Nor Ever Chased Except You Ravish Mee With Images Of Sir Robert Walpole

There is a sense in which there is a sense 
Of something far more cheaply over-used

Than I have time to tell you about.

May I be excused?

This dinner party’s not going anywhere – is it? – and, frankly,

The choice of deserts does not appeal

To one who has eaten his own weight in truffles

Before the meal.

Can it be coincidence that, moments after I left,

Isabella Threapleton-Wrunge was shot in the billiards room?

“We have reason to believe the murderer (or murderers)

“Came in by the conservatory,” declared Inspector Groom.

“How so?” I would have asked, wanting the “reason”

To be de-constructed, like Columbo

Does after his “Jush one more t’ing, shur”,

Rather than be palmed off with official mumbo-jumbo.

It was Clive, I think, who said that Robert Morley was “simply               born”

To play Walpole in the Hollywood epic that Cecil B. DeMille

Planned to make in nineteen-fifty-three

But was prevented from so doing after falling seriously ill

In Oregon.  Walpole’s portrait

Got it in the neck; a single bullet passed cleanly through

Isabella’s chest and embedded itself

In the canvas, like a chimney-sweep fired fast up into a flue,

The sweep being slightly larger than the chimney

And therefore lodged.

We can only assume that Sir Robert might have been more                     seriously harmed

Had Isabella dodged

But, as things stand, there is a reasonable chance that much of the        work

Can be restored, particularly its intricate combination of shades           and lines

Which mark it out unmistakably as a work by

That celebrated artist, John Theodore Heins.

But those who value human life above art

(The myopic millions for whom materialism means

Marriage to mediocrity) are sad she didn’t dodge;

For, if she had, she could have taken up her place at Queens

That Autumn.  “Oxford is the poorer for her passing,”

Said Reggie, her fiancé, which immediately alerted Plod:

“Surely,” Groom mused, “he should be the poorer

“If he really loved her.”  Poirot was forced to nod.

“Indeed, mon ami – et milles tonnerres!  You have – how you                 say? –

“Let the cat out of the suitcase and spilled the peas.”

Groom smiled grimly.  “Only doing my job, Monsoor Porrit.

“Shall I arrest Reginald Wivenhoe Leas?”

“I’d rather you didn’t actuelleh, old fruit,” said Reggie, rather                 sheepishly.

“You see, the thing is, I’m down to be playin’ a spot of cricket in             Surrey

“With the Gentlemen, don’t ye know.  And if this leaks out,

“I don’t suppose any chap in the Home Counties will lend me a             tenner in a hurry.

Groom eyed him wryly.  Compassion fought against justice.

It was a tough battle.  But in the end – and it’s a fact to which                   observers attest –

Plod was in tears as he cuddled the warped Walpole portrait –

And, in consequence, Leas was arrested on the minor charge of             criminally damaging the great man’s vest.