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

by Leighann Dobbs

  Despite the reflection on the glass, something beyond tickled Katherine’s senses. Movement? She gasped. Someone had come to visit her at last!

  Chapter Nineteen

  For an impossibly long moment, Katherine met Wayland’s gaze. Panic welled inside her, mounting with every one of Emma’s barks. Katherine pressed her hand to her mouth and rushed toward the sound. Her forgetfulness lasted for one step before pain shot up her ankle to her knee. She gasped as she lost her balance and reeled. Her leg wouldn’t hold her. She fell. Wayland caught her, holding her beneath her arms to lever her back to her feet. She leaned against him, panting and grimacing as she focused through the renewed haze of pain. Had she injured herself all over again?

  At this point, it didn’t matter. She pulled away from him and hobbled close to the window, squinting to look through. Who had arrived? Tarnation! She couldn’t hear over Emma’s barking. She glanced over her shoulder, motioning at the dog with her hand. In the loudest whisper she dared, she hissed, “Silence her. Quick, before she scares away the suspect!”

  She didn’t wait to see whether or not Wayland obeyed her. Instead, she swung back to the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes to peer through it again. The shadowy figure on her doorstep solidified. It was familiar… Dr. Gammon’s son!

  The knocker resounded through the house—three sharp and polite raps. Katherine sucked on her inner cheek. She hadn’t expected an intruder arriving to steal Dr. Gammon’s notes to knock. She’d thought they would break in and steal the notes so as not to be noticed. This did put a confusing spin on things, but why else would Dr. Gammon’s son be here? The trap had been set, and the killer would surely want to come to see what she had as evidence. It had been two days already since they’d started the rumors. Katherine was certain this was the killer.

  She didn’t have time to marvel at the peculiarity of it. Instead, she limped across the room to fall into the armchair. Wayland carried Emma, rocking her like a newborn babe. Katherine waved her hands at him, shooing him away. “Hide.”

  He frowned. “I don’t want to leave you alone with a murderer.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she bit out. “Hide in the next room over if you must, but I have no place in here to hide you.” The lack of furnishings should have been proof enough of that.

  Harriet bustled into the room with the tea service, looking confused. “I’ll get the door.”

  “Don’t leave that here,” Katherine snapped. “It will look as though I’m entertaining. And we cannot have the murderer thinking that someone else is here, who can protect me.” She met Wayland’s gaze, not above begging. This might be her last chance to contribute to the investigation at all, what with her ankle. “Please, Wayland. He’ll never confess if you’re here. You’re far too imposing.”

  He hesitated for only a moment before he deposited Emma on the floor and took possession of the tea service. His gaze was hard as he looked at her. “I’ll be in the next room, listening in. Speak loudly.”

  She nodded, relief sweeping through her as he left her alone. Harriet turned, looking vaguely irritated as she left the room and crossed to the front door. Katherine held her breath, cocking her ear to listen.

  The male voice was too low for her to make out any words, but she heard Harriet’s answer as clear as a sunny day. “In the parlor. I’ll fetch tea.”

  She’d best dawdle. Katherine needed to finagle a confession out of the man.

  Mr. Gammon stepped into the room, his hat between his hands. His gaze darted around the interior, taking note of Katherine’s few possessions. He didn’t comment on them. Nevertheless, there was something in the set of his shoulders and the way he didn’t meet her gaze that bespoke of his nervousness. Gorge rose in the back of Katherine’s throat—she was more and more certain that he was the murderer, afraid she had found him out. Had this truly been a wise decision? Desperate men performed unthinkable actions.

  Wayland was waiting in the next room. If Katherine shouted, he would barge in without a second thought. And he was a captain, no doubt skilled in overpowering other men. Even with her ankle, she would be safe. From deeper in the house, Emma barked. Katherine missed her dog’s steadying presence.

  She forged on nevertheless. “Mr. Gammon, how odd to see you here at this hour.”

  He offered her a flighty smile that grazed his lips for only a moment. “I’m terribly sorry for the late hour. My day was filled with surgeries. I couldn’t come sooner.” At that, he lapsed into silence. He didn’t sit down.

  “You seem nervous. Is something worrying you?”

  He turned his hat in his hands, examining it from all angles.

  Katherine leaned forward, raising her voice and pressing further. “Perhaps some of the notes your father kept?”

  He shot her a nervous glance and took to pacing. Almost absently, he answered, “My father helped a lot of people. No doubt he kept many notes.”

  That wasn’t the confession she’d hoped to hear. She raised her voice a smidge more, hoping that he, too, would speak louder for their audience. “Is that why you reacted so angrily when you found me in your father’s house? I have to wonder if there is something you didn’t want me to see.”

  Mr. Gammon’s eyebrows knitted together, and he sank onto the loveseat, his shoulders slumping. He stared at the hat in his hands as if he had never seen one before. “My father…” His voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “My father was a good man.”

  The grief he showed was genuine. He certainly wasn’t acting like she would have expected a murderer to act, not if he had hoped to strip her of the evidence she had found. Not to mention, he didn’t act as cold or cruel toward her as he had when he found her in Dr. Gammon’s house. If he’d killed his father, wouldn’t he be more aggressive?

  Perhaps it was all an act and she needed to prod him along. All men could be pushed to their breaking points, but she wasn’t often in the same room long enough to do it herself. “Your father was my friend. I know he had an important matter on his mind, and… I fear it might have hastened his death.”

  Mr. Gammon shut his eyes. He swallowed audibly, even from halfway across the room.

  Why wasn’t he demanding the evidence? But he kept his distance. Was he waiting for Harriet to return so he could overpower them at the same time? Perhaps he didn’t want Katherine’s screams to tip Harriet off, lest she come running in with a weapon.

  But he didn’t look like a man about to resort to violent means in order to steal the evidence against him. He looked defeated. Perhaps he had killed his father by mistake and regretted it.

  She lowered her voice to a more sympathetic tone, no longer keen on airing his misdeeds to everyone listening. “Sometimes our own selfish needs take precedence over those of a good man. Is that why you made certain I wouldn’t search his house?”

  He shot her the briefest of glances, an ugly emotion twisting his face. “I could not bear it if my father’s reputation was to be sullied now. When I met you, I didn’t know of your intentions. Some gossiping neighbors prefer to drag anyone they can through the mud for their own entertainment.”

  Was he referring to Mrs. Ramsey? She’d been curious, but certainly not as malicious as he made her out to be. Could he be referencing someone Katherine had never met? She frowned. “And that’s why you’ve come tonight—to make certain I don’t follow through and discover exactly why your father died?”

  Mr. Gammon rubbed his temples. He didn’t answer. The gesture and laden silence was answer enough in itself.

  Raising her voice again, Katherine said, “I think it might be best if you confessed.”

  His head shot up like a startled alley cat’s. “Confess? To what?”

  “Confess to your part in your father’s death. Tell me why you killed your father.”

  He stood, his free hand balling and his hat dangling limply at his side. “I didn’t kill my father!”

  Katherine frowned. “Isn’t that why you came here tonight? Becaus
e you heard I had his notes, which might compromise his reputation and reveal his killer?”

  Mr. Gammon turned away. “No. I came to ask…” He made a strangled sound and paced the length of the room. Almost choked, he admitted, “I came to ask after Miss Ball’s circumstances.”

  Katherine opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She closed it, swallowing to call some moisture into her mouth before she managed, “Miss Ball’s circumstances?”

  He turned to her, his expression conflicted. “Yes. Her circumstances. You are her matchmaker, are you not?”

  Slowly, Katherine nodded.

  If anything, the confirmation seemed to chase more fear into the man. He clutched his hat in a white-knuckled grip. “I’m aware that I’m grieving the death of my father, and this is no time to seek out a wife. But…” He rubbed at his temple again. “And I’m aware that I haven’t as much to offer as the sort of man you’re likely introducing to a woman of her breeding. I have no great wealth, no title, scarcely any fame—and that only in a small circle from my surgeries.” He looked up, meeting Katherine’s gaze with a look that seemed almost pained, but heartfelt. “But, Lady Katherine, I like her a great deal. She… soothes me. That’s a quality in a woman that I hadn’t thought precious until now. Will you consider my suit of her despite my circumstances?”

  Katherine had only seen a man so earnest once. That had been when Lord Annandale cornered her and asked her to commend him, rather than Wayland, to Pru. It felt like so long ago that it was laughable. But at the time, Lord Annandale had had that same smitten expression on his face. Despite his wealth and title, he’d been as uncertain of his reception. Katherine couldn’t help but soften when she faced a man so obviously in love.

  Gently, she suggested, “Perhaps you ought to ask Miss Ball. She’s an intelligent woman capable of forming her own preferences. If you truly feel that way about her, perhaps she returns those feelings.”

  Mr. Gammon started to jam the hat on his head before he realized that he was still in mixed company. He lowered it to his side again, seeming lost. “Yes, I will ask her, of course. But I suppose now that you brought it up, I should also talk to you about my father and those notes you have.”

  A chill crawled down Katherine’s spine. Had she just given her blessing to a murderer?

  His expression hardened. “Not because I killed my father, but because I must beg you not to make those papers public. If you truly were his friend, you’ll protect his reputation.”

  Katherine frowned. What was he nattering on about? “I don’t understand. Someone killed your father over the details in those papers.”

  Mr. Gammon grimaced, looking even more forlorn. “I believe you have that wrong.”

  His words rang in the room then faded slowly before he explained himself. “Yes, my father was worried. And yes, something in those pages likely caused his death, but I don’t think it was by the hand of some nefarious murderer. I want to beg you not to make those papers public so as to keep his reputation unharmed. Because, you see…” He jammed the hat on his head like armor, not looking at her. “I knew something worried him, but I didn’t pry deep enough. Whatever it was… it must have been horrible, because I believe it caused him to kill himself.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Dr. Gammon cannot have killed himself.” Of that, Katherine was absolutely certain. Her friends, gathered once more in her drawing room, did not seem as convinced. However, they hadn’t known Dr. Gammon. She had. Hadn’t he been singing life’s praises the evening she’d gone to see him? He had been so full of life and veracity, so eager to help. But he’d also insisted that she didn’t need to pay him… and Katherine had more than enough money to do so, unlike his other clients.

  No. He could not have done so.

  Hesitantly, Pru hazarded, “Perhaps Mr. Gammon was attempting to throw you off his trail. He might be the killer after all and was trying to allay suspicion.”

  Katherine pressed her lips together and shook her head. After Mr. Gammon had told her his suspicion that his father killed himself, she’d asked dozens of questions of him in order to rule him out. “I asked him where he was the night of his father’s death. He told me he was at the Picked Plum. I understand that is some sort of gaming house?”

  Lord Annandale nodded. “Aye. ’Tis one of the establishments we frequented in search of his debts.”

  “Do they all have such trite names?”

  Next to her, on the chair he had insisted on leaving at Katherine’s house, Wayland chuckled. He jostled Emma on his knee, and she shoved her head under his hand to be petted.

  Katherine asked, “Did you happen to confirm his whereabouts the night of the murder while you were there?”

  Lord Annandale hesitated. He glanced toward his fiancée before reluctantly shaking his head. “I’m afraid it did nae occur to me. We were there searching out his motive, not his whereabouts.”

  Katherine bit the inside of her cheek. He should have been doing both. This was why she needed her ankle to heal quickly—so she could do the investigating herself. Lord Annandale’s head was simply not in it, not with the wedding drawing ever nearer.

  Pru interjected, laying a hand on her fiancé’s knee. “If need be, he can return and ask the proprietor if anyone saw Mr. Gammon on that night. Then we’ll know once and for all whether or not he might have killed his father.”

  Katherine leaned back in her chair, worrying her lower lip as she thought. Between the pain in her ankle and the excitement of the evening, she’d barely slept a wink. It made her faculties fuzzy as she tried to piece together what they knew.

  “I don’t believe Mr. Gammon killed his father. He was worried that his father’s reputation will be ruined if this grand secret got out and people thought he’d killed himself. I think his grief was genuine.”

  Standing by the window, looking out, Lyle made a wordless sound. He stood near to the empty chair that McTavish had occupied these past two nights but didn’t sit. Lord Annandale had informed her that McTavish was dead on his feet after staying up two nights in a row and had been left at home to recover.

  Harriet looked as though she had risen from the dead in order to wait upon them during this meeting. She snapped, “Will you sit down?”

  At her voice, Lyle turned from the window. He seemed to return to himself and surveyed the group. “Katherine, I thought you told me you were near to solving the case. That’s why you brought me here? To inform me of an imminent arrest?”

  Her face heated. In truth, she had simply wanted Lyle’s input on the matter. However, he was so busy of late that he didn’t seem to be present in the room even when he was standing in front of her.

  “Haven’t you been listening? I’d like your input.” She mumbled her words, but he seemed to hear her nevertheless. He dragged McTavish’s chair closer to the group and sat, completing the ring around the lit hearth.

  “I heard that our victim might have killed himself.”

  Katherine ground her teeth. “He did not. He had no motive to do so.”

  Lyle raised his eyebrows. “What of those papers you say he’s been worrying over?”

  So he had been paying some attention, after all. Reluctantly, Katherine admitted, “Mr. Gammon confirmed that his father was worried over one of his past patients, but I assure you he was not worried enough to kill himself.”

  Wayland hummed in his throat. “So Mr. Gammon simply wanted the notes so as to protect his father’s reputation, but why have none of the other suspects come to retrieve the notes?”

  Katherine tapped the toe of her uninjured foot on the wooden floor. “Perhaps they haven’t heard the rumor yet.”

  Harriet nodded, scrubbing her face. “If Lord Westing’s daughter lives out of town, she would not have heard so soon. Word travels fast, but not that fast, not with the roads so treacherous of late.”

  Spring could not come soon enough for Katherine.

  Pru asserted, “I still think Mr. Gammon might be lying. You’re trustin
g him altogether too quickly.”

  Lord Annandale shrugged and laid his hand over Pru’s, still on his knee. “It might be that Lord Westing’s daughter hired someone to perform the chore for her.”

  “And let’s not forget about Dr. Sumner,” Wayland interjected. He scratched Emma behind the ears, looking at everyone solemnly as he recounted, “If you recall, I wasn’t able to find him anywhere in London. He must be eschewing society. And why?”

  “He might be ill,” Pru suggested.

  Blearily, Harriet mumbled, “A physician?”

  “They’re certain to find themselves sick from time to time.”

  Wayland suggested, “It’s possible he left town because he killed Dr. Gammon. And if that’s true, we might never find him. I can send out more searchers, but this will take time.”

  Why was he staring at her when he said that, as if he hoped for her approval? She gave him a hesitant nod, unable to meet his gaze. Last night, in her drawing room…

  She was tired. Surely, he hadn’t been about to kiss her. She was fabricating that encounter, along with the last. Or perhaps in some deep recess of her mind, she wanted him to, and that was what she was seeing—inclinations that did not exist. She pressed her lips together, turning her face away and stilling her foot.

  Lyle cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “There is one other possibility to consider.”

  “What is that?” She leaned forward, eager to glean what Lyle had to say. She’d known she must have been missing something, some subtle clue that would lead her directly to the murderer.

  Solemnly, her friend answered, “That Dr. Gammon truly did kill himself.”

  The words rang in Katherine’s ears. She shook her head, rejecting it. “No. I’ve already told you that he was very much looking forward to living when I spoke to him that night.”

  Gently, Lyle said, “People often say that and then take their own lives anyway. You forget, I see this sort of thing all the time.” He checked off evidence on his fingers. “We found no signs of a struggle, no signs of forced entry. Dr. Gammon was worried about something, and now we know that he might have caused Lord Westing’s death.” He lifted his hand as proof. “Perhaps his guilty conscious gnawed on him all night so much that he could not bear to live any longer.”