The first pages of Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces introduce a detective whose methods are as theatrical as his alias. A constable on point duty at Blackfriars Bridge is distracted by a Frenchwoman's charm—her 'almond eyes' and 'big Parisian hat'—while a suspect bolts past. The woman's accent, rendered as 'mos' wonnerful, you Anglais poliss,' signals a performance, not a coincidence. Hanshew builds tension through sensory detail: the 'thin, shrill piping' of a police whistle cuts through traffic noise, and the fleeing man in a 'grey frock-coat and a shining topper' is glimpsed through a break in vehicles. This opening establishes Cleek's world as one where appearance is weapon and witness alike.

The Lion's Smile: A Case in Misdirection

In a later excerpt, Cleek explains how a circus lion's fatal snap was no accident but a calculated murder. The beast's 'smile' was actually a sneeze, triggered by snuff sifted onto the victim's hair. Hanshew presents this as a puzzle of misdirection: the nephew never approached the lion, yet orchestrated its reaction. Cleek's reasoning—'the very simplicity of the plan was its passport to success'—echoes the opening's theme of deceptive surfaces. The solution hinges on a detail invisible to onlookers, much like the Frenchwoman's act hid a fugitive's escape. This pattern recurs: Hanshew trains readers to question what is seen, from a constable's distraction to a lion's grimace.

Voice and Vulnerability: Cleek's Interior Turn

After solving the circus case, Cleek walks home 'afoot,' struck by envy of the young couple's happiness. The narrative shifts to his interior: 'the old feeling of savage resentment… bit at the soul of him.' This moment of self-pity is rare in detective fiction of the era, which often keeps the sleuth opaque. Hanshew uses it to humanize Cleek, linking his brilliance to a 'stone-cold silence' and a longing for reward. The antidote he chooses—promising his companion Dollops a holiday for every hour lost—shows a softer side. These passages contrast with the earlier, flamboyant deduction, suggesting that Cleek's many faces include a private one, glimpsed only in solitude.

Theatricality in Dialogue and Description

Hanshew's prose leans into performance. The Frenchwoman's dialogue—'Sair, I have to give you much gratitude'—is a deliberate caricature, signaling her role as decoy. Similarly, Cleek's farewell to Scarmelli—'send me a slice of the wedding cake'—is a stage exit, complete with a moralizing nod to Burns. The author uses dialect and gesture as clues: the constable's 'tingling' at her touch, the 'shyly drooped head.' Even the setting—'Dead Man's Corner'—carries a theatrical name. This style suits a detective who is himself a performer, shifting identities as easily as his 'forty faces.' Readers attuned to these flourishes will find the text rewards attention to how things are said, not just what is said.

Hanshew's novel rewards readers who enjoy piecing together clues from behavior and speech as much as from physical evidence. The excerpts show a detective story that values atmosphere and character as much as plot mechanics. Pay attention to moments when characters perform—whether a French accent or a lion's sneeze—for these are where the truth hides in plain sight.