WITHIN a few hours, I found myself in St James’s, as planned. The district traditionally bounded by the Mall, Piccadilly, Haymarket, and Green Park was immaculate and exclusive, an expanse of fine businesses, fine dining, fine homes, fine entertainment, and great houses, some of which carried ancient names I knew. It was the domain of the elites, far beyond Mycroft’s impressive influence, though he did grumble over breakfast, in a somewhat sinister tone, that it would not be long. Nobody quite wanted to ask what he meant by that.
If St James’s was beyond Mycroft’s influence, it was doubly beyond my comfort, and trebly beyond Magpie’s. He had arrived in a constable’s tow, his eyes red and a bruise purpling on his cheek, face set with cold fury. He had tried to run, the constable explained.
