“Mr. Ashworth,” Marta said slowly. “Who lived here before you?”
The pipes weren’t clogged. They were knotted . Not tangled—deliberately, intricately knotted, like nautical rope. Copper pipes, bent into figure-eights and lover’s knots, tied around a cast-iron stack. And woven through them, green with age, was a single strand of women’s hair, long and fine, tied into a bow. plumbing northcote
Northcote plumbing, she thought. You never know what’s flowing under the surface. like nautical rope. Copper pipes