T.G. Campbell > T.G.'s Quotes

“There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself.”
― Raymond Chandler, Long Goodbye

“Ability is what you're capable of doing. Motivation determines what you do. Attitude determines how well you do it. ”
― Raymond Chandler

“I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room.”
― Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely

“I don't mind your showing me your legs. They're very swell legs and it's a pleasure to make their acquaintace. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. They're pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter nights.”
― Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep

“You talk too damn much and too damn much of it is about you.”
― Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

“It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them. ”
― Agatha Christie, Agatha Christie: An Autobiography

“The impossible could not have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.”
― Agatha Christie, Murder on the Orient Express

“Poirot," I said. "I have been thinking."
"An admirable exercise my friend. Continue it.”
― Agatha Christie, Peril at End House

“Very few of us are what we seem.”
― Agatha Christie, The Man in the Mist

“Don't be afraid of your fears. They're not there to scare you. They're there to let you know that something is worth it.”
― C. JoyBell C.

“Lack of direction, not lack of time, is the problem. We all have twenty-four hour days.”
― Zig Ziglar

“A day without sunshine is like, you know, night.”
― Steve Martin

“No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”
― Aesop

“I’m not like others in my profession.” He frowned slightly and added, more to himself, “Might be why I’ve been an apprentice for the past three years.” [~ Mr Joseph Maxwell, Bow Street Society member.]”
― T.G. Campbell

“I hope whomever Miss Trent is sending arrives soon.” Mr Maxwell shivered and wrapped his arms about himself. “Who does she usually send to these initial client meetings?”
“I really couldn’t say,” [Miss Dexter] replied, honestly. “Miss Trent sends whomever she feels would be most appropriate.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of the Curious Client

“Mr Locke...took a long, slender pick from the unrolled bag and, bending over slightly, inserted it into the lock. It was a steel-cased lock with a smooth, brass knob of around three inches wide and a brass plate around the singular keyhole. Mounted into the door frame was another steel fixture, forming the second half of the lock. Recognising the type of lock, Percy knew the key’s function was to throw the lock’s bolt into dead lock, thus securing the door. Such a design would also include an internal, smaller knob sliding back and forth, drawing back the bolt. A snib, jutting out from the case on the internal side of the door, could be compressed to keep the bolt in an open position, thus allowing one to open and close the door freely. “Do be so kind as to keep an eye out for the return of our friend the constable.” Locke pulled his pocket watch out with his other hand to glance upon it. “We have nine minutes.”
“This is breaking and entering!” Mr Maxwell cried, hurrying up the steps. “Miss Trent said such was forbidden by the Society.”
“Unless there is a sufficiently justifiable reason for doing so,” Mr Locke replied, inserting a second pick into the lower half of the lock. “The welfare of our client is a sufficiently justifiable reason; do you not think so, Mr Maxwell?”
“His welfare?” Mr Maxwell enquired, confused.
Miss Dexter, wholly fascinated by what the illusionist was doing, stepped closer still. She softly enquired, “Do you suspect some harm may have come to Mr Dorsey, Mr Locke?”
“I do not know but Mr Colby was very keen we should not speak with him. Furthermore, Miss Trent’s note stated her telephone conversation with Mr Dorsey was abruptly ended, by him, when another—angry—voice spoke,” Mr Locke explained. There was a sharp click as the bolt sprang back into the lock’s casing. Mr Locke smiled broadly.
“Our constable friend is back.” Mr Maxwell looked panic sticken. “It’s only been a minute.”
“Ah, that will be the Bow Street police station,” Locke replied as he turned the door knob. “Also, they tend to keep a closer eye upon the more affluent residences; greater targets for thieves, you know,” Mr Locke stated as he pushed the door open and ushered both Mr Maxwell and Miss Dexter inside. He’d just closed the door, after slipping in himself, when the constable reached the bottom of the steps and peered up at the porch. Mr Locke stood to the side of the door and watched as the constable, seemingly satisfied all was well, walked away. A glance down at the internal part of the lock confirmed Mr Locke’s earlier assumptions about it. His slender hand slid the smaller brass knob along to lock the bolt in place once more.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of the Curious Client

“Miss Trent opened the Bow Street Society’s office door but didn’t enter; she knew she’d locked it. Slowly she looked over the darkened room until she could make out two silhouettes; one behind the desk, the other to its left. She stared at the latter as she moved forward and closed the door.
“There is a lamp, you know,” she remarked casually. Lifting the glass shade from the kerosene lamp on her desk, she turned on the gas slightly and ignited it with a match. As she carefully increased the lamp’s gas, the faces of Mr Locke and Mr Snyder emerged from the darkness.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of the Curious Client

“Hello, Bow Street Society, Miss Rebecca Trent, Society clerk speaking.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of the Curious Client

“We’re a group created to investigate the cases the police either can’t or won’t. We’re all members of the public and we’ve all been hired by your mistress to investigate the murder of her cat,” Maxwell explained.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of the Curious Client

“I am no stranger to danger,” Mr Locke pointed out. “Besides, if I should die, I shall take full responsibility.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of The Spectral Shot

“I was attempting to take the gun,” Mr Locke stated, “in the hope it would prevent it from firing.”
“Take it from me, Mr Locke, that don’t work,” Mr Skinner said as he lifted his iron hand.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of The Spectral Shot

“Firstly, Inspector,” Miss Trent interrupted. “The safety of the Society’s members is paramount to me. Secondly, I have the utmost trust in Lady Owston and Mr Locke. They would’ve intervened had Miss Webster not returned when expected. Therefore, your accusations are without foundation. They are also symptomatic of your categorical hatred of the Bow Street Society, and of what we are trying to do.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Ensuring justice is served for those who ask for it.”
“And putting your members’ lives at risk in the process!”
“Enough, Inspector!” Miss Trent stood and glared down at him.
In a heartbeat, he, too, was on his feet. Towering over her five feet seven inches with his six feet four, he bellowed, “You will listen to me, Miss Trent, and you will listen carefully!” Miss Trent put her hand on her hip but remained silent. “If you and your Society insist on facing danger unnecessarily, you will do so under my terms. You will give me a full list of your members so I, and the Metropolitan Police, can stop them from being murdered, attacked, and robbed. Try to justify what you do as much as you like, Miss Trent, but, at the end of the day, you are all just bloody civilians playing at a copper’s game!”
“And yet, we are the ones people look to when the police refuse to help them,” Miss Trent retorted as she stepped closer to the desk. Leaning forward, so their faces were mere inches apart, she went on, “Not every case we investigate is a crime, Inspector, and our clients expect discretion with the confidences they grant us.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of The Spectral Shot

“It’s preposterous, expecting a man to unburden himself to a woman,” Bennett Winchester slurred as the mantel clock chimed. Though it was midmorning the Bow Street Society’s parlour had neither daylight nor gaslight to soften the retired captain’s pointed profile. Bloodshot, brown eyes looked beyond the wall as he approached, turned, and retraced his route, each thump of his boot succeeded by the heavy thud of his peg-leg.
Miss Trent’s gaze tracked him during each pass of her armchair yet she remained seated. “Captain Winchester,” she began, “you weren’t obligated to come here and I wasn’t obligated to receive you, yet here we are. Putting aside my disinclination to beg your pardon for my gender, I instead ask you to observe your surroundings. You and I are the only ones here. Therefore, your choice is clear—either swallow your masculine pride and tell me why you’re here, or leave and put your trust in those at Bow Street Police Station.”
“Don’t speak such impertinence to me!” Captain Winchester barked, drawing Miss Trent to her feet.
She countered, “I shall speak whatever I want, Captain, when you are in my domain.” His lips repeatedly furled and unfurled against gritted teeth while calloused hands, which had previously rested within his greatcoat’s deep pockets, balled at his sides. Starting at his neck, his already pink face steadily flushed as if port had spilt under his skin.
He snarled, “How daare you, you uncouth wretch.”
“Continue as you are, Captain Winchester, and I will be calling upon the officers at Bow Street,” Miss Trent promised despite his stale-rum-drenched breath turning her stomach. Whether it was the tone of her voice, her fixed gaze, the words themselves, or a combination of all three which cooled Bennett Winchester’s rage was unclear. Regardless the result was the same. After some aggressive chewing of his anger, the captain plonked himself in the vacant armchair. The clerk wasn’t naïve enough to think it ended, however. Instead, she enabled additional calming time by fetching tea from the kitchen. Coffee would’ve been more sobering for him but, alas, she suspected such a blatant assumption wouldn’t have been welcomed by his volatile temper.
In due course Captain Winchester’s pallid complexion had returned and his hands had come to rest upon his thighs. She poured the amber liquid in silence and he accepted the cup without remark. “I must beg your pardon for my brutishness, Miss Trent,” he muttered against the steam rising from his cup.”
― T.G. Campbell, The Case of The Winchester Wife