"Nobody move!" shouted Constable Smush, as he barred the huge and ancient timber doors.
"A crime has been committed here tonight," added Inspector Mogey, "and the perpetrator is in this room."
The crowd of dinner guests gasped. Hammingham's elite had expected intrigue at a gala held by the reclusive Baron Bear Bearsley, to be sure. Games of chance, slam poetry, obscure mollusks served both raw and deep fried, but a police investigation? That was a surprise.
"This criminal is an odd one," Smush continued, relishing the rapt attention of the partygoers. "He clearly wants to be caught."
"The fiend has left us a clue," Mogey said. He held a scroll up to the light, which earned another gasp.
"What was the crime, good officers?" called a voice from the crowd.
"Murder," growled Smush. A well-dressed gentlesquatch fainted, rattling the dishes.
"...of a great piece of artwork," Mogey added. "The scoundrel drew an unattractive moustache on the portrait of Baron Bear Bearsley's ancestor, Baron Randy Bearsley."
"And now for the clue," Smush intoned. Mogey held the scroll for his pal to read aloud. "If you want to solve this cursory crime, look to the classical nursery rhyme: The butcher, the baker, the... that's all it says." Smush concluded, looking up.
"Well I think we all know who the perpetrator is," said Mogey, sweeping a pointed finger across the crowd until it landed on one particular guest. "Jacques-Pierre!"
"Quoi?" said Jacques-Pierre.
"Of course!" Smush agreed. "The butcher, the baker, the french canadian bodybuilder. Apprehend that man!"
If one listened carefully during the hubbub that ensued, one could hear a sinister laugh echoing through the hall - sinister, and yet just a bit disappointed - as Waxy Greg, the dastardly chandler, capped his sharpie and slunk away into the night.
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