Pardon me, Inspector
I realize you’re about to solve a murder
But I’m afraid we have a bigger issue at hand
Somebody has stolen
My ball of yarn
Now, I don’t want to point fingers here
And I can’t, because I don’t have any
But it would seem to me
That your murder victim
And my missing ball of yarn
Could be related
And no, I don’t mean that they’re cousins
I mean, it’s possible
The yarn going missing
And your Mr. Moffet lying dead on the floor
Could be deeds both done
By the same cruel hand
That immediately rules me out because
As I’ve already said
No hands, cruel or otherwise
Now, I can see that you’ve lined up the suspects
A motley assortment, if ever there was one
The maid
The butler
The mistress
The mailman
And the dentist
I think we can safely rule out the dentist
Statistics show that murderers
Have a distinct aversion
To teeth
That mean we’re down to four
The mailman and I both have the same natural enemy—dogs
That means that thought I wouldn’t put it past him
To kill somebody
I know deep down
He’d never be so heartless
As to steal a poor cat’s ball of yarn
Then there’s the mistress
Who, at the start of this weekend
Declared to everyone in the manor
That she’s ‘allergic to cats’
Allergic to cats?
ALLERGIC TO CATS?
That’s like being allergic to joy
To comfort
To chicken soup!
It’s very likely that someone with such an allergy
Must have the same genetic make-up
Of a drug smuggler or a serial killer
It’s pure evolution, my dear Inspector
BUT the mistress has an alibi
She was sleeping with the butler
At the time of the murder
Who, coincidentally
Has a yarn allergy
So that rules them both out
And I’m sure they’ll be very happy together
Despite the fact
That they have mutant D.N.A.
That just leaves the maid
HOWEVER
It’s clear, Inspector, that Mr. Moffat
Was strangled to death
Right here on the floor
The maid couldn’t possibly
Strangle a grown man
Just yesterday I saw her struggle
To open pry the lid loose
On a jar of peanut butter
So who killed Mr. Moffat?
If you notice the path his footprints made on the carpet
You can tell that he was flailing about
Trying to throw off his attacker?
Possibly
But what’s that little thread hanging out from underneath the bearskin rug?
YARN!
It has just occurred to me
That I left the ball of yarn
On the floor
It’s probable that Mr. Moffat walked into the room
Tripped on the ball on yarn
Sending it flying across the room
Leaving a string of it on the floor
When Mr. Moffat arose
He got tangled up in the yarn
(An easy thing to do. I’ve nearly strangled myself on several occasions. Yarn can be a dangerous obsession.)
He fell
And knocked himself unconscious
I doubt he’s actually dead
Has anybody checked his pulse?
Ah, you see?
Just sleeping peacefully
I should get going, Inspector
When he wakes up
He’s going to want to know
Who left that yarn there
And my fingerprints are all over that one
(Again, metaphorical fingerprints. I’m just saying I’m the guilty party.)
Don’t bother congratulating me
For solving your mystery
If anyone needs me
I’ll be in the ballroom
Playing with my ball of yarn
If you don’t see me at dinner
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