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A tragic discovery was made at Bishop’s Hotel last evening when a maid, on entering the suite of Signora da Costa, a rich Argentine guest at the hotel, found her dead body on the bed wrapped in an eiderdown.

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Before she could touch him she saw it—the handle of a weapon sticking out between his shoulder-blades.

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“Give me my rights or I will let them kill you. Think what has happened already—”

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“What happens,” Bobby asked, “when a woman with an irresistible attraction for men, and the man with an irresistible attraction for women, meet? When glamour meets glamour . . . ?”

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At that moment the door opened and a deep, harsh, husky voice said:

“Discussing my murder, are you?”

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“There’s a spot of trouble this morning. Old gentleman found dead in his bath.”

Bobby answered: “there may be one chance in a million it’s natural death.”

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“Why should anyone want to pinch the dagger—except to do somebody in?”

No one answered this question.

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“It’s murder all right; no one could bash his own head in the way this chap’s was.”

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“The poor devil’s mouth was filled with feathers. An unconscious man with his mouth full of feathers wouldn’t have had much chance of surviving, and this one didn’t.”

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The stage was set, Bobby thought, the actors in position; but how the drama would develop, that he could not even guess.

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“You called him a ‘wrong ’un’. Why? Birds of a feather know each other? Is that the idea? Or do you really know something about him? Oh, and don’t lie.”

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Bobby studied the Rembrandt intently, with his own strange intensity of gaze that seemed as if by sheer strength of will it could force all secrets to reveal themselves.

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“You’re the murder man, aren’t you?” Mrs. James demanded.

“Well, that’s not exactly how I describe myself,” Bobby answered.

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In September 1967, the Beatles came to Tonypandy, South Wales, and spent six days with Tom Morris of 23 Upper Chemical Terrace …

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‘Take off your coat,’ said the doctor. I took it off. ‘And your dress,’ he said. ‘It’s too dangerous – the folds may catch in the debris and bring the whole thing down.’ I took off the dress. ‘Fine,’ he said shortly. ‘It’ll have to be head first. We’ll hold your thighs. Go down and see if it’s possible to give an injection. Can you grip the torch with your teeth?’

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‘You don’t want to mind about any of this,’ said the driver, waving a hand at the grey ruins and the greyer dust. ‘In a few days you’ll be so used to it that you’ll like them. Berlin’s a grand place! I’d rather be here than anywhere else in the world, and that’s a fact.’

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‘Heartrending but irresistible.’ Rosaleen Whateley, LIVERPOOL DAILY POST

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‘You are a virgin?’

‘Yes.’

‘How dull! What’s the use of being a woman if you’re a virgin?’

‘One has to begin sometime,’ I agreed.

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‘I can’t go back. I’d rather die—I’d rather be dead.’

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The peacock displayed himself and paraded the lawn, sometimes pausing to look up at the sky.

Waiting? Listening? Guiding. No. Signalling.

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This book was written for those who don’t despise children’s parties, Edwardian actresses, dancing classes and the scent of lilac over sun-warmed fences.

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In the schoolroom in Lowndes Square, a child, in her ugly, unsuitable frock of plum-coloured satin, cut down when discarded from one of her mother’s, bent over the cutting out of a doll and its cardboard wardrobe, and shivered as she worked.

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‘It’s a storm in a tea-cup, of course, but then we happen to live in a tea-cup!’

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‘Listen! I see I’d better take you into my confidence.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said.

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He caught the back of a chair, staggered and groaned. There was a heavy crash and fall, and the parson lay motionless and livid, while lilies from a vase fell, like a wreath, across his chest.

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“Take my advice; from to-day keep your own counsel. Listen to everything, disclose nothing. Avoid being alone. Come to me if you’re in doubt about anything or feel you scent danger. I can assure you we both live in danger.”

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