The detective paces.
He strokes his classical chin with opera-gloved digits,
julienning clues in the indefatigable boulangerie of his mind:
the footprints in the marzipan,
the crossbow dunked in varnish that shines and drips;
the hobnail hammered into the portrait of Queen Victoria;
the steaming widgeon pie with a slice missing;
six glass marbles in a dead earl's cold fist.
Mutton in the summerhouse;
copper pipes that lead to an empty meadow;
harpischord music haunting the granary;
silent parade grounds;
blossom in January.
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