The Devil You Know
Chapter One
NORMALLY I WEAR A CZARIST ARMY GREATCOAT-the kind that sometimes
gets called a paletot-with pockets sewn in for my tin whistle, my
notebook, a dagger, and a chalice. Today I'd gone for a green tuxedo
with a fake wilting flower in the buttonhole, pink patent-leather
shoes, and a painted-on mustache in the style of Groucho Marx. From
Bunhill Fields in the east, I rode out across London-the place of my
strength. I have to admit, though, that "strong" wasn't exactly how
I was feeling; when you look like a pistachio-ice-cream sundae, it's
no easy thing to hang tough.
The economic geography of London has changed a lot in the last few
years, but Hampstead is always Hampstead. And on this cold November
afternoon, atoning for sins I couldn't even count and probably
looking about as cheerful as a tricoteuse being told that the day's
executions have been canceled due to bad weather, Hampstead was
where I was headed.
Number 17, Grosvenor Terrace, to be more precise: an unassuming
little early Victorian masterpiece knocked off by Sir Charles Barry
in his lunch hours while he was doing the Refor ... read full excerpt from: The Devil You Know ebook
