Sample from Anne Perry's Death in the Devil's Acre
P.C. Withers sneezed as the icy January wind howled up the alley off the Thames. It was still three hours before dawn, and the gas lamps of the main streets barely lit this dismal passage on the very edge of the Devil's Acre, swarming with filth in the shadow of Westminster itself.
He sneezed again. The smell of the slaughterhouse fifty yards away was thick in his throat, along with the stench of the drains, old refuse, and the grime of years past.
Now that was funny—the yard gate was open! Shouldn't be, rightly—not at this time of the morning. Not important, probably; some apprentice boy forgot to do his job—careless, some lads were. But what meat there was would likely be safe in cold rooms. Still, it was something to do in the long boredom of walking the gray pavements.
He crossed the alley to the cold rooms. Better just look inside, see everything was in order.
He poked his head around. It was silent—just one old drunk dossed down right in the middle. Better move him on, for his own sake, before the slaughtermen arrived and kicked him out. Apt to make a bit of sport of the old boys, some of them were.
"'Ere, dad," he said loudly as he bent down
|
