“So much cheerier than a whistle,” commented the Countess as she hurried along the platform, an image of sartorial elegance in a tailored travelling costume of moire marron replete with a fox fur stole, the long-line jacket nipped at the waist and dropping slightly at the back. Dr Watson, wearing a mud-brown tweed suit, trailed in her fashionable wake, wheezing asthmatically. No matter how many cigarettes he smoked it didn’t seem to improve his lung capacity. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, he’d have said the opposite occurred, but who was he to question the gods of Harley Street. He was the one who had been running late, and since he had been holding onto the tickets for their journey, she had been forced to wait under the soaring canopy of the bustling Euston station. He had spotted her at a glance – conspicuously perched atop a gigantic travelling trunk, insouciantly smoking an aromatic Turkish cigarette, surrounded by an artful arrangement of expensive travel trunks, portmanteaux and hat boxes, stacked one on top of another like a collection of tiered wedding cakes and she the unblushing bride sans groom with her dainty feet resting on a smashing new set of golf clubs that were as desirable as the slender turn of her ankle.
