The Lady Refuses to Solve the Crime

Henry, I don’t want to be a bother

I really don’t

But I simply can’t

Explain who the murderer is

I don’t know if you’re aware of this

But this mystery you’ve written

Is so convoluted

It’s going to take me

At least six or seven pages

Before I get to the big reveal

Six or seven pages, Henry

Do you have any idea

How long it’ll take me

To say all that?

And it’s not deep

Emotional, personal

Musings

It’s this happened

And that means this

And that leads to this

And then this

And then that

I can barely keep any of it straight

They have detectives

For this sort of thing in real life

Actual detectives

Not likes the ones

With the adorable hats

And magnifying glasses

Those detectives have entire walls
Where they lay out a crime

Using photos and yarn

You want me to pretend

That I figured it all out

Using only my mind?

I’m a governess, Henry!

I know you’re planning

On writing an entire series

All about how clever I am

And how I go around
Solving murders

But what are the odds

That I could make heads or tails

Of something as perplexing

As the Murder of the Duke?

I have no idea who killed the fellow

And you’ve given me so many suspects

And so many motives

I should wonder if it’s even worth

Investigating

If that many people hated the man

Perhaps it’s better

That he’s dead

It would certainly save me

Ten or eleven minutes

Of spouting narrative

And then what happens at the end?

The governess solves the crime

And everybody claps?

If it turns out the murderer

Is in the room with all of us

He or she might just lunge at me

With whatever available weapon

Is nearby

If I’ve cracked the case

As you claim I have

Surely somebody else

Must have as well

And yet it falls on me

To deliver this absurd stretch of text

Neverending, or so it appears

With no real arc

Or creative detail

Just all the little clues you’ve laid out

Carefully pointed to

And then one big name at the end

Can’t I just say the name

And why they did it

And have that be that?

All the rest will be sorted out

At trial, won’t it?

Are we going to get to see the trial?

If we don’t see the trial

How do we know the perpetrator

Didn’t just get off on a technicality

Such as having their crime

Be ferreted out

By an amateur sleuth

Who watches babies

In her spare time?

All of this seems dreadful to me, Henry

Really dreadful

I appreciate you wanting to create

A franchise around me

But I’d prefer a nice romance

Where I meet a widower

And we flit about for a few hundred pages

Before deciding we’d like to marry

In a sensible ceremony

Where I’ll hold a tiny bouquet

And the smallest of smiles

Doesn’t that sound nicer

Than what you’ve written, Henry?

Now that’s a book

I would read