Chapter 33
Throngs of men—apprentices and patients alike—were huddled outside the door to Goldsten’s laboratory. Kendra bulldozed her way through, earning a few grunts and annoyed exclamations.
“Son of a bitch.” The profanity was torn from her as soon as she crossed the threshold and her gaze landed on the surgeon sprawled on his back on the floor.
Goldsten’s eyes were open and glassy. A pistol lay at least a foot away.
A black hole drilled into his right temple.
Blood congealed on the floor and spotted Goldsten’s cheek.
Sam was standing with two other men in front of a seated man. Kendra glimpsed red hair and a face pale enough to fit in with the patients in the ward. The man’s expression was blank, his eyes pinpricks of shock.
“What the hell happened?” she demanded furiously.
Sam stepped over to her. “Self-murder.”
“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 my friend!”
“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.”
“Are you assigned to a particular doctor when you do your rotations?”
“What does that have to do . . . with this?” His hand trembled as he gestured to the body.
“Do you have a problem answering the question, Mr. Dawes?”
A spark of annoyance lit his eyes. “Of course not. I usually assist Mr. Dandridge, Mr. Burnell, and Sir Preston. But it depends on what is happening at the hospital, and who requires assistance.”
She waited a beat, then said, “You have blood on your hands, Mr. Dawes.”
He lifted his palms, surveying the specks of blood like he’d never seen them before, and shivered. “Hazard of this profession, I’m afraid.” His breath hitched a little. “I knew he was gone, but I still tried to . . . tried to save him.”
The door opened, and Kendra glanced at Alec and Dr. Munroe as they came into the room. Alec walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Dr. Munroe and I had just finished at the inquest when he got Mr. Kelly’s note.” He took in the scene. “Suicide?”
“Aye,” Sam answered, and looked at Munroe with concern. “I didn’t think before, but maybe we should call in someone else—”
“Nonsense.” Munroe’s tone was brusque. Kendra saw more than grief on his face. Anger tightened his features, burned in his eyes. He hunched down to examine the dead man. “I want to be involved, Mr. Kelly.”
Sam shifted uneasily on his feet. “Aye. Well, it’s pretty clear what happened, even if we didn’t have an eyewitness to confirm it. But we’ll need you for the inquest, doctor. And you, Mr. Dawes.”
Munroe pointed at the ugly bullet hole. “The stellate shape around the wound indicates that the barrel was pressed directly against his skin when the gun was fired.”
Kendra nodded. She’d already noted the injury’s star-burst pattern.
“I don’t understand this.” Munroe slowly rose to his feet and looked to Kendra. “Why would he kill himself?”
Kendra had one answer, and it made her feel sick.
“May I . . . go?” Dawes ran a trembling hand through his red hair, leaving it in unruly tufts. “I’ve told you everything . . .”
Sam nodded. “Aye. I’ll let you know when the inquest is.”
Dawes nodded as he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled unsteadily to the door. Kendra felt a little unsteady herself.
“Kendra—” Alec began, but she put up a hand to stop him.
“It’s my fault,” she whispered. Bile rose up in her throat, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “I pressured him last night. He wasn’t ready to talk, but I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t care.”
“You think he knew who killed Lady Westford, but never said anything?” Sam asked.
Kendra shook her head. “I think he suspected, and was doing his best to pretend otherwise.”
“But why?” the Bow Street Runner insisted. “And why would he blow out his brains before talkin’ ter you, lass?”
Kendra pressed a fisted hand to her roiling stomach as she answered, “Last night, he told me how difficult it’s been for him to become accepted in the medical community because he’s Jewish. He was afraid he’d be ostracized and lose everything he’d worked for.”
“His fear was justified.” Munroe sounded weary.
“Many voiced their reservations about allowing Mr. Goldsten into St. George’s.
Dr. Carter was the loudest in his objections.
He’s fond of saying that if the hospital lowered its standards to permit Jews to practice medicine, then we might as well open the doors to women. ”
Kendra wasn’t surprised. The old geezer was against the freaking stethoscope.
“Sir Preston advocated for Mr. Goldsten to join both St. George’s and the Metamorphosis Club,” Munroe continued. “Mr. Goldsten never gave into the naysayers. How could he have done this? This?”
“I’ve known men who put a bullet in their brain after losing everything at the gaming tables,” Alec murmured. “They couldn’t face their families after what they’d done. If Mr. Goldsten truly believed he’d lose everything . . .”
That brought up an excellent point. Kendra turned to Munroe. “Does Mr. Goldsten have family?”
“He has a mother and a sister. They live in Fulham “
“They’ll have to be notified and questioned,” Kendra said as she crossed the room to Goldsten’s desk. “Maybe he said something to them recently about his suspicions.”
“I’ll do it,” Sam said, watching her as she sifted through the papers and books. “What are you doing, lass?”
“Looking to see if he left a note.”
In truth, suicide notes were rare and never gave the family closure. More often than not, the notes involved only instructions to mundane chores. But it could be useful.
Slamming a drawer shut, she sighed. “It doesn’t look like he did.”
“Maybe he left it in his home,” Sam said. “We’ll keep our peepers out.”
Kendra nodded, and let her gaze drift back to Goldsten’s body and the gun that lay a few feet away. She had to fight against another wave of nausea, and the rush of guilt that came with it. What have I done?
“Kendra,” Alec murmured, touching her arm again.
“I’m okay.” She wasn’t. But this wasn’t the time to fall apart.
She steeled her spine and followed Munroe and Sam out of the laboratory. In the ward, the handful of apprentices looked lost, baffled, and scared. Dawes, she noted, was gone. Mr. Beane had taken charge, issuing orders and hurrying from patient to patient. When he spotted them, he jogged over.
“This is dreadful, just dreadful,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to do. Andrew—Mr. Dawes and I are the senior apprentices here, but we’re still learning from Mr. Goldsten.” He swallowed and looked at Munroe. “What do I do?”
“Continue as you are,” Munroe replied. “After I’m done at Bow Street, I shall go to St. George’s and see if I can find another surgeon to offer you instruction and guidance. If no one is available, I shall do it myself.”
Relief flooded the young man’s face. “Thank you, Dr. Munroe.”
Kendra asked, “Were you here when Mr. Goldsten arrived this morning?”
“Yes. I assisted him in removing a lead ball from a patient’s leg. Nothing seemed amiss. I cannot believe he . . . he did what he did!”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He certainly didn’t say what he planned to do!” Mr. Beane scrubbed his palms over his face. “My God. We were shocked when we heard the gunshot.”
“What did you do then?”
“What did we do? We—all of us—ran to the laboratory and . . . and saw what we did.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“Mr. Goldsten on the floor. Andrew was down beside him. He was shaking, crying. He said . . . he said that he tried to stop him. It was awful.” Mr. Beane blinked, then glanced away for a long moment.
“It was all so normal,” he whispered on a ragged breath. He brought his gaze back to them, the expression in them dark and shattered. “I swear everything was normal . . . until it wasn’t.”