Artworks by Dean Bowen

“I told you those needles were no good.” I blushed for the bromide—Tristram Shandy, even, was preferable to this. “‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast!’” I murmured. “When you brought Mrs. Murray back from New York last night, did she have a package with her?” Mr. Treadgold asked him. He gave me his most mischievous smile. “Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies.” He folded my hand over the key.

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There was something bird-like and blithe about Musetta’s song as Linda sang it; Mr. Treadgold had relapsed into his chair. I knew he was curious about Marcia. I had told him that, from what I had seen of her, she had every man her slave; it had not escaped my attention, for example, that Mrs. Draycott was furious at the way Geoff tagged round after her. Nevertheless, I thought my old friend had done pretty well to persuade young Hayden to take his summer vacation in England, sailing by the Queen Mary the morning of the day we came down to Sea Nest. Had clinched matters by advancing the fare—it appeared that Ken, despite a generous allowance from his mother, was habitually broke. Looking more like a bank president than a tailor, with his silvery hair, trim moustache and well-cut evening clothes, Mr. Treadgold had an abstracted air.

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  • “Forgive me saying it, old man, but what were you doing between ten and eleven that night? I mean, the rest of us, Treadgold, Duckett and I have all accounted for our movements…”
  • MARCUS WEBBER is not the type of man I have much use for.
  • In the circumstances I was not surprised that Mr. Treadgold evinced no taste for company, even mine.
  • Wanted to create own website for shearing photo trip, stiffness.

The visitor seemed embarrassed at finding me there, but Mr. Treadgold reassured him. “This is Mr. Duckett, my solicitor,” he said. “You can speak freely in front of him.” Somewhat reluctantly the other put down his hat and took the chair I brought forward. He was a distinguished-looking man with aristocratic features and rather an unyielding air. “Mr. Treadgold,” he began diffidently, “my old friend, Lord Hannington, to whom you rendered such signal service in the matter of a certain missing will.” “I’ve measured his suits upstairs,” was the implacable reply, “and the measurements tally exactly with that grey worsted the dead man was wearing. He lives here beside the sea, he’s a pipe- smoker and he’s just told us he was at the barber’s—for a manicure, no doubt, as well as a haircut—the afternoon before the murder.”

First UK book edition (as “Mr. Treadgold Cuts In”):

“It’s a touch of the sun, I’m afraid—it was pretty hot on the road.” My attention was suddenly directed to Treadgold. His eyes were closed and he kept mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. Quoting from Tristram Shandy is one of H.B.’s favoured forms of evasion so, perceiving that I should get no more out of him, I went home to bed.