Lady of Fortune by Graham Masterton Page B

her, eyes bright. ‘We’ve actually got to London.’
    Effie had neatly tied the ribbons of her grey travelling-bonnet, and fastened the silver burr-thistle brooch which held her long grey travelling-cape together. Dougal was wearing a new green winter coat of good tweed, and a new bowler-hat, which made him look unexpectedly boyish. The salesman in Rowan’s of Princes Street had assured him that the hat was ‘the very latest London style,’ although in comparison with the bowlers worn by Englishmen on the train, it appeared to Effie to be rather too wide about the brim, and far too high in the crown.
    Mr Cockburn’s assistant, a small dapper man with pince-nez spectacles and black wavy hair, was waiting for them at the ticket barrier.
    â€˜Mr Watson! Miss Watson! How do you do! Nathan Cohen! Welcome to London! Got your bags? This way, then!’
    His short legs scurrying, Nathan Cohen led them rapidly through the crowds, the railway-porter trundling speedily behind them with their suitcases on a trolley, and almost catching up with their heels. Effie was stunned by the noise of roaring steam-locomotives, by the echoing of shunted carriages, and by the cacophony of hundreds of voices and whistles and cries and shouts. Everybody seemed to be in such a grim tearing hurry; and she glimpsed with amazement a man snatching a copy of the
Evening Standard
from the bookstall, and tossing his penny at the newsvendor behind the counter. She had never seen money
thrown
before.
    A boy in a damp cap and a dirty apron was screeching, ‘Pape-ear, pape-ear! Lord Kitchener wivdraws! Getcha pape-ear!’ and the accents of everyone around Effie sounded peculiarly flat and clipped. It was like listening to a roomful of people cutting up paper with small, sharp scissors.
    â€˜This way! We’ve a carriage waiting!’ called Nathan Cohen, without looking around once to see if they were following. Dougal and Effie hurried after him to the stationforecourt, which was crowded with a chaotic tangle of hansom cabs, mail carts, closed carriages, motor-cars, and barrows. The sleet fell through the yellowish gaslight like discarded sparks from some filthy celestial furnace; and there was such a reek of coal-smoke and horses’ urine that Effie had to cover her mouth with her handkerchief. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, but it could have been midnight.
    Nathan Cohen, after darting this way and that, at last found their carriage, a black closed landau with a rain-bespeckled hood. Effie climbed gratefully inside, and settled herself in the far corner while Nathan paid off the porter, and while their trunks and bags were noisily loaded on to the back, and strapped up.
    â€˜Well, now!’ said Nathan Cohen, climbing into the carriage himself, and tugging off his wet gloves. ‘We’re going to take you first to Mr Cockburn’s house, at Eaton Square, and then we’ll see about some lunch!’
    â€˜It’s so
riotous
here,’ said Effie.
    â€˜Riotous! Is it? Well, I suppose it is! But that’s the metropolis for you! I suppose Edinburgh’s quite docile, by comparison! Is this your first time south?’
    â€˜Aye,’ said Effie, feeling suddenly very inexperienced and provincial. ‘But I expect I can quickly get used to it.’
    â€˜You’re going on to Putney, aren’t you?’ asked Nathan Cohen. ‘Well, you’ll find it quiet enough at Putney! It’s a little place on the other side of the river. Transpontine, don’t you know. That’s what we call it, anyway. Almost bucolic!’
    Effie wiped away the condensation from the window with the back of her glove, and peered out at the horse-drawn omnibuses which cluttered Marylebone High Road. Every one of them was emblazoned with posters for Nestles Milk, Colmans Mustard, Mellins Food, and Frys Pure Concentrated Cocoa. In fact, Effie could almost have believed that London was actually