Murder on Charles Street - Leighann Dobbs Page 0,42

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 happened 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