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
