What the Dickens!
My dear Max,
I have examined the evidence, and come to the conclusion that it was most certainly Dickens who did it. I know you will laugh--I would too if I were you--it's so hopelessly cliched and ridiculous, and he's always been on the top of everyone's lists. But he didn't reach the top of mine until I'd gone through all the rest--you know, angry old Emily Bronte, the angsty goths, ruminating sick old poets like Rumi and Rilke, etc. etc. Sly old Charles never even entered my mind, not until I'd questioned absolutely everyone else who was there.
The poets were all sitting, tightly packed together, in the English garden, when I got there, sipping green cocktails or black coffee respectively, and anxiously plucking at the floral displays. I questioned them one by one, and then all together as per their preference, and none of them seemed to be able to, or even slightly desire to, follow what I was saying beyond a few sentences. I threw up my hands and left them when Frost and Dickenson started eyeing each other up in jealous suspicion, Rumi went off on a vision, and Rilke begged me to rephrase everything in metaphors. It was clear that none of them were even capable of committing the deed.
And I met the usual gang of Americans lurking by the bar. Smith was lounging on a bar stool next to Woolfe, both of them passionately discoursing on the importance of great food to the female writer's palatte. Henry James was sitting very uprightly next to a hunched Twain nearby, close enough to listen in but not appear to be doing so. None of them seemed able to hide their feelings, and none of their feelings came close to guilt. Things got a little exasperating when they demanded a vote be taken as to the identity of the guilty party, so I left them after barely five minutes of rapid-fire questions, American-style.
And Max, you won't believe how frustrating it was to talk to the playwrights. Not because of their answers, but because of the smoke. They were all crammed into the smoking-room, shouting to each other over the din on the radio. I couldn't stop coughing, sitting next to the French ones and Miller. It wasn't worth it to me to question them. And when I got to Shakespeare, smiling slightly under that damned devilish goatee, his eyes looking tiny in that massive egg-shaped head, I couldn't get a thing out of him but sonnets. Not a thing. And I don't know about you, but I side with the critics who don't read between the lines.
So when I left the smoking-room I was at a loss as to the identity of the culprit--that is, until I remembered Dickens. When I'd arrived I'd seen him rushing out the back entrance. I'd assumed he'd been in pursuit of a story. But I thought differently when I caught him hiding behind the delphiniums in the front garden. A few questions from me and that illustrious personage was sweating like a Canadian in Morocco, and I knew I'd found my man.
Needless to say, Max, he'll think differently next time he tries to drug the poets, goad the Americans, asphyxiate the playwrights, and hypnotize Shakespeare.
I'll pick up my medal from you next time I'm in town.
The Examiner.
