We walked together towards the bridge, while those around us fell back as if afraid of the weight of guilt they believed I carried. The sky was still grey, the river little brighter than the surface of a rusty sword. A chill wind swept along its surface, and although this was nothing to the winds which blow so fierce in the Hindu Kush that they carve rock before one's eyes, it was in keeping with the drabness of a drab town. In England, bless it, everything works on a smaller scale.

"You are a gentleman," he said.

When a man says that he means he considers you his equal. I found this idea amusing, although I was careful to keep that from reaching my face. As a young man I walked through the aftermath of the massacre of Meerut, my skin stained with walnut juice and let not a single sight disturb the calm that carried me through crowds of rioting sepoys.

"Indeed," I said. "A gentleman and a soldier."

"And a man of comfortable means."

I was about to object but saw his eyes slide across my loaden coat, which was lined with green silk. So instead of objecting, I muttered something non-committal, quintessentially English.

"This is difficult," he said. "Very delicate."

At that point, I was meant to ask why it was difficult. He waited and I waited some more.

"Very difficult," he added, as we turned back towards the press of people. "I'll be blunt. You're a gentleman and this is a dreadful accident. It is my best opinion that this man will die. I am sure someone has already sent for the police."

This I privately doubted, since the crowd were far too busy being shocked to do anything that useful.

"I can ease things," he said. "Let the patient be moved to my surgery. I will undertake to treat him."

"But he will still die?"

"Oh yes," said the fat little man. "Nothing I can do will stop that." He paused, with the manner of someone considering how far to risk his reputation. "I can, however, delay slightly in announcing his death. I will mention complications, the poorness of his constitution, perhaps even suggest a certain unsoundness in his mode of life."

"A more deserving man would have lived?"

"Indeed." The little man nodded, delighted at my quickness of wit. "There will be costs," he said. "Minor outlays. I can see the poor wretch's family on your behalf, maybe give his wife a few guineas towards a Christian burial and the keep of her children. My own fees will be modest."

Raising my eyebrows, I waited.

The sum he named would have bought a town in Odessa.

"All in." he added hastily. "As would include my fees, outlay for his widow, a burial... Such a tragic accident," he repeated, shaking his head. For one hideous moment I feared the man was about to begin his spiel all over again, for we were nearing the crowd and the last thing I wanted was to waste more time on fainting women and chicken's blood sponges.