Chapter Thirty-Eight
Devereux Abbishaw was waiting at the corner of Kingsgate and High Holborn at four o’clock. He’d dressed down—drab buckskins, a plain waistcoat—but his clothes still cost more than Perry earned in a year.
“Afternoon,” Perry said.
“Afternoon,” Devereux replied.
There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. Were they friends who shook hands when they met? Friends who clapped one another on the shoulder? Friends who hugged? Ten years ago, they’d have known. Now, they just stood awkwardly.
“So, a chop house?” Devereux said.
“Yes.”
Perry took him round the corner to a chop house where he often ate. To one side was a shop where one could purchase various cuts of meat, at the back was a busy kitchen, and all around were cheap tables where one might sit and dine. Perry didn’t
