Eighteen Ninety Four

Day 1 - The Train from Lyon

There were only 2 travellers in the first class carriage bumping it's way from Lyon to Paris, and neither of them would have seemed all that remarkable at first glance. Sat in the corner closest to the door was a man in a dull grey suit, his hat tipped over his eyes and arms folded over his chest as he dozed, swaying with the motion of the carriage. The other was a woman, alternating between staring out of the window at the frozen countryside and down at the magazine held in her gloved hands. 

The young lady, perhaps in her mid-twenties, was dressed in crisp white shirt, the neck held closed by a tawny silk cravat, tucked into a dark claret jacket with gigot sleeves, puffed at the top and tight on the forearm to make that characteristic 'leg of mutton' shape. What made her dress slightly usual was that instead of the a-line skirt that would have been expected in London society, she was wearing a pair of cycling bloomers tucked into low heeled leather boots. Her hair however was the epitome of fashion, the dark brunette hair scooped up to the top of her head into a high bun, concealed by a smart red hat, kept in place by several glittering hatpins.

The slightly severe hairstyle left her face open for scrutiny, and it was a pleasant, oval face, dusted with freckles across the top of the cheeks, with expressive eyebrows and a rather stubborn chin. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but there was something in her serious chocolate-brown eyes and full, half smiling lips, that made you want to look again.

Those dark brown eyes were flicking back over the copy of the Strand magazine in her hands, re-reading a section in with great interest. She, like many other members of the adoring public, had been horrified to read Dr Watson's account of the death of Sherlock Holmes, and had feared never to hear more of the Great Detective's works, but after several years of silence on the subject, Dr Watson seemed to have again picked up his pen and was thrilling the public with the adventure of the Hound of the Baskervilles.

"Don't you have anything better to read?"

The young lady started and looked up. The man, who had appeared to be asleep, had pushed back his hat and was gazing frankly at her. He was older than she had thought, probably in his late thirties or early forties, but had an active air to him, and his eyes were alert and bright. Though some might have said they were blue, they were a peculiar steely grey, and sharp. Although, there wasn't much about the man that couldn't be described as sharp. He was thin and tall, probably just shy of 6 foot, despite the slight stoop to his shoulders, and he had high cheekbones, a narrow long nose and thin lips. He had questioned her in fluent French and she replied in the same.

"Don't you have any better to do than criticise perfect strangers about their reading material?" 

He gave a soft snort and she returned to the studying of her article, but her crisp response had clearly not had the silencing effect she'd hoped.

"You English seem to set a lot of store by this Sherlock Holmes," the man continued after a few minutes. "I have to confess, I don't see that he's that terribly clever. All that stuff about making deduction an art, and constantly surprising his biographer, I simply don't believe it. His biographer is a Doctor, if he's really that easily surprised I wouldn't trust him with my health."

"So you don't think that you can look at some-one and make a calculated inference about them?" She shot back, nettled despite herself at this unfair attack on her heroes.

"You can, but not to the high degree this Mister Holmes claims - the only person I've ever know to be that precise was a charlatan on the Rue de Castille, who claimed to be able to read minds and really just had some paid cronies in the crowd. I consider the whole thing to be a farce."

She gave him a long look, folding her magazine crisply in her lap.

"Do you, Monsieur Vernet?" She asked calmly.