expect my husband took it to one of the pawnshops. Probably got very little for it, too.” Mrs Glentworth’s jaw trembled with outrage. “Not that I saw any of the money, mind you. He never even bothered to tell me that he had sold it.”
Hero looked at her. “Do you happen to know when he pawned it?”
“No. It must have been shortly before he managed to kill himself with that electricity machine.” Mrs Glentworth used the mangled handkerchief to blot up a stray tear or two. “Perhaps that very day. I seem to recall that he had it at breakfast that morning. He left the house to take his exercise and was gone for some time. That was no doubt when he went to find a dealer.”
“When did you notice that the snuffbox was gone?” Josephine asked.
“Not until that evening when I found his body. That afternoon I had gone out to pay a call on a friend who was ill. When I returned, my husband had already come home and locked himself in his laboratory for the day, as was his custom. He did not even bother to emerge for dinner.”
“That was not unusual?” Hero asked.
“Not at all. When he got involved in one of his experiments he could spend hours in his laboratory. But at bedtime, I knocked on the door to remind him to turn down the lamps when he came upstairs. When there was no answer I grew concerned. The door was locked, as I said. I had to get a key to open it. That was when I ... when I...” She broke off and blew her nose.
“When you found his body,” Josephine completed gently.
“Yes. It was some time before my nerves recovered to the point where I noticed that his snuffbox was gone. Then I realized that he must have sold it that very day. Heaven only knows what he did with the money. It was certainly not in his pockets. Perhaps he decided to pay off one of his more pressing creditors.”
There was a short silence. Josephine exchanged another knowing glance with Hero. Neither of them spoke.
“I never thought he’d part with that snuffbox, though,” Mrs Glentworth said after a while. “He was very attached to it.”
“Was your husband alone in the house while you were out that afternoon?” Hero asked.
“Yes. We have a maid, but she was not here that day. She is rarely here anymore. She has not been paid in some time, you see. I suspect that she is searching for another post.”
“I see,” Hero said.
Mrs Glentworth gazed around with a resigned air. “I shall have to sell this house, I suppose. It is my one asset. I can only pray that I will get enough for it to pay off my husband’s creditors.”
“What will you do after you sell the house?” Josephine inquired.
“I shall be obliged to move in with my sister and her husband. I detest them both and they feel the same way about me. They have very little money to spare. It will be a miserable life, but what else can I do?”
“I shall tell you what else you can do,” Josephine said crisply. “You may sell this house to Hero. He will give you more than you will obtain if you try to sell it to someone else. In addition, he will allow you the use of it for the remainder of your life.”
Mrs Glentworth gaped at her. “I beg your pardon?” She shot a quick, disbelieving glance at Hero. “Why would his lordship want to purchase this house for more than it is worth?”
“Because you have been extremely helpful today, and he is happy to show his gratitude.” Josephine looked at Hero. “Is that not correct, dear?”
Hero raised his brows, but all he said was, “Of course.”
Mrs Glentworth looked uncertainly at Hero. “You will do such a thing merely because I answered your questions today?”
He smiled faintly. “I actually am quite grateful, madam. Which reminds me, I have one last question that I wish to ask.”
“Yes, certainly.” Hope and relief began to lighten Mrs Glentworth’s drawn expression.”
“Do you recall the name of your husband’s third friend?”
“Lord Treyford.” Mrs Glentworth frowned slightly. “I never met him, but my husband mentioned him frequently enough in the old days. Treyford is dead, though. He was killed many years ago while still a young man.”
“Do you know anything else about him?” Hero pressed. “Was he married? Is there a widow might consult? Any children?”
Mrs Glentworth thought about that and then shook her head. “I do not believe so. In the early days, my husband made several references to the fact that Treyford was too devoted to his researches to be bothered with the demands of a wife and family.” She sighed. “Indeed, I believe he was quite envious of Treyford’s freedom from such obligations.”
“Did your husband make any other comments about Treyford?” Hero asked.
“He used to say that Lord Treyford was far and away from the most brilliant of their little group. He once told me that if Treyford had lived, England might have had its second Newton.”
“I see,” Hero said.
“They thought themselves so clever, you know.” Mrs Glentworth clasped her hands very tightly in her lap. Some of her anger returned to her face. “They were sure that they would all change the world with their experiments and their elevated conversations about science. But what good did their study of natural philosophy do, I ask you? None at all. And now they’re all gone, aren’t they?”
“So it seems,” Josephine said quietly.
Hero put down his unfinished tea. “You have been very helpful, Mrs Glentworth. If you will excuse us, we must be on our way. I will have my man of affairs call upon you at once to settle the business of the house and your creditors.”
“Except for her, of course,” Mrs Glentworth concluded harshly. “She’s still alive. Outlived them all, didn’t she?”
Josephine was very careful not to look at Hero. She was aware that he was standing just as still as she was.
“She?” Hero repeated without inflexion.
“I always thought of her as some sort of sorceress.” Mrs Glentworth’s voice was low and grim. “Perhaps she really did place a curse on them. Wouldn’t have put it past her.”
“I don’t understand,” Josephine said. “Was there a lady among your husband’s circle of close acquaintances all those years ago?”
Another wave of anger flashed across Mrs Glentworth’s face. “They called her their Goddess of Inspiration. My husband and his friends never missed her Wednesday afternoon salons in the old days. When she summoned them, they rushed to her townhouse. Sat about drinking port and brandy and talking of natural philosophy as though they were all great, learned men. Trying to impress her, I suspect.”
“Who was she?” Hero asked.
Mrs Glentworth was so lost in her unpleasant memories that she seemed confused by the question. “Why, Lady Wilmington, of course. They were all her devoted slaves. Now they are all dead, and she is the only one left. A rather odd twist of fate, is it not?”
Hero
A short time later Hero handed Josephine up into the carriage. His mind was occupied with the information that Mrs Glentworth had just given them. That did not stop him from appreciating the elegant curve of Josephine’s attractive backside when she leaned over slightly and tightened her skirts to step into the cab.
“You managed to make that visit cost me a pretty penny,” he said mildly, closing the door and sitting down across from her.
“Come now, sir, you know very well that even had I not been present, you would have offered to assist Mrs Glentworth. Admit it.”
“I admit nothing.” He settled back into the seat and turned his attention to the conversation that had just been concluded in the shabby little parlour. “The fact that Glentworth died in a laboratory accident only a few weeks after my great-uncle was murdered indicates that the killer may have struck not twice but three times.”
“Glentworth, your great-uncle, and Zach.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts as though she had felt a sudden chill. “Perhaps this mysterious Lady Wilmington will be able to tell us something of value. Are you acquainted with her, sir?”
“No, but I intend to remedy that state of affairs this very afternoon, if possible.”
“Ah, yes, just as you did with Mrs Glentworth.”
“Indeed.”
“Your title and wealth certainly have one or two useful advantages.”
“They open doors so that I may ask questions.” He shrugged. “But unfortunately they do not guarantee that I will get honest answers.”
Nor were they enough to win a lady who was determined to go into trade, maintain her independence and live her life on her terms, he thought.