I’ve arrived.  The game’s afoot, for one thing‘s certain.

Someone here has pulled Sir Nigel’s “Final Curtain.”

 He was found outside his home,

Draped around the Garden Gnome,

On the grounds by keepers: Pip and Wesley Burton.
 

All the guests were quizzed, with everyone suspected.

They were interviewed, each story checked, corrected.

So, six people, wandering round;

No one hears a bloody sound?

But they're pointing fingers, gladly, as expected.

 

First Sir Nigel’s guests all called him, “Simply charming.”

But when tales were told, the truth became alarming.

Why, Sir Nigel was a cad!

Even Sherlock would go mad,

At the number of his guests that he’d been harming.

 

I had hoped that someone’s lies would be transparent.

But in murder, much confusion is inherent.

In this house, full of his scorned,

Nigel should have been forewarned.

He was shot, stabbed, choked and bludgeoned, that’s apparent.
 

Mrs. White, here in the kitchen, is a servant.

And she told my men, “I’m truly not observant.”

She knows more than it appears.

And she’s hated him for years.

Her denials of that fact are far too fervent.

 
Through the list of dinner guests I have been searching.

To each one, Sir Nigel gave a public birching.

All claim alibis.  In sum,

Starting with Professor Plum,

I’ll glean motive for this murder I’m researching.

 

He was just a distant cousin, come to stay.

Hardly reason to delete his host, I'd say.

'Till Sir Nigel called him, “Fraud,

With no Suma, Cum or Laud!"

One should hardly ever treat a guest that way.

 

Then Miss Peacock, who insists, “I had no reason.

Why he just produced my play this very season.”

But he’d called her, “Past her prime,”

Said she’d, “ Fallen prey to time,”

Then had scuttled her career. Patronage  treason.

 

Colonel Mustard loves his rum, and since he gambles,

Just to pay his debts each month, he scrapes and scrambles.

He would drink to such excess

That Sir Nigel’s card success

Was assured, and Mustard’s fortune was in shambles.

 

Next, Miss Scarlett, Nigel’s daughter, pouting, teary.

While I must admit my brain is slightly weary.

She sits dressed in lacy white,

Strange for such a wintry night,

And I hope I may have stumbled on a theory.

 

She had fallen for their pool boy, though she daren’t.

And Sir Nigel--like a most devoted parent--

Said there could not be a match,

Had him fired with dispatch,

Paid him off and crowed he’d, “Proved the lad was errant.”

 

While the reason he might kill is surely subtler,

Next I’ll talk to Mr. Green, the family Butler.

Wouldn’t that be rather trite?

Bit of humor for this night?

But I'm told he was the lover’s message-shuttler.

 

Oh dear!  Nigel in his youth was quite a dickens.

And sometimes a lusty maid is rolled and quickens.

Mr. Green was Nigel’s son,

Whom he chose--for shame--to shun!

So we throw him in the plot that slowly thickens.

 

He was hated and his murder, quite explicit,

Has my poor head aching.  Are they all implicit?

In the kitchen, Mrs. White

Lead pipe clean, no blood in sight?


Dining Room, revolver, shot.

Professor Plum--a lesson taught?
 

In the hall, did Peacock wait,

Use a wrench to smash his pate?
 

 Ballroom, Colonel, debt-free vice,

Would a candlestick suffice?
 

Scarlett, hoping to elope,

In the ballroom with a rope?
 

Secret Passage, Mr. Green

Leaves the study, knife unseen?
 

Drat, I haven’t got a clue! Or did I miss it?