Murder on Charles Street (Lady Katherine Regency Mysteries Book 5)

by Leighann Dobbs

  Katherine shook out her cloak, despite the fact that it had not been snowing for once. She laid it over her arm as Harriet set aside her mending and stood. “No need. Lord Penhurst wouldn’t allow his guests to go hungry.”

  Harriet didn’t appear to be listening as she stuffed her basket full of the cloth, thread, and needles she’d been using. She left it in the parlor as she bustled toward Katherine with her arms outstretched to receive Katherine’s cloak. Emma danced after her with an enthusiastic little yap, hurrying to greet Katherine. After divesting herself of her cloak, Katherine knelt to scratch the dog behind the ears.

  “You’ll never believe who I saw there. Dr. Gammon’s son! I thought perhaps if he was occupied, I would do best to search the house next door in case he is due to return.”

  Harriet looked dubious. “This late in the evening?”

  Katherine shrugged as she straightened. “With him, I cannot say, and Mrs. Campbell asked me to return after dark. I’d best go now, while I have the opportunity.”

  Looking a little puzzled, Harriet glanced at the cloak in her arms and held it out for Katherine once more. Katherine batted her away. “Not in these clothes. Can you imagine Mrs. Campbell’s reaction if I showed up in eveningwear? I’ll find something plainer to wear.”

  She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard Harriet mutter under her breath, “All the dresses you wear are plain.”

  Five minutes later, Katherine had exchanged her evening gown for a favorite walking dress. As she glanced out of her bedroom window, she craned her neck to look at the path below. Along the rear edge of each of the houses in this line was a tidy fence and a narrow walkway. Dusk had long since descended, and the light of the lamps out front of every door didn’t stretch to the back. However, as Katherine cupped her hands to the cold glass to see through it, movement caught her eye. The movement was along the path somewhere in the vicinity of Dr. Gammon’s house. Did her eyes deceive her?

  Her instincts clamored as Emma, in one of the lower floors, gave a hearty bark before falling silent. Katherine squinted, but the figure she thought she had seen had melded into the shadows as if it had never been there.

  Who would be walking the path at this hour? Has Mr. Gammon returned already?

  No, it couldn’t be him. He was safely at Lord Penhurst’s exhibition, and considering that he had attended despite his mourning, Katherine didn’t think he would be likely to leave early. Nevertheless, she hastened downstairs toward the rear exit of the house. Harriet met her with a less fancy cloak in the kitchen, along with a plate of vittles she’d put together.

  Katherine smiled to keep from groaning. What were those colorless, speckled balls? As her maid looked at her expectantly, Katherine plucked one from the pile. The very last thing she wanted to do was put it in her mouth. “Lord Penhurst served dinner, and I quite gorged myself. But thank you.”

  If she expected Harriet to remove the tray, she was disappointed. Swallowing hard, Katherine stared at the morsel in her hand as though facing down the gallows. Tentatively, she nibbled at the edge. It tasted like old cheese and some hint of bizarre spice. She swallowed it and smiled, trying not to gag. “Delicious.”

  Harriet beamed. “There will be more when you return. Perhaps you’ll be hungry before bed.”

  “Perhaps,” Katherine answered, her voice thin as she palmed the rest of the concoction. Where was Emma when she needed her? Fortunately, Katherine had an excuse to leave, and she took it, bent on leaving the remainder of the food out in the garden for a wild animal or stray to eat.

  She exited into the night air, grateful for the excuse not to have to eat any more of… whatever that had been. Trying to ignore the sour taste in her mouth, she hastened through the garden and onto the back path leading behind the townhouses.

  She reached Number Four in minutes. Upon her second knock, Mrs. Campbell opened the kitchen door a sliver to peer out. Candlelight filtered from the room beyond, but it lent little heat. She had not built a fire.

  “Mrs. Campbell? Is this a good time?”

  The older woman pulled the door wider and glanced around the yard before ushering Katherine inside. “Mr. Gammon left hours ago. But hurry, make sure no one sees you. I don’t want to get into trouble.”

  “Of course not.” Once inside, Katherine tapped her shoes and chastised herself for once again forgetting to wear pattens. As she tiptoed into the house, she hoped not to leave too many watery footprints along the way.

  “I need to discover where Dr. Gammon kept his papers. Do you happen to know?”

  Mrs. Campbell scooped up a candlestick and ushered Katherine further into the house. “I imagine he kept everything of import in the study.”

  Katherine had searched through nearly everything, save for that last drawer. Nevertheless, she nodded. It was as good a place to look as any. Perhaps this time, she would find something she had missed previously.

  Despite the fact that she knew the way, she followed after Mrs. Campbell up the stairs and into the vacant room. When the old woman hesitated at the door, Katherine touched her elbow. “It’s all right. You don’t have to come in. Give me ten minutes in here, and I’ll let you know if I find what I need.”

  The older woman looked grateful as she thrust the candle into Katherine’s hand. “I’ll return in ten minutes.”

  Truthfully, Katherine preferred to search through the papers without company. She took the candlestick to the desk and laid it atop the gleaming surface as she continued to search the drawers. First, she used her good memory to advantage to make certain none of the other papers had been disturbed. Not to her recollection. When she reached the last drawer, the one she hadn’t opened before Mr. Gammon had evicted her last time, she gave it a tug. It would not budge—locked. Cursing under her breath, Katherine sifted through the other drawers until she found the key. She inserted it and, within moments, found a stack of notes in the drawer. Her heart thrummed a rapid beat in the base of her throat. Could these be the papers that had so concerned Dr. Gammon?

  Reverently, she lifted out the top few pages. As she began to read, she frowned. These weren’t notes at all, but an essay written by someone else that appeared to argue the merits of a new medicine. The essay was dated 1815, and she would have put it aside if her wandering gaze hadn’t lit across the word cherry-laurel. She swallowed hard and brought the paper closer to the halo of light shed by the candle.

  The essay exalted the healing powers of hydrocyanic acid, a by-product of the much more volatile cherry-laurel water. It argued that the acid should be returned to the pharmacopeia and distributed to patients to cure a variety of ailments, including pneumonia. In the margins, Dr. Gammon had added several notes of his own, including one that appeared to be a recipe of sorts. It dictated the dilution of cherry-laurel leaves in very precise amounts.

  Katherine returned the page to the drawer with trembling hands. Lyle had named this as the possible poison. And it seemed Dr. Gammon had kept some on hand for medical purposes. The paper itself called the cherry-laurel water volatile, a kind way of saying it could do more harm than good. Was this a clue of some kind? The handwriting in the margins matched that of Dr. Gammon’s other notes, so he must have made the medicine himself. And it had worked—or so Harriet had found, with their neighbor who had been cured of pneumonia. Somebody had killed Dr. Gammon with his own medicine! Was it possible he’d treated himself with it and taken too much by mistake? No, Dr. Gammon knew exactly how much to give and also the dangers of taking too much as evidenced by his notes in the margin. Katherine was more sure than ever that her friend had been murdered.

  Katherine swallowed hard, pointedly not looking at the vacant chair in the middle of the room. The chair on which she had found Dr. Gammon’s corpse. She couldn’t look in that direction without picturing him there, as peaceful as if in sleep. The chair itself was a reminder that she would never speak with him again.

  Impartial. She must remain impartial if she wanted to discover what had hap
pened to him. And to do that, she needed to find the pages that had so upset him. She had to find his notes on Lord Westing’s treatment.

  She fished through the other notes in the stack, but although there were a great many patients named—including Emma—none of them commented on Lord Westing.

  When Mrs. Campbell cleared her throat in the doorway, Katherine glanced up.

  “Did you find anything?”

  With a weary sigh, Katherine shook her head and replaced the notes. “No. I can’t find the notes Dr. Gammon mentioned. I’m certain they must have concerned Lord Westing, but his treatment isn’t listed in any of these pages.” When she closed the drawer, she locked it and replaced the key where she’d found it. Then, giving the desk a cursory glance to make certain she hadn’t disturbed anything, she collected the candlestick and returned to Mrs. Campbell in the doorway. “Would I be able to search Dr. Gammon’s bedchamber?”

  Mrs. Campbell hesitated then nodded. “I don’t know what you hope to find there. His son has taken nearly everything from that room.”

  “Including Dr. Gammon’s notes?”

  Mrs. Campbell shook her head. “I didn’t see him remove any papers.”

  “Has anyone else been in Dr. Gammon’s files?”

  Again, the older woman shook her head. “No. Nobody.” She turned away. “If you intend to search the bedchamber, come this way. And don’t tarry.”

  As Katherine followed her to the bedchamber, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was destined not to find the notes she sought. Perhaps the killer had taken them the night they had poisoned Dr. Gammon. Lyle had said that the cherry-laurel water would have acted quickly. Perhaps the killer had poisoned his victim, waited for him to die, and then cleaned the dishes and taken the file.

  Or perhaps she was being fanciful, and Mr. Gammon had taken the papers while Mrs. Campbell hadn’t been looking. Nevertheless, Katherine searched through what was left in Dr. Gammon’s bedchamber. There was precious little and no notes of any kind.

  Dejectedly, she surrendered to defeat and left. When the pair reached the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor, Mrs. Campbell ushered her toward the kitchen, back the way she had come. “Mr. Gammon was adamant that no one enter the house. You know Mrs. Ramsey next door? She watches everything on the street. I’m afraid if you go out that way, she’ll see you and report back to Mr. Gammon.” Mrs. Campbell didn’t look at Katherine as she herded her through the house into the kitchen, the candle now in her possession. However, her bearing was stiff, her voice tense. “I’m depending on the money Mr. Gammon has promised me if I take care of the house until everything is settled. I don’t want him to renege on our agreement.”

  “I understand. I have no issue with taking the back way to my house. It isn’t far.”

  Though perhaps Katherine should have taken a light to better make her way. She had traveled down that path so many times that she knew it by rote and by the feel of the fence bordering the path. However, a lantern would have made it easier to navigate the clumps of snow.

  Mrs. Campbell aided her part of the way in that respect by accompanying her into the garden and holding the candle aloft until Katherine reached the gate. Only then, as Katherine slipped out onto the path, did the older woman latch the gate once more and turn away. As she did, the candlelight stretched long fingers over her shoulder and onto the path. Footprints caught Katherine’s gaze before the light swam out of view.

  Footprints? How odd. Who would be out here? During her month’s stay, Katherine hadn’t noticed anyone else use the path. Although, she had seen a figure earlier… Had Mr. Gammon returned and followed her? But why—unless he was hiding something…

  Curious, Katherine stepped toward the footprints she’d seen, hoping that once her eyes adjusted to the dark, she would be able to learn more from them.

  Her slipper flew out from under her on the slick ground. Katherine yelled, spinning her arms for balance as her feet sloshed against a thin layer of moisture over ice. Had it rained while she was inside? She lost the battle with balance and toppled backward, curling her arms around her head, and she catapulted toward the ground. Her ankle wrenched to the side. Searing pain shot up her calf. She screamed.

  A door slammed open, but Katherine barely heard over the thunder in her ears. Tears wetted her cheeks as she reached for her throbbing ankle. Nothing but that shooting pain filled her mind.

  “Lady Katherine?” Mrs. Campbell sounded a mile away.

  The ground trembled from footsteps, but when a shadow fell over her, it was not Mrs. Campbell’s figure above her. The silhouette was that of a man. Katherine held her breath, the pain receding as she held still. Had Dr. Gammon’s killer returned? For her?

  The man knelt next to her. In the growing light of the candle emanating from the nearby house, Katherine recognized his profile. She gasped for breath.

  “Wayland?”

  What in the world was he doing out here?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mrs. Campbell reached Katherine a moment later, as Wayland was trying to urge her into a sitting position. Katherine’s entire body groaned in protest of the movement. Her arm and shoulder throbbed from their contact with the ice. The pain was punctuated by the sharp flares that assaulted her ankle whenever she tried to move.

  Wayland asked, “Can you stand?”

  She opened her mouth, but at that moment, Mrs. Campbell unlatched the gate and dashed out to them.

  “Oh, dear me! Lady Katherine, are you hurt? Don’t move a muscle—I’ll find you a nice poultice to put on your…” Judging by the way she craned her neck behind the beacon of her candle, she was searching Katherine’s body for injury.

  Katherine waved off the suggestion, leaning more on Wayland than she might have usually. Her right arm, which she had landed upon, didn’t want to take her full weight. Despite its weakness, it didn’t hurt overmuch, unlike her ankle.

  “I’m not hurt. Simply shaken. You may return inside, Mrs. Campbell.”

  Katherine was lying through her teeth. Even without trying to stand, she could tell that something was wrong with her ankle. However, the very last thing she wanted was a fetid poultice such as Lord Westing’s maid had worn. Not to mention, she didn’t believe that smearing a few herbs over a twisted ankle would miraculously cure her.

  “Don’t be silly. If you’re hurt, I can help. Dr. Gammon, he…” The older woman’s voice broke.

  Katherine swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I’m not hurt, truly. Go back inside. I’m certain by the time I reach my house, I’ll have walked off the stiffness.”

  Mrs. Campbell looked dubious.

  Wayland, at least, took her at her word. “Let me help you to stand.”

  She noticed he didn’t pull away from the way she leaned against him. Rather, he encircled her back with a steadying arm and clasped her opposite elbow, using himself as a lever to help her regain her feet. She pushed herself upright with her good leg, leaning on him for balance. If he knew the extent to which she used him for a crutch—and he must, for she was no light woman—he didn’t betray her weakness.

  She smiled into Mrs. Campbell’s face. “You see? No harm done.”

  A dark look descended across Mrs. Campbell’s face, one of disbelief. “Are you certain you wish me to leave you in the company of…”

  It hadn’t occurred to Katherine that the older woman hadn’t recognized her companion. Over the past six months, Wayland had become a constant in Katherine’s life. How bizarre that was to think. Prior to her first independent investigation, Wayland had been no more than the name her father used as a curse whenever they crossed paths in a peculiar case.

  “Don’t worry. This is Captain Wayland. He’s a…” What was Wayland to her? After the way their lives had become so enmeshed, with his closest friend betrothing himself to Katherine’s closest friend, the word colleague no longer seemed to apply. “Friend.”

  Wayland’s body next to hers felt like a sheathed sword, hard and capable of le
thal action. Did he not think of her as a friend?

  Katherine fought to keep her expression neutral. “I’m safe with him.” Whatever their relationship to one another, in that she was certain.

  After a moment’s consideration, Mrs. Campbell nodded. “Very well, Lady Katherine. I will cede to your wishes. If you change your mind about that poultice…”

  “I’ll send for you,” Katherine lied.

  Without another word, the housekeeper picked her way back toward the gate, paying careful attention to the ground beneath her feet. If only Katherine had done the same. She grimaced.

  Wayland leaned down, his whisper caressing the shell of her ear. “Can you walk?”

  She tried to regain more of her balance. “Only one way to know for certain.”

  The moment she tried to take a step, leaning weight on her injured foot, white pain enveloped her. When her vision cleared, she gasped for breath and found herself in Wayland’s arms as he took swift steps toward her townhouse. The movement jostled her ankle, sending ripples of pain up her leg with every one of his loping steps. She pressed her lips together. She didn’t have the breath to protest his familiarity.

  At the back door to her townhouse, Wayland pounded on the wood. A flurry of barks emitted from inside. Moments later, Harriet opened the door, breathless. Her eyes widened as she saw who was standing there. “My lady?”

  A flush darkened her skin as she averted her gaze, stepping back and looking anywhere but at the pair. “I… I have some mending to do…” She couldn’t seem to decide where to put her hands.

  His voice short, Wayland explained, “Lady Katherine took a spill. I believe she’s twisted her ankle. Didn’t you hear the scream? She cannot walk.”

  “Oh.” Harriet raised her gaze to Katherine’s face, finally registering the pain sure to be etched there. “Oh. Come with me. I’ll fetch a bandage.”

  Wayland leaned his head closer, his voice almost intimate as he asked, “Where would you like to sit while I examine your ankle? I have some experience with injuries, and I’d like to check for broken bones.”