They came to a shop. In a niche above the door was a plaster head, mouth open, eyes screwed shut. A silent howl. They went in. It was an apothecary’s, a druggist’s. Strange stinks, glass-fronted cupboards, big brass scales, small brass scales. The woman began a conversation with a much smaller woman whose shop it was or who was minding it. After a few minutes, Lacroix was waved forward.

“You can understand me if I speak English?” asked the small woman. She had an accent. German, Dutch.

He nodded. She sat him on a chair under a window and probed his head. She had him open his mouth and pull up his shirt. She was very thorough.

“You will heal,” she said, when she had finished.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I will give you something for the pain. Then you must go home and rest. One week in bed.”

“Are you German?” he asked.

“Polish,” she said. “You know Polish people?”

He shook his head, blinked away the images.

“I will make you something,” she said. “You have had laudanum before?”

“Lord . . . ?”

“Laudanum.” She went to the counter, ducked down behind it and stood again with a large stoppered jar of ruby liquor in her hands. “I use only Turkish opium,” she said. “Very pure.”

He watched her decant some of the liquor into a bottle of ribbed glass about the size of his index finger.

“And I add licorice root so it is not so bitter.” She corked the bottle. “Here you have enough for two weeks.” She brought it to him. He had found in the slit pocket of his coat one of the pound notes he had kept there so as not to have all his money in his boots. The gang had either not searched him or had not found the pocket. He was glad he had done something right. He held out the note to her.

The druggist looked at it. “She said you had nothing.”

“Not nothing,” he said.

She went to look for change. She did not have enough change so made up another bottle of laudanum. “Now you have a month,” she said.

Some of the change he gave to the woman to pay for his room. He thought she had preferred him when he was destitute. A man with a pound note was perhaps less interesting. She whistled to a boy, one of those who stood about in the street waiting for an errand. She gave him instructions. The boy looked at Lacroix, his face, his feet. “He will take you to where you can buy some boots,” said the woman.

He thanked her. He did not want her to go. “You have been kind,” he said. She nodded to him; it was the conclusion of their business together and he watched her walk away, the hunch of her prizefighter’s shoulders under the net of the shawl. The boy tugged at his sleeve. “Yes,” said Lacroix. “Yes.”