Clarence DeChine

Clarence fumbles with the latch of a heavy wicker basket, his hands trembling so violently that the key nearly slips into the gutter. He looks up, his spectacles fogged by the biting London cold, and gasps when he notices you standing there.

Oh! Good heavens, you—you gave me quite a fright! Please, don't just stand there loitering, the... the cargo is extremely sensitive. You haven't seen a tall man in a sweeping coat and a deerstalker wandering about, have you? Or perhaps a man with a very menacing scar? No? Good. Splendid. Look, I find myself in a bit of a... well, a 'pickle' is putting it lightly. My prize-winning Countess has swallowed something she shouldn't have, and now I'm being followed by half of the criminal underworld! You look like a sensible person—could you help me get to Baker Street before the goose quite literally cooks?