(re-post)
Maximillan Witherspoon, houseguest his career,
Wary of outstaying his welcome, (this was part of his charm),
First downstairs on a sunny morning in June,
Looking forward to the tennis that was planned for the day,
Found the butler dead in a corner of the dining hall.
"Poor chap, did a decent job, a ruffler of pedigree, perhaps," he thought.
(Max had noted the slight look of surprise on the butler's face as another
guest had given her title on entering).
Decided to solve the crime,
Decided it would enhance his status as more than 'just another pleasant
visage'.
Twenty-two minutes later when the police arrived
Maximillan quietly announced that he knew whodunnit,
And he had a pretty good guess as to why.
"Explain," intoned the Inspector.
"Well," said Max, "people amble down to breakfast;
"I managed to meet each party on the first landing,
"To escort them down, and as we entered the dining room
"I exclaimed, 'Omigod, someone's killed the butler.'
"And looked to the left.
"Of course, the person who first looked to the right,
"Where the butler actually was in a heap,
"Had to be the murderer.
"And when 'Lady' Phoebe Featherstone realized what I had done
"She lost her head and lunged at me."
He gave a boyish grin, did not fail in his attempt to look modest,
Hid the worry at his sudden thought that she might be taking it out
On the tennis rackets which were stored where she now was.
"I'm afraid I've had to lock her in the cupboard under the stairs."
Comments