The black and cream Rolls Royce Silver Wraith drew up in front of the main entrance of the West Garside General Hospital.
The driver got out to open the back door of the car and Dr Penrose Gordon-Blood, a condescending and slightly contemptuous grimace on his face, stepped out and looked around him.
He hated these small, grubby, smoke-tangled industrial towns that clustered around the periphery of Sheffield like snot-nosed beggar urchins hovering about the skirts of a wealthy lady.
Dr Penrose Gordon-Blood was a small dapper man, with a clipped moustache bristling indignantly below a sharp narrow nose. He was dressed incongruously out his era, with black and grey striped trousers, a long-tailed morning coat, his dazzling white shirt so heavily starched it creakled and crinkled, crisp c
