Snow Hill. Mark Sanderson

      

       Snow Hill

      Mark Sanderson

      

      

HarperCollinsPublishers

       In memory of Drew Morgan (1964-1994)

       Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,

       And bear their trophies with them as they go:

       Filths of all hues and odour, seem to tell

       What street they sail’d from, by their sight and smell.

       They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,

       From Smithfield to St ’Pulchre’s shape their course;

       And in huge confluence join’d at Snow Hill ridge,

       Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge,

       Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts and blood,

       Drown’d puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,

       Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the flood…

      From A Description of a City Shower

      Jonathan Swift, October 1710

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Epigraph

Foreword

Part One: Smithfield

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Part Two: Honey Lane

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Part Three: Snow Hill

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Chapter Twenty-Six

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

       Chapter Thirty

       Afterword

       Bibliography

       Acknowledgments

       About The Author

       Other Books By

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       FOREWORD

      I went to my funeral this morning. I expected more people to be there—if only, like Simkins, to make sure the coffin lid was nailed down properly. The turnout was so disappointing I felt like joining the mourners as they huddled round the gaping grave—but, of course, I couldn’t. It was short notice, and it is the week before Christmas, so I suppose it’s a miracle that anyone, apart from Matt and Lizzie, bothered to traipse from Fleet Street to Finchley. Mr Stone told me that more came to the service in St Bride’s. Then my colleagues only had to walk about a hundred yards to the church. At least they made the effort. My killer didn’t.

      I’ve