“No fucking way! The gun is more than a yard away from him.”
“Mr. Dawes came in when Mr. Goldsten was about ter pull the trigger. He ran over ter stop him, ter knock the gun out of his hand—but he was a second too late.”
“Shit, shit.” She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.Did I do this? I pushed and pushed . . .“Mr. Dawes saw Goldsten kill himself.” She looked at the apprentice. He’d buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
“Aye. The poor lad’s torn up. Terrible thing ter witness.”
Kendra pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to think. “He—Goldsten told me to meet him here at ten,” she said, lowering her hand to level a hard look at the Bow Street Runner. “He was ready to talk!”
Sam said nothing.
She turned to the apprentice. “What happened, Mr. Dawes?”
“I told Mr. Kelly everything,” he mumbled without looking up.
“You need to tell me.” She realized Dawes was still wearing his heavy wool greatcoat. “When did you arrive, Mr. Dawes? Did Mr. Goldsten say anything to you when you came in?” She waited. Impatience sharpened her tone as she prompted, “Mr. Dawes?”
“Lass, he’s in shock—”
“He’s training to be a surgeon!” she snapped.Damn it. She forced herself to take a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kelly, but if he can’t handle what happened, I’d hate for him to operate on me in an emergency.”
Dawes lifted his head to glare at her. Tears ran down his face. “He was myfriend!”
“Then tell me what happened.” But she softened her tone. “When you arrived this morning, what was Mr. Goldsten doing?”
“H-he just finished operating on a midshipman that had been shot in the leg. I went over to observe the procedure . . .” Dawes gulped, more tears spilling over. “This is terrible. A terrible loss.”
“How was he? Was he behaving oddly? Was he upset?”
“He must have been. Oh, God, he must have been. He wouldn’t have done what he did otherwise.” He wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve. “I-it was terrible. More terrible than I could ever have imagined.”
Sam rummaged through the desk and found a bottle of gin.Secret stash?Kendra wondered. More likely, the nineteenth century’s answer to anesthesia.
Uncorking the bottle, Sam brought it over to Dawes. “Here, lad.”
“Tell me what he did when he finished the surgery,” Kendra said.
The apprentice took a swig of gin, choked and gasped, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. “He stopped to examine a few more patients and gave us instructions . . . . He told us that he needed a moment. He came in here, shut the door. I-I was . . . I couldn’t believe it when I followed him in and saw the gun in his hand. Then—oh, God—he . . . h-he pressed it to his head.” Dawes squeezed his eyes closed, sucked in a long, shuddery breath. “He looked at me. I think I shouted. Told him to stop. Stop! It happened so fast. I ran toward him. I ran, dear heaven. And he shot himself.”
“Did he say anything to you when you opened the door?”
“I . . . no. I don’t think so. I was so shocked. I tried to get to the weapon. That’s all I could think.Get the pistol.” Dawes opened his eyes and lifted the bottle of gin, grimacing as he took another gulp. His face was no longer deathly pale, but flushed a rosy pink.
Kendra asked, “Why did you go after him, Mr. Dawes?”
The apprentice did a slow blink. “What?”
“He asked for a moment of privacy, but you didn’t give him that moment. Why?”
“I . . .”Dawes’ gaze slid over to where Goldsten’s body was sprawled. He visibly shuddered. It seems so ridiculous now.”
“What’s ridiculous?”
“I wanted to do a rotation at St. George’s this afternoon. I needed Mr. Goldsten’s permission. I was scheduled to work here.”
Kendra kept her gaze on him. “It’s normal for you to do rotations at St. George’s?”
He frowned. “Yes, of course. Everyone here puts in time at St. George’s, including Mr. Goldsten.”
