" There was a blunt sharpness, an unmistakable intelligence, an unsettling air around her. She was a walking, breathing, false reflection of herself and I couldn’t distinguish the reality from the façade. A human contradiction. I sat uncomfortably, holding my breath, bracing for an impact. I could tell by his drooping eyelids and his finger-tips touching, Sherlock Holmes was immediately entranced by her presence. Two opposite reactions... It suddenly occurred to me. Violet Hunter, or ‘London’s Flower’ as she was called, was not only beautiful, she was prominently lethal. Just like her namesake.

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