The Killer of Kensington Manor

Certainly, you're wondering why there's this random (or so it would seem) blog post in the midst of a coding/hacking blog.
A fair question.
I work with Hyperion Gray, on the business side of things, and have an extremely sparse knowledge of coding and hacking and the like. Although I may not write code, I do write poetry and short stories. And so, my contribution to the blog, as a valued member of the HG team, will not be as informative or cutting edge as the other blog posts, but do take the time to read this short poem. I assure you, it's not Whitman or Wordsworth or Lord Byron (it's more akin to Poe, if anything); it's common words, and words are fun. Enjoy!

(to understand the rhyme scheme, it's written loosely in the style of a Ballad. A Ballad is usually written in 8, 6, 8, 6 -- that's eight syllables, then six syllables; here, however, I chose to write in 11, 8, 11, 8.)


“Duke Kensington’s dead!” was the Chambermaid’s shriek,
as all of them rushed in the room.
This was the third death here in less than a week;
the house was becoming a tomb.

“Nobody may leave!” the Detective made clear.
“Now would you all please gather ‘round.
The doors will be locked; we will all remain here
until this foul killer is found.”

The room was all silent; not one made a sound.
The Butler poured everyone tea.
All eyes were out windows or straight at the ground:
The tension was not hard to see.

The Maid and the Butler sat on the love seat;
the Cook and the Duchess, in chairs.
The Gardener crouched by the fire for heat
with Fritz, one of Kensington’s heirs.

“Now it seems to me,” the Detective began,
“The killer is present with us;
you all have expressed a distaste for this man.
It’s true, he was no friendly cuss.

“But why would you murder his neighbor and dog?
That seems to me heinous and vile!
Unless neighbor John overheard dialogue
that could squarely put you on trial!

“The dog would be able to pick up your scent,
and thus, you’d be found out for sure!
You made their demise appear an accident,
and so, keep your scheming secure.

“But hound hairs were found on the Duchess’s dress,
And blood, on the Chambermaid’s shoe;
And Fritz, where were you at the start of this mess?
I find your appearance on cue.

“The Cook and the Butler—well, they were with me.
We were in the Manor courtyard.
But I did not, the dear old Gardener, see;
his alibi seems quite canard.

“He told me outright he was trimming the verge
when all of this mayhem had struck.”
— “From the hedges out front, sir, did I emerge.” —
“Well then what a fine twist of luck!

“Now let us all turn to the man on the floor,
With garden shears stuck in his back!
He fell as though trying to make for the door
With knowledge that, your plans, would wrack.

“The Chambermaid, she was the first to arrive,
which could mean he died by your hand.
The young Fritz, however, last saw him alive—
I found in Duke’s clutches a strand,

“the color of which matches only your hair—
though, notice now, something quite odd:
The muddy print there doesn’t match what you wear—
the Cook is so verily shod!”

“I swear it untrue!” said the Cook at a seethe.
They looked at each other aghast.
He suddenly fell and cried “I cannot breathe!”
and, gurgling, breathed out his last.

The Chambermaid followed and retched on the floor,
the Gardener dropped to a knee;
and Fritz was sprawled out as he fled for the door.
It seems someone poisoned the tea.

The Duchess was hunched over, still in her chair,
the Butler was calm and serene.
The smiling Detective said, “Come now, Mon Frere,
we must quickly flee from the scene.”