Bowen regarded him with red-rimmed eyes. ‘It’s the scars, boy, and not just these.’ He jabbed at the faded scar on Caleb’s uninjured leg, legacy of a bayonet. ‘It’s in your eyes. You’ll carry your soldiering and the sights you’ve seen to your grave.’

The doctor picked up the revolver and examined it for a long moment before handing it to Caleb.

‘The Crimea was bad, but I imagine a civil war would be much worse.’

‘England has had its civil wars.’

‘And Ireland suffered for them.’ Bowen straightened. ‘I’ll break the good news to Mrs Greaves that she has a guest for a few more days.’

‘I can find a hotel …’

The doctor shrugged. ‘I’d stay where you are. If you wish, you could offer Mrs Greaves some decent coin for board. It will salve your conscience, and hers.’

Bowen pulled out his flask and offered it to Caleb, who shook his head. It would barely be ten in the morning. He watched as Bowen took a swig.

‘Why do you drink, Bowen?’

Bowen looked at the flask in his hand. ‘At first it was to forget and then it was to remember.’ He stowed the flask back in his pocket and bent to inspect the leeches. ‘I think my little friends are done for today.’

Caleb shut his eyes as Bowen removed the bloated leeches and returned them to the jar.

‘No point in a bandage,’ the doctor said cheerfully. ‘In fact, I advise you to start moving that leg. You’ll stiffen up if you stay immobile.’

‘Can I come in?’

The brown-haired woman—Netty, Caleb presumed—who had been flirting with the carriage driver yesterday appeared in the doorway carrying a tray. The woman was older than he had thought, probably in her mid-thirties, slightly built with a pretty, narrow face and bright eyes.

‘Good morning, Miss Redley,’ Bowen greeted her. ‘I fear I had to remove your excellent parsley mash.’

The woman flushed. ‘My grandmother swore by parsley and cabbage. I can get a cabbage.’

‘In Mr Hunt’s case, leeches may be more efficacious.’ The doctor patted his bag. ‘I will return later today with some more of my little friends, hungry for a feed. Good day to you both.’ The doctor placed his battered hat on his head. ‘Going to be a hot one.’

The woman set the tray down beside Caleb.

‘Miss Redley, is it?’ Caleb enquired, his stomach rumbling at the smell of bacon and eggs.

‘Berenice Redley, but everyone calls me Netty,’ the woman replied. She hesitated, a muscle in her cheek working. ‘I want to thank you for what you did for Danny yesterday. It was my fault.’

Caleb examined the contents of the cup, neatly placed on a matching saucer. Tea. What was the attraction in tea? He dug his fork into the first egg. He’d heard chickens outside his door so he assumed it was fresh.