Word: pubs
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Spilsbury Sniff. Never a crime of "Spilsbury calibre" was the "Rats" murder but last week Britain's real-life Sherlock Holmes, the great criminal pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury (TIME, March 4 et seq.), was called on a case exactly to his taste when the potman of a pub in South London went nosing down into a cellar disused for years. Next door to the pub is the Old Surrey Theatre, now being torn down but in Queen Victoria's day the mecca of thrill-thirsty folk who loved to see dramas of ripe, purple blood and thunder...
...potman last week found in the pub cellar the sort of thing that used to occur on the nearby stage half a century ago. Some villain had struck down a middleaged, grey-haired man, rolled him up in curtains, then in linoleum, finally in carpets and tied the big bundle with a rope. When Sir Bernard Spilsbury arrived the usual London headlines suggested that not even this murder trail could be too cold for his keen, Sherlocking nose. Sniffed he: "I should say this man was killed about 1885 and was at that time about 55 years old. There...
...trees. Alumni fixed cushions on the Theater's stone tiers, then hushed as the procession ended. On the stage professors shielded their eyes against a blazing sun. A Catholic priest was delivering an invocation. President Sproul was booming out his thanks to the kind souls who gave his pub lic university a half million private dollars last year. Up rose Miss Perkins to talk of Labor and Society. Above her head, from behind a U. S. flag on the Theater's facade, peeped a large-lettered plaque: A GIFT OF WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST. When she was done, President...
...Vagabond puts on his hat and coat and slams gaily out of his room. He lights a pipe and strolls out along the parkway and up towards the Square. Sounds of revelry arrest him as he passes a pub on Mt. Auburn Street. He pokes his head in the door. Waves of noise beat him back, but a warm blue sign over the bar lures...
...know. . . . I've told her to buy me a bit of a bungalow near a graveyard and I shall sit me on a tombstone and read epitaphs in search of a new philosophy. . . . When I'm not reading tombstones . . . I'll get me to the nearest pub and try to forget...