When I was satisfied that Copsley had carried out his errand I returned to the mare, took the reins in one hand and slid the other into the pannier. Cold iron in there. Not made for the delicate hands of a teacher, but that was fine with me.

The mare, as always, made an ally of herself, stepping gently for home. When we stopped at the high wall around the barracks I took her muzzle and looked into her eye. The world was reflected there in the dark pool: the curving sky and the wall, bent by the lens, and there, only yards back, the Indian. I made a decision.

I walked the mare to the end of the wall and turned the corner. I slid the iron from the pannier and gave her a light smack on the rump so she continued down the road. The street was empty. The iron hung by my leg. I slipped into the small recess behind the corner buttressing of the wall and waited.

He came around, stopped just in front of me and I saw him assessing the unaccompanied mare. Just for an instant.

It was easy enough to bring him down. I swung backhand across his middle and the iron caught him low on his chest or high on his belly. The air came out of him with a bark and he dropped, allowing me time to lay a knee on him, right where the iron had got him.

I took his lapels and lifted his head out of the dust: an old, careworn head, and I felt a flush of remorse. But the eyes bored into me, huge now, even while his chest clenched and unclenched under my knee, mouth open but no breath passing, and I began to worry. I lifted myself off him but stood with the end of the iron at his throat as a warning. The mare had wandered back. She nuzzled at his hair while I waited for his breath to return.

I took his lapels again and forced myself to stare into his eyes. ‘Lost, are you sir?’

He did not resist me physically but the dark, dark eyes lent an intensity to his gaze, a kind of searching. He had air now, he had speech, but it was strained.

‘You are Eliza Grayling, madam?’ His accent was not as I expected it to be: flat, close to English but fading to something more local.

I saw no point in denying it. ‘It’s miss. And who would you be?’

The eyes worked around my face, searching. ‘We must talk. There is much I wish to discuss.’

The mare stood above us, eyeing me softly. Her hooves made small, impatient shuffles.

‘And you think following people around like that is a way to foster discussion?’

‘Forgive me.’ The searching eyes. ‘I mean you no harm.’