Away in a Manger by Rhys Bowen Page A

The stupid Italian gang. Daniel had warned his fellow officers that they were not to be trifled with, neither could they be stamped out. But nobody had listened to him and it had cost him … The sister stood up, her head cocked like a bird’s. “Ah, that sounds like horses’ hooves,” she said. “That will be them now. And our doctors here are first-rate. So don’t you worry. They’ll save him if anyone can.”
    I followed her out to a side entrance and watched the ambulance come to a halt under the portico, the two horses’ breath still coming like smoke and their flanks steaming. Two orderlies had come out to open the back door of the wagon. The driver climbed down from his perch. “Policemen,” he said. “Been shot.”
    I hung back. The orderlies climbed inside the wagon and then one of them jumped down and between them out came a stretcher, and it was covered in a white cloth.
    â€œDidn’t make it,” the orderly said as the driver came around to assist. “Looks like he was shot through the heart. Nothing we could do. I think he was killed outright on the spot.”
    I put my hand to my mouth to stifle the sob. I was shaking all over now, vaguely aware that the sister had put an arm around me. “You’d better come inside out of the cold,” she said.
    â€œPut that stretcher down and give me a hand with the other one,” someone shouted from within the wagon. “We need to get him into the operating theater before he loses any more blood.”
    They scrambled back into the wagon and lowered a second stretcher. I saw Daniel’s dark curls, his face deathly white, one hand hanging lifelessly over the side of the stretcher. I shook myself free of the sister and ran up to him.
    â€œDaniel, my darling. It’s me, your Molly is here. You’re going to be just fine,” I babbled as I walked beside them.
    â€œStand out of the way, please, ma’am,” one of the stretcher-bearers said. “We’re taking him into surgery. You can’t come with us.”
    One of them had opened double doors. I caught a glimpse of a long white corridor stretching away.
    â€œDaniel, I love you,” I called. The doors swung shut behind them. The sister led me to a waiting room and brought me another cup of tea. Other people were sitting around the walls, but in truth I hardly noticed them. I could not say how many or how old they were. They were just a vague blur of color against the pale green of the walls and the gray linoleum on the floor. It was horribly cold and the disinfectant smell wafted in from the corridor. I couldn’t stop shaking and the teacup rattled against the saucer in my hand. Did people survive gunshot wounds? I had been there when President McKinley had been shot. He had lived for a few days and then died anyway.
    Daniel’s tough. I repeated the constable’s words. He’ll make it if anyone can. The clock on the wall ticked annoyingly loudly. Feet tapped up and down hallways, just out of sight. Other people were called out of the room until there were just one or two of us, sitting wrapped in our own cocoons of misery. Time dragged on, minute after painful minute. Then finally I heard heavier footsteps approaching. A man in a white coat appeared—a young man with red hair and a freckled face, looking ridiculously young to be a doctor.
    â€œMrs. Sullivan?” he said.
    I jumped to my feet. “Is he…?” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
    â€œYour husband is a lucky man,” he said. “The bullet passed through his shoulder, just missing his heart and his lungs. It went clear through him and out the other side. So we didn’t even have to dig around to find it.” He even smiled. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but we’ve patched him up and dressed the wound and with any luck he’ll be fine.”
    A great sob escaped from my throat. I put my hand